All the Good Parts

by Loretta Nyhan

  Everything I was considering came with risk, but waiting suddenly seemed the riskiest of all. I didn’t need a freezer, I needed a donor.

  I combed the Internet for a while, cross-referencing and wishing there were a Groupon for insemination facilities, but the projected cost remained the same, give or take a few hundred bucks. I didn’t have that kind of money without chipping away at the small amount I’d saved, money I’d need for when the baby actually came. Could I borrow some? Donal and Carly didn’t have any extra, not that I’d ask them. Could I take out a loan? Sell something valuable?

  “Ma’am?”

  I looked up, confused for a moment by the beatific man gazing down at me.

  “Yes?”

  “We’re finished,” Garrett said. He handed me some scratch paper upon which equations were written in neat rows. “I wrote out some sample questions, with the answers on the back.”

  “Um, thanks.” I gave him a twenty.

  There was an awkward moment, broken by Maura’s timid voice. “Do you need a ride, Garrett? We can give you one.”

  I hesitated too long before saying, “Yeah. Sure. We can drop you off.”

  “No, thank you,” he said graciously. “I like walking, and it’s a nice night.”

  “See you next week, then!” I grabbed Maura’s hand and dashed over to the circulation desk with my books, a desperate and probably transparent method to avoid walking out of the building with him. He was safely gone by the time I’d settled all my overdue fees, and the parking lot was nearly empty when we climbed back into my Honda.

  I fit the key into the ignition. “Well, that went well.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I’d pulled onto the street when Maura shrieked, “Wait! Stop the car. I forgot something.” She opened the door and rushed over to Garrett, a shadowy figure under the flickering streetlight. Maura unzipped her backpack and took out something shiny, passed it to him, and ran back to the car before I could process what she’d done.

  She tugged the seat belt over her thin body. “Now let’s go home,” she said, a faint smile on her face.

  She’d given him her dinner.

  I’d forgotten his five-dollar tip.

  I’d also stuffed my half-eaten sandwich into a cupholder, the pungent odor settling into the car upholstery. I wanted to stop the car and run to him, offering mine as well. I wanted to open my wallet and give him everything inside. I wanted to apologize.

  But he was gone, and it was too late anyway.

  Shame kept me quiet on the way home. I was an awful person, judgmental and shallow, the kind who had no business bringing a child into the world. A mean, superficial—

  “Do you like Garrett, Auntie Lee?”

  “I don’t really know him,” I answered carefully.

  “I like him, even though he smells like he needs a bath sometimes. I don’t think he eats enough. Maybe . . . if it’s okay with Mom and Dad—”

  “He can’t come over to our house,” I said, feeling like a villain. “You know that, right?”

  “I’m not an idiot,” Maura said, sounding exactly like her mother.

  When I pulled into the driveway and killed the engine, Maura didn’t get out right away. She rested her forehead against the window, tapping it gently. “Auntie Lee?” she said quietly. “Why did you check out all those baby books? Are they for school?”

  “Not really.”

  She paused. “Are they for my mom?”

  I heard fear in her voice, and worry, and all the uneven seams in my heart started to split and burst. “No, hon. They’re for me.”

  Maura’s head whipped around. “You’re having a baby?”

  “Probably not. It was just a thought. Not a very realistic one.”

  We gazed up at the house, every window bright.

  “Kevin never remembers to turn the lights off,” Maura said. “Dad is going to kill him.”

  “Maybe we should make him pay the bill out of his allowance.”

  Maura laughed. She reached out and hesitantly touched my sleeve. “You’d be a good mom.”

  “Why?” I said, trying to ignore the emotion pinching the back of my throat. “Because I think of the best punishments?”

  “Because you’re you,” Maura said matter-of-factly, then scurried into the house.

  CHAPTER 5

  Dr. Bridget called Saturday morning as I was finishing breakfast.

  “Your test results came back negative,” she said cheerfully.

  “Negative for what?”

