by SM Lumetta
After a binge marathon of some awful nineties show on Netflix, I crawl out of my self-pity hole and call my mom. Telling me how I’m being overdramatic is her favorite thing, and I love to offer her the opportunity. Actually, I’m hoping she can talk me into action. She’s good at that. And reminding me to wear lipstick. Which I sometimes do, but she brings it up like we’re talking about “make sure you wear clean underwear” types of things.
The phone rings a few times. As I listen, I wander out on the balcony of my apartment. It’s the upstairs half of a duplex and spacious, so I don’t feel too collegiate in my homestead. After the budgetary bust of Brett-gate, I lost momentum in the scheme to buy a house like many people my age. The chairs I have on the patio are cheap and sun bleached, but still comfortable and at the very least, not filthy. I plop down and the plastic or wicker—honest to God, I’m not sure—groans. I don’t know why, but I tell it to hush. I haven’t exactly slept too well the past couple of nights, but that’s beside the point. Or not. Whatever.
Pick up the phone, Mother!
“Hi, baby!” Her voice trills as it does when she’s been singing along to something. It makes me smile.
“Mom, my ovaries have dried up,” I say by way of greeting. I mean, let’s just get to the meat of it, right?
“What’s that?” she asks. The music in the background is too loud. As usual. It’s like party central at their house. It’s ridiculous. No wonder my internal baby factory is shutting down—my own mother is younger than I am.
I hold the phone away from me and yell, “I have your reproductive system and I want mine back!”
“No need to shout, honey. I’m not deaf.” The music lowers and I hear static as she readjusts the phone to her ear. “But if Ruben has anything to say about it, I will be in a month. He’s taken up drumming, you know.”
I roll my eyes and smile. Ruben is my stepdad, though they only married about five years ago. Great guy, very sweet. And hot for a fifty-six-year-old. He was born in Cuba, so it’s probably the Latin genes. Mom said she legitimately thought he was Andy Garcia when they met. Ruben countered with, “If that’s what landed me this angel, hallelujah.” They’re the cutest.
“Two questions,” I begin in my most serious tone. “Are they bongos? And does he drum naked?”
She makes a hooting sound almost louder than the music was before. “I’m not telling! That is none of your business.”
“The bongos or the naked?”
Mom titters. “Now what did you say before? Something of mine you have?”
I sigh.
“Uh-oh.” The music in the background turns off completely. She’s ready to get serious. “Tell Mama.”
“I’m going into menopause.” An appropriately chilly breeze sweeps across my balcony. I tuck my feet under my butt.
“You’re going where?” Ruben must be drumming right next to her ears. “To the movies? I’m not sure I heard you right.”
“Menopause!” I snap, pounding a fist on the arm of the chair. “I’m dying from the inside out!”
She cackles and chides, “Be serious! What were you really going to tell me?”
“I’m not kidding, Mom! I went to the doctor because I kept missing periods and hadn’t ridden any baloney pony to warrant an errant shark week. We’ve been doing some hormone-y tests over the past few weeks and Dr. B says it looks like premature menopause.”
I hear a forceful exhale. “That doesn’t seem possible,” she scoffs. “Are you going for a second opinion?”
Facepalm. “I guess I should.”
“Do. I want grandbabies.” I love that this is her immediate reaction. Never will I forget where her priorities are. “Lots.”
“Wow. Way to be supportive, Margaret,” I say, my voice flat and blatantly irritated. “You know Cameron could still be the source of a grandkid someday.”
“I am supportive! And I know you want kids, so don’t tell me that’s not a concern,” she says with a huff. “And don’t deflect! Cammy is—dammit, Mona, get down!” Mona is their black Labrador. “Cam’s dealing with enough right now.”
“Dealing with what? You’re not pressuring him about grandkids? Way to be sexist, Ma.” I sound whiny, but honestly, it’s crazy easy to regress when you’re talking to your parents. I am perpetually thirteen in some conversations. It’s embarrassing. Much like being thirteen.
“Goddammit, Sophie Ann, stop deflecting. You have always said you want to have kids someday,” she says, clearly frustrated in that typical mom way—she loves you, but she mostly wants to smack you.
I feel a pinch on my temple and realize I have a long chunk of dark brown hair twirled around my finger so tight I’m afraid I will rip it out at the root. Maybe I should cut it? Stop! Focus.
