So when Rachel asked, it just poured out of me. All of it. The miscarriages, the IVFs, the whole goddamn infertility battle that had become our life for the past eight years. In turn, Rachel told me about her sick mother who had been living with MS for fifteen years. Rachel had watched her go from a vibrant supermom to a wilted woman in a wheelchair to a bedridden skeleton. I had an inkling of what she was going through. I’d seen my own mother wither in the grip of cancer before she’d died ten years ago.
“My friends don’t understand,” Rachel said, twiddling her right earring. “The worst thing to happen to most of them is not getting in to Harvard.”
A cool breeze came in through the cracked window. The smell of wet earth and dead leaves.
Pain was defeating and exceedingly isolating at any age. It was what Rachel and I bonded over.
I began looking forward to my thesis meetings with her. We would spend hours in my office or in coffee shops around campus, discussing not only her doctorate and philosophy but also books, films, and music. A cynic might say that I wouldn’t have hung out with Rachel if she weren’t pretty. I would be lying if I said that I was blind to her looks, that I didn’t notice her slim waist, her shiny hair, her velvety skin that looked as if it had been airbrushed. But even if I were single—which I wasn’t—I knew better than to mess around with a student.
If anything, my friendship with Rachel was forcing me to face the fact that Lana and I had fallen into a rut. We were drowning in hurt and disappointments, our lives reduced to an endless quest for a baby. Something had to change if we had any chance of surviving as a couple. The only sure way to avoid more pain and resume normal life was to stop the fertility treatments. Or at least take a break from them.
“Are you saying we should give up on having children?” Lana said when I brought it up at dinner that evening.
“I’m saying let’s forget about it for a week or two and go away for the winter break. Someplace warm. We can swim and lounge around in the sand all day, take sunset walks on the beach.”
Lana hesitated, took a sip of her wine. I could see the temptation, the old spark in her eyes.
“We’ll forget all about doctors and treatments,” I went on. “Reconnect.” I took her hand. “I miss our—”
She pulled her hand away, a hurt look on her face as if I’d suggested a visit to a torture chamber. “We can’t.”
She was right. It was a terrible time to be going on vacation, for both of us. She had a big show coming up. I had to prepare for my tenure review.
“A short trip will recharge our batteries,” I pressed on. It might have been professional suicide but it was the right thing for us.
“Tyler, my clock is ticking, remember? It’s bad enough I have to give up on having a child that would carry my genes.” She sighed, took back my hand. “You understand, don’t you?”
That was the first time she’d brought up the option of using donor eggs. I knew it was a big hit on her identity, on her pride as a woman.
I nodded, clasped my other hand over hers. Lana was a fighter. She didn’t know how to stop and take a break. It was that determination—along with her curiosity and passion—that had first attracted me to her.
We’d met the old-fashioned way. Offline. In the real world. And I don’t mean a bar in Manhattan. I mean hot-and-sweaty, foot-calluses real world; days of sore legs, sleeping on a thin pad on the ground, lungs laboring for oxygen, freezing temperatures on the morning of the ascent. We were a six-person group—four men and two women—who’d come from all over the world to climb Kilimanjaro. I was smitten by this strong, determined woman with almond-shaped brown eyes, who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Lana was tougher than the rest of us. While we’d gone looking for an adventure, she was there for a cause—to raise money for the Lymphoma Research Foundation in memory of an aunt who had died earlier that year.
I watched her now as she took another sip of wine, set the glass back down, and stared at it, her jaw clenched. I wondered what was going on in her head. I wondered if she ever wondered about what was going on in mine.
7.
LANA
NOW
Coogan’s was a typical Irish pub—dark and buzzing, the smell of beer thick. But it had outdoor seating right on Broadway that looked particularly appealing on a balmy May evening. Katya knew one of the bartenders—a tall young guy with a shaved head and densely tattooed arms. He managed to get us a tiny table in the corner that fit snugly against one of the wooden planters, bright with yellow and purple pansies. Most everyone seemed younger than me, but this was a casual unassuming crowd, nothing like the trendy kids in the Meatpacking District or the hipsters in Williamsburg.
