You're What?!

has a varied background, including managing a theater, a bridal salon and a construction association, netting several marketing and communication awards along the way. In 1991 she joined the Romance Writers of America, later becoming a Golden Heart finalist, the winner of the Maggie Award, and finally a published author—her lifelong dream.

Anne and her engineer husband, Bill, live in southeastern Michigan and share a family of five—two hers (Tim and Tom), two his (Erin and David) and one theirs (an adorable miniature dachshund, Punkin).

To “S” for planting this “seed” to Lisa and Linda for their medical contributions to Billie and Ellen for their cruise stories and especially to my own private hero…Bill

One (#ulink_11c986ca-5590-5c0b-a2b0-43d2975a49b8)

“Sperm bank!” Michelle groused aloud and shook her head in disbelief. “Who would’ve thought it would come to this?”

She rolled her eyes and slouched on the edge of the examining table. With a paper sheet tucked tightly under her arms, she scraped nonexistent dirt from beneath her freshly manicured nails.

Thirty-six years old, divorced, and no man on the horizon. What choice did she have? She glanced at her watch for the umpteenth time. It’s not as though she hadn’t given the system a chance. In the three years since she’d been back on the single scene, she’d had her share of dates—enough to make her more than a little cynical about finding Mr. Right. Besides, the longer she was on her own, the more she liked it.

She heard a door open and close in the next room. Michelle stopped playing with her fingers and dropped them in her lap. This anxiety was counterproductive. She had to control her wavering emotions and think positive thoughts.

For a start, she remembered this morning’s clear blue sky and the weatherman’s prediction of sixty-two degrees by noon— almost unheard-of for mid-March in Detroit. If being here was wrong, surely there’d be a blizzard with icy, impassable roads. The paper crinkled under her legs as she shifted positions and wrestled with her nagging doubts.

Looking for a distraction, she surveyed the small, sterile room. White walls displayed framed photographs of pudgycheeked cherubs, each one seeming to smile in her direction, each tweaking her heartstrings and causing her eyes to mist over. More than anything, she wanted a baby. If only there was another way…

After a loud knock, the door flew open beside her. Startled, she twisted toward it. An intense, white-coated doctor sprang into the room, his entrance instantly reminding her of Kramer on the sitcom “Seinfeld.” She almost laughed before eyeing the footlong sheathed instrument in his hand.

Ceremoniously, the doctor placed the syringelike object on a stainless-steel tray, then picked up her chart and perused his notes. Michelle studied his thick crop of wildly curly hair until he lifted his gaze. Finally, he flashed a wide smile, exposing large white teeth.

“Michelle Purdue! And how are you?”

Great! Another poet. She hated it when anyone rhymed her name in that singsong way. “Fine…I guess.”

An exaggerated frown replaced his smile. Deep furrows creased his high forehead. “You guess? Oh-oh. Second thoughts?”

More like third, fourth or fifth. She lifted her chin and lied. “No. Not at all.” This was one strange man. But then what kind of doctor would make a career at a place like this?

He put the chart down and rubbed his hands together, the smile back on his long, angular face. “Good. Then today’s the day. Right?”

She smiled back and nodded. “Right.” He was almost vibrating with energy. She hoped it was his eccentric personality, or too much coffee. The alternatives were scary.

“Any questions?”

She thought about asking him if he’d ever watched “Seinfeld,” but then she shook her head.

He grabbed the door handle with the same gusto as when he’d entered and called over his shoulder, “The nurse will be right in to get you ready.”

Michelle let out a soft laugh as he exited but cut it short when a more sedate, middle-aged woman walked in behind him and closed the door.

“My name’s Ellen. If there’s anything I can do to make you more comfortable, just ask,” she said, wasting no time in positioning each of Michelle’s feet in cold, stainless-steel stirrups. This wasn’t exactly making her feel more comfortable.

She squirmed on the hard table, knees pointing east and west. When her teeth began chattering and goose bumps appeared on her arms, she asked, “Is there anything warmer than this paper sheet?”

“Sure there is!” Ellen smiled sweetly. “I’ll be right back.”

Michelle drew her knees together in an attempt to retain some body heat and restore a modicum of dignity. But Ellen was back in seconds, covering her with a blanket and prying her legs apart once again.

