Bombshell

by Lynda Curnyn

  I saw her shift in her chair, and I couldn’t help but see this as impatience, as if I were some child who just didn’t get it. I felt my old resentment toward Shelley rear its ugly head. “I deserve it, don’t I?” I cried, surprised at the emotion behind my words.

  Her face softened, and I nearly wept at the pure sympathy I saw there. Though I wanted to resent her for not giving me the guidance I sought, I realized that I needed something else from her now. And that something was the genuine caring I saw in her features just then. But it was only momentary. For Shelley folded that flickering emotion back behind her therapist facade just as easily as she smoothed the wrinkle that creased her pants as she crossed her legs once more, composing herself.

  Ignoring my question, she said, “You can’t hope to get from a child everything your mother didn’t give you. And in this case I mean your biological mother,” she said carefully. “I think that’s who we’re talking about here, considering the importance you seem to place on giving birth to this child you long for.”

  I felt the familiar resistance brewing in me. Now I knew why she had seemed so happy with my little sperm-donor plan. Probably because it validated that stupid psychological paradigm she had dreamed up ever since I had started coming to see her.

  “Yes, the child will love you, but a child isn’t a caregiver,” she continued. “Your very language suggests that you are looking for a parent, Grace, not a child. You are trying to replace your lost mother.”

  Whatever tears had threatened quickly died inside me, replaced by mind-bending anger. I hated the idea that Kristina Morova—a woman who hadn’t given me more than the nine months it had taken to form me—could have such power over my emotions. And I hated Shelley even more for suggesting it. “You know what, I’m tired of this,” I said, folding my arms stiffly across my chest, whether to shield Shelley or myself from the wave of feeling shaking through me, I wasn’t sure. “Why does everything I think, everything I feel, have to be about…about her?” I practically shouted. “Can’t it just be that I want to have a fucking baby, for chrissakes? I’m almost thirty-five years old!”

  Shelley remained nonplussed, responding once more in that smooth, well-modulated voice. “Of course, a desire to have a child is common, especially among women your age,” she said. “But you need to ask yourself why you are choosing to have a child alone, Grace.”

  Then, with a glance, I was sure, at the clock that ticked ominously above my head, she said, “We’re out of time for now. Let’s pick up with this same topic next week, shall we?”

  I decided to take up the topic the very next morning at work. And though I had made my decision to have a child out of the wisdom and, yes, the disappointments, only a thirty-four-year-old woman could have, I realized that when it came to modern-day babymaking, I would rely on the overused resource of the 18-to-24-year-old set, at least according to our recent focus group research.

  The Internet.

  It was amazing what a little search on “sperm donor” could yield.

  Nearly 17,000 entries, the top results containing actual search engines where I could search for donors by race, education and most desirable physical attributes.

  I was amazed at how easy it all seemed.

  And how daunting.

  Still, I downloaded some information from a few Web sites that seemed reputable—though that was quickly becoming a relative term—and tucked them into my bag to read at home, comforted by the idea that at least I had…options.

  And I didn’t need anyone else to pursue them.

  The phone rang, startling me out my thoughts. “Grace Noonan,” I said, picking up on the first ring.

  “Gracie, it’s Dad.”

  I froze, quickly shoving the last download into my bag, as if my father had just stepped into the room and caught me in the horizontal with a man. Ironic, yes, but the fact was, my father never called me at work. My father never called me period. It was my mother who did all the communicating for both of them. Which was why this little phone call coming in the midst of my little quest seemed stranger still.

  “Is Mom okay?” I asked, grasping for the first reason I could come up with for why he was on the other end of the line and not her.

  He chuckled. “What, a father can’t call his daughter once in a while?” he replied.

  I smiled, heartened by the idea that maybe my father did call just to say hi, though I was absolutely certain that wasn’t the case. “What’s up?”

  “Well, now that you ask,” he began, “as you know, your mother and I have a big wedding anniversary coming up.”

