“Thank God,” Shelby mumbled.
“As for your suggestion, Mr. Streiffler, that all of this effort could be avoided by opting for copulation, I understand your thinking.” He winked. “But we don’t go down that road for the simple reason the divorce rate would surely exceed the birth rate. We’ve found it’s best to reduce this matter to a painless medical procedure that hopefully ends with the same happy results.”
Avi shrugged. “I still think the odds are better if we go the natural way.”
“No”—Shelby glared—“because the odds of my letting you touch me are slim to none.”
“Cut it out,” Lauren whispered to Shelby. “He’s going to think we don’t have any team spirit…Doctor, could you tell us how many months it usually takes for the surrogate to get pregnant?”
“Of course,” Dr. Grasso replied while looking through some paperwork. “We have a 75 percent to 85 percent success rate with intrauterine inseminations using fresh donor semen when the procedure is repeated for an average of three consecutive months.”
“And what about the 25 percent who fail?” Shelby asked. “You probably tell the prospective parents to find themselves another surrogate. Right?”
“Not necessarily.” Dr. Grasso looked up. “If after three months there hasn’t been a conception, we simply move on to the next phase, which is a bit more aggressive.”
“You mean in vitro fertilization.” Lauren wanted to show she was in familiar territory.
“In vitro and/or the use of different types of fertility drugs.”
“Nothing doing.” Shelby grabbed Lauren’s hand. “Three strikes and I’m out. Game over.”
“Perhaps it’s best not to cross that bridge unless we have to.” Dr. Grasso was growing impatient. “Naturally, we do everything possible to ensure success, and if the surrogate is in good physical health, and of a cooperative nature, we’re better than halfway there.”
“Oh, don’t worry about Shelby.” Lauren patted her hand. “She’s the most cooperative person the world.”
“Yes, I see that.” Dr. Grasso smirked.
Team BABY’s next stop was the attorney’s office, where Shelby’s only question after meeting the lawyer was how smart this woman could be if she chose to hyphenate her name. “I’m telling you, if I was born Nancy Less, and was dumb enough to marry a Thomas Moore, the least I would have done was pick one of their surnames. Not both.”
“That’s what bothers you?” Lauren cried, after dropping Avi off at the house to get his car. “That her name is Mrs. Less-Moore?”
“Damn right. Don’t you see? If her personal judgment is so bad, how good could her legal judgment be? It’s like being introduced to a hairdresser and wondering, if she’s so great at styling hair, what’s that rat’s nest on top of her head?…I’m never going to make the train.”
“Yes, you will. You’ve got seven minutes, and I know all the shortcuts to the station.”
“At least Avi is good for something.” Shelby yawned.
“Don’t pick on him, Shel. This is never going to work if you two don’t stop fighting.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just not crazy about the guy, especially since he won’t shut up about screwing me, rather than jerking off into a Dixie cup. I thought you worked all this out already.”
“We did. You just don’t understand him. That’s all.”
“Oh, I understand him fine.” Shelby looked at her watch again.
“You’ll make it. I promise.” Lauren ran a red light.
“Preferably alive.” Shelby clutched the door handle as Lauren floored the gas pedal.
“You see, Avi comes from this very traditional, Israeli, male-macho background. He may look hip, but he’s really old-fashioned. So, it’s not that he doesn’t want to be faithful to me, he has this need to prove his virility. I mean, even though none of the fertility problems are his, inside I know he feels shame. Like there’s something he should be able to do to make things right.”
“You really believe that?”
“Yes. Otherwise, I’d have to kill him and leave his body in the trunk of his car. Now tell me what you thought about what Mrs. More or Less said.”
“See what I mean? You’re already goofing on her name.” Shelby jabbed Lauren’s shoulder. “Anyway, there’s nothing to think about. It’s all pretty straightforward. I’m considered the biological and legal mother of the baby until the baby is born. Immediately afterward we do the stepparent adoption, then you get all the parental rights, and Daddy gets all the bills.”
