Marissa got to her feet. Robert was looking at his watch. “Come on!” he said as he turned and headed over to the receptionist’s desk. Marissa followed. She gazed at the sign behind the desk. That was the one that said: YOU ONLY FAIL WHEN YOU GIVE UP TRYING.

“I’m sorry,” the receptionist said, “with all the excitement, I’ve been in a dither. It didn’t dawn on me that Mrs. Buchanan hadn’t checked in.”

“Please!” Robert said. “Just let the doctors know she is here.”

“Certainly!” the receptionist said. She stood up. “But first I want to thank you for your help earlier, Mr. Buchanan. I think that woman was about to attack me. I hope you weren’t hurt badly.”

“Only two stitches,” Robert said, mellowing to a degree. “I’m fine.” Robert then lowered his voice and, after a furtive glance around the waiting room, asked: “Could you give me one of those, errrr . . . plastic containers?”

“Of course,” the receptionist said. She bent down and opened a file drawer. She produced a small, graduated, red-topped plastic container and handed it over. Robert palmed it.

“Ah . . . this will make it all worthwhile,” Robert whispered sarcastically to Marissa. Without a second glance at his wife, he strode off toward one of the doors leading into a series of cubicle-like dressing rooms.

Marissa watched him go, lamenting the widening gulf separating them. Their ability to communicate, especially where their feelings were concerned, was reaching a new low.

“I’ll let Dr. Wingate know you’re here,” the receptionist said.

Marissa nodded. Slowly she walked back to her seat and sat down heavily. Nothing was working out. She wasn’t getting pregnant and her marriage was disintegrating before her eyes. She thought about all the business trips Robert had been taking of late. For the first time since she’d been married, Marissa wondered if he could be having an affair. Maybe that was the reason behind this sudden talk of not providing a sperm sample. Maybe he’d been giving samples out elsewhere.

“Mrs. Buchanan!” a nurse called from an open doorway, beckoning for Marissa to follow her.

Marissa got to her feet. She recognized the nurse, Mrs. Hargrave.

“Are you ready to harvest those eggs?” the woman asked brightly as she got a robe, a johnny, and slippers for Marissa. She had an English accent similar to Dr. Wingate’s. Marissa had asked her about it once. She’d been surprised to learn that Mrs. Hargrave was Australian, not English.

“An egg retrieval is just about the last thing in the world I want to do just now,” Marissa admitted with dejection. “I really don’t know why I’m putting myself through this.”

“Feeling a little depressed, are we?” Mrs. Hargrave asked as gently as she could.