“Go on,” Rachel pulled the young man’s hands off her and pushed him toward her mistress. “Go say hello to Mira. She likes you.”
He staggered forward like an oversized toddler, grinning. Mira took a step back.
“Izziss gonna be a threeshome?—”
He took another wobbly step, but then his knees buckled and he pitched forward, slamming his forehead into the corner of the marble-topped console table Jeffrey had bought Mira soon after they married.
“Oops,” said Rachel.
*
Mira held Rachel’s hand as the paramedics carried the unconscious young man to the ambulance, blue anti-hemorrhage foam mounded on the gash on his face and a brace strapped to his neck. They told her the young man would be fine after he got hospital treatment. Jeffrey was still obliviously coding on the couch.
“Don’t worry, I’ll clean all the blood off the floor.” Rachel sighed. “So sad. He was a perfect genetic match for you.”
“I’m sure he was,” Mira replied slowly. This was surely the most mortifying thing that had happened to her all year, but she still found herself oddly touched by Rachel’s efforts. “I...appreciate what you tried to do. But please don’t bring me any more guys.”
“How can you get pregnant without one? You told me artificial insemination is too expensive, and he would have been free!”
“Oh, Rachel.”
Mira paused. The android did have a valid point. She certainly wasn’t going to magically conceive all by herself. If she ever developed a super power, parthenogenesis wasn’t likely to be it.
“There are some things I can try on my own that will be less...awkward,” Mira finally said. “Hopefully.”
“All right.” Rachel sounded cheerfully skeptical. “Whatever you think is best. But let me see the men, okay? I want you to have a good baby.”
“I will.”
*
Mira decided to set up a profile on HeckYesDates. Further, she decided she’d be completely honest in her introductory hologram and tell her prospective suitors that not only was she looking someone to father her child, her android would be chaperoning all first meetings.
The replies didn’t exactly flood her account. And when they gradually trickled in over the course of the next few weeks, she was fairly appalled at her prospective suitors. The first guy was dressed in black tactical gear and ranted about racial purity. The second rambled about playgrounds and was visibly high on drugs. The third could barely string any words together at all and at one point he drooled on himself. Her mood sank lower and lower; surely this terrible dating site was no more than a one-way ticket to Loserville.
But her hope began to bloom again when she received a reply from a fourth respondent. He was a man in his late 30s, and he seemed witty and intelligent and wasn’t bad looking. Mira showed his hologram to Rachel, who walked all around his image, staring at it as if she were evaluating a used car.
“Look at his fingers. He’s got webbing.” The android shook her head. “He’s genetically risky.”
“Oh.” Mira was crestfallen. She’d been so taken with his green eyes and Dr. Seuss quotes that she hadn’t noticed his hands, which he mostly held behind his back during his monologue.
“I’m going back to the bars,” Rachel announced. “I will do my best to find a sober man.”
“Fine.” Mira was too tired to argue.
*
Three hours later, Rachel came through the front door with a sleeping baby wrapped in a pink blanket. The android was smiling widely, clearly pleased with herself.
“Oh, you didn’t!” Mira was aghast.
Rachel’s smile fell from her face. “I—”
“No. I don’t want to hear it.” The infant wasn’t hers, couldn’t be hers, and to let her think for even just an instant that she could keep this baby...no. It was just cruel. Crueler than any of Jeffrey’s rejections. It was as cruel as a drone strike. “Whatever you did, you’re undoing it, right now.”
“But—”
“No, Rachel. Goddamn it, no.” Mira couldn’t even bring herself to look at the infant’s face. She felt tears rise in her eyes, and she forced herself to think of the cold practicalities of the situation. The parents would be frantic; they had to return the baby to her family as soon as possible if she hoped to avoid a kidnapping charge. “You can’t just steal a baby. You can’t. You’re taking her back. Show me where you got her. Right now.”
Furiously miserable, Mira led the android out into the darkened neighborhood and they got in Jeffrey’s car. Rachel sang a quiet lullaby to the child as they drove four miles south through winding side streets until they reached a cul-de-sac that was filled with fire trucks and emergency vehicles. Orange flames engulfed the wreck of a bombed-out two-story house.
Mira just stared at the fire for a moment, her anger melting into horror. “Did the baby...?”
“She came from there, yes. I was heading to a club nearby when I heard the drone hit. I’m programmed to help if I can in emergencies. I got here first. The remaining structure had only just started burning. The mother came out, handed me her baby, and told me to take her someplace safe. She went back inside for her other children and never came back out.”
Rachel gazed at Mira. “I did what she wanted. I took her baby someplace safe.”
Mira shook her head, simultaneously wanting to weep at the deaths of the other children and trying to tamp down her hope that this surviving baby might be hers now. No. She couldn’t be this fortunate in the face of someone else’s disaster. It wasn’t right. “Her relatives will be looking for her. She’ll be missed.”
“No, she won’t.” Rachel tapped her forehead. “I looked up the family. The parents were both second-generation only children. They have no extended family. If you don’t take this baby, she will end up in the foster care.”