“What about the…control issues?” Lauren hesitated. “During the pregnancy.”
“What control issues?”
“You know. Like how you take care of yourself.”
“What’s wrong with the way I take care of myself? I’m the most vain person I know.”
“I don’t mean that.” Lauren hesitated. “I mean, what about my legal rights if, let’s say, you don’t take your prenatal vitamins? Or, you decide to drink with dinner? Or, the thing I’m really worried about is you starving yourself like you always do.”
“So let me get this straight. You want it in a contract I have to take iron pills, lay off wine, and eat three meals a day?”
“It’s not just that. It’s a lot of things. Who gets to choose the doctor? Or, who decides how much anesthesia you get during labor? Or, what if you don’t cooperate when it’s time to do certain tests? There are ultrasounds and an amnio to rule out birth defects, a blood test for spina bifida…”
“Didn’t I hear you say I was the most cooperative person in the world?”
“Yes.” Lauren shrugged. “But I was just trying to show Dr. Grasso we’re a good team.”
“Yeah, like the Three Stooges…Look. Believe me. I’ve thought long and hard about this decision by now, and I know what I’m in for. A year of hell. But when I said I’d do it, it was with the implicit understanding I was buying in to the whole program.”
“You mean that?” Lauren cried. “You’ll even take the blood tests?”
“I don’t know how.” Shelby shivered. “But yes.”
“Why are you being so nice to me?”
“Hell if I know. Maybe because you got me to the train on time. I’ll call you from the office to let you know what time to pick me up.”
“Okay. And, Shel? Thank you from the bottom of my heart.” She patted her chest.
“No problem…Oh, yeah. If my pimp calls? Tell him I’m taking a short leave of absence to have a baby, but not to cut off my cocaine supply because I still need my fix.”
“Oh, go screw yourself.” Lauren gently clinked Shelby with a water bottle.
“I believe that’s precisely what surrogates do.” Shelby shut the car door.
Chapter Nineteen
When Shelby asked Ian to arrange for her to have an office at the Informer, he said he would personally tend to the matter himself. He even promised to secure one with a great view. So imagine her shock when she arrived her first day on the job and was escorted to her new home. May it ever be so humble.
“This is where you expect me to work?” she grabbed Ian by his tie. “It’s a cubicle.”
“The better to see you with, my dear.”
“But you promised me a nice view.” Shelby threw down her box of important possessions.
“This is a nice view.” Ian flung open his arms. “Of the greatest newsroom in the world. And as an added bonus, you get to be situated right next to Warner Lamm.”
“Who?”
“Why, Shelby. Have you been dwelling in a cave? He’s the world famous astrologer who writes our daily horoscope column. Surely you’re a big fan.”
“Only if he tells me it’s a good day to kill an editor.”
A week later, the famous astrological jack-in-the-box popped his head up over their shared cubicle wall. “Hi, Shelby,” he sang. “How are you today?”
“I don’t know, Warner. Why don’t you tell me?” Shelby kept on working. “You’re the resident psycho.” Why had she a
greed to let Ian help her find a place to set up shop? She should have known he’d pull an immature prank like putting her next to a gay voodoo doll.
“Actually, I do know how you are.” He winked. “Because I did your chart like you asked.”
“I didn’t ask.” Shelby finally looked up. “You begged, remember?”
“Yes, but you were most cooperative when I said I needed your date and time of birth.”
Cooperative. There was that word again. She hadn’t heard it this much since kindergarten. “That’s because I figured it would be a hell of a lot easier to fork over the information than have you hound me every time I walked in here. Have you seen Ian?”
“How do you mean, seen?” Warner winked.
“Jeez! How much fruit did you eat today? I mean do you know if he’s back from lunch?”
“I’m not my brother’s keeper.” Warner pouted. “Ask Ann. She always knows where he is.”