Katya told me that they were mostly from the nearby Columbia University Medical Center. She, too, was a Columbia student—a college senior majoring in economics. That explained our chance encounter on the 1 train, a couple of stops from campus. If anything, I was surprised it hadn’t happened earlier. Or maybe it had. For all I knew, we’d passed each other numerous times in the neighborhood. Only I hadn’t known of her existence until about four months ago when we’d chosen her as our donor. Tyler, especially, must have walked by her on campus a million times. Luckily, econ majors weren’t known for frequenting philosophy classes.
Katya ordered the cheeseburger and a glass of pinot noir. I got iced tea and the beer-battered fish and chips. Not exactly gluten-free, but fish counted as a healthy choice.
“Don’t you want a drink?” Katya asked after the waitress left with our orders.
I shook my head. “So how do you like New York?”
“I love it. But listen, you have to try their pinot. I know it’s an Irish pub but they have great wine. Let me order you a glass.” And she started looking around to wave the waitress back.
“No, thanks, really. I’m fine.”
“Trust me, it’s good.” The busboy brought the bread basket and Katya pulled out a piece. She took a bite, moaned with satisfaction, and proceeded to butter the rest of her slice. “I used to work weekends in a wine bar,” she said. “I know wine.”
I smiled. “Maybe next time.” There wouldn’t be a next time, of course. It was just an expression, what people said to be polite, but this girl was so forthright and personable, I hoped she wouldn’t take it at face value. “It must be hard going to college so far from home. Do you miss your family, your friends?” I asked, hoping to change the topic.
“We Skype,” she said, and pointed to the bread. “It’s warm, try it.” I took a slice even though I didn’t plan to eat it. She leaned back against her chair, chewing. “I feel much better already.” Then, “Would you like some olives? Let’s get some.” And she raised her hand to flag our waitress.
I was amazed to see how at home Katya felt in New York, how sure of herself. Unlike my mother, Katya had grown up in post-Communist Bulgaria. She’d studied English in school, watched MTV, CNN, and an endless list of American movies. She’d been on the Internet since she was a child, used Facebook and Instagram and Twitter. Coming to New York was hardly the cultural shock my mother had experienced.
“Are you going to miss New York?” I asked. She squinted at me, confused, so I added, “You said you’re a senior, right? You must be graduating in a few weeks and going home.”
“Oh, no, no, no.” She wagged her finger like a metronome in front of her face. “I am not going back.”
The olives arrived and she popped one into her mouth before continuing. “My dad died when I was a kid,” she said, her voice taking on a somber tone. “My mother and I can’t stand each other. This is home for me.”
I smiled, remembering how excited I’d been to leave Chicago, first for Boston and then New York. And my mother and I were close. Maybe too close.
“So you plan to stay in New York?” I asked.
“This guy I’ve been hooking up with wants me to move in with him a
fter graduation.” She popped in another olive before continuing, “But he can be so possessive. Do you have a boyfriend?”
I shook my head.
“Oh,” she said, and her eyes went big with surprise. Maybe she thought every woman over a certain age was either married or in a committed relationship. “We need to find you one, then. What about the cute guy over there?” She motioned toward a man dining on his own. Good-looking, fit, young. Way too young for me. I was flattered.
I shook my head and put my hand on her arm. “I’m pregnant,” I blurted out.
“Bozhe moi,” Katya said, and raised her hands to her head, the way my mother does. “Why didn’t you tell me? And here I am, pushing the pinot on you.” She lowered her voice. “Do you know who the father is?”
I laughed. Her familiarity didn’t offend me. It was endearing. “There haven’t been that many men in my life and certainly never at the same time. We were together for eight years.”
“What happened?”
I looked away, straightened my fork and knife. “He left me.”
“Well, that’s his loss. You don’t need him.”
“Exactly.”
“Another woman, ah?” Katya said, furrowing her brow.
I pulled back. “How did you know?”
“Isn’t that how relationships usually break up? Someone meets someone else?”
I sighed. “Or people get fed up with each other.” I was thinking more about my mom and dad than my relationship with Tyler. But, if I were to be honest, I had to admit that one surely begets the other. “He didn’t say that there was another woman, but . . . I think you’re right.”
Our dinner plates arrived and Katya bit into her burger. She ate like a guy, unafraid to show her appetite. “You have to make him pay for it,” she said.
I took a French fry and then another. “It’s not like that would make my situation better. And he’s not a bad guy, really.”
She stopped chewing and stared at me. “But he left you . . .”
“Nobody’s perfect. I’m not. Frankly, I’d have left myself a long time ago.”
I laughed but Katya was still looking at me like I was from another planet.
“So you’d let him go on with his life as if he’s done nothing while you—”
“I can’t possibly worry about him,” I said. “I need to focus on myself and my baby now.”
That’s one good thing about getting older. You gain perspective. Things are no longer black-and-white. Life happens in the gray, unglamorous middle. Only in books and movies does the action take place in the extremes, where it’s all or nothing and people die for love and principles. I didn’t expect this young girl to understand.
“So tell me about the possessive boyfriend,” I said.
“He’s not my boyfriend.” She made a face as if she’d tasted something spoiled and explained that they’d been hooking up since the fall semester, that’s all. “He was pretty chill at first but then turned clingy on me.” She rolled her eyes. “I tried to get rid of him a few times but he’s got a temper. You don’t want to mess with him.”
I put my fork down. “Has he hit you?”
She laughed. “God, no,” she said, then added: “Not really.”
I knew what not really meant. “Is there someone on campus you can talk to about this? There must be a counseling center.”
“You kidding? I’m Bulgarian. We don’t believe in shrinks.” She laughed. “Psychics and fortune-tellers—now that’s another story.”
“But it might—”
“It’s not an issue, really. I told him the other day that I’d found myself a cheap room to rent in a friend’s apartment and he was totally okay with it. We’re cool now. He has his moments but he’s so damn hot.” She giggled. “Picture Tom Cruise. You know that blue-steel look?”
I stared at her. “How old is he?”
“In his thirties.” I raised my eyebrows in surprise—and maybe even reproach—but she seemed to take it as a sign of disbelief because she added, “Okay, late thirties. But what does age matter?”
“It doesn’t. But if he’s violent, you need to—”
“Oh, no, he’s not violent,” Katya said, interrupting me. “I really don’t want to talk about him.” Then, perking up: “Hey, so tell me about your mother. How did she leave Bulgaria?”
I told her about the Montreal Olympics, how my mom had defected along with one Russian and four Romanian athletes. Seeing Katya’s face light up with awe was moving. A sense of pride, even if it was on account of my mother, washed over me and I straightened in the chair, my voice turning stronger, more confident. I was touched by Katya’s youthful curiosity and enthusiasm. She wanted to know everything: how long I’d lived in New York, how I’d fallen in love with art, what it was like to work at the Met. Before I knew it, I’d forgotten all my worries about Tyler and the pregnancy. I was just a regular woman enjoying dinner with a new friend at a cool sidewalk café in a part of town I rarely went to.
As we parted outside the restaurant, Katya hugged me like an old friend. “That was so much fun. We should do it again,” she said, and pulled out her phone. “What’s your number?”
My throat went dry, my thoughts blank.
“I’ll call you right now,” she added. “This way you’ll have mine.”
* * *
She was just being nice, I told myself as I walked back to the subway. People always take your number but they never call. It’s just a formality. A polite ritual. I’d done it countless times, exchanging numbers with women I’d clicked with at parties and events, promising to stay in touch. But then life had taken over and I hadn’t called, nor had they. I had nothing to worry about.