The overburdened foster system in their city ate babies alive and spat out youthful criminals with PTSD. But who was Mira kidding? Her ticking hormones weren’t a substitute for good parenting skills. On the other hand, she had Rachel, and the android might count for a whole lot.
“But...but we don’t have a birth certificate, or adoption papers,” Mira said. “We’ll need documentation for her to see a doctor and go to school.”
“All electronic,” Rachel replied. “I know that Jeffrey broke into the Juno database and reassigned my serial number to you. Those systems are well-protected, so I expect he could also break into the state adoption systems, or find someone else who can.”
Rachel handed the swaddled, still-sleeping infant over to Mira, who held her close, feeling her heart ache at the smell of talcum powder and baby. She didn’t even try to blink back the tears streaming down her face. Gazing down at the sleeping child for the first time, she vowed to herself that she would be the best mother she could possibly be. She’d make Jeffrey unplug and get counseling. She’d go on antidepressants. Nothing could be perfect, she knew, but whatever it took, she’d make things right for this little girl.
“Her name is Belinda,” Rachel offered.
“Thank you,” was all Mira could say.
Approaching Lavender
Rhetta’s husband Scott teased her for bringing her sketchpad along on their honeymoon: “I thought this was supposed to be just you and me. Not you, me and your hobby.”
She felt heat rise in her sunburned face at his ha-ha-only-serious tone. It wasn’t a hobby, and he knew that. Or she’d thought he did. He’d never complained about her working on her art when they were dating. He’d praised her paintings and cheerfully accompanied her to gallery hops and art shows. It had even been his idea to stop to see the Van Goghs at the museum when they drove through Cincinnati.
“I wanted to get some details of the ocean and the palm trees,” she replied.
He waved a cheap digital camera at her. The lens was smeared with sunscreen. “That’s why we have this. Put that down and let’s go get some margaritas.”
*
A month a
fter they returned from Cancun, he started complaining about her spending her evenings at the studio.
“I never see you,” he said. “A wife should be home with her husband. Not off someplace playing with crayons.”
She paused, staring at him. He certainly looked like the man she’d dated: the same soulful brown eyes, the same tidy blond beard, the same scar on his cheek from when he fell off his bike as a kid. But that was not a sentence she’d ever expected to come out of his mouth. What had changed? Or had anything changed? Had she just been oblivious to what he really thought of her passion?
“People are expecting illustrations from me. I have to work—”
He made a dismissive noise. “All that’s just a hobby. Your work is at the insurance company.”
She wanted to slap him and shout What is wrong with you? but her hand stayed perfectly still at her side. “I have contracts. They’re paying me. Some of them have already paid. My work is expected, and I need to finish it.”
“It’s hardly any money, though, is it? Just pocket change. Barely anything compared to what you make at the company. Or could make if you’d just apply yourself there for a change.”
He sounded just like his father, who’d given him almost the same dressing-down when they’d visited for Christmas. Apparently, Scott’s desire to stay in accounting wasn’t good enough for Mr. Bershung. His father demanded to know why Scott wasn’t on track to become a company executive and turned brutally scornful when Scott insisted he was happy where he was.
Her head spun. Scott had been miserable and frustrated after his father’s lecture; why would he say the same thing to her? She’d spent whole evenings talking about her dreams of being a full-time artist, and how the tech writing job was just something to bring in a little cash until she started landing better commissions. Scott had nodded and said I’m sure you’ll do it and other such supportive things. He’d never cared about her making money. Or had he, and she didn’t remember it?
“I’d make more money at my art if I didn’t have the day job,” she said. “And I could get everything done during the day. I could spend all evening with you. We could go out on dates—”
“No.” He shook his head, frowning like she’d just suggested they move to the bad side of town. “You can’t quit your job. We need the money too much.”
“But if I had more time to work—”
“It’s a pipe dream to think you’d ever make anything close to a respectable living as an artist. And that studio space is too expensive. It’s at least as much as the cable bill.”
“Why? Why do we need so much money? We’re doing fine.”
“No, we’re not fine.” He turned on her, his face turned dark red; she was afraid he’d start throwing something. She’d only seen him that angry once before after someone keyed his brand-new BMW, and she didn’t want to see him like that again.
He took a breath, and seemed a few degrees calmer. “We need to save as much as we can for the house.”
“House?” Her voice was a dry croak. She was sure the apartment floor would give way beneath her feet at any moment. She wracked her memory. He’d never even mentioned wanting a house, much less that they had some plan to get one. “What house?”
“My parents’ place.” He fiddled with his Rolex impatiently. “They’re getting a condo down in Florida next year. I offered to buy their house from them; dad wants market price, $500K, and it needs a lot of work, but it’s structurally sound—”
“And when were you going to talk to me about this?” She’d been in his parents’ house only once for the uncomfortable Christmas where he and his father argued about Scott’s career. The huge place was all dark wood and shrouded windows and furnishings from the 1950s. Lots of space and some lovely views from the porch, but on the whole she found it oppressive. Even more oppressive was Scott’s father: Mr. Bershung was a stern relic from an earlier era, and with his thick accent and ramrod-stiff bearing she imagined him as a sword-brandishing Prussian general. Very little about Rhetta appeared to please Scott’s father. She got along much better with his mother, but the old lady seemed unable to do much besides mouth friendly platitudes and offer cookies. Conversation was a lost art in that house.
