The Would-Be Daddy

Leaning against her station wagon, she felt confused and lost. At thirty-three, she’d believed she had a firm grasp on the future. Instead, a burning question darkened her horizon:

Now what?

Chapter Five (#ulink_b4f93054-16ec-5483-a3cb-f10fb83795c9)

Franca’s heartbroken expression haunted Marshall over the next few days. She didn’t contact him about starting the new counseling program, and he let the matter ride.

She must have been too upset about her foster daughter, and he wasn’t eager to pursue the matter. Despite her example of how therapy had changed her attitude toward her mother, Marshall doubted enough of his patients would sign up to make the effort worthwhile.

Recalling Franca’s advice about writing to his mother, he tried to compose a letter. But after he penned the words Dear Mom on crisp gray stationery, nothing else came to mind. Writing, aside from the occasional prescription, had never been Marshall’s forte. Perhaps they could gradually resume a normal relationship after the wedding. And if she still didn’t return his phone calls, what more could he do? He couldn’t force her to care about him.

On Sunday, Marshall accompanied Nick and Caleb to rent matching tuxedos, which Zady had decreed they should wear. While Caleb was being fitted, Marshall asked where the couple planned to go on their honeymoon. “Unless it’s a secret.” He’d read that some couples hid their destination, presumably to prevent crashers.

“We’d love a week or two in Italy,” Nick said. “Gondola rides, Michelangelo and Roman ruins.”

“Sounds like fun.” As a high school graduation present, Marshall’s parents had taken him on a tour of Europe.

“That’s a joke,” Nick said. “We’re planning a three-day weekend in Las Vegas.” That was a five-hour drive from Safe Harbor.

“Hard to get away for longer,” Marshall sympathized.

“Yeah. Hard when you max out the credit cards, too.”

As they left the shop, Marshall presented Caleb with his new bear. “Wow!” Dark eyes shining, the three-year-old inspected the furry animal in its tux.

Nick grinned his approval. “It’s a cutie pie, like my son. Thanks, Marsh.”

“My pleasure.”

Gazing at his brother and nephew, with their dark hair and lopsided smiles, Marshall felt his throat tighten. If only I had a son. Before that was possible, though, he had to find the right woman, and not get distracted by one whose approach to life was incompatible with his.

After his breakup with Belle, Marshall had had a few casual relationships during medical school and his residency in Boston. As a fellow in reconstructive surgery at the Cleveland Clinic, he’d tried an online dating site. Of the half dozen women he’d met for coffee, one had lied about her profession, one had asked him to prescribe painkillers for her, and another had talked about how she’d always dreamed of marrying a doctor. The others had been pleasant but uninspiring. No one had generated the kind of connection he’d felt with Franca.

Why did his thoughts keep homing in on her?

As Marshall said goodbye to Nick and Caleb, he recalled the previous day’s scene in the café, especially her distress over her foster daughter. It was exactly the kind of trouble that he suspected went hand-in-hand with fostering older children. How frustrating that she insisted on getting involved in such situations.

That fellow Axel could be dangerous, and in Marshall’s opinion, to put her daughter at his mercy showed Bridget to be an unfit mother. And there was nothing Franca could do.

The next child she took in might come with an equally risky situation. But no matter how much Marshall wished to protect her, Franca had a right to live as she chose.

How lucky Nick and Zady were, to be well-suited and in love. Over the next few days, Marshall’s nurse hummed as she went about her duties.

“What’s that you’re humming?” he asked on Thursday afternoon as he reviewed the face sheet for his next patient.

Zady’s blushed to the roots of her short reddish-brown hair. “Uh...darn. I can’t get it out of my mind. It’s ‘The Teddy Bears’ Picnic.’”

“Not a bridal march?” he teased.

“It’s Caleb’s favorite.” She leaned against the counter of the nurses’ station. “We were dancing to it with the tuxedo bear you gave him.”

“I’m glad he likes the toy.” Marshall smiled at the notion of her and his nephew dancing the stuffed animal around.

Kids were resilient, as Caleb demonstrated. The little boy had lost his mother in a boating accident last year, then adjusted to moving from his maternal grandparents’ large home to Nick’s one-story rental.

Marshall had been surprised when his nurse, who had hardly known his cousin, agreed to move in and babysit during Nick’s overnight shifts in exchange for room and board.

She’d explained that it was a great way to save money. Also, she’d been caring for her toddler goddaughter, Linda, for an extended period while the parents traveled on business. Zady had believed the little girl would enjoy having Caleb as a live-in playmate. Marshall, who’d stopped by with an occasional gift, had grown fond of both children.

One example where an untraditional model of parenting had worked out. Although with Zady and Nick getting married and Linda back with her parents, both children were now in more traditional situations. So what did that prove?

Marshall had no chance to dwell on it; his next patient was waiting. On the face sheet, the reason for the visit was listed as follow-up. Marshall had performed a vasectomy reversal on the patient eight months ago, and his sperm counts had risen and remained high since then.

“Why does Hank Driver need follow-up?” he asked Zady.

“He requested it,” she said. “He declined to state a reason.”

“Guess I’ll find out.” Marshall knocked on the examining room door, waited for a “Come in!” and entered.

A stocky man in slacks and a sport shirt swiveled toward him. “Hey, Doc.” The other man thrust his hand out and Marshall shook it firmly. He already knew the patient’s age was thirty-seven and his occupation was police detective, but he’d forgotten Hank’s disconcerting gaze, as he had one blue eye and one brown.

“Nice to see you,” Marshall said. “What seems to be the problem?”

Hank perched on the edge of the examining table. His light brown hair had begun to thin, but he was in good shape, without the potbelly that often signaled the approach of middle age for men.

“Are you sure everything’s okay with my sperm, Doc?”

At the computer terminal, Marshall brought up Hank’s records. “At your six-month checkup, your sperm count, motility and morphology were normal. Motility, you’ll recall, is the sperm’s ability to move effectively, and morphology refers to the shape. I can order a retest, but in my opinion, it’s too soon. Is there something specific that’s troubling you?”

Just because the surgery had succeeded didn’t rule out some other medical problem. Any symptom might be meaningful.

“My wife’s still not pregnant.” Hank blew out a breath. Twice divorced, the other man had obtained a vasectomy in the belief that marriage and fatherhood had passed him by. Then he’d fallen in love with a police dispatcher and remarried. He’d promised his new wife to do his best to reverse the procedure.

“The average period from surgery to conception is about a year,” Marshall advised him.

“Maybe so, but she’s thirty-five and she’s upset that it’s taking so long.”

Marshall read over the records again. “You told me previously that she had a full workup and no problems surfaced.”

Hank began pacing. “Sex with my wife is starting to feel like a race against time. She denies blaming me, but we can hardly talk without fighting.”

Marshall remembered the support group. Might as well see how Hank reacted. “Have you considered counseling? The hospital is considering starting a therapy group for male infertility patients.”

“Stop right there.” Hank scowled. “I’m not seeing some shrink.”

“There would be a team running the sessions, including our staff psychologist and me,” Marshall said. “I’d address medical questions that might arise.”

Hank’s expression softened. “Everybody in there would be guys?”