Now the gray-haired nurse held up earphones in one hand and a half-dozen cassettes in the other. “Would you like to listen to a tape?” Michelle studied the selection and pointed to an instrumental medley of Andrew Lloyd Webber show tunes. Ellen inserted the tape and handed Michelle the headset.

“Anything else I can do for you, dear?”

How about bringing in Kevin Costner and dimming the lights? “A magazine would be nice,” she said instead.

Ellen moved to a small wall-mounted rack. “Good Housekeeping, Better Homes and Gardens or People?” she asked.

Ah, the double standard. How successful would this place be if donors were given the same choice? “People will be fine, thank you.”

Ellen moved toward what looked like a doorbell and pressed it. “The doctor will be back any moment.” The nurse returned to the table and laid a warm hand on Michelle’s shoulder. “Try to relax, dear. It will increase your chances of success, you know.” Michelle glanced at the long tube on the tray and shuddered involuntarily. “I know it looks scary, but I’m sure Dr. Adam explained. It has to be that long in order to reach through the cervix and up to the eggs. There’ll be some cramping, but not for long.” With one last pat, she smiled and moved to her observation post at the end of the table.

Michelle closed her eyes and played with the volume on the headphones. She let her mind float with “The Music of the Night,” for the moment ignoring the magazine on her chest. She wondered if she could relax enough to fall asleep. She had twenty minutes to lie here once the procedure was finished.

But before long, she felt Dr. Adam’s latex-covered hands lift the covers, and she knew sleep was out of the question.

Heart pounding, she kept her eyes shut and conjured up images of Costner, hoping he would provide a respite from this bizarre reality. Her mind raced through his many roles, stopping when she remembered Dances With Wolves. The scene in which he was reunited with his pregnant wife after a long separation came into focus. She pictured him jumping off his horse and running to meet her. They kissed and hugged each other wildly, dropping into the snow, rolling in ecstasy, oblivious to those around them.

The doctor warned her she was about to feel some pressure. Michelle felt a cold steel instrument followed by more pain than she’d anticipated. A small groan passed her lips. Within seconds she felt a tug at the end of the table and she glanced down. The doctor lifted her feet from the stirrups and brought her legs together on the extended table. Then he gave her what she guessed was a reassuring wink and a quick pat on the knee, before brusquely leaving the room, Ellen in tow.

Michelle stared at the closed door, dumbstruck by the speed and cold efficiency of it all. But then what had she expected? For the doctor to lie down on the table next to her and offer her a cigarette? She looked at the ceiling and blinked away an unexpected tear. If she was going to be a single parent, she had better get used to going it alone.

Determined to recapture her earlier fantasy, she picked up the forgotten magazine and flipped through the pages, hoping to find her favorite actor’s handsome face. All she found was Billy Crystal and Jack Palance with a big cow.

Exasperated, she slapped the magazine shut against her chest and pressed the earphones to her head. “Kevin, Kevin…” She shook her head and exhaled a long, weary breath. “Where are you when I need you?”

“Kevin!”

Dr. Kevin Singleton stopped at the end of the hall and looked over his shoulder, annoyance pinching his forehead.

The chief of staff, Paul Westerfield, closed the distance between them. “Have a couple minutes?”

Kevin looked at his watch, already knowing the answer. “Not really, Paul. Got one in postop and another up in half an hour.”

Paul placed a hand on Kevin’s shoulder and nudged him back toward his office. “I’ll be brief.”

Kevin eyed his friend as they stepped inside the office. Paul closed the door behind them and motioned for Kevin to sit. Instead of taking the seat beside him as usual, Paul sat heavily behind his desk, sending a clear message.

“Since you’re in a hurry, I’ll get right to the point.”

Kevin crossed his arms, ready to take his medicine. It was probably another resident complaint. Those poor delicate egos. Okay. He’d take the reprimand, promise to try harder, and be out of here in two minutes.

“I’ve been looking over your schedule.” Paul held up a printout. There were numerous pencil markings and what looked like calculations in the margins. “Are you aware that you logged more hours than any other doctor on staff last year? And outoperated the next-closest by nearly twenty percent?”

Kevin shrugged. It didn’t surprise him. So where was the problem?

“And that this year you’re ahead of last on a per-week basis?” Paul dropped the paper and leaned back, the creaking of his worn leather chair the only sound for the next few moments.