“What’s to talk about?” Scott stared down at her. “We’re married now and we need a house.”
It was a done deal to him, clearly, and her opinion wasn’t required. She twisted her wedding ring around on her finger and scanned the room, hoping to see the glint of a hidden camera or some other indication that this was just a sick prank involving secret twins or pod people. We’ve secretly replaced this woman’s husband with an utter jerk. Let’s see if she notices! She flashed back on the Hollywood marriage of a starlet to a country singer; a month in, the starlet had demanded divorce on the grounds of “fraud.” At the time, Rhetta had wondered what could possibly constitute fraud in a marriage. Now she was starting to get the idea.
But she wasn’t a starlet who could marshal her lawyers and file papers a mere month after her wedding. She made a commitment, ‘til death did they part, and she believed in her vows. There had to be a way to make this work the way it was supposed to.
“I think what we need,” she replied slowly, “is to see a marriage counselor.”
*
Dr. Gates was a pleasant man in his late 50s and came highly recommended on the insurance company’s website. His office was outfitted in plush brown leather couches and expensive silk plants. A bright purple Siamese fighting fish drifted in a glass bowl on his desk. An oil portrait of a woman about his age was on the wall behind his desk; Rhetta guessed it was Mrs. Gates. The woman in the portrait was dressed in a pink cashmere sweater and gazed adoringly at a baby in her arms, the very picture of a perfect grandmother. Rhetta was impressed by the colors and the artist’s technique; the painting was more life-like than most photos she’d seen.
Rhetta and Scott took the couch closest to the door and Dr. Gates sat across from them in a brown plastic folding chair, listening intently as they both told their stories. When they were done, he leaned forward sympathetically.
“This is exactly the kind of situation that leads to annulments,” the kindly therapist said. “I firmly believe that marriage is not something to be entered into or exited lightly, so I’m extremely glad you two came to see me. I think we can get things back on the right track here.”
He turned toward her husband. “Scott, it seems to me that you came into this marriage with regimented gender role expectations that you failed to convey to your wife, certainly before your wedding, but also after it.”
“Anything’s possible,” Scott replied.
Dr. Gates seemingly ignored his skeptical tone. “I’d like to see you make space for your wife’s aspirations and most particularly her art. If you want her at home and don’t want to pay for studio space, then you need to make room for her whole life at your home. And you need to fully include her in decisions that involve her. And everything involves her now.”
Scott slumped in his chair, fiddling with his watch.
“Spouses are life partners,” the therapist said. “You need to help her become the best possible person she can be.”
It seemed to Rhetta that something clicked behind her husband’s eyes. He straightened up and smiled. “If you put it that way…of course I want her to be the best wife ever.”
“Person,” Dr. Gates corrected.
“Sure,” replied Scott.
The therapist turned to Rhetta. “And I’d like to see you try to be a genuine partner to your husband.”
“I thought I have been,” she replied. “I work a job I don’t especially enjoy for the sake of financial goals that are his and not mine.”
“Now, Rhetta,” the therapist admonished gently. “Everyone has to make a living, and it’s not Scott’s fault you’ve chosen a job that doesn’t entirely suit you, is it? I respect your art—clearly you are quite talented from what I’ve heard—but that, too, is a choice. And it’s a choice t
hat’s been causing your husband some discomfort.”
She felt a slow crab of panic start to scrabble in the pit of her stomach. She could no more choose to stop painting and drawing than she could choose to stop eating. Her soul would dry up.
“So the problem in your view is that I have choices?” she asked.
The therapist smiled in an irritated way. “The problem is that you’ve been insensitive to your husband’s needs for comfort and routine. He’s clearly a very traditional man, and I find it hard to believe that after two years of dating you were unaware of that.”
She crossed her arms. “I told you already. He hid that part of himself.”
Inside, she had to agree with Dr. Gates: it did seem impossible that she hadn’t seen that side of him. Sure, Scott’s father was a domineering tyrant who wanted his wife to serve him coffee every day in exactly the same mug at 7am sharp, but her boyfriend had never been like that at all. The man she knew from two years of dating had been attentive, kind, sexy, spontaneous, and most important, he talked to her. The most perfect of perfect catches, everyone agreed. He’d had a chivalrous streak she found a little old-fashioned and endearing in a world of oblivious hipsters who were often more interested in their video games than they were in her. Most guys had made her feel like she rated only slightly higher than a Fleshlight, but Scott was never indifferent. He’d never failed to make her feel special. Was that the secret-tip off? He’d held open doors and pulled out chairs and mostly bought dinner; was all that her cue that some strange switch was going to flip after the rings were on and he’d start turning into a clone of the old man? She couldn’t believe it.
Dr. Gates broke her from her reverie: “You need to be more sensitive to his needs. If he makes space for you at home, will you stay home to paint?”
“Well, of course.”
“And would it kill you to cook?” the therapist asked, his tone joking. Ha-ha, only serious.
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