The Last Inning

The MRI machine hummed like a dying oracle, and Elena pressed her palm against the cold white ceiling, counting the tiles. Sixty-seven across, thirty-three down. Her hair was still wet from the shower where she'd sobbed silently, the water masking the tears she couldn't explain to Mark, who stood in the waiting room with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, probably thinking about the baseball tickets they'd bought for Saturday—two seats behind home plate, anniversary gifts from last year.

"You'll need to be very still," the technician had said, and Elena had almost laughed. Stillness was all she knew anymore. Since the miscarriage three months ago, since the second round of IVF failed, since the specialist said words like "diminished ovarian reserve" and "consider donor eggs," she'd been frozen in place while Mark aged in fast-forward. More gray in his temples. More lines around his eyes when he forced that hopeful smile.

The goldfish in the reception area tank had been swimming in endless circles when they arrived. Elena had watched it press its orange nose against the glass, over and over, never realizing it was going nowhere. Just like them.

Now lightning struck somewhere outside, the flash visible even through the windowless room, and the machine shuddered. The technician cursed softly. When they pulled her out, her skull buzzing with residual magnetism, Mark was standing there with a paper cup of coffee he hadn't touched. He looked at her, really looked at her, and she saw something break in his expression—not the gentle concern he'd been performing for months, but something raw and angry and tired.

"I can't keep doing this," he said, so quietly she almost missed it. "I can't keep pretending we're okay when we're not. I can't keep hoping while you've already given up."

Outside, the sky opened up. They ran to the car through a deluge that felt biblical, and somewhere between the hospital doors and the parking garage, she stopped. She grabbed his wet sleeve and turned him toward her, rain plastering his hair to his forehead, making him look like the boy she'd met at that college baseball game twelve years ago, the one who'd cheered when she caught the foul ball.

"I haven't given up," she said, and it was the truest thing she'd spoken in months. "I'm terrified. But I haven't given up."

The lightning flashed again, illuminating everything: his worn coat, the hospital behind them, the weight of what they carried. He pulled her against him then, right there in the rain, and she felt his chest shake against hers. They stood like that for a long time, two people learning that sometimes staying in the game means accepting you might strike out, but you still step up to the plate anyway.