Her Daughter's Mother

by Daniela Petrova

  “I’m leaving,” I shouted over the music.

  “No, wait.” She put her hand on my shoulder. “You can’t leave now.”

  “I have to. Sorry.”

  “But the fun is just about to begin. Natalia and Irina have more hearts to break!”

  “I have a feeling Irina can break enough on her own,” I said, frustration rising in my chest. I had to get out of there and I didn’t want to have to argue about it. She was clearly having plenty of fun with this guy. What was it to her if I went home?

  I gave her a hug and rushed out before she could stop me.

  * * *

  It was past midnight when I finally made it home. I had already taken a shower and was brushing my teeth when my phone beeped. I rinsed my mouth and looked at it. It was a text message from Katya—Hey sis ;)—along with our selfie on the swing. I stared at the two of us, side by side, thinking: What if my child likes her more? Kids love the cool aunt.

  Except, in our case, Katya would be the cool mom. The real mom.

  * * *

  Four hours later, I woke up with sharp cramps in my belly and my pajama bottoms sticky-wet with what I realized in horror was blood.

  11.

  TYLER

  THEN

  I told Rachel about Lana’s quest for a Bulgarian donor. It was a cold mid-December day before the holidays. We were having our last meeting for the semester in what had become our preferred spot—the Hungarian Pastry Shop on Amsterdam. I was late, coming straight from a lecture, and had taken the few blocks at a quick pace. I wiped the sweat off my forehead and walked in. A Columbia institution among professors and students, the coffee shop was teeming with people reading books and newspapers, typing on laptops or writing in notebooks. That was why I liked the place. There was no music, no couches, no Wi-Fi. No healthy treats, only decadent pastries and desserts. Like my favorite syrup-drenched baklava.

  I spotted Rachel at a table in the back, legs crossed, eyes fixed on the door, a cup of coffee in front of her. She looked pretty. More so than usual. Maybe it was the bright lipstick. Or the way she’d pulled her hair back, revealing the elegant line of her neck.

  “Sorry, they wouldn’t let me go,” I said, and draped my coat on the back of my chair before sitting down.

  Rachel laughed. “They adore you!” She’d been my TA in a couple of classes last year.

  “It’s my fault.” I made a self-deprecating face. “You know I’m a sucker for questions.”

  I loved teaching. Some of my colleagues would rather focus on their own work, doing research, writing and publishing. Many of the assistant professors complained about being given lower-level intro classes. But I found those big Introduction to Philosophy lectures a thrill. Delving into questions like: What is consciousness? Can machines think? How do you know you’re not living in a matrix? There was nothing more rewarding than seeing enthusiasm on my students’ faces, especially those who’d never been exposed to philosophy, or even better—those who thought they didn’t give a damn about it. Until I asked them, “If you had the option, would you choose immortality?” The debates following this particular question got so heated that I often had to forgo the rest of the material I’d prepared for the day. But if all that my students took away at the end of the semester was to question things, particularly things we took for granted, I was happy.

  “Makes sense,” Rachel said when I told her that Lana wanted a Bulgarian donor. “Our roots are important. They keep us grounded.” I could tell she was thinking of her mom.

  “The problem is,” I told her, “there aren’t any Bulgarian girls. We checked all the agencies—here in the area and in states as far away as California.”

  Rachel nodded thoughtfully. She took a sip of her coffee, leaving a bright red smear on the porcelain. “Wait,” she said, and I shifted my eyes from her cup to her face. “Why don’t you put up a flyer on campus? I remember seeing some as an undergrad at Princeton. You know, Ivy League genes are in high demand.” She wrinkled her nose, and I laughed as she continued. “There must be a few Bulgarians among the foreign students here.”

  I nearly ran back home, pumped with excitement to tell Lana my brilliant idea. I knew better than to mention that it was Rachel’s. I’d have to explain who Rachel was and answer why the hell I was sharing personal information with one of my grad students. And that was a fight I wasn’t prepared to have.

  What mattered was that Lana was crestfallen about not being able to find a Bulgarian donor and I had found a possible solution.

  * * *

  On Group nights, Lana usually didn’t come home until eight thirty, sometimes even nine. I used the time to answer student e-mails and catch up on my reading. Tonight, I couldn’t concentrate, anxious to tell Lana about the flyer idea. I barely skimmed an article that pertained to my book on the metaphysics of coincidence before giving up on working altogether.

  I made a chicken stew for dinner instead of one of the quick pasta dishes I threw together when it was my turn to cook. I even spoke to my sister, whom I’d owed a call for weeks. In the time Lana and I had been trying for a baby, Sam and her husband had managed to meet, get married, and have two beautiful girls. Lana adored them. Having children had always been a bit of an abstract proposition for me, but every time I watched Lana play with my nieces, I felt a crushing desire to make that happen for her. For us.

  When I finally heard Lana’s keys in the lock, I rushed to meet her at the door with a glass of wine. It had started to snow outside, and I brushed the flakes off her hair, took her wet coat. I’d keyed Buena Vista Social Club on the stereo and had even remembered to light some candles. “Dos gardenias para ti,” I sang along as I raised my empty hand pretending to be bestowing her flowers. That was, more or less, the extent of my Spanish.

  She laughed. “What’s the occasion?” she asked, and took a sip. I waited for her to kick her boots off before leading her to the living room.

  “First things first. Sam invited us to dinner on Saturday. She doesn’t want to hear how much work we both have.”

  “Great.” Lana plopped herself on the couch and I sat beside her. “But that’s not what prompted . . .” She made a sweeping gesture to the candles and wine and looked at me expectantly.

  I couldn’t hold it any longer. “I have an idea,” I said, grinning like a little boy.

  “Not another attempt to entice me into going on vacation, I hope.” She raised her eyebrows, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

  “Better. About how to find a Bulgarian donor.”

  She straightened her back. “How?”

  “There are no guarantees, but at least it might increase our chances.” She shifted on her seat, twisting toward me as I continued. “I was thinking, there have to be some Bulgarian students on campus. Maybe if we put up a bunch of flyers advertising that we’re looking for—”

  “No way,” she said, shaking her head. Her smile faded. “We want an anonymous donor. Remember? We already discussed it.”

  “I know we did.” I took a deep breath, trying not to let the frustration at her talking to me as if I were a moron get to me. “But since there are no Bulgarian girls at any of the agencies, I thought it might be a—”

  “I’m sorry, Tyler, but I don’t want some woman knocking on our door in five years, coming to mess with our child’s head.”

  I wanted to scream that she was being paranoid. That it might actually be good to know the donor anyway, should our child face any medical problems one day. And, finally, that we should be making decisions together.

  “Your call,” I said instead, and stood up, too deflated to bother fighting about it.

  * * *

  When Rachel asked about the flyer a few days after our conversation, I felt embarrassed to tell her that Lana had shot down the idea. How could I explain it? Lana had reacted as if I’d suggested something preposterous, like, Let
’s go steal ourselves a baby. I would have questioned my own judgment if it weren’t for Rachel. That’s the problem with sharing relationship stuff with a third person. It’s no longer a fair game. In Rachel, I’d found an ally. Someone who proved me right every time Lana and I had a disagreement. Not because Rachel took my side, but because that was the only side she knew.

  I told Rachel that I’d appreciate her help with making the flyer as I wasn’t even sure what it should say. Three days later, on a bright but freezing afternoon just before the end of the semester, the two of us went around campus putting up pink, yellow, and purple flyers that read: Loving couple seeking egg donor from Bulgaria.

  I didn’t worry that Lana might see one of them. The chances of her walking on campus were close to nil. I felt bad about going behind her back. Of course I did. But I was doing it for her.

  What’s the worst that can happen? I thought as I pinned a pink sheet to the cafeteria bulletin board.

  12.

  LANA

  NOW

  The waiting room wasn’t as crowded on a Sunday morning as it was during the week. Still, there were at least a half-dozen women ahead of me, their faces betraying anguish and struggle, particularly acute on Mother’s Day. Fertility clinics didn’t fully close on weekends and holidays. Patients doing IVF needed to be monitored closely, their hormone levels checked daily. They also needed regular ultrasounds to measure the size of the follicles and determine the best time to retrieve the eggs.

  I checked in with the girl at reception and sat down to wait my turn with a copy of People. The fact that I was bleeding didn’t constitute an emergency. If I’d miscarried there was nothing to be done about it. I’d been down this road too many times. I knew the drill.

  I hadn’t even opened the magazine before I was assaulted with the photos of three pregnant celebrities, two of them older than me. Having babies seemed to be the newest fad—from teenagers to women in their forties, everyone was flaunting their baby bumps. I didn’t remember people obsessing over babies nearly as much in the nineties; or maybe babies hadn’t been on my radar back then. I’d spent my late teens and early twenties terrified that I’d get pregnant. I hadn’t even thought of my biological clock until Tyler and I had started trying for a baby and failed to get a positive on the pee stick for a whole year.

  I picked up the New Yorker instead but ended up leafing through the pages, unable to concentrate enough to read even the cartoons.

  It was over. I’d blown it.

  It had to be the dancing last night. How could I have been so stupid? Dr. Williams had told me no exercise. Or at least nothing that got my heart rate over 140. I’d been so intoxicated at meeting my egg donor that I’d dropped everything else. I’d stalked the girl and then befriended her. And here I was, paying the price. Tears welled up in my eyes and I pulled a tissue out. I couldn’t start crying, not in front of all these women. The clinic’s waiting room was much bigger and plainer than the pre-op’s. Hardly any guys came with their partners for regular checkups. If I saw a couple I could bet they were here for a consultation, pre- or postcycle.

  I checked my phone. I’d texted Katya at four in the morning that I was bleeding and was terrified I’d miscarried. As irrational as it might seem, part of me thought that her good wishes might bring me luck since she was the genetic mother of the baby. When you’re desperate, you’ll believe in anything. During my long and grueling battle with infertility, I’d prayed to all sorts of gods and deities, tried numerous diets, done acupuncture, yoga, and meditation. I’d even worn orange for days in a row to stimulate the damn fertility chakra.

  There was no word from Katya yet. Most likely, she was still asleep after a long night out. She’d sent me another text about twenty minutes after the selfie: OMG. This guy has a jacuzzi on his rooftop terrace! For all I knew, she was still in the Jacuzzi.

  I shouldn’t have followed her out of the subway. I shouldn’t have continued to hang out with her. It was wrong and this was my punishment. I dabbed my eyes with the tissue. It hadn’t been fair to her because she’d had no idea who I was. But maybe it wasn’t too late to make it right. Maybe I still had a chance. And so, sitting in the clinic’s waiting room, surrounded by a dozen or so women, I made one of those desperate pleas with God, promising that as long as my baby was okay, I would tell Katya the truth.

  Finally, my turn came. My least favorite nurse, Kim, called me up. She never smiled, never greeted me, never asked how I was doing.

  “Is Dr. Williams here?” I asked as I followed her down the corridor.

  “Nope,” she said without as much as a look in my direction. She opened the door to the examination room, pulled my file up on the computer screen, and squirted some gel onto the ultrasound wand. “You know what to do,” she said, and shut the door behind her.

  I undressed from the waist down. The bleeding appeared to have slowed, just a bit of spotting on the pad I’d put on before leaving for the clinic. I sat on the exam table and fit my feet into the stirrups, draping the sheet over my lap and legs. The room was cold, as usual, and I wrapped my arms around my chest to keep warm. Finally, there was a knock on the door, and one of the clinic’s fellows, Dr. Bouchard, walked in, followed by Kim. He’d done my ultrasound on a couple of occasions during the monitoring stage of the cycle. A perfectly nice guy in his early thirties, if a bit formal.

  “Hi, Lana,” he said with a blank face. “How are you?”

  I was disappointed at being seen by a fellow. Still, it was better than a resident or no doctor at all. With a shaky voice, I told him about the bleeding and cramping in the middle of the night. I didn’t say anything about having gone dancing.

  He slipped a pair of gloves on and sat on the little stool in front of me. “Let’s see what’s going on.”

  I held my breath and stared at the screen as he inserted the wand. Kim stood next to him waiting, her face portraying profound boredom.

  Dr. Bouchard adjusted the wand a few times, pressing against my uterus. A dark blob the size of a plum appeared on the screen.

  “It’s looking good,” he said.

  I exhaled slowly.

  “This is the sac.” He pointed to the blob. “And we can even see the fetal pole.” There was a little light dot to one side of the blob. “It’s too early to see the heartbeat, but everything is looking good. Measuring right on schedule.”

  “Why am I bleeding, then?”

  “You see that little black spot, to the right of the sac?” he said. “It’s a little hemorrhage. It’s called a subchorionic hemorrhage or hematoma. It happens sometimes. Most likely, it will either bleed out or be absorbed by your body. The good news is that it’s small and it’s not close to the fetus. You might have another bleed or two. But don’t worry.” He pulled the wand out and took off his gloves.

  I sat up, my muscles still tight, my mind trying to process the news that I hadn’t miscarried again.

  He noted something in my chart and turned to me. “Don’t you worry, everything looks good. Next week, we should be able to see the heartbeat.” He stood up. “Go home and relax. Put your feet up and take it easy for the rest of the day.” He walked out, followed by the nurse.

  My legs were shaking when I got up. The aftereffects of a fear-induced adrenaline rush. I sat right back down and took a few slow, deliberate breaths. My baby was okay. I breathed in and out, allowing the thought to sink in. I hadn’t miscarried.

  I was too scared to rejoice. I wasn’t out of the woods yet. But right now, at this very moment, it looked good. Relief spread through my body in warm waves.

  * * *

  Back home, Plato greeted me at the door. He’d become needier since Tyler left. We’d gotten him from the ASPCA as a kitten, a few months before we’d decided to stop using birth control. He’d been our test baby, our first commitment as a couple. It was just Plato and me now. I scooped him up and held him close, his warmt
h soothing against my cheek. “Don’t you worry, buddy,” I said. “The doctor says everything’s okay.”

  I fed him, then lay on the couch with my legs propped on a pillow, opened my MacBook Air, and googled subchorionic hemorrhage. The consensus seemed to be that only up to three percent of women who had this condition miscarried. But I’d been on the wrong side of the odds too many times to take comfort in it.

  I closed the laptop and picked up my phone. It was past noon but there was still no text from Katya. I decided to call her and invite her to dinner. A loud, crowded restaurant was the last place I’d want to tell her the truth. I could make my pasta carbonara, and then—at the end of the meal—explain who I was. This way, she could yell at me or storm out, or both. Of course, I hoped that she’d hug me and tell me how happy she was to meet me. But I knew how unlikely that was. What if she didn’t want to know the woman she’d donated her eggs to? What if she hadn’t wanted to donate to a single mother? She’d signed up to help an infertile couple.

  I dialed her number. As the phone rang, I thought that I couldn’t worry about her reaction. I had to tell her—end of story. But Katya didn’t pick up and I left a voice mail asking her to call me back. While I waited, I signed in to Fertile Thoughts—an online forum I’d been a member of for years. I’d posted regularly there before I’d joined the Upper West Side support group. These days, I only logged on when I had a problem. In the thread devoted to donor egg cycles, I wrote an update about my bleed scare. Within minutes, other members wrote back, reassuring me that everything would be okay. Some had had experience with SCH, as they referred to it; others simply wanted to send me their positive thoughts and vibes. It was comforting to connect with other women in the country—and around the world—who were going through the same thing.