  Ah, it was all coming together now. The gift. He needed a little shopping inspiration for this momentous purchase he was about to make for my mom. My smile deepened. “Let me guess—you have no idea what to get her?”

  “No, no, not at all. In fact, I have the perfect gift. And, as it turns out, it’s just coming up for sale. Do you remember that painting your mother and I argued over when we met? Mariella in the Afternoon by Chevalier?”

  I had never seen the painting, but the story had been told to me so often I could practically picture it. The painting featured a woman in the foreground, standing in her garden and gazing out, seemingly toward the road, where a figure approached in the distance. A figure so small it was difficult to know who the woman waited for. When my mother and father had found themselves standing before it at an art opening over forty years earlier, they had barely introduced themselves before their first argument began over whether it was a lover, a child or a friend the woman waited for, each basing their reasons on the enigmatic expression in the woman’s eyes and a somewhat quixotic turn of her lips. My mother thought it was a child. My father, a lover. According to my father, the date on the painting was no help, as Chevalier often painted from a mixture of memory and photographs and didn’t always adhere to historical veracity when it came to the subject matter. Mariella in the Afternoon was a modern-day Mona Lisa, though with a bit more scenery and narrative detail, painted by an up-and-coming French painter of the time, and now, according to my father, it was being shown at the Wingate Gallery down in SoHo.

  “Wow,” I said. “How did you manage to track it down?” I asked. I mean, it wasn’t like we were talking about a Picasso here.

  “I kept my eye on that painting,” my father replied. “Knew that if I had the good fortune to make your mother my wife, I would one day buy it for her. That day has come. The painting came to New York through a private sale twenty years ago. To a collector—R.J. Sutherland, I think his name was. Anyway, Sutherland has passed on, and the painting was moved to the Wingate Gallery by his estate, to be sold on consignment. I had thought I might be able to fly in myself, make the arrangements, but with your mother and me preparing for our trip, I don’t think I can get away. I wondered if perhaps you could go in my stead….”

  “Dad, I don’t know much about art…”

  “Yes, you do, darling,” he said, reminding me of the fact that I had studied fine arts before switching to business administration in my sophomore year of college. Not only had I discovered that I had more of an eye for art than a talent for it, I had decided I needed to get practical in my coursework if I hoped to get a job once I graduated.

  “Besides,” my father continued, “you don’t need to know anything, as long as you have the asking price,” he said, naming a figure that made my jaw drop.

  “Dad, that’s really generous of you, but can you and Mom afford that?”

  “Of course we can. I’ve been keeping my own little nest egg for just this moment. I know your mother is going to throw a fit at first, but once she remembers that beautiful moment we stood before that painting, she’ll understand why I did it.”

  I felt a fluttering in my stomach at the pure love I heard in his voice. “When is it, Dad?” I asked, feeling foolish for thinking, even momentarily, that I would not fulfill this romantic request for him. He gave me the date and time and the address for the opening of the show, and after I
hung up, I felt a stab of longing so deep, I feared those downloads I planned to tote home could never satisfy.

  “Have you set a date yet?” I said to Angie as we tried on clothes at Bloomingdale’s that night. We were sharing a dressing room, partly because the early evening crowd prevented us from getting separate ones, but mostly because Angie was trying on bathing suits for the upcoming trip to L.A. she was taking Thanksgiving weekend with Justin and was anxious about it. And though angst was Angie’s natural state, tonight she seemed even worse than usual.

  “No, we haven’t, okay?” she barked at me, stepping into the third pair of bikini bottoms she had brought in with her.

  “Touchy, touchy,” I said, holding a dress up against me to contemplate the color.

  “I’m sorry.” Angie stood up to look at me. “It’s just that my mother has been harping on that very same question ever since we told her about the engagement.”

  I looked at her. “Well, isn’t that usually what happens? You get engaged, you plan a wedding.”

  “That’s just it. Ever since Justin and I got engaged, this wedding has taken on a life of its own. My mother’s got me schlepping out to Brooklyn every weekend, looking at halls. And you should see some of the places she’s lined up—perfect settings for Saturday Night Fever. In fact, Justin should bring a film crew and we could do a remake.”

