3 MISSED CALLS
Returning to her office after a morning spent in bone storage, the tiny words jumped out from the screen of the phone. Reacting with an eagerness she didn't care to examine closely, Brennan reached for it, then deflated as she scrolled through the numbers.
None of them belonged to Booth.
She ruthlessly stamped out the twinge of disappointment that swept through her. It wasn't as if he was required to contact her daily, after all. Theirs was a business relationship, a professional partnership. If there was no work, if there was no case, then . . .
And yet . . .
She ignored the voice mail indicator in favor of the tab for text messages.
Nothing. Not anything new, at least.
sorry, went to the gym early, just saw ur msg abt bfast. raincheck?
He'd sent that on Wednesday morning.
It was now Friday afternoon.
It was unusual, that was all, she told herself with an inward shrug. It was an anomaly that simply aroused her curiosity.
She dialed into her voice mail.
"Dr. Brennan, this is Charlotte Matheson at Montgomery County IVF. Please give me a call when you have a few minutes to talk. The number is . . . ."
The appointment this morning, Brennan mused as she dialed the number of the facility. Perhaps that was the reason there had been no contact from him. He could, on occasion, be ridiculously puritanical about -
"Charlotte Matheson." The line was answered on the second ring.
"Hello, Dr. Matheson. This is Temperance Brennan. I received your message, asking me to return your call."
"Yes, Dr. Brennan, thank you for calling back." The other woman's voice was warm and friendly. "Your donor came in for his appointment this morning, as scheduled, and I have the results for you."
"One moment . . ." Brennan instinctively reached for a pen and a Jeffersonian-stamped pad of paper. "Alright, please continue."
"He provided a sample in the 3 milliliter range, with approximately 28.8 million viable sperm with very good motility. The overall quality of the sample is excellent. I have no problem recommending its use for your ICI procedure."
"Mmmm." Her comment was an indistinct murmur as she jotted down the information being relayed.
"However . . ."
The hesitancy in the single word captured Brennan's attention immediately. Her fingers tightened around the ink pen.
"Yes?"
"We require every donor to complete a health assessment," Dr. Matheson continued. "In reviewing the information provided by yours, I noticed that he reported what I would consider to be a higher than usual number of hospitalizations over the past twenty years, including several as recently as just the last few years. I wanted to make you aware of that fact, and to also let you know that I do have a number of other candidates who meet the same physical standards - height, weight, coloring, etc. - if you'd like to choose a donor who is perhaps . . . less fragile."
Anger spiked, sharp and hot. "Booth is not fragile." Brennan immediately leapt to his defense. "He is the opposite of fragile; in fact, I consider him to be one of the strongest men I've ever known." Aware suddenly of the burst of temper, she forced herself to take two deep, calming breaths. "Thank you for the information, Dr. Matheson, but I assure you that I am completely aware of my donor's medical history and I am not concerned. At all."
"Of course. The final decision is obviously yours to make." The smooth voice betrayed no emotion other than acceptance. "Looking at the records you provided, I see that your period was scheduled to begin on Saturday. Did that happen as expected?"
"Yes." Brennan was more than willing to move beyond the uncomfortable topic of Booth's past injuries. "As evidenced by the charts in the file I gave you, my menstrual cycle is very regular."
There was a chuckle on the other end. "By the time our patients decide to try IVF, most of them are fairly used to tracking their periods but I have to say, Dr. Brennan, I've never seen any file as complete as yours."
"Thank you. I began documenting my menses when I was 14, as an exercise in creating detailed, thorough records," Brennan explained. "It's a habit I've continued over the years. I'm pleased you found it useful."
"It was very helpful. I believe we can safely schedule an appointment for our first attempt. We can be flexible with that date, obviously, based on signs of ovulation. Are you ready to discuss that now?"
"Yes, I am." She didn't hesitate and when the call ended less than ten minutes later, two pages of the notepad beneath her hand were covered in her small, carefully neat handwriting.
For just a few seconds, she held the phone against her chest and stared with unfocused eyes out into her office. I'm going to have a baby. Her usually teeming, well-organized mind seemed to be capable of only that one thought as the magnitude of the moment struck. I'm going to be a mother.
"Hey, Brennan, can you look at these numbers?" Angela walked in, focused on the computer tablet in her hands. "I think I'm off somewhere -" She looked up as friend's unusual stillness finally registered. "Something wrong? Are you okay?"
The decision was made in an instant, almost before the idea crystallized in her brain. "I'm fine." The wonder of the moment was too new, the tiny flicker of hope too delicate to expose to Angela's still worried and unconvinced manner of being supportive. She hugged the secret close and instead pasted a professional, interested expression on her face. "What was it you wanted me to review?"
Angela frowned, intuitively recognizing the diversionary tactic. Before she could delve deeper, Brennan stood up and reached for the tablet.
"I believe these measurements are incorrect," she murmured, determined to stall any further questions. "But perhaps we should look at the bones again."
Unable to resist a last glance at her phone, once more lying quiet on the surface of the desk, she led Angela out of the office.
.
.
.
At home that night, she wandered her apartment, notebook in hand, and jotted down thoughts.
The spare bedroom could easily be converted into a nursery, although . . . she stood in the doorway and nibbled on the end of pen. Perhaps I should consider buying a house, one with a yard. Children need space for exercise.
She made a note and added "room for live-in nanny" to the list. Bodies were frequently discovered late in the night; she was certainly used to having her sleep interrupted by a phone call from Booth . . .
Her head turned automatically toward the living room and a cell phone that remained obstinately silent. Resolute, she dragged her attention back to the task at hand.
She was scheduled to give the keynote address at an anthropology conference in December being held in Bern, Switzerland. It was possible she might be in her last trimester of pregnancy at that time. Contact organizers, SOFA Bern Conference, cancel speaking engagement.
The list grew as the hours passed . . . there was so much to do.
It wasn't too early to interview candidates for nanny. Each one would need to be screened thoroughly, of course. Perhaps Booth could. . .
Another glance toward her phone.
Her attorney and accountant should be notified. Financial instruments would need to be amended, and her will . . .
There was the issue of who would care for the child in the event of her early death. She had agreed to assume guardianship for Russ' stepdaughters, perhaps he would . . .
But her baby would also biologically be Booth's child, perhaps he might want . . .
The notebook slapped against her thigh, the heels of her boots clicked loudly on the hardwood floor as she returned to the living room and picked up her phone.
No missed calls.
She scrolled through the text messages.
Nothing.
She found his number and paused, her thumb on the button marked with a small green telephone.
He and Parker were probably engaged in some activity designed to deepen the bond between father and son.
Or they were sitting in his apartment eating pizza together and watching one of those movies she never quite understood.
Either way, she would be intruding on their night if she phoned this late.
But . . . there had been no contact from him since Wednesday.
And it was Friday evening.
It wasn't as if they spoke to each other every day, there were many occasions where a full week passed between cases.
Well, perhaps not a week . . .
Slowly, deliberately, Brennan set her phone back down on the counter.
She stared at it for a moment, then reached for the notebook again.
She would hear from him soon enough.
When there was a body.
When there was a murder to be solved.
It was death, not life, that always brought them together.
.
.
FYI, the plan is for this story to be 13 chapters in length, with the last one posted somewhere around September 13/14, just before the start of Season 9. Which means I have a lot to cover and just six more chapters to do it! Yikes!
Thanks for reading!
