Her Daughter's Mother

by Daniela Petrova

  LANA

  NOW

  I was at the office when the nurse called just before noon. My blood test from this morning had come back positive. I sat there, stunned, staring at the phone in my hand.

  I was pregnant.

  My first instinct was to call Tyler. It’s funny how long it takes for our brains to adjust to new circumstances. Two weeks after he’d left, I still woke up in the morning with my body looking for his to curl against. I still unlocked the apartment door and listened for his voice calling out to me in greeting. I still reached for his favorite ancient grains granola in the store.

  I called Angie instead. “Holy Toledo!” she shrieked, and I pulled the phone away from my ear. “We’re going to be mothers together!”

  An hour later, she was waiting for me at the museum’s entrance with a Zabar’s bag in her hand. With her cropped jean jacket and loose ponytail, she looked much younger than her age. As a freelance writer, Angie worked from home and made her own office hours. She often came over to join me on my lunch break, since her apartment was a short walk across Central Park.

  The April sun was bright, the air crisp and clear. Visitors lounged on the front steps, sitting cross-legged or leaning back, resting on an elbow. Some had red paper bags with the Met’s logo; others held selfie sticks. Pigeons ambled about, bobbing their heads, picking at crumbs. In six weeks, the weather would turn hot and sticky and everyone would be hiding indoors, blasting the AC. But for a few brief weeks in the spring and fall, New Yorkers—and tourists—got to enjoy being outdoors.

  Angie and I made our way through the throngs of nannies pushing strollers and dog walkers with at least a half-dozen dogs fanned out in front of them. The road looping around the park was packed with bicyclists and runners, and we had to weave around them. Finally, we found a bench in the sun overlooking the Great Lawn and sat down.

  “Are you going to tell Tyler?” Angie asked, as she unwrapped her sandwich.

  I shrugged. “I’m taking it one day at a time, praying I make it through the first trimester. I’ll worry about telling him once there’s something to tell.”

  “Like after you give birth?”

  “Anyway, why should I? He decided he didn’t want the baby.”

  “He kinda didn’t know there was a baby.”

  “Technically, he did.” I opened the plastic box with the salad I’d picked up from the Met’s staff cafeteria. “By the time he left, fertilization had happened and the cells were already multiplying like mad. Just because the action wasn’t taking place in my womb doesn’t mean that it wasn’t happening.”

  Angie looked at me, her expertly plucked eyebrows arched high on her forehead. “Have you considered a career in law? Maybe politics?”

  We laughed. It was so good to laugh after so many tears.

  “But it will be his child,” Angie said. “His flesh and blood. Doesn’t he have the right to know?”

  I took a bite of my salad. “Women have always had the option of keeping such news to themselves. I won’t be the first.” Truth be told, it hurt like hell not to share with Tyler what should have been joyous news. Which only made me that much angrier with him.

  “But don’t you have to? I mean legally. Can’t he sue you or something?”

  “Why is it that when it happens naturally, it’s okay? But when a lab is involved, there are all these legal issues?”

  A couple of pigeons pecked at half a bagel lying on the ground by the trash can on our left. A toddler who was passing with his mother ran toward them. I pulled out my phone and snapped a shot of the little boy and the birds as they flew away. I wasn’t big on social media but loved capturing interesting moments and posting them on Instagram.

  “By the way, I have a secret admirer,” I said.

  Angie lit up. “Oh, do tell.”

  “He ‘likes’ all of my photos and watches all of my stories.”

  Angie laughed. “You mean you’ve got a new follower.” Her editors expected her to have a huge social media presence and she worked hard at it, spending hours curating her image. She had thousands of followers, most of whom she’d never met. But I still got excited when someone who didn’t know me found my photos compelling enough to follow me.

  “Is he cute?” Angie said.

  “I don’t know, his account’s private.”

  She laughed even harder. “How do you know it’s a he then?”

  I showed her his profile on my screen: Peter Bogdin. Instead of a photo the circle had some sort of black-and-white graphic.

  She raised her eyebrows mockingly and I waved her away. “I know. You can call yourself anything.”

