by Anna Monardo
“I am on your side. I’m always—”
“But without the yelling, Christopher, without—”
“Nora.” Was she really going to do this now, in the middle of the night?
“I never want to leave you, Christopher. I don’t want us to be apart. I want us—”
“What?”
“—to know each other. To listen.”
“We do listen. I’m listening now.”
“But even when it’s painful to listen, we need to listen. I want us both to have what we want.”
“I want that too, sweetie.”
Her arms and legs were still stiff, still alert, but his strokes on her back began to have an effect. He could feel her spine collapse a little. Eventually, she kissed him on the top of the head and said, “It’ll work out, Christopher. It has to. I love you.”
And then they’d had a sweet night of holding on to each other. They even fell asleep and stayed like that for a few hours, before light started spilling into the room. Somewhere in a dream, It’ll work out passed through Christopher, and within the dream he understood that to Nora It’ll work out meant they’d stick it out in therapy; meanwhile, to Christopher, the words meant that they would not have to go to therapy anymore. In the dream he told himself, We’ll figure it out.
What followed was two days of peace between them. Jokes. A shared shower one morning. Their loft became, again, a good place to live. Two nights in a row, they ate dinner together. Together they finished off a nice bottle of Merlot.
No, he had to make it clear to this Denise that his interest in her project was just a mistake. He’d blame it on Kevin, say his brother-in-law was too shy to call. (Yeah, right, shy. Goofy as he was, Kevin managed to have more girlfriends than God.)
By five o’clock Thursday afternoon, Christopher felt he couldn’t meet Denise soon enough. He had to impress upon her how important it was that she never, ever mention his name or this appointment, not to anyone. Panicky as he was, he arrived late at The Diner. Back at the loft, the cat had started vomiting again and had to be returned to the vet’s.
At ten minutes after six, Christopher walked into the restaurant. Denise was there in a booth, unpretty as Piper had said she would be. She looked like a lot of writers Christopher had met, the serious kind who were always pissed off because nobody had ever heard of their books. “Hi,” he said. “Denise? I’m Christopher.”
He reached out his hand, but she motioned with her right hand that she was holding a fork and couldn’t shake his hand. When she was done chewing, she said, “I went ahead and ordered when I saw you were going to be late. I’ve got to have my dinner and get back to work. I get cranky if I don’t get my dinner.” Denise delivered this speech, and then there was a weary relaxation in the lower part of her face. An almost-smile, and though he was still afraid of her, Christopher was so very relieved. A few times before, he’d dealt with people like Denise—someone whose voice on the phone was one thing, but then in person, just because you could see the expression on the face, the voice was something completely different from what you’d heard before. On the phone, her businesslike manner had humiliated him; but here she was, wearing a turtleneck and a plaid flannel shirt, and not scary at all. Just eating, taking care of herself. Christopher was touched by her watch, just an ordinary, utilitarian watch, no flash. Her simple gray wedding ring.
“So,” he said, hanging up his jacket at the end of the booth, glad for the way it hid him when he sat down. “Where do you work?”
“Time-Life Building, just down the street. That’s why this place is convenient.”
“Hey, I know somebody who works there. She copyedits or proofreads or something. For Time. Overnight shifts.”
“Yeah, that’s what I do, too. But I’m not on an every-week shift. I’m not at Time. We do two weeks on, two weeks off.”
A waitress was suddenly there next to him, asking, “Decided yet?”
“Decided? No. You have a soda fountain here, huh?” He looked over at Denise and smiled, but she was immune to his charms. “Yeah. I’ll have a soda. Chocolate.”
“Chocolate soda. Very good.” She roller-skated away.
“They’re all on skates these days,” he told Denise.
“How long has your friend worked at Time?”
It wasn’t really his friend, it was Nora’s friend Giulia, but he couldn’t tell Denise that. He hadn’t counted on their having anything real to talk about, just her ridiculous plan and his even more ridiculous curiosity. He hadn’t counted on any overlap in their lives, which was dumb, since they both knew the painting-studio people. He hadn’t counted on how thoroughly she’d carry the conversation. “I don’t know. A long time, I think.”
“What’s her name?” Denise asked.
“Listen, I have to ask you something. This is real important.” Denise put down her fork and wiped her mouth with her napkin. “This is confidential,” he asked, “right?”
“Of course.”
“I mean. I’m not really sure why I even called you the other day, except your story. I’m…I mean, I’m like you, I know how you feel about really wanting a child, but this has got to be so private that I can’t even tell you how private. I don’t want—”
“Despite the slightly public nature of my search, all my meetings are completely confidential. I wouldn’t do it any other way. You’re nervous because you’re married.”
“How do you know?”
“You’re wearing a wedding ring.”
“Oh,” he said.
She smirked, an almost-laugh. “You weren’t going to hide that, were you?”
“No.” He heard his own voice—too loud, defensive—and he knew there’d be no raging with this one, or she’d be done with him in less than a second. “I’m not hiding anything, Denise. It’s just like this. I can’t have my wife find out I’m talking to you. It’s not that she’d be mad, my wife. It’s just, I need to talk to you. It’s for myself. It’s—”
“Well, the way I usually conduct these meetings is that I talk first, not to be rude, but it only seems right that I should reveal myself first.” Her plain hair, no makeup, no efforts to try making herself better-looking than she was. “And then maybe you’ll decide this isn’t for you, and you’ll have been spared having to reveal any personal information.”
Beady eyes, plumpish nose, but he kept having these moments of great relief with this woman. “I appreciate that, Denise.”
She asked him, “What’s your blood type?”
“I have no idea. Normal, I guess.”
“Well, that’s important. We’d need to find out. I’m O positive, which is pretty much universally compatible, but for a few exceptions worth looking into. I’m forty-two. I’ve been pregnant once. With my husband, Don, of course. I miscarried for no reason that the doctors could discern. In any case, it seems there’s no medical reason I can’t conceive again. Don and I were pregnant when he was diagnosed with the illness that killed him. I lost the baby right after the diagnosis, then I lost Don.” For months, that would be the most emotional thing Christopher heard Denise say. “This plan, what I’m doing now, Don and I put in place before he died. When it was clear he wasn’t going to make it, we both wanted me to be a mother. At that point, Don’s sperm wasn’t viable. It was his idea—his wish, really—that the child be fathered by someone connected to the art world he worked in.”
“Why…It’s none of my business, but why don’t you try meeting a new guy? You’re young, you’re—”
“I’m still in love with my husband, that’s why. I’m nowhere near ready for a new mate. I don’t know if I ever will be. But I know I want a child. I don’t want to die without having a child. So I have this option. And I’m grateful. Here’s your chocolate soda.”
“Can I get either of you anything else?” the waitress asked. “No? Okay, enjoy.”
By now Denise had finished eating all her meat loaf, and she started in on her mashed potatoes. Christopher thought how embarrassed
he’d be to eat a full dinner like that in front of a stranger, especially considering what they were talking about. But the soda in front of him was so tall, the straw was right under his nose. Denise Wojciekowski is talking about her husband’s deathbed plan to make her a mother, and here’s me looking like a kid who wants a summer job mowing lawns.
“Here’s how I proceed,” Denise was telling him. “People call me, as you did. We meet, as we are.” With her fork she motioned between the two of them. “If you tell me today that you’re interested, I’ll give you a questionnaire to fill out, questions about your health and family background, that sort of thing. And then I’ll want you to explain why you want to do this. I review all the answers with a nurse, then with a lawyer. The applications, of course, are anonymous. So far I’ve got to this point in the process with three prospective donors.”
“How many different guys have you met, interviewed, like me here today?”
“Oh, lots. Fifteen, I think.”
“How many guys have filled out questionnaires?”
“Six. After the questionnaire checks out, the man goes to my physician for a physical. I pay for that. I ask for a one-time psychiatric evaluation. I pay for that. Then the man and I sign various preliminary papers. He goes to the lab for the processing of his sperm, which is frozen for six months.”
“Then?”
“Well, then the sample is retested, the man is retested. If all’s clear, we inseminate. Throughout the process, you’re guaranteed no one else can use your sperm sample. Also, you’re released of paternity rights. Although I’m not completely closed to considering another arrangement if the man would like some sort of involvement in the child’s life.”
“You interviewed fifteen guys. Six did the application. Three went to the lab.”
“No. Only two have gone to the lab. They’re in the six-month wait period. The third applicant dropped out before the psych exam. With the two we’re waiting on, both will be up for retest in six weeks. If one of them checks out okay, we’ll go on to the insemination. I’m not getting any younger,” she said. Another sort-of smile. “Please, keep in mind I may be meeting you too late. I may be able to proceed with an earlier candidate.”
Christopher felt dizzy, not sure where or how to plug into all she was telling him. Candidates. “What if somebody lies?” he asked. “Like, on the questionnaire.”
“Are you considering lying?”
“No. I just—”
“Why would anyone lie? There’s nothing in it for the donor. I’m not giving any money. The right person for this will have his own reasons for doing it, reasons that have nothing to do with money or power or any of the reasons that make people lie. I’ve given this whole project up to the care of my higher power. I know this is the way to go.”
She’d lost Christopher completely now. He knew there were questions he should ask—legal, medical, practical questions—but he didn’t know where to start. This was the kind of thing Nora would have been much better at. The only thing Christopher could see clearly was how thoroughly Denise was making her way through to what she wanted.
For a few moments, Christopher and Denise sat quietly and he watched her eat. In small squared-off forkfuls she polished off her mashed potatoes. Now she was on to the honey-glazed carrots, stacking one round on top of another before forking them.
“Isn’t this kind of weird,” he asked, “to be talking about this here? In public?”
Denise smiled her weary smile; already this smile was a power she had over him. She looked around the restaurant. “There isn’t a soul in here who would care what you and I are talking about.” A while earlier, looking up at the door, Christopher had spotted a teenage girl who was the daughter of someone he knew. She used to show up at studio parties sometimes when she was a little girl. Christopher had envied that family, the way they moved through the weekend in a solid group. Just what he wanted with Nora.
“These guys you’re waiting on, for the six-month tests, why’re they doing it? What did they tell you?”
Denise had been buttering a roll. She put it down and wiped her mouth. “Let me ask you, Christopher. Why are you interested in doing this?”
“I’m not, I’m not sure.”
“Then why are we here?”
The waitress again. “One check or two?”
“Put it on one,” Christopher said.
“Two,” Denise said. As soon as the waitress was gone, Denise told Christopher, “Sorry, but I’m not going to pay for your soda.”
“No! No. I was going to pay for your dinner.”
“Why? Why would you pay for my dinner? You don’t even know me.”
“It was just a thought. A gesture. Sorry.”
Denise was impossible to flirt with, impossible to charm.
She asked him, “Are you doing this because you feel sorry for me in some way? Or sorry, just in general, for a woman in my situation? Is it something like that?”
“No. Damn it. You are difficult to talk to, d’you know that? I feel sorry for myself.” When he heard it, he knew it was true.
“Did you know Don?” Denise asked.
“Yes. I met him. Once. We talked. Twice.” Christopher was aware of having to be precise, accountable for himself and everything he said. He didn’t like that. “It was Tina’s opening. Piper introduced us. Don needed someone to cover at Art Students League.”
“You called and couldn’t do it,” she said. “I took that call. Now I remember you. Don and I were disappointed, but you at least called back and gave us the name of someone who could cover for him. You’ve helped us already.” It unsettled Christopher to hear that, for her, she and her dead husband were still us.
It unsettled him and made him jealous.
“Now I have a question, Christopher. Your wife. Are you going to tell her?”
“My wife. Right now, for various complicated reasons of her own, she’s not into it. I’ve always wanted a child. I’m turning forty soon. I’ve wanted…I don’t know, for years I wanted to know, basically, could I make a baby? I know that sounds like messed-up guy stuff, but I have to know. And then there’s you, and your story. It just seems—”
“I’m going to stop you there, because I’m pressed for time today, and I should finish the details. I have a lawyer. As I mentioned, I’ll assume full parental responsibility, though the father’s name would appear on the birth certificate. But this is way ahead of us.” She pulled papers out from a canvas bag next to her in the booth. “Here, take the questionnaire if you think you’d like me to consider you as a potential candidate. Think it over. If you’d like to proceed, call me in a week. By then I should know about Candidate Number One, if his six-month review went well. I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Yeah. I’d walk you over, but I don’t want to run into my wife’s friend.”
“Why would you walk me to work? I know where it is.”
OUT ON SIXTH AVENUE, Christopher shook hands with Denise Wojciekowski. “So,” he said.
“Bye,” Denise said, and turned and walked away from him.
CHRISTOPHER WALKED and walked downtown for a long time. At each pay phone, he planned to stop in a few more blocks and leave Denise a message on her answering machine. She could find the message when she got home in the morning. “Sorry,” he’d say into the machine, “but this won’t work for me. Nice meeting you. Good luck.”
ON SATURDAY NIGHT, as Christopher sat at his drafting table filling out Denise’s questionnaire, he had to consider aspects of body and soul he’d never thought about before. LIST 5 REASONS YOU WANT TO BE A DONOR. LIST YOUR 5 BEST PERSONALITY TRAITS. LIST YOUR 5 MOST DIFFICULT PERSONALITY TRAITS. WHAT TRAITS WOULD YOU LIKE A CHILD TO INHERIT?
Nora should be filling this out, these are her kinds of questions. Nora was out somewhere. They’d started fighting again. After a couple weeks of getting along really nicely, this afternoon they’d had a blowup, out of nowhere. Christopher was still spinning. Just this morning, they’d made love
for a beautiful long time. It had been great. Then, after lunch, Nora had heard Christopher on the phone with Kevin, making a date to play basketball on Thursday, in the late morning, and she flipped. “Christopher, Thursday morning at eleven is our counseling session.”
“Ah, Nora, I hate that Chubbo. We’re getting along great. We don’t need that.”
Her face looking at him was unbelievable. As if he were a criminal, as if he’d just slapped her, or just broken something valuable on purpose, given away her jewelry. “Nora, why are you doing this to me?”
Her voice was low and full of shock. “You’re reneging,” she said to him. “After everything we’ve talked about. You promised, and now you’re reneging.”
Christopher wasn’t sure what “renege” meant, but all he knew was that a few hours earlier he’d felt so much in love with his wife he’d been planning to surprise her by making her favorite porcini-mushroom ravioli for dinner. Instead, here he was, eating his fourth frozen waffle, sitting in the loft with a cat that had ulcers, applying for he knew not what.
PLEASE LIST ALL ILLNESSES SINCE CHILDHOOD. PLEASE LIST ALL DRUGS YOU’VE TAKEN, INCLUDING RECREATIONAL DRUGS. WHAT LANGUAGES DO YOU SPEAK? FLUENTLY? PLEASE LIST ALL YOUR EXCEPTIONAL TALENTS, SKILLS, INTERESTS. PLEASE LIST ALL AWARDS, HONORS, CITATIONS. HAVE YOU EVER BEEN ARRESTED?
This was why he never applied for grants. He had a real phobia about forms like this. How the hell do you present yourself with words? And then the writing itself was full of land mines. Commas and spelling. Basically, all people were asking when they gave you a form was for you to make an ass of yourself.
Christopher stood and walked out of the light of his work space and through the unlit archway into the living quarters of the loft. He looked around for something else to do. Whenever he had one big project, he needed a couple other, small ones going at the same time. He already had the potted plants soaking in the bathtub. Wandering into the bedroom, he decided to hang up Nora’s tossed-around clothes. Slob. She usually appreciated it when he cleaned up after her. He stepped on something, the flowered camisole he’d slipped off of her during that morning’s foreplay. He picked it up, held it to his face. Mostly, the scent of her was gone. Nora, where the fuck are you?