Still, I was pissed at myself. I’d rationalized having dinner with Katya as a way to learn more about her and her family’s health history. Instead, she’d been the one asking the questions. And I’d happily obliged, seduced by her excitement, flattered by her interest in my life.
8.
LANA
NOW
“Have you worked things out with Tyler yet?” my mother asked in response to my cheerful “Good morning.”
I’d called her on my way to the museum as I walked the few blocks down Fifth Avenue from the crosstown bus stop, phone in one hand, coffee cup in the other. I’d switched to decaf since the transfer, trying to trick my body into responding to the taste rather than the caffeine. With all that milk in Starbucks lattes, I couldn’t tell the difference. Traffic was heavy, but there were hardly any people on the sidewalks except for the occasional runner or a dog walker on their way to or from the park. I’d debated for days if I should tell my mother about the pregnancy, and having finally decided to do it, I wanted to get it over with before starting my day. “Mom, Tyler and I are over. Finished. How many times do I have to—”
“But honey, didn’t you tell me he said he wanted a break? That’s not the same as a breakup, now is it?”
“What man in his right mind asks for a break in the middle of a $50K fertility treatment? If Tyler wanted to take some time off—which, by the way, never works, but assuming that’s what he really wanted—wouldn’t he have done it before we emptied out our bank account?” I caught myself shouting and looked around, making sure there wasn’t anyone walking within earshot. “The only way this makes sense,” I continued, lowering my voice, “is that he met someone else and bailed in a rush before he had a child on his hands.”
My mother sighed on the other end, letting the silence build, thick and reproachful. As if I’d made Tyler leave me just to spite her.
“Don’t worry, Mom,” I finally said, resentful that she’d put me in the position of comforting her when it was I who’d been left. “I’m okay, I promise. I don’t need a man to be happy.” Not that my mother, who was on her fourth husband, would ever understand.
“Oh, honey.” S
he sighed again. “I told you that you should marry Tyler while he was still smitten with you but, no, that was too old-fashioned for you.”
Because marriage has worked so well for you, I wanted to scream at her. “Mom, I need to go. I just got to the museum and I’m late already.”
“Hurry, then. You can’t afford to lose your job now that—”
“Why would you think I’d lose my job?” She was really getting on my nerves this morning.
“I’m not saying that you will, honey. But you told me your boss wasn’t happy with your being late all the time and with Tyler gone—”
“Yeah, when I would come in an hour late because of my appointments at the clinic. That’s different.” I never should have told her about it. But she was right. The head of the department had been on my case for months now and I couldn’t afford to piss him off further.
“I’m sorry, honey. I just worry about you,” my mother said before hanging up. I put the phone down feeling guilty to have worried her yet again. Thank God I hadn’t told her I was pregnant.
* * *
I’d been back from lunch for an hour at least when my phone pinged with a text, then another one. I ignored it. I was finally getting some traction today, going over research and loan reports for an upcoming show.
To be living in New York and working at one of the finest museums in the world was a dream come true for a shy Midwestern girl who’d felt more at home among the paintings lining the halls of the Art Institute than among her classmates at school. As an associate curator in the Drawings and Prints Department, I was responsible for researching and publishing the collection, acquiring new works, organizing exhibitions, and administering loans with other museums. For the past year, I’d been working on a joint exhibit with the European Paintings Department that would showcase the work of the sixteenth-century Italian artist Parmigianino. It was scheduled to open in less than ten months and was a great opportunity for me to shine—and then, hopefully, to move up the ladder, drop associate from my title. My expertise was Italian prints, and Parmigianino was one of the first Italian painters to experiment with printmaking himself. This show was made for me, as Tyler had pointed out more than a year ago. “You’ll become a curator before I make professor,” he’d joked.
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