Twenty minutes later, Marissa found herself walking unsteadily down the front steps of the clinic. She got into the passenger side of Robert’s car. Her body felt heavy and all she could think about was getting home and climbing into bed. She looked out at the rush-hour Harvard Square traffic with a sense of detachment. It was beginning to get dark. Most of the cars already had their lights on.

“Dr. Wingate told me your egg retrieval went very well,” Robert said.

Marissa nodded and looked across at him. His sharp profile was silhouetted against the evening lights. He didn’t look at her.

“We got eight eggs,” she said, emphasizing the “we.” She studied him to assay his response. She was hoping he’d pick up on her meaning. Instead, he changed the subject.

“Did you hear about the tragedy at the clinic?”

“No!” Marissa said. “What tragedy?”

“Remember that woman who hit me?” Robert asked, as if Marissa could have forgotten. “The one carrying on in the waiting room when we arrived? She apparently committed suicide. Took a swan dive from the sixth floor into one of the flower beds. It was on the noon news.”

“My God!” Marissa said. She remembered too well her own vivid identification with the woman. She had understood the woman’s frustration, feeling it so frequently herself.

“Did she die?” Marissa asked, half hoping there was a chance that the woman had not succeeded.

“Instantly,” Robert said. “Some poor patient on her way into the clinic saw the whole thing. Said the lady was sitting on a window ledge, then just dove headfirst.”

“That poor woman,” Marissa said.

“Which one?” Robert asked.

“Both,” Marissa said, although she had been referring to Rebecca Ziegler.

“I’m sure you’ll tell me this also isn’t the right time to talk about this in-vitro protocol,” Robert said. “But having that lady go berserk like she did underlines what I was feeling this morning. Clearly we’re not the only ones to feel the pressure. I really think we should stop this infertility stuff after this cycle. Think about what it’s doing to your practice.”

The last thing Marissa cared to think about was her pediatric practice. “I’ve spoken candidly with the director of my group and he understands,” Marissa explained, not for the first time. “He’s sympathetic to what I am going through, even if other people aren’t.”

“That’s fine for the director to say,” Robert said. “But what about your patients? They must be feeling abandoned.”

“My patients are all being taken care of,” Marissa snapped. In truth, she had been concerned about them.

“Besides,” Robert added, “I’ve had it with this ‘performing’ stuff. Going into that clinic and getting that plastic cup is demeaning.”