  “No cancer cells. Not even a precancerous cell could be found. Your cells are just as gorgeous as you are. Project baby is a go, if that’s where you’re headed.”

  The bagel I’d shoved down my throat threatened to come up just as quickly. “Cancer? You were testing for cancer?”

  “When a doctor takes a small chunk of your body and sends it to the lab, it’s generally not for the fun of it,” she said, and I could hear the amusement in her voice. “I didn’t think you had cancer, but I said we’d cover our bases, and we did.”

  I guess, on some level, I’d known what she was doing, but my brain didn’t want that fact to register. Of course it was a biopsy—what was I thinking? “Thanks,” I said dully. “That’s great news . . .”

  “It is great!” I could hear the squeak of Dr. Bridget’s chair, and felt a pang of pity for the countless women paging impatiently through old magazines in her waiting room. “So . . . have you given any thought to what we talked about?”

  “More than thought. I did some research, and . . .”

  “And?”

  “I’m going to need financial aid for the procedure. Or a grant, if some organization gives those out to single women who want to get artificially inseminated.” I paused, waiting for her to laugh again. When she didn’t respond, I rambled. “I’m only half kidding. I mean, there are grants for people who want to study the sex lives of grasshoppers, why wouldn’t there be something for women like me? There are a bunch of foundations that help women once they get knocked up, but before that, nothing, and I looked everywhere. I researched adoption, too, but to pay for the lawyer, I’d have to sell a kidney, and that still might not bring in enough. Is there a market for used gallbladders?”

  Dr. Bridget took a very loud breath. “Oh, Leona, I’m so sorry. You’re still in school, so of course you’re worried about financial security. Now I’ve further complicated your life. It was thoughtless of me.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You made me think about some things I’ve been avoiding, and that’s a positive thing, right? I do want to be a mother. Whether or not I can afford it is another question, but it is something I want, and it’s beneficial to know that about myself.”

  Another long pause. “You graduate soon, right? Your situation will likely be very different in a year.”

  Likely? More like maybe. Hopefully. “Sure.”

  “We can revisit this conversation then. In the meantime, I’m going to send you a link to a website. Take a look, ignore it if you want, but know that it is an option. Just don’t tell anyone you got it from me. I wouldn’t want my friends over at the fertility clinic to get wind of it.”

  “Um . . . thanks?”

  “And, Leona?”

  “Yeah?”

  “These kinds of things can be both very complicated and not complicated at all. Does that make sense?”

  “I suppose.” Not really. “I appreciate the call, Dr. Bridge.”

  “Anytime,” she said. “And by that I mean, if you want to go out for a glass of wine and talk, feel free to call me. You were my friend before you were my patient, so I don’t consider it a breach of ethics.” Dr. Bridget excused herself, and I heard a muffled response to a woman’s tense question. “Oops, gotta run, Lee—I’m already twenty minutes behind. How in the world does that happen?”

  That evening, when I returned from my home-health rounds, I checked my e-mail. Sure enough, atop the list was one from DrBridge@drbridget.com:

  It
’s important to know all of your options: www.athomemiracle.com.

  At Home Miracle was a website selling do-it-yourself artificial insemination kits, $29.99 plus tax and shipping costs. I provided the donor, and At Home Miracle provided everything I needed to safely “transfer the specimen.” It was all very clinical—there weren’t any pictures of smiling babies or teddy bears—simply a list of supplies (collection cup, syringe with rubber tubing, reusable plastic speculum, three ovulation predictors) and testimonials from ecstatic, impregnated women. According to these faceless mothers-to-be, the process was “jaw-droppingly easy,” “stunningly simple,” and would, in less than five minutes, “change my life utterly and completely.”

  Change and I didn’t usually get along. My dad always said people see it as either a goal or an inevitability, but I saw change as a sly predator, charming and driven, the successful man my father adored but I never could quite trust, the one who seemed fun and seemed to really like me and seemed to want us to share the brightest of futures, but I knew, when I was finally ready to commit, he’d leave me standing alone, pathetic and vulnerable, at the altar of my own foolishness.