  “Just keep posting and soon you’ll have too many followers to notice who’s liking what.”

  “I used to hate it that Tyler wasn’t on social media,” I said, “but now I’m grateful I don’t have to deal with unfriending him.” My phone rang in my hand. “Speak of the devil.”

  “Tyler?”

  I stared at his name flashing on my screen, my stomach in a knot. He’d sent me a few e-mails over the past two weeks that I’d deleted without opening, but this was the first time he was calling. “What the hell does he want? He can’t expect that we’ll be friends now . . .” I paused as a new worry rose up my chest. “Could he have found out? About the pregnancy?”

  Angie shook her head. “I doubt it.”

  He left a voice mail and I played it on speakerphone so that we could both listen: Hey. It’s me, he began, and I felt a pang at hearing his voice. I clasped my salad box as he continued. Just checking in to make sure you’re okay.

  “Why wouldn’t I be okay?” I said, and dropped the phone back in my purse. “Oh, yeah, my partner of eight years dumped me for another woman at the worst possible time.”

  “I’m sorry, hon.” Angie reached over and patted my shoulder. “You’re a strong woman. You’ll do just fine without him. You’ll see.”

  As I got up to go back to the office, Angie stopped me. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  I looked at her questioningly.

  “C’mon, let me see her.” Angie extended her hand.

  “Who?” I asked even though I knew. I’d refused to show even Angie the photo of my donor, saying that I didn’t want to jinx myself. The truth was I’d been embarrassed about her looks. But now that I’d gotten pregnant I had no more excuses. I sighed and pulled the photo up on my phone.

  Angie did a double take. “This is your egg donor? I sure hope you have a girl. Those looks would be wasted on a boy.”

  “This is why I didn’t want to show it to you,” I said, and waved good-bye.

  Back in the office, I sat at my desk and looked at the photo again. “Thank you,” I whispered.

  The sun was streaming through the window and I got up to adjust the shades. It was getting late and I had a bunch of loan requests from museums all over the world to deal with. They seemed to have flooded my inbox all at once. I took one last look at the woman who had given me the gift of what I hoped was a healthy pregnancy before I put my phone away.

  I’d already decided I would not be calling Tyler back.

  5.

  LANA

  NOW

  I was on my way home, sitting on the number 1 train, reading my book, when I saw her. I’d stopped at Barnes & Noble before getting on the subway and bought What to Expect When You’re Expecting. I hadn’t dared get it when I’d first found out I was pregnant a week ago. But my second blood test was good and the doctor had reassured me that everything was going according to plan. “With the egg of a twenty-one-year-old woman, you have nothing to worry about.”

  It was an unseasonably warm early-May day, the streets buzzing with the promise of summer, and I dreaded returning to the empty apartment. I blamed it on the weather, but the truth was I had nothing to go home to. I found cooking for myself depres
sing and it was still too light outside to turn on the TV and lose myself in the dramas of others. Which was why I’d ended up at the bookstore, killing some time.

  The subway was nearly empty. I was sitting in a middle seat, engrossed in my reading. Shortly before my stop at 110th Street, I closed the book and put it in my bag. I was about to get up when my eyes landed on a girl in a hot-pink summer dress, leaning against the pole across from me, looking at her phone. My breath caught in my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, convinced I was seeing things. But when I opened them, she was still there, the girl whose face I knew so well.

  The train stopped, the conductor announced 110th Street, and the doors opened. People walked out, others walked in. I remained in my seat, my sweaty hands clutching my bag.

  This was not supposed to happen. Not in New York, a city of more than eight million people. Sure, I’d run into friends before—at parties, on the street, in the park. Once, at a bodega in the Village, I’d even come across a guy from my high school in suburban Chicago. It was weird to see him outside the context of New Trier, but it was inconsequential. I never gave it much thought. But the beautiful girl leaning against the pole in a hot-pink dress, this girl was CN8635—my egg donor. The girl whose genes my baby would inherit.