  “I didn’t know you were getting married in Brooklyn.”

  She placed the bikini top against her chest. “I didn’t know I was getting married in Brooklyn, until next thing you know, I’m packed in a car with my mother, Justin, Nonnie and Artie Matarrazzo—you know, my Nonnie’s beau? He’s become the family chauffeur ever since he started dating my grandmother, and now my mother’s got him dragging us around from one horrifying wedding venue to another. Then my mother has the nerve—the nerve!—to yell at me for being too picky! Too picky! She’s the one who insists I get married within a stone’s throw of her house.”

  “What does Justin say?”

  “You know Justin. He’s happy with whatever makes me happy. I don’t think he realizes that my mother is slowly driving me insane,” she finished, her face flushed with frustration as she fastened the bikini top.

  “Well, if you don’t want to get married in Brooklyn, you need to tell your mother that.”

  Her face crumbled so much I feared for a moment that she would cry. “The truth is, I don’t know what I want. I’ve been too worried about the show possibly ending and this film coming up.” She sighed. “I suppose I could just let my mother run this whole wedding while I watch from the sidelines. I mean, she is paying for the damn thing.”

  “She is?”

  Angie nodded. “Yeah, can you believe it? At first I felt kinda guilty. It’s not like my mother’s rich or anything. But I found out she’s been saving for my wedding since I’ve been, like, twelve.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Wow.”

  “I know, right? I guess I am her only daughter. On the one hand, I’m relieved. But on the other…” She adjusted the bikini top. “I don’t know. It’s not like I’ve been dreaming all my life about my wedding, but I feel like I want the day I marry Justin to be about…us. And somehow doing the chicken dance under a disco ball at Lombardi’s on the Bay isn’t what I had in mind.”

  I stepped into the dress, pondering that for a moment. Like Angie, I hadn’t given much thought to what my wedding day would be like. And, now, I realized, thinking of those downloads in my bag on the floor, I had mentally skipped right over the big day and gone straight to the…donor solution. I shivered, understanding why I had jumped all over this trip to Bloomie’s when Angie had called me at work this afternoon to invite me along. I didn’t want to go home and face the decision which had seemed so perfect…in theory. Somehow all those faceless possibilities I’d printed out from those Web sites depressed me.

  “I’m almost relieved Justin and I are going to L.A. for Thanksgiving weekend just to have some time away from the whole scene. I told my mother we were going to visit with one of Justin’s cousins who lives out there, and that’s true, but mostly we’re hoping to meet up with some potential investors for the film. And get in a little beach time,” she said, turning to look at her reflection to contemplate her latest suit selection.

  She sighed. “Well, this would be just lovely if I had some breasts.” She looked at me. “You’d think there’d be some laws regarding fair distribution when it came to breasts.”

  I straightened, studying my own reflection in the dress, noting the way my breasts were practically bursting out of the top. “Trust me, I’d love to hand some over if I could.” I supposed it didn’t matter if the dress was no go. It wasn’t like I needed any wardrobe additions. But then, that was the best time to shop, I rationalized, reaching for the black wool skirt I had dragged in, too. Besides, it would be nice to have something new for the holidays.

  Then, remembering that I was going to be an orphan this Christmas, I said, “Do you think your mom would mind an extra person at Christmas dinner?”

  Angie looked up as she untied the top. “Of course not.” She frowned. “No New Mexico with Mom and Pop Noonan this year?”

  “Nope, my mother and father will be spending the holidays in Paris this year. My father is giving a paper there, and since their fortieth anniversary is coming up, they’ve decided to stay on and celebrate it there,” I explained, pulling the skirt up over my hips.