Shelby stood up, peered over the sea of cubicles, and watched the throngs of reporters and editors scurrying through the maze. How she loved the electricity of a newsroom, with all its ringing phones, urgent chatter, and speedy fingers pounding computer keyboards. Yes, every newsroom was the same shit, different zip code. But that’s why it felt like home.
“See her? She’s over at Ziggy’s desk.” Warner stood on his chair and used his two middle fingers to whistle. “Annie Bananie! Where’s Ian?”
“Not back from lunch yet,” she yelled back.
“Thank you.” Warner blew her a kiss, then stepped down. “He’s not back yet.”
“Proving once again, news travels fast. Thanks.”
Shelby sat down and sighed. She never learned. Every time she rushed to arrive somewhere promptly, it was always a wasted effort. Why did people spend thousands of dollars on fancy watches if they never bothered to look at them? But at least now she’d have time to go over her notes for the meeting and check her voice mail. Which, to her disappointment, took a total of five seconds, as none of the wedding couples she’d located had returned her calls.
At least the DES piece was going well. She’d completed three solid interviews, and each story was so compelling and tragic, it made Lauren’s experience look like a cakewalk.
Her most extensive notes came from a young woman in upstate New York who had been through five years of infertility workups, abnormal Pap smears, painful tests to check her fallopian tubes, four unsuccessful inseminations, one laparoscopy to remove recurring endometriosis, and two miscarriages. The last one was at sixteen weeks, in spite of her double cerclage stitch to keep her cervix closed. She and her husband were in the process of looking for a surrogate when she discovered her husband was seeing someone. DES had taken its toll in more ways than one.
In the other two cases, the women had miraculously managed to cross the motherhood finish line, albeit through extreme measures. But at least they were fortunate enough to be discussing their situations while bouncing babies on their knees. On the other hand, their DES troubles were hardly over. One had a breast cancer scare, the other a test to rule out cervical cancer. And, too, they were plagued with worry and guilt, not knowing if they’d passed on the DES curse to their children. Evidence was mounting that the next generation would not be spared.
Shelby reviewed her notes and sighed. This story had certainly been more of an eye-opener than she’d expected. Over the years she’d known plenty of couples with infertility issues, and of course Lauren’s medical problems were deeply embedded in her personal landscape. But until now, she’d never understood the mental anguish women felt when denied the privilege of motherhood.
The trouble with the story, however, was that in comparison, it made the Times wedding piece seem so trite and shallow. Rich debutantes didn’t have real problems. Their biggest source of angst was worrying if their trust fund could cover summers in the south of France, with enough cash left over to shop at the couture shows in Paris.
Not that Shelby felt every story had to be gripping to be good. As a former assignment editor, she understood the importance of having filler in the can for the inescapable slow news day. Question was, did she want to contribute to the soft side anymore? The answer was Ian wouldn’t give a damn about her conflict. The only way he’d run her piece was if it was turned in with his.
Unfortunately, the research for the revenge story wasn’t going well. She’d tracked down two of the couples whose wedding announcements appeared in the Times the weekend of May 25, 1988, only to discover they’d already split up. Alexandra Simonson Wellbourge IV, not surprisingly, hung up the minute Shelby identified herself as an Informer reporter. The next three couples she’d located had yet to return her calls. And the remaining eight couples she had yet to locate at all.
Maybe she could convince Ian to change the focus of the story. Instead of examining the staying power of debutante marriages, it might be interesting to explore the evolution of the New York Times wedding announcements.
For decades, this was considered the penultimate sports page for women. The only game in town when the mink and manure set had a betrothal to announce. To flip through the hallowed Sunday section, an outsider might never suspect there were people of color living in the New York area. Or that there were any other religious affiliations than Episcopalian or Roman Catholic. The New York Times weddings weren’t just restricted, they were vaulted shut, lest some pedestrian, middle-class couple might presume to be worthy of a column inch.
Over the years, however, under the guise of political correctness, the Times had relaxed their tough stance on intruders, much to the chagrin of the Cotillion debs. At Shelby’s count, yesterday’s wedding section included two African-American couples, one Asian couple, several Jewish couples, and even, get the smelling salts, a racially mixed couple.