  “You fear too much,” my father said before he died. “I don’t know if that’s my fault or not, but I’d be a lousy father if I didn’t do anything about it before I go.” It was then he made me promise to attend nursing school with the small amount of money he left me. It was a promise I could have broken, but didn’t. I made a commitment, followed through, and now I could see the edge of brightness over the horizon, the sun ready to shine on my slightly larger but significantly different world. The image should have cheered me, but why did it suddenly seem like the sun’s rays weren’t quite as bright as I’d thought?

  My laptop switched to sleep mode, the screen growing dark. Frantic, I jabbed at the space bar, and the polished, inviting home page for At Home Miracle reappeared. A quick click of the mouse revealed an order form. I dug into my purse, found my beleaguered credit card, and punched in the numbers.

  Nursing 320 (Online): Community Health

  Private Message—Leona A to Darryl K

  Leona A: I finished the study guide for communicable diseases. I am now convinced my allergy cough is really tuberculosis, and soon I’ll be hacking so hard my ribs will crack and then soon after my family will find a trail of crimson-stained tissues leading to my pale, lifeless body draped over the sofa like a wet noodle, a thin trickle of blood creeping from the corner of my mouth. Their wails will drown out the plaintive sound of a single violinist, the sad, eerie accompanist to my lonely, tragic end.

  Darryl K: Okay, Miss Moulin Rouge. But you forgot night sweats and drastic weight loss—are you sure you completed the guide?

  Leona A: It’s after midnight. I’ve been working on the damn study guide all night. I’m exhausted, and when I’m tired, I ramble. The least you can do is indulge my death fantasies.

  Darryl K: Daises! Puppies! Rainbows! Cupcakes!

  Leona A: Are you on drugs?

  Darryl K: Not very often.

  Leona A: What was that outburst?

  Darryl: K: I have a feeling you’re going to pass out after this exchange, and I don’t want you dreaming about blood and . . . sputum. People tend to dream about the things they were thinking about right before they went to bed.

  Leona A: Is this scientifically proven?

  Darryl K: I think so. At least it should be. I have anecdotal evidence.

  Leona A: Oh. Okay. Thanks. Well, you’ll have the study guide in your inbox in un momentito.

  Darryl K: Thanks. And, goodnight, Leona. Daises! Puppies! Rainbows! Cupcakes!

  Leona A: No problem. Oh, and next week’s chapter covers sexually transmitted diseases—and it’s all yours. Herpes! Syphilis! Gonorrhea! HPV! Sweet dreams, Darryl!

  CHAPTER 6

  “Whaaa?” I started, disoriented from waking too quickly. “Carly?”

  She sat at the edge of my bed, some papers in hand. “I found these in the printer.”

  My digital clock said 1:17 a.m. “Do we have to talk about this now?”

  “Yes, we do,” she said quietly. “I couldn’t sleep because I was thinking about what you said, and when I spotted this, I needed to talk to you.”

  “Okay,” I said, flicking on the sconce above my head. I took the papers from her. “This is my study guide for communicable diseases.”

  “Underneath it.”

  A receipt from AtHomeMiracle.com. “Oh,” I said, embarrassment scorching my cheeks. “I forgot I printed this out.”

  “Does it work?”

  “I’m not sure. Dr. Bridget seems to think it can. She sent me the link.”

  Carly nodded, but the pity in her expression made me want to curl up in my fluffy white comforter and never leave the basement again. I yawned and rubbed at my eyes, hoping she’d take the hint, but then subtleties never worked with my sister; sledgehammers did, and I was too tired to lift one. “So, what is it?”

  “I read your beautiful list and it warmed me from the inside, Lee,” she began, speaking in the same soothing tone she used when building up to tear a bandage off one of Kevin’s scabby knees. I wanted to tell her I wasn’t that fragile, but then maybe I was. Sensing my discomfort, she scooched closer, knocking her head gently against mine. “I want you to be happy and reach all the goals you set for yourself. I really do.”

  “This is different. It’s more than just a goal.”

