by Robin Wells
“Oh, I don’t even know where to begin,” I say.
“Well, how did you two meet?”
“In college.” I tell him about sitting beside her in class.
“What was she like?”
“Supersmart and warmhearted and hardworking. She was one of those people who could do anything.”
“I googled her while you were on the phone this morning,” he says. “It seems like she had everything going for her.”
I nod, my throat tight with emotion.
“So why did she go the donor route?” he asks. “Didn’t she want to get married or have a partner?”
“Yes, but she hadn’t met the right person, and she had severe endometriosis. She had surgery twice, but the doctors couldn’t fix the problem. When she was thirty-three, a specialist told her, ‘If you ever want to have children, you’d better do it soon.’”
My mind drifts back to the phone call when Brooke told me about it. I give Zack only a summary, but I can replay it in my brain practically word for word.
* * *
—
Five years earlier
IT WAS EARLY evening after work. I was heating up leftovers in my apartment in Atlanta when Brooke telephoned.
“I sat down today and made a list of the ways a woman can get pregnant,” Brooke said. “I came up with four.”
“Only four?” I opened the microwave and stirred yesterday’s Chinese takeout. “Where’s your imagination? The Kama Sutra lists more than sixty.”
“Not positions, you perv. Situations.”
I laughed. “And there are only four?”
“As far as I can tell.”
“And you listed them.” Of course she did; Brooke made lists for everything. “Did you make a spreadsheet of pros and cons?”
“No.”
“Call me back when you’ve finished that,” I teased. “I’ll also want to see graphs, comparison charts, and illustrations.”
“Very funny. Do you want to hear this or not?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “I may even want to write it down myself.”
“I definitely think you should.”
I winced. At that point I’d been dating Tom for two years, and he still refused to discuss the future any further out than weekend plans. Brooke thought I should end it and move on, but I kept thinking—Brooke called it fantasizing—that he would change. “I’m all ears.”
“All right.” I heard clicking sounds, and pictured Brooke opening a file on her laptop. “Number one: a woman meets the love of her life and gets married.”
“That’s the dream.”
“Yes, but neither of us has had any luck with that one so far.”
“I’m still hoping,” I said.
“Yeah, well, my doctor says I’m running out of time. And if you keep all your eggs in Tom’s basket, you will be, too.”
“Hey, thanks a lot!”
“I’m just being honest here.” That was one thing about Brooke; you could always count on her to tell you exactly what she thought. “Number two: a woman has a relationship with a man, conceives a child, and may or may not get married.”
“Wow. Very iffy and complicated. Also unethical if it’s deliberate on the woman’s part without the man’s knowledge.”
“I agree, so let’s move on. Number three: a woman consumes massive amounts of tequila with a viable male stranger—preferably one she’ll never see again, maybe in a foreign city or at an airport bar—and things just happen.”
“That’s absolutely terrifying!”
“I know, right?”
“So what’s the last one?”
“Number four: a woman uses a sperm donor.”
I gave a derisive snort. “Yeah, right.”
“Hey—I’m completely serious about this.” I could tell from the change in her tone that she was. “I haven’t met anyone for the marriage route, so I’m going with number four.”
“Did you talk to Miss Margaret about this?” I asked. “What did she say?”
“She’s not a fan of the idea,” Brooke admitted. “She said a child needs two parents. And I agree, that’s the ideal scenario, but I’m in a less-than-ideal situation. I’d rather have a child on my own than never have one at all. If it’s going to happen, I have to make it happen.”
I’d been a little shocked. I’d never known anyone who just up and decided to have a baby on her own, but then, I’d never known anyone as self-directed as Brooke. With her typical hyperefficiency, Brooke set a plan into action.
Her doctor advised that she reduce the amount of stress in her life, so she left her high-pressured, near-constant-travel position in New York and took a less demanding job in New Orleans. She found a local organization of people who were contemplating single parenthood, were in the process of trying to conceive, or had already borne or adopted a child on their own. She attended a meeting, and was soon a regular at their monthly gatherings. The members gave her lots of advice, and she signed up with a highly recommended local cryobank. She pored over data about sperm donors and read reams of profiles.
“We went about dating in college all wrong. These men are fantastic!” she’d told me in another phone call. “We should have been hanging out at cryobanks instead of bars and sports events.”
All of the men were tall—this cryobank didn’t accept applicants under six feet, because, apparently, height was in demand—and they were all either college students or college graduates at the time of their donations. They were exceedingly healthy; they’d undergone blood, genetic, and personality testing. They’d written personal statements, submitted photos of themselves as children, and recorded audio interviews so we could hear their voices. There were no photos of the donors as adults in order to preserve their anonymity, but the cryobank staff had evaluated each one, compiled facial profiles, and given their overall impressions of each man. Brooke had insisted on seeing every donor, including those in the older “archived” files.
After weeks of study, Brooke had whittled down the field to one donor. “He’s brilliant, good-looking, compassionate, kind, and he has a great sense of humor. But there’s one thing that makes him absolutely irresistible.”
“What’s that?” I’d asked.
“He does yo-yo tricks!”
Wow, you think you know somebody. “You consider yo-yo tricks irresistible?” I’d asked incredulously.
“Absolutely,” Brooke had replied. “My father did yo-yo tricks.”
Brooke had adored her father, so that was that. She took fertility drugs, which, with her endometriosis, caused her excruciating pain—but the doctors were able to extract a few eggs. Only one was successfully fertilized, but one was all it took.
Nine months later, Lily was born—beautiful, wonderful Lily.
* * *
—
ZACK’S EYEBROWS RISE as I finish relating all this. “So Brooke picked me because I do yo-yo tricks?”
“That was a key factor, yeah.” There were other things about him that played into her decision—not to mention mine. She’d shown me his profile when she first chose him, and then again when she’d offered me the remaining sperm.
Both of us had adored the essay Zack had written about his love of family and his desire to make the world a better place. We’d been impressed that he volunteered at Habitat for Humanity and wanted to do pro bono work when he got his law degree. The photo of him as an eight-year-old had shown off his dimple and his vivid blue eyes, and I think we’d both fallen a little in love with him when we heard the tape of his voice. He’d been answering the question, “Who is your role model?” and he’d been talking about his dad.
“That’s crazy.” Zack grins and shakes his head. “This whole situation is crazy.”
Yeah, and you don’t know the half of it.
A country song belts out of a cell phone
at the next table, where two men in scrubs are eating. One of them picks up the phone and turns it off. “That’s the ringtone for my ex-wife,” he tells his companion. “‘Crazy,’ by Patsy Cline.”
Zack glances over at the men, then looks back at me. “That’s weird, isn’t it? I just said the situation was crazy, and then that song played.”
“That’s the universe’s way of confirming something.” I smile as if I’m joking, but I mean it. I’m sure it’s a sign, but I don’t know if it’s a good one or a warning. Given the events of the day, it’s most likely a warning.
All of the warm feelings I had while thinking about Brooke suddenly freeze into worry. I worry how Margaret’s doing in surgery and if she’ll be okay. I worry how Lily will handle her great-grandmother’s hospitalization. I worry about why Margaret contacted Zack, why he’s here, and what that means to Lily. I worry what all this means to my baby.
I’m suddenly freaking out all over again about the fact that I’m carrying Zack’s child. I just met this man, yet his child is growing inside me. How crazy is that?
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m just worried about Margaret.”
And you, I think. I’m very worried about you, and how you could affect the lives of those I love.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Margaret
I’M SPINNING, SPINNING, spinning, like a soap bubble circling a drain. Only . . . the drain is upside down, and enormous. And instead of being full of water, it’s full of light—warm, loving, beckoning light.
Light, and people. I squint against the glare, trying to see. I can only make out shadows, but they’re familiar. I recognize the way they move. Is that my darling Henry? Oh, yes, that’s him—I’m sure of it! I pirouette and jeté—I’m suddenly able to dance like the most talented ballerina, even though I’ve never had a lesson! Henry is dancing, too—dancing toward me. The images become clearer: there’s my daughter, Julia, and—oh, just look!—there’s Brooke. And my mother and father, and my grandparents, and my younger sister. They’re all smiling and waving. I’m happy, so happy to see them. I’ve never experienced such intense peace, such profound joy.
I try to move toward them, to enter more fully into the embracing light surrounding them, but I can’t break out of this circular current. I’m locked in a holding pattern, going around and around the entrance.
“Mrs. Moore?”
All of a sudden, the warm, loving light drains out, pulling my loved ones with it. I open my eyes and see a stranger’s face looming over me, backlit by blinding fluorescent tubes on the ceiling. I close my eyes, wanting to go back to the other light, but I just see red through my lids.
“Can you hear me, Mrs. Moore?”
I try to talk, but my mouth is so dry I can’t push words out of it. I make a noise that sounds like an animal’s grunt.
“Mrs. Moore, you’re in the hospital. I’m Melanie, your nurse. You had a heart attack and broke your hip.”
I grunt again. Her words trigger no memories.
“You’re in ICU,” she says. “You just came out of surgery. Everything went very well and now you’re recovering.”
“Henry here?” My voice is a croak. “Julia?”
“Are those family members?”
“Yes.” They were with me a moment ago, I try to say, but can’t.
“There are two people waiting for you. Would you like to see them?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Let me check a couple of things on you, and then I’ll go get them.”
Happiness bubbles inside me. Something squeezes on my arm—a blood pressure gauge, I think.
“Are you in pain?” the nurse asks.
“Throat. Hard to talk.”
“That’s from being intubated. It’ll go away in a bit.”
I close my eyes. The next thing I know, I hear a familiar voice. “Miss Margaret? How are you doing?”
I open my eyes and see a lovely, familiar-looking young woman leaning over me. She resembles my Brooke, but she isn’t. I don’t recognize the man beside her. “Where’s Henry . . . Julia?” I rasp.