No doubt this explained the undercurrent of dissatisfaction among the ladies who lunched. Clearly the Times had lost its luster and cachet if, good God, an Italian bride from Staten Island could be featured. What was next? Homosexual couples? Thank heavens for Town and Country magazine. At least their editors still understood the important role of wealth and prominence, and would never be caught dead slumming for wedding coverage.
“Yoo-hoo.” Warner wheeled himself over on his task chair. “So, how’s it going today?”
Shelby jumped. “Why do you keep asking me that? You already know.”
“True.” He clasped his hands. “I was just looking for confirmation.”
“Maybe you should get a real job, Warner. This one doesn’t take up enough of your time.”
“Oh, contraire, my dear. I start my day at five, so by midafternoon, I’m completely ferklempt. You know what I mean?”
Shelby laughed. “Yes, I do. But tell me. Is there a reason for your visit?”
“Yes!” Warner clapped. “I want to tell you all about yourself. The stars know all.”
“Oh God,” Shelby groaned. “Look, I know your column has a huge following, and I’m all for anything that sells papers. I’m just never going to be one of your readers who gets snookered into believing any of that voodoo bullshit you write.”
“Snookered? Voodoo? Oh I love it. It’s so…deliciously fifties. But let me ask you this. Have you ever had a professional astrologer do your natal chart?”
“No, but at a state fair I once had my palm read, and learned my true calling was to be a minister. Then I went and washed my hands and the same guy told me I should be a pilot.”
“A minister or a pilot.” Warner slapped his knee. “That’s hilarious. I hope you didn’t pay.”
“Of course I paid. He was my date.”
Warner laughed. “You are a true Capricorn, my dear.”
“Which means what?’”
“Well, you’ve got this marvelously, dry sense of humor, and you’re so witty and outspoken. But that has more to do with your third house cusp being a six Sagittarius.”
“You see? That’s the problem with all of you guys. You need interpreters.”
/> “If I promise to explain everything, do you promise to pay close attention?”
“If I promise to pay close attention, do you promise to go away?”
“Shelby, dear, is that any way to speak to someone who is going to illuminate your life with profound insights?”
“To hell with insights. Just tell me if my parents will be all right, if I’ll actually get pregnant, and if I’ll ever be nominated for a Pulitzer?”
“Yes, yes, and yes!” Warner applauded wildly.
“Really?” Shelby leaned in. “How do you know that?”
“Because I’m the great and masterful Warner, and when I did your natal chart I was just bursting with excitement. I could see you had a really crappy childhood. Full of lies and deception, loneliness and loss, nobody cared about you, nobody understood you…uch, you poor thing, I don’t know how you survived. But according to your planetary aspects and transits, over the next twelve months, we’re talking major turnaround time, baby. Finally, your Venus will be in Scorpio, your Jupiter in Sagittarius, and your Moon in Aquarius. I’m telling you the alignments of the planets will be so fantastico”—Warner patted her hand—“you can kiss those blue days good-bye.”
“Yeah, but how do you know specifically the three things I asked you about will actually happen?”
“Because the planets never lie, and Warner knows what he’s talking about.”
“Okay, that’s it. Spill the beans, or I tape your dancing feet to the floor.”
“My, my. Aren’t we testy? Tell you what. Come to my place in the Village, and I’ll tell you the whole damn story. But here’s a sneak preview. Healing and recovery will surround you, career rewards are in the air, and you are most definitely going to end up in a family way!”
“Anything else?”
“Why, Shelby. I thought you couldn’t be snookered?”
“Anything else?” her voice quivered.
“There was one other little aspect I found quite interesting. It had to do with reuniting with loved ones.”
“Really? That is interesting. I recently reconciled with my father and stepmother. Oh, and when I first got to New York, I saw my dead mother’s face in the rearview mirror of a car.”
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