  “It is different when someone else’s life is impacted by your decisions. Loving a baby is easy; raising one requires resources that are a little sparse for you at the moment.”

  Please let her be referring to money, I thought. The other things—love, energy, patience, the support of my family—I’d banked on being plentiful.

  “You’re thirty-nine,” she announced.

  “Why do you say it like that? Like it should be the end of something?”

  “Thirty-nine is almost forty.”

  “Believe it or not, I’m actually aware of that.”

  Carly sighed heavily. “I don’t know if you are. It is the end of something, or at least it should be. By forty, a woman should be able to not only identify her limitations, but accept them. Once you stop focusing on what you don’t have—on what you are never going to realistically have—you can focus on improving what you do possess, and that’s the key to being a happy old person.” She sat up straighter, warming to her topic. “When I got pregnant with Josie, I knew my dreams of owning my own business were impractical—I mean, I’ll be almost fifty when she starts high school—”

  If I got pregnant immediately, I’d be fifty-four when my child began freshman year.

  “—and who wants to start something at that age? Donal and I would be too busy stashing our pennies away so we wouldn’t be eating cat food and saving rainwater when the Social Security checks came late. I’ve made my peace with how my life’s turned out, and because of that, I don’t resent my family, and I don’t hate my job. Letting go of what was a pretty unrealistic dream has freed me up to find a part-time job that doesn’t make me crazy, and still have time to spend with the kids. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yeah,” I said, my voice dull. “That I should let go of any thoughts of motherhood and use all the time that’ll free up to do . . . what exactly?”

  Carly tugged on an errant curl and made a growling noise. “You’re not listening to what I’m trying to tell you.”

  “If I disagree, it means I haven’t listened?”

  “Now you’re just being contrary.”

  “Okay, let’s put it like this,” I said, shifting gears. “What if you’d never met Donal? What if you’d worked and went about your life, and the right partner for you just never came along? What if you were approaching menopause and decided you wanted a child? What would you do?”

  Carly stilled. “You can’t ask a mother to imagine what her life would be like without her children. It feels wrong. Like bad luck.”

  “I didn’t a
sk you that. I asked you to imagine your life without Donal. But if that’s too much, forget a partner at all. What if you simply felt ready to have a child? Wouldn’t you like to have that option?”

  “I didn’t have options when it came to having a baby,” she said quietly.

  “Yes, you did,” I countered, feeling like we were wading into dangerous waters. “And I would have supported you no matter what decision you made. Just because you went in one direction doesn’t mean—”

  “I don’t regret it,” she interrupted shrilly. “I love every one of them more than my soul. You have no right to imply—”

  “I wasn’t implying—”

  Both of us froze, having a well-honed sixth sense for when a child was just about to enter a room. The first steps hit the stairs. Definitely barefoot, light footfall, but confident, fully awake.

  “Maura?” we both called, shooting each other a look of equal parts panic and guilt.

  Maura ducked her head into the basement. “I have insomnia. Must be hormonal. Lots of women get that way right before getting their periods.”

  “I’m sure it didn’t have anything to do with that huge wedge of chocolate cake you inhaled right before you went up for the night,” Carly said, relief taking the edge off her words. Maura didn’t appear traumatized.

  She put a hand on her bunny-pajamaed hip. “Caffeine and sugar don’t affect me.”

  “Uh-huh. Back to bed. I’m having a private talk with Auntie Lee.”

  “Is it about the baby?” Maura said, sticking her bony chest out. “Because I already know about that.”

  Carly shot me a death glare.

  “She does,” I said, “and I don’t mind if she stays if you don’t. I have a feeling this conversation is mostly over anyway.”

  “I think Auntie Lee should have a baby,” Maura said, using an assured tone I’d never heard her use before. Girls’ voices might not jump octaves during puberty, but they definitely ricocheted between confidence and doubt, uncertainty and a forceful, almost bullying assertiveness that surprised everyone when it popped up, most of all, Carly. But tonight she looked unimpressed.