Free Fertile Ground by Rochelle Krich

the way they looked at each other.
    When Lisa first met the Hoffmans, they’d been trying to conceive for nine years. Naomi had undergone surgery to deal with endometriosis, then another surgery to open a blocked Fallopian tube. She’d taken Clomid, an oral fertility drug. When that failed to produce a pregnancy, the couple had tried artificial insemination using Baruch’s sperm, then IVF. Both procedures had failed, too. Finally, a friend had recommended the Westwood clinic.
    During the first few appointments with the Hoffmans, Lisa had sadly noted anxiety, depression, self recrimination, tension, and desperate, tenacious hope—all so typical of couples frustrated and heartbroken and often financially strangled by their failed attempts to conceive a child. Adding to the Hoffmans’ pressure was the fact that Baruch was the only son of Sender Hoffman, a Torah scholar descended from a small rabbinic dynasty in Po land that spanned five generations. Baruch’s married sisters had children, Naomi had told Lisa, but he was expected to produce an heir who would continue the line.
    The pressure had taken its toll. Though Naomi and Baruch had often expressed their unwavering faith in God and acceptance of His will, they weren’t stoic. Naomi had cried bitterly when the first cycle of fertility drugs failed to produce enough follicles to harvest her eggs.
    Lisa was frustrated and heartbroken, too, each time she had to relay negative news. “Don’t identify so intensely with your patients,” Sam had warned her several times. “It takes a toll.” Matthew had said the same thing. Good advice, but she suspected that behind Sam’s jocularity and Matthew’s carefully maintained equanimity lay emotional involvement equal to hers. (In her mind she heard again the pain in Matthew’s voice when he had learned ofChel sea Wright’s murder. She wondered suddenly whether Detective Barone was making any progress in finding her killer.)
    There was ego involved, too. A negative pregnancy test spelled failure not only for the couple, but for the doctor. And a positive result presented its own dangers. Lisa tried to keep fresh in her mind her mother’s soft-spoken comment: “It’s a wonderful thing you’re doing, Aliza. Just remember, only God creates babies. Doctors are there to help carry out His plans.”
    It was an important reminder in the exciting world of assisted reproduction, where grateful patients were all too eager to deify their physicians. One wall in her office was filled with snapshots of her successes—many of them twins—here at the Westwood clinic, and earlier at the Manhattan clinic where she’d previously worked. On the
    snapshots were handwritten messages from the infants’ parents: “Thank you for our baby.” “You changed our lives!” “You’re an angel!”
    Naomi Hoffman had cried when she’d learned she was pregnant with twins. Then she’d thanked Lisa. “A double blessing,” she’d said, clutching Lisa’s hands. “God works miracles, doesn’t He?” And when Baruch had stepped out of the room, she’d whispered, half joking, “You saved my marriage!”
    It was an awesome responsibility, one Lisa didn’t feel comfortable shouldering.
    Now Naomi was just weeks away from giving birth. Lisa examined her and listened to the two distinct fetal heartbeats. “They both sound great.” She let Naomi and Baruch hear the heartbeats, then coiled her stethoscope. “Remember to let me know the instant you have a contraction, Naomi, no matter how small.”
    “I will.”
    She slipped Naomi’s chart back inside the green folder. “I’ll see you next week. Until then, continue to stay in bed as much as possible. No lifting, no housework, no—”
    “No sex. I know.” Naomi flashed a quick, playful smile at her husband, whose face had turned pink. “Thanks again for seeing me today. Dr. Brockman. I know you’re swamped with patients because of the news reports. I hope you find out who’s behind