“They’re not here,” the young woman says.
I’m vaguely aware that disappointment and something else, something monstrous and dark and sinister, is in the room. The dark thing slithers around in a black corner. It’s too terrifying to look at directly.
I open my eyes again and stare at my visitor. There seem to be several of her, and they’re all fuzzy, like a TV screen that needs the antenna adjusted.
That’s been a while, though. TVs don’t have antennas anymore. The concept of time as an ongoing, one-way street comes floating back; when I was in the other light, time didn’t have any constraints. Here, under the greenish glare of fluorescent tubes, time confines me like a plaster cast, so prickly and painful it might be lined with cactus.
The beast in the dark corner rattles and snarls.
I didn’t realize I’d closed my eyes until I force myself to open them again and try to focus on my visitor. “You—you look familiar.”
“I’m Quinn. Remember? I’m Brooke’s friend.”
Brooke. Why isn’t she here? Something flickers in my memory, and the monster growls.
“Are you in pain, Mrs. Moore?” the nurse asks.
Did I groan, or was it the creature? “I . . . yes.” My hip and chest and head are throbbing, but I fear pain more than I feel it. I want to go back to the other light.
The nurse adjusts something by the bed. “I’m giving you some morphine. You should be more comfortable in a moment.”
“Don’t worry about anything, Miss Margaret. I’m taking care of Lily,” my visitor says.
Lily! My memory flashes on the plump cheeks and blue eyes of an angelic child. My heart warms as I struggle to place her. She’s Brooke’s child, isn’t she?
Brooke. Something happened to her—something monstrous. That’s the dark thing lurking in the room, the thing I sense, but can’t quite see.
It’s suddenly beneath me, jaws open, swimming up like a shark, about to clamp razor-edged fangs around me. I try to get away; my heart rate rockets.
“V-tach!” someone calls. Immediately three people hover over me.
“I’m giving you something to lower your heart rate,” the nurse says, messing with a tube in my arm.
The meds drag me under, and then, mercifully, everything goes black.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Zack
I DECIDE TO leave the hospital around five that evening, after making sure Margaret’s heart has stabilized after that scary arrhythmia. A friend of Quinn’s has shown up—a short young woman named Annie with big glasses. She eyes me curiously, but doesn’t question who I am. I imagine Quinn told her on the phone.
“Can I give you a ride home?” I ask Quinn in the ICU waiting room.
“I want to stay for the next visitation time,” she says.
“That’s not for another three hours. You should at least let me take you to get your car.”
“I’ll take her,” Annie says. “A friend who lives nearby has invited us over for dinner, so I’m planning on getting Quinn out of the hospital for a couple of hours anyway.”
Quinn seems okay with that, so I say good-bye and head to my car. I know I need to call Jessica, but I put it off. I’m nearing my condo when my phone belts out “Endless Love”—the tune Jessica programmed it to play when she calls.
She phoned and texted several times earlier in the day and I just texted back, Can’t talk. Call you later. She’d texted once to ask if I was still mad. No, I’d responded, although, hell, I probably am.
My shoulders tense as I answer the call on my car’s Bluetooth. “Hi.”
“Zack—I’m so, so sorry,” she says in a rush. “I had no idea what a mess I was creating or how hard you’d take it
when I went on that donor registry site.”
I say nothing.
“I—I wasn’t thinking. I apologize.”
Again, I stay silent. I know it’s hard for Jessica to make apologies. She hates to be wrong and it’s hard for her to admit it when she is. Still, I just don’t have anything to say.
“Are you there?”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“I’ve been thinking about you all day and wondering what you decided to do about the donor registry.”
I blow out a sigh. “That’s a long story.”
“Well, it’s two hours earlier here, so I have lots of time.” Her voice has an artificially chipper tone to it. She’s trying. Hell, I need to try, too.
I draw in a deep breath and launch into the whole tale. I explain how I’d gone on the site last night, how I’d received the phone number this morning, how I’d tried the number, how I’d gone to the address.
“You just went over there?” She sounds shocked. “That’s kind of weird.”
“It didn’t seem it at the time.”
“It’s just not like you. It’s sort of pushy and impolite.”
So was impersonating me on a donor registry. “Hey, you’re the one who set this whole thing in motion.”
“I know, I know. And I’m so sorry. I-I’m sorry for everything.” Her voice has the quaver she gets when she’s about to cry. “I had no right to look through your papers or post your information on the donor site. I was completely out of line.”
Damn straight, I think.
“Do you forgive me?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I reply, although it doesn’t quite feel like the truth. If I were being completely honest, I’d say something like, I want to. I’m working on it. But I don’t think she can handle that, and I don’t want to deal with a long-distance crying jag.
“So what happened when you went to the house?” she prompts.
I tell her the rest of it—about learning about Brooke’s death, about Margaret’s heart attack and broken hip, about Quinn being next in line as guardian, about Margaret’s iffy condition.