“Ugh, Mom. I’m not sure… or at least I wasn’t. Now that it could be off the table—in the traditional popping out of the vag sense, anyway—I definitely think I want the option. I’m not ready to give that up yet.”
“What did I just say?”
Wow. That was the mommiest thing she could have said.
“I know, but—”
“Trust your mother. I know you better than anyone in the world,” she reasons. She’s not wrong. “By the way, are you wearing lipstick? You should always wear lipstick. That’s how you land the sperm donor.” I told you.
“Oh my God. Mother!” I push the chair on its back legs and throw my head back.
“Well, are you?” She’s like an Avon lady on steroids. “Lipstick brightens up your face! If you’re not getting enough sun, you look too pale.”
“Yes, Mom,” I lie. “I’m wearing lipstick. That scarlet one I showed you at Easter. And you realize we’re white, right? Pale is what we do well.”
“You tan very nicely and I refuse to accept such a pasty fate.” I imagine her dark blond hair contrasting her well-tanned skin. She’s not leathered yet, but if she doesn’t chill with the sun worshipping, it won’t be long.
“That’s why you’re going to be a handbag sooner or later,” I tell her. I feel the chair legs wobble like they might bend too far. I bring it forward with a thud.
“We all will, babe,” she says, punctuating it with a snort. We are practically the same person. “When I’m dead, you can make me into a backpack or a fancy purse with a wallet.”
“Oh, come on—stop it! That’s horrible,” I say, irritated that it’s both funny and terrifying.
“What? I don’t mind. I’m an organ donor. It’s on my license.” She tells me this like I don’t know these things.
“All right, Coach bag, enough!” I make a gagging dry heave sort of noise. “Can we get back to the topic at hand?”
She guffaws, fully amused at my discomfort. “Fine, fine. Tell me what you’re thinking. A second opinion, and then what?”
I stand and go back inside. In the kitchen, I pour some orange juice as I think aloud. She snags on the egg-freezing option and I explain how expensive it is and why my insurance plan blows. We talk a little more about it and I repeatedly refuse her offers of a little money. Just the mention of taking it makes me wear circles in the kitchen tile as I pace. I know she and Ruben aren’t a cash waterfall. Not to mention Cameron is living at home, which means he’s not paying rent, utilities, or contributing for groceries. Plus, they have a “retire to Spain” plan and I absolutely do not want to get in the way of that. I want that for them much more than I want their money, even though I know she’d take out one of those scammer reverse mortgages to finance a grandkid.
It just seems ridiculous to pay all this money to jack myself up on hormones to harvest the eggs—I don’t even want to know how that smash-and-grab job works—and then stick ’em in an ice cube tray for an indefinite period. I’m simplifying, of course, but then there’s all the cost of defrosting and fertilizing and then planting it all up in there. It seems like I’d have to win the lotto.
“Have you called your insurance company and checked?” she asks me.
I stop pacing
and sit at the breakfast bar. “Mom, I know women with awesome insurance, and most would still leave me on the hook for at least twenty percent. Given all the factors, I’m not sure that wouldn’t be several if not tens of thousands.”
I suppose I could just buy some frozen baby batter for a bargain—ha ha, cough—and turkey baste that shit. But then I’d have to do that pretty damn quick. Or quickish. Do I have time to date? “So how do you feel about becoming a father? As in, right now?” Not the best strategy for speed dating night.
“That doesn’t mean you don’t call, Sophie.” Mom’s voice is stern yet still casual. Which means she’s hiding her concern. I detect a bit, but the woman’s a master at covering her tracks. Usually. There are the occasional slipups.
“Fine, Mom, I’ll call.”
“Right now?”
“Seriously?” I hear the teenage brat in my voice and cringe for all of us involved. That is, me, myself, I, and my poor mother.
“Are your ovaries going to wait? If yes, wait until tomorrow,” she says. “For crying out loud, you’d think you were twelve years old and talking about chores—which kids these days don’t even seem to have to do anymore. Please tell me you won’t be that kind of parent? Then I’ll have to be the mean grandma who nobody likes. Don’t do that to me, baby. Okay?”
Ladies and gentlemen, my mother.
“I would never, Mