Jack exhales. Has he been holding his breath this whole time? He thinks so; that must be why he feels almost ready to pass out. Dodged that bullet, whew. He pops the last bit of his falafel into his mouth and takes a sip of iced tea.
“I think your friend will make a great Miss Adelaide,” Normandie says. “She’s got so much personality.”
Jack nods, his mouth is full of falafel and tea.
Normandie tucks her hair behind her ears, smiles at Jack. “How long have you been sleeping with her?”
Laurie
Laurie holds the phone close to her head as if it will help the words she’s hearing make more sense. Her other hand presses lightly, protectively across her stomach.
“We are completely available to you and your husband, Mrs. Gaines. We’d be happy to refer you to a counselor.”
Laurie grips the phone tighter. “You’re sure? About the results.”
Dr. Julian hesitates. “Yes, there’s no chance of an error.”
Laurie looks around her kitchen—at the ceiling, at a chip in the plaster she’s never noticed before.
“I know this is unpleasant news. I’m very sorry. We’ll speak again soon. My best to your husband.”
Laurie allows the phone to slip from her hand. You bet we’ll speak again, buster. You and me and a roomful of attorneys—hoo-ray. We’ll get enough money to replaster the kitchen ceiling, remodel the master bath, buy the house next door, knock it down, and build a fucking compound.
I need a glass of wine, Laurie thinks. No, something stronger than wine. A Long Island Iced Tea. Forget all that crap about taking care of You and The Baby. Unless this isn’t happening, Dr. Julian didn’t call, it’s some pregnancy-induced hallucination. She pinches the skin between her thumb and index finger—nope, that hurts. She’s awake.
When she yanks open the cabinet door beside the refrigerator, it opens an inch and smashes against her fingernail. Childproof locks on anything that could potentially harm the baby. Laurie pulls the door harder, snapping off the babyproof lock (so much for that guarantee), and looks at the liquor inside. Vodka, rum, a thirty-two-ounce bottle of Kahlua bought on a trip to Tijuana years ago. What’s in a Long Island Iced Tea anyway? Bourbon and gin? No, vodka, rum, gin…something else Laurie can’t remember. She lines up the liquor bottles on the counter. And Coke. Is there any Coke in the fridge? One Diet Coke. That’ll do.
Laurie grabs an old Taco Bell plastic cup, fills it with ice, adds a little vodka, a little rum, a little gin. The smell nearly knocks her off her feet. She adds a healthy amount of Diet Coke. No diet drinks either, the doctors advise. Could be dangerous, why take a chance? Laurie laughs out loud. Take a chance my ass.
She watches the Diet Coke fizz in the cup. What will this do to the baby? Alcohol and diet soda. Maybe Laurie should run out and score some crack, really give the baby something to think about.
She is raising the cup to her lips when Alan walks in. He takes in the liquor bottles, the Taco Bell cup. Laurie smiles at him.
“Guess what? You’re not the father of our child.”
***
Alan didn’t allow her to drink the pseudo-Long Island Iced Tea. Instead, he finished it off quickly and moved on to more vodka and Diet Coke.
“But Dr. Julian told us it was safe. Mistakes never happen with IUI.” Alan’s green eyes look lighter than usual today, pale beneath his almost invisible blond eyebrows. She’d hoped the baby wouldn’t inherit Alan’s eyebrows. Ha, the joke’s on Laurie.
“One of the techs in Dr. Julian’s clinic switched around specimens,” Laurie says. “She’d asked for two extra vacation days and the clinic said no. When she complained, they gave her notice. And apparently that made her unhappy.”
“What about my specimen?” Alan asks. “Where did I go?”
Laurie sighs. “They haven’t found you yet.”
Alan taps the Diet Coke can against the rim of the Taco Bell cup.
“Dr. Julian wants to sit down with us,” Laurie says.
“Because he knows we’ll take legal action.” Alan splashes more vodka into the cup.
