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eyes perked up when Khala Jamila teased us about a baby。
Sometimes； it takes a while； I told Soraya one night。
A year isn t a while； Amir！ she said； in a terse voice so unlike her。 Something s wrong； I know it。
Then let s see a doctor。
DR。 ROSEN； a round…bellied man with a plump face and small； even teeth； spoke with a faint Eastern European accent； some thing remotely Slavic。 He had a passion for trains……his office was littered with books about the history of railroads； model lootives； paintings of trains trundling on tracks through green hills and over bridges。 A sign above his desk read； LIFE IS A TRAIN。 GET ON BOARD。
He laid out the plan for us。 I d get checked first。 Men are easy； he said； fingers tapping on his mahogany desk。 A man s plumbing is like his mind： simple； very few surprises。 You ladies； on the other hand。。。 well； God put a lot of thought into making you。 I wondered if he fed that bit about the plumbing to all of his couples。
Lucky us； Soraya said。
Dr。 Rosen laughed。 It fell a few notches short of genuine。 He gave me a lab slip and a plastic jar； handed Soraya a request for some routine blood tests。 We shook hands。 Wele aboard； he said； as he showed us out。
I PASSED WITH FLYING COLORS。
The next few months were a blur of tests on Soraya： Basal body temperatures； blood tests for every conceivable hormone； urine tests； something called a Cervical Mucus Test； ultrasounds； more blood tests； and more urine tests。 Soraya underwent a procedure called a hysteroscopy……Dr。 Rosen inserted a
telescope into Soraya s uterus and took a look around。 He found nothing。 The plumbing s clear； he announced； snapping off his latex gloves。 I wished he d stop calling it that……we weren t bathrooms。 When the tests were over； he explained that he couldn t explain why we couldn t have kids。 And； apparently； that wasn t so unusual。 It was called Unexplained Infertility。
Then came the treatment phase。 We tried a drug called Clomiphene； and hMG； a series of shots which Soraya gave to herself。 When these failed； Dr。 Rosen advised in vitro fertilization。 We received a polite letter from our HMO； wishing us the best of luck； regretting they couldn t cover the cost。
We used the advance I had received for my novel to pay for it。 IVF proved lengthy； meticulous； frustrating； and ultimately unsuccessful。 After months of sitting in waiting rooms reading magazines like Good Housekeeping and Reader s Digest； after endless paper gowns and cold； sterile exam rooms lit by fluorescent lights； the repeated humiliation of discussing every detail of our sex life with a total stranger； the injections and probes and specimen collections； we went back to Dr。 Rosen and his trains。
He sat across from us； tapped his desk with his fingers； and used the word adoption for the first time。 Soraya cried all the way home。
Soraya broke the news to her parents the weekend after our last visit with Dr。 Rosen。 We were sitting on picnic chairs in the Taheris backyard； grilling trout and sipping yogurt dogh。 It was an early evening in March 1991。 Khala Jamila had watered the roses and her new honeysuckles； and their fragrance mixed with the smell of cooking fish。 Twice already； she had reached across her chair to caress Soraya s hair and say； God knows best； bachem。 Maybe it wasn t meant to be。
Soraya kept looking down at her hands。 She was tired； I knew； tired of it all。 The doctor said we could adopt； she murmured。
General Taheri s head snapped up at this。 He closed the barbecue lid。 He did？
He said it was an option； Soraya said。
We d talked at home about adoption。