As serious students, the women had quickly adapted to a strict schedule to facilitate their work. Every morning they made themselves get out of bed by seven regardless of the previous evening's festivities. After a shower they'd descend to the campo and take a short walk to a traditional Italian bar for fresh cappuccinos, which was particularly pleasant in the summer months when they'd sit in the shade of the square's plane trees. Then it was on to the Rio di San Barnaba to complete their colazione with fresh fruit purchased from the waterborne greengrocers, or verduriere. A half hour later they were back in the apartment at their respective workstations to write.
Without fail they wrote until one o'clock in the afternoon. Only then did they turn off their laptops. After washing up and changing clothes, they headed to the restaurant they'd picked out for that day's lunch, which often included a glass or two of white wine from Friuli. Then it was time to switch hats from committed doctoral students to tourists. Armed with a virtual library of guidebooks, they'd set out to visit the sites. Three afternoons a week they went to the university itself where they'd arranged to have Italian lessons as well as lectures on Venetian art.
The women's Italian sojourn wasn't all work and serious touring. Socially they had a blast dating almost exclusively Italian men who were associated in some way with the university. Deborah's first beau was a graduate student in art history who was also a gondolier in season. Joanna began seeing an instructor in the same department. But neither woman allowed herself to become terribly involved, maintaining, as Deborah described it, a decidedly male attitude toward dating: namely, treat it like a sport.
Joanna sighed when she thought of all the wonderful sights they had seen and experiences they'd had. It had been an extraordinary year and a half in every way including professionally. Tucked in their carry-ons stored above in the overhead compartment were two completed Ph.D. theses. Thanks to E-mail, which had facilitated sending chapters and their revisions back and forth, the theses had already been accepted. All that was left were their defenses, which both women were confident would not be a problem. A week after they got back, both had interviews scheduled: Joanna at the Harvard Business School and Deborah at Genzyme.
Even Carlton had come for several visits. The first time it had been totally out of the blue, and it had made Joanna furious. Before leaving for Europe she'd tried a number of times to call him, but he had gone out of his way to avoid her and had staunchly refused to return her messages. After finding the apartment, Joanna had written a letter to give him the address so he could write to her when he felt he wanted to do so. Instead he'd just shown up and rung the doorbell one foggy, rainy winter day.
If it hadn't been for a sense of guilt over how far Carlton had come to visit, Joanna wouldn't have seen him on that trip. As it was, she let him stew in his room at the Gritti Palace for a number of days before calling. They met for lunch at Harry's Bar, Carlton's choice, and although the conversation was painful at first, they managed to come to an understanding of sorts, which at least began a correspondence. The correspondence had led to two other visits by Carlton to La Serenissima, as the Venetians of old had called their fair city. Each visit was more pleasant than the previous for Joanna, yet not entirely comfortable. The perspective of her year abroad made her view Carlton as being progressively limited by the dedication medicine required. Yet the ultimate result of the contact was a truce in which they admitted they cared for one another but felt their current "un-engaged" status was appropriate, enabling each to pursue their own interests.
Another series of bumps and thuds made Joanna again glance around the plane's interior. She was amazed that no one else appeared to be upset. Then the turbulence ended as suddenly as it had begun. Joanna looked out the window again but nothing had changed. She wondered how clear air could possibly make the plane behave as if it were a land vehicle driving over potholes.
As the flight grew calmer, Joanna couldn't dismiss the nagging feeling that her life was not complete despite all the gaiety, the traveling, and the intellectual stimulation.
Deborah was convinced that Joanna's restlessness had something to do with her rejection of traditional female goals: house, husband, children. But Joanna had located a different source. Seeing the Italians' continual love affair with infants left her wondering about the fate of her harvested eggs.
Increasingly she was tempted to find out what became of them. For a long time, Deborah pooh-poohed her curiosity, but on the eve of their homecoming, her friend had surprised her with a stunning reversal.
"Wouldn't it be interesting to find out what kind of children resulted from our eggs?" she asked over their last Venetian supper.
Joanna had put her glass of wine down and had looked into her roommate's dark eyes for some explanation. She was confused. She'd asked the same question a month previously, and it had evoked an angry reaction with Deborah accusing her of being obsessed.
"What do you think are our chances of finding anything out?" Deborah asked, seemingly oblivious to Joanna's reaction.
"It might be hard considering the contracts we signed," Joanna said.
"Yeah, but that was more to ensure our anonymity," Deborah said. "We didn't want anyone coming after us for child support or anything like that."
"I think it works both ways,' Joanna said. "The Wingate Clinic certainly didn't want us coming after the kids and demanding maternal rights."
"I suppose you're right," Deborah said. "Too bad, though. It would be interesting even if it were only to be sure we can have kids. You know, there are no guarantees of fertility these days. I'm sure all those people we saw out there in the Wingate Clinic would attest to that."
"I can imagine," Joanna said, still bewildered by Deborah's turnaround. "I'd like to find out myself. So how about we call the Wingate when we get back and see what they say? There can't be any harm in asking."
"Good idea," Deborah had said.
That was a day and an ocean ago. Now the plane's intercom system crackled to life and brought Joanna back to the present. The captain's voice announced that they were soon to start their initial descent into Boston. He added that he was going to turn on the seat-belt light, and he wanted to make sure that everyone was buckled up.
Joanna checked her seat belt to make certain it was fastened. As a rule she always wore her seat belt during flights, whether the seat-belt light was on or not. A quick glance at Deborah's revealed it too was secure. Returning her attention to the view out the window, she noticed there'd been a change. The tundra had been replaced by dense forest broken by widely spaced farms. She guessed they were over Maine, which was a good sign as far as she was concerned. It meant that Massachusetts wasn't that far off.
“HERE COMES MY LAST BAG,” DEBORAH SHOUTED. SHE dashed back to the baggage carousel from where she and Joanna had been searching through a pile of suitcases. She pulled the bursting bag free and lugged it over to where she and Joanna had amassed their others. Once they'd loaded them onto two carts, they stood in line for customs.
"Well, here we are back in Beantown,' Deborah commented as she ran her hand through her long, thick hair. "What a great flight. It seemed a lot shorter than I expected."