Laurie’s brain is filled with noises and voices and thoughts she can’t sort out. Like letters in a Scrabble game bag, she could reach in and pull out anything—a Look on the Bright Side tile. After the disappointments and false hopes, at least she’s having a baby. But whose? Did they ever let Charles Manson donate sperm?
There’s another tile in the bag. A terrible choice she could consider—she’s twelve weeks into the pregnancy, only twelve weeks…but no, she can’t think about that. She touches her belly, feels the small rise of flesh.
“Alan? What should we do?”
Alan sips his drink. “Let’s hear our options.”
***
“I’m sure you have questions,” Dr. Julian says. He’s seated behind his desk, as if he’d like to be as far away as possible from Laurie and Alan. “The good news, the technician has been arrested.” His jazz patch dances on his chin, Laurie wants to reach over and pull it out by the roots.
“Actually good news would be me having my husband’s baby. Since that was the plan,” Laurie says. “Have you been able to figure out who the father is?”
A long pause. “A sperm donor.”
“I want to know everything about him,” says Laurie.
“Our attorneys have advised us not to release any information.” Dr. Julian looks down at his hands.
“What happened to my sperm?” Alan asks.
“The missing specimens haven’t been located yet. As you might imagine, it’s a huge conundrum.”
“Conundrum isn’t the word I’d use,” Alan says. “Clusterfuck seems more accurate.”
Dr. Julian takes a deep breath. “It’s a terrible situation. But we have to think about our clinic. And our other clients.”
“We could tell them,” Alan says. “Go out in the waiting room, let everybody know what’s happened. Unless that would be bad for your practice.” His voice sounds polite, but Laurie can detect quiet rage underneath.
“We need to protect the donor’s anonymity.”
“What about us? Don’t we count?” Alan stands up. “My wife is having a baby. It’s supposed to be my baby and now you’re telling us it’s not?”
Dr. Julian pushes a brass letter opener back and forth, trying to line it up with edge of his desk. “You could choose termination,” he says to Laurie and Alan.
***
“So. Now what?” Laurie asks Alan at breakfast. They’re both thinking about it. They’ve been thinking about it; what else is there to think about? Laurie didn’t sleep last night and she’s sure Alan didn’t either.
“I’ll know more after I talk with the attorney,” Alan says. He has a morning appointment with an attorney, but Laurie isn’t going with him because she’s promised Grace she’ll finish a piece on the best tiki bar in the San Fernando Valley (Tonga Hut) and she has to visit Lake Balboa to check out the “fishing scene.” Besides, she doesn’t see how meeting with an attorney will accomplish anything.
“He’ll only explain what we can do legally. What about the rest of it?” Laurie asks.
“We’ll figure it out.” Alan gives Laurie a kiss. As if the kiss will solve all their problems.
When Alan is gone, Laurie sits out on the patio with her laptop. Is the most popular drink at Tonga Hut the Voodoo Juice or Squirrel of Paradise? Perhaps the “I’m Coco Loco for Tonga Hut’s Big Brown Nut!”
She closes her laptop. She’ll start with the trip to Lake Balboa. It will clear her head. Hopefully. And if not, there’s always Voodoo Juice.
***
Grace raves about Laurie’s Tonga Hut piece; it could be the perfect spot for Laurie’s baby shower (nonalcoholic tropical drinks for Laurie, of course). “Great,” Laurie says, wondering what Grace would say if she knew the goofy details of Laurie�
��s pregnancy. She tells Grace she’ll be in the office later, after her doctor’s appointment.
A week has passed since Dr. Julian’s bombshell. A week of Alan meeting with Dave, the attorney, a week of Laurie trying to pretend everything is exactly the same, even though she knows nothing will be the same again. She’s lied to Grace; she doesn’t have an appointment with Dr. Julian, but she walks into his office, sweeping past the receptionist who gets up from her chair only to retreat when Laurie waves her off. She opens his door without knocking. Dr. Julian is on the phone and frowns at Laurie.
“I want to see the donor paperwork,” she says.
He doesn’t answer right away but mumbles into the phone, “I have to call back,” and clicks off.
The first time she met Dr. Julian she thought he was handsome. Now he looks weak and pathetic with his tiny hands, uneven nails, and shaggy cuticles. I’d bite my nails too, if I were you, she thinks. Bite them down to bloody stumps.
“Mrs. Gaines, on the advice of our attorneys—”
“I don’t care. I want the information now.”
Dr. Julian puts his index finger in his mouth. That won’t help those cuticles, Doc. Maybe he’ll have to put cream on his hands and sleep wearing white cotton gloves. The thought of that makes Laurie smile.
“Your husband isn’t with you today.”
“He’s at work. He’s been meeting with an attorney. Discussing the lawsuit.”
The index finger is back in Dr. Julian’s mouth. “I see. Well. If it’s only a question of the report…”
“I’d like to take a copy home. To look over. And show Alan, of course.”
Dr. Julian nods. “I’ll have Sandra make a Xerox for you. Mrs. Gaines, I’m sure this is difficult, but have you given consideration to how you’ll continue with your pregnancy? I only bring this up because…decisions have to be made.”
“I’ll let you know,” Laurie says. She imagines Dr. Julian wearing puffy white gloves, like Mickey Mouse.
***
Laurie sits on the carpet in the yellow room and curls her bare feet under her legs. She looks up at the alphabet border, closes her eyes and says a quick prayer. Please don’t let him be a madman. She pulls the donor profile out of the manila envelope very slowly, as if the information inside has a life of its own. Which in a way, it does.
At the top of the page she sees “Donor number 296. Limited supply.” What does that mean? They’re running out of number 296? Is he popular? So many women read his profile they’re clamoring for number 296?
“Ethnicity. Asian Indian.” That’s the first surprise. Indian food pops into her head. Tandoori chicken, paratha, saag aloo.
***
Alan has never been a fan of Indian food. He likes Mexican and sushi, and he’ll try anything—fried crickets or haggis—but not Indian. Last night Laurie made American cuisine, meat loaf and mashed potatoes. She’d watched him push the potatoes back and forth on his plate.
“Dave is convinced the case is a slam dunk,” Alan says.
Put the potatoes in your mouth, thinks Laurie. But no, the potatoes glide away from the turkey meat loaf, to the side of the plate.
“Dave’s talking serious damages,” Alan says.
“It’s not about money. Did you explain that to him?”
Alan has the potatoes on the fork; they’re almost to his mouth.
“Honey, I want to do the right thing,” he says.
Laurie wants to scream or laugh, or both. Or rip the fork from Alan’s hand and feed him, like a baby, like the stranger alien baby she’s carrying.
***
She’s not sure she can keep reading the profile. Asian Indian is enough to know for now. She touches the pages, imagines the donor typing in his information. Who are you? she wants to ask him. Genetic material that should never be allowed to reproduce? Kim Jong-il? The guy who thought up all those TV reality shows? Or are you polite? Do you hold doors open for people, say thank you and please? Do you read books, watch NASCAR? Both? At the same time? Are you a raging syphilitic? Do you drink Everclear for breakfast, is your body is covered with hair, front and back, are you Sasquatch?
And she laughs out loud at the thought of Sasquatch filling out a sperm donation form and going into a clinic to leave a specimen. Why is she thinking like Grace? This is Grace behavior.
Laurie pats her tummy. “You’re not Sasquatch,” she says. “You’re mine. Mine and Alan’s. And I promise we’ll love you. Even if you like NASCAR, although I hope you like books better. Did you hear me? We love you.”
***
She’ll finish reading the profile after running errands and a quick trip to the Hidden Valley office. As she’s sliding the file into the envelope, she notices a photo stapled to the back page, a baseball card with a picture of a young boy. Small and skinny, with medium dark skin, wearing a red uniform that says “Cardinals.” He’s missing his front teeth, but the new ones have started to come in so his mouth looks snaggly.
Laurie wonders if you can hear the sound of your own heart breaking. She flips the photo over and sees something written on the back.
Jack Mulani.
Alan
He’s never liked Indian food. People go on and on about how tender chicken is when it’s been cooked in a tandoori oven and he thinks that’s ridiculous. It tastes like dry chicken. Or sometimes a dish has spices he can’t identify and when he asks the waiter what they are, the waiter will smile and say, “Family secret.”
Oh yeah. Let me tell you about family secrets. Somebody stole my sperm. How’s that for a family secret? One minute it was safe in some kind of secure cryobank refrigerated tank and the next thing you know it’s being inserted into Mrs. Somebody or Other’s vagina. We don’t know who yet. Maybe we’ll never know.
***
He’s grouchy at the Sunday afternoon Palmer-Boone softball game and makes so many errors at third base Peter sends him out to right field. He looks over at the bleachers, at the Palmer-Boone spouses and their children. Peter’s wife is bouncing their baby on her lap. That could be Laurie in a year, he thinks. But whose baby will she be holding?
What’s his biggest fear? The baby will look Indian, nothing like Alan. No, worse than that would be the baby never bonding with him. Naturally the baby will bond with Laurie because they share a genetic connection. But the baby will see Alan, burst into tears, and reach for his mother. His real mother.
He tells himself he’s being ridiculous. Adopted parents don’t feel like that. They bond with their children. The baby will bond with him. Things haven’t changed that much.
No, now he is being ridiculous.
He sees Laurie appear beside the bleachers and he watches as she bends over to admire Peter’s baby. For two months he has put his hand on Laurie’s stomach and imagined the life developing beneath his fingers. His life.
“Do you think the baby knows we’re here?” he asked Laurie.
“I bet the baby’s aware of everything—music, sounds. The positive energy we’re sending.”
And now—he feels like a schmuck. Like when Laurie was pregnant the first time with Troppo, talking to him, thinking Troppo was aware of her. And then Troppo ended up not existing. This baby, naturally this will be the baby to thrive and grow and emerge healthy and strong, only it’s half Laurie and not any part of Alan.
What happens to the family tree? Will his mother put an asterisk by his child’s name, like Barry Bonds’s 762nd home run in the Hall of Fame Museum?
“Hey, Gaines, get your head out of your ass,” Peter yells, and Alan realizes someone on the other team has hit a ball that’s gone over his head and he has to retrieve it, but the ball rolls to the fence and before he can throw to Peter, the other team has scored an inside the park home run.
***
When the inning is finally over, Alan walks over to Laurie and gives her a kiss.
>
“I brought Gatorade and chips,” Laurie says. “You guys kind of stink today.”
“We stink most of the time,” Alan says. Peter is holding his son, who is wearing a spit bib that says, “Daddy’s Little Tax Deduction.” Alan goes to the bench and waits for his turn at bat.
Alan looks at Peter. Peter is lifting his Little Tax Deduction up in the air. Then down. Then up again. Shit. Alan finally has a chance to create something that’s his. No sharing involved. Just his and Laurie’s. And now that’s been taken away. He’s entitled to feel a little sorry for himself, isn’t he?
***
On the way home from the game (Palmer-Boone almost came back, but lost when Alan misjudged a fly ball), Alan asks Laurie how much they really know about number 296.
“You could read the file,” Laurie says.
“I will. Eventually.” He’s flipped through a couple pages, but it was too overwhelming—Asian Indian, kickball. Kickball?
“We could meet him,” Laurie says.
Alan doesn’t answer. He’ll wait on that one too.
***
Laurie is in bed, watching the end of a true crime show where the husband killed his wife and the cops found info on the man’s computer that showed he’d looked up, “How to kill your wife. How to kill your wife with poison. How to kill your wife and make it look like an accident.”
“Sometimes people are stupid,” Laurie says.
Alan gets into bed, and she slides her feet under his legs. On TV, the husband/murderer is explaining how it’s a mistake—he loved his wife; he’d never hurt her.
“Dr. Julian talked about termination,” Alan says.
Laurie is silent; she clicks the remote to a local news channel. A fire in an L.A. county canyon; the flames are orange and yellow in the black sky. She doesn’t look at Alan, keeps her eyes on the TV.
“Is that what you want to do?” she asks.
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