  “That sounds amazing,” Angie said, becoming dreamy-eyed. “God, maybe Justin and I should get married in Paris….” The dreamy expression dropped from her face. “But of course we can’t do that. Do you know my mother refuses to get on an airplane? I mean, flying freaks me out, but at least it doesn’t stop me from living.” She tossed the top on the discard pile. “I have a feeling I wouldn’t even be able to get my mother to cross the bridge to Manhattan to come to my wedding.”

  “Stop worrying,” I insisted, turning sideways to study the way my abdomen protruded in the skirt. All that indulgent overeating had landed me with a little bit more of a bulge in my midsection. A swelling that I had grown to accept. Though I certainly wasn’t the height of this season’s stick-figure fashion, I had taken a comfort in my new shape.

  “I’m thinking about having a baby,” I found myself blurting out. After my disheartening session with Shelley, I hadn’t planned on telling anyone else just yet. Least of all Angie, who I knew would stress over my decision more than I ever possibly could.

  She didn’t disappoint me. “What?”

  “You heard me,” I said, testing my decision once more now that I had dared to utter it aloud to my best friend.

  Her eyes widened. “Don’t tell me—Ethan. The condom—did you ever get your period?”

  I shook my head. “I got my period, Ange. I’m not pregnant, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “But how?” Angie asked, then blushed to the roots of her frizzy dark locks. “I mean, I know how. I guess the question I’m really asking is who?”

  “You don’t need a man in your life to have a baby nowadays, Angie,” I said, slipping out of the skirt. “In fact, it’s easier to have a baby on your own than you would think,” I continued, my mouth pursing. This fact still…disturbed me somehow. Just as much as it bolstered me, I supposed. “I did a little Internet search. Just this afternoon. Do you realize how many clinics there are devoted to this kind of thing? I mean, you can even order up a ‘dose’—that’s what they call it—right on line. It’s as easy as…ordering a bra from Victoria’s Secret.”

  “Grace, do you realize what you’re saying?”

  I shrugged, hung up the skirt and reached for another. “A lot of women are doing it nowadays. Where do you think Melissa Etheridge got those cute kids of hers?”

  Angie frowned. Apparently a celebrity endorsement was not enough for her. “Grace, Melissa Etheridge is a lesbian. She probably didn’t have any other options, whereas you—”

  “What options do I have, exactly?” I said, fe
eling fresh anger surging through me. “To wait around for some man who isn’t a self-absorbed jerk? Justin notwithstanding, those are far and few between.” I sighed. “Look, Ange, the truth is, when I thought I was pregnant with Ethan’s baby, I felt like…like I was fulfilling some long-held dream I didn’t even know I’d been dreaming. Then, suddenly I’m in bed with Billy and practically begging him to forego the condom—”

  “Ohhhh, Grace!” Angie practically moaned. “Don’t tell me you’re tangled up with that guy again.” Angie was not a fan of Bad Billy’s. I think she saw my booty call as some kind of shallow replacement for what I really wanted. And she was right. Because ever since this baby lust had taken me over, I had lost all desire for Bad Billy. Even told him I’d started dating someone when he called me last week, which he accepted just as easily as he had in the past. Somehow even that made me sad. I mean, a girl does want a man to fight for her a little.

  “So how long has that been going on?” Angie asked now.

  “It’s not going on,” I replied. “Not anymore.” Maybe not ever again, I thought, realizing bringing a baby into my life might require getting rid of a few…habits. “I have a new focus now.”

  “But a baby, Grace?” Angie said. “I mean, I love my god-child Carmella to pieces, but she scares the shit out of me. Do you know I was keeping an eye on her for my brother a few weeks back and I spent like the whole day trying to keep her from eating the potting soil in those stupid planters my sister-in-law keeps all over the place? By the time Sonny and Vanessa came home, I was exhausted.”

  “I’ll have help—”

  “Help?” Angie said. “Last I heard, those sperm donors don’t change diapers or do midnight feedings. Have you heard about the midnight feedings, Grace?”

  “I can hire help,” I insisted, though I hadn’t actually worked out all the details yet. My salary was pretty fat; still, if I was truly going to make this a reality, I was going to need to make a budget.