  I stared hard at the bag in my lap. What if she looked in my direction and our eyes met? She, of course, didn’t know what the woman she’d donated to looked like. She didn’t know my name. But what if she somehow sensed who I was? What if she felt some telepathic connection with the baby growing in my belly?

  Her presence in the car was electrifying. I gripped my purse with my damp hands, stealing peeks at her. The way her hair fell down her shoulders in loose brown waves. The casual manner in which she held the phone in her palm, confidently swiping with her thumb.

  A few stops later, at 168th Street, she got off, and without so much as a thought, I rose from my seat and rushed after her.

  My stomach tingled with excitement mixed with apprehension as I followed her out of the subway and down the street, keeping a safe distance. I didn’t ask myself what I was doing. I just kept walking, my eyes glued to the pink dress, making sure I wouldn’t lose her. It would have been a lot easier if I’d had flats on. But, no, I’d decided this morning on three-inch navy pumps to go with my navy skirt and cream blouse.

  When she stopped at the traffic light, waiting to cross Broadway, I hid behind a shish kebab food truck at the corner. People sauntered past me, talking loudly, laughing. I’d always liked the cheerful, relaxed vibe in Washington Heights. On a warm spring evening like tonight, everyone seemed to be out—families with kids, groups of teenagers, friends—shopping, hanging out, horsing around.

  I followed the girl in pink along Broadway for a couple of blocks before she turned left onto a quiet side street lined with low-rise residential buildings with white-brick façades. If she were to look back now, I had no place to go, no group of people to hide behind. I slowed my pace, leaving a greater distance between us, then crossed to the other side of the street so that I could keep an eye on her more easily. I wondered if she lived around here. If she walked this route every day on her way to and from the subway.

  It happened so fast, I barely registered it. I didn’t see her trip or lurch forward. One moment she was walking, the next she was sprawled facedown on the sidewalk. I looked around. Except for a guy talking on his phone farther down the block, there was nobody in sight. Before I could give it another thought, I was running across the street toward her. “Are you okay?” I shouted as I approached. She was starting to move, to pull herself up onto all fours. “Miss, are you okay?” I hovered over her, unsure how to help.

  She rolled over and sat with her back leaning against the building and looked up at me. “I felt a bit unsteady for a moment,” she said, her voice feeble, dreamy. “Probably low blood sugar or something.” She examined her scraped knee, a few drops of blood forming, shrugged, and started to get up. She was already on her feet when she rocked a bit and held on to me.

  Her hand on my shoulder felt hot, burning my skin through the shirt. The baby growing inside me was her flesh and blood.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and gave me an embarrassed smile. She spoke with my mother’s accent. Of course, she would. “I was late for class today and had to skip lunch,” she continued. “I just need to eat something. There is a coffee shop around the corner on Broadway.”

  She let go of my shoulder and took a wobbly step forward. I grabbed her arm. “Wait. I’ll walk you there.”

  “Really? Oh, thank you.” She smiled and we started walking slowly.

  It felt wrong. I was not supposed to know my egg donor. I was not supposed to be talking to her. But it was also thrilling. The act of doing something forbidden and getting away with it. Like sneaking an extra scoop of ice cream behind Mom’s back.

  “So sweet of you to help me,” she said, and eased onto my arm. Two friends on an evening stroll. “People say New Yorkers are rude. But I’ve been at Columbia for four years and everyone has been so nice and friendly.” She looked at me. “I’m Bulgarian.”

  “My mother is from there.” I knew it was a mistake before I’d finished saying it.

  “Seriously?” She stopped, beaming, and hugged me. Just like that, she hugged me. As if I were a long-lost relative. “Do you speak Bulgarian?”

  “Malko,” I said, using my thumb and index finger to identify how little I knew. I used to be fluent but hadn’t spoken it since I was a kid.

  “Most Americans I meet don’t even know where Bulgaria is.” She hesitated. “You aren’t in a hurry, are you?” she asked tentatively. “There’s a great Irish place just around the corner. We can grab a quick bite if you’d like.”

  “Actually, I was going to—”

  “Oh no! Please tell me you don’t have dinner plans.” She peered at me expectantly, pleadingly, her face already getting some of its color back. “I’d so love to hear about your mother and how she got here. It must have been back during Communism, right? I’ve heard some crazy stories.”

  I stared at my pumps. What had I gotten myself into?

  “I should have something more substantial than a bagel anyway,” she went on. “It’s just that . . . it’s so lonely to eat a meal on your own. You know?”

  She was remarkably candid and unguarded. I found it difficult sharing my hardships even with close friends, let alone admitting loneliness in front of strangers.

  “Please.” She looked at me with her radiant green eyes—commanding attention, demanding you follow her every whim, her every desire.

  I thought about all the reasons I shouldn’t. And yet. How could I turn down a chance to get to know my donor while she had no clue who I was? It didn’t get better than that. Sure, it was wrong. But I hadn’t sought her out. She had fallen into my lap. Almost literally.

  I checked my watch, stalling.

  What was the big deal? I would have dinner with her and then we’d go our separate ways, never to see each other again. No harm in that. I’d learn a bit more about her life, her family, and any health problems that she might not have owned up to on her donor form. If there was anything worrisome, it was better to find out about it in advance so that I could prepare.

  “Sure. Why not?” I finally said, and followed her. I still couldn’t believe it. I’d been worried about running into Tyler around campus. That would have made sense. But my donor?

  She was nearly skipping now, all but dragging me along. It was flattering to see her excitement, even if it was on account of my mother being Bulgarian. A young, beautiful girl like her—she was even more beautiful in person—I was sure she had trouble shaking people off. And here she was, delighted to have me join her for dinner. I wondered what it must be like to go through life looking the way she did. Everyone scrambling to please you. Having any man you wished. I wondered if my child would have that same magn
etism.

  As we walked, I tried to come up with a story, an explanation of what I was doing in this neighborhood. It sounded like she’d been on her way home, but what about me? Maybe visiting a friend? And what if she asked for the street or the friend’s building? Before I’d had time to land on a solid story, we’d arrived.

  At the entrance, my donor stopped and extended her hand. “I’m Katya, by the way. Katya Dimitrova.”

  6.

  TYLER

  THEN

  Six months earlier

  I hadn’t intended to discuss my personal life with Rachel. As her thesis adviser, I saw her once a week to check in on her progress. It was one of those cold and wet November days, a gray mist lingering in the air after it had rained on and off since morning, that reminded me of growing up in Eugene. There was a lot I missed about it—the national parks and mountains, the rugged cliffs and beaches along the Oregon coastline—but not the winters.

  Rachel was gathering her papers at the end of our meeting, getting ready to leave. The old heater in my office groaned and clanked as steam made its way up the pipes. I stared out at the fading light across campus, already lost in thought.

  “Is everything okay?” Rachel said with that disarming earnestness she had about her. I met her big brown eyes and, as I tried to figure out how best to dismiss her concern, she leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, elbow propped on the table, ready to listen. If it were any of my other PhD candidates, I would have shrugged it off and said something like, Ah, you know, long night working on an article. But when Rachel asked, it seemed like she truly cared. That I would actually be letting her down if I didn’t tell her.

  I hesitated. It had been a week since Lana’s latest miscarriage and the doctor’s words sounded in my head on a continuous loop: I’m not finding the baby’s heartbeat. The pain was crushing, debilitating, but I had to be strong for Lana. She needed me to comfort and reassure her that it would be all right. Even if I didn’t believe it.

  I had nobody else to talk to about it. Most of my friends had families and either had moved to the suburbs or were caught up in kid stuff. My sister, Sam, lived in the city with her husband and two young daughters, but we had never been close. As she liked to point out, she had more of a relationship with Lana than with me. The few single buddies I had left weren’t particularly helpful. Guys get weirded out about sharing emotional stuff. We’d grab a beer and they’d ask how I was doing and I’d say something like, “Ah you know, man, it’s tough. Lana just had a miscarriage.” And the guy would say, “I’m sorry, man. Hope she feels better soon,” followed by a pat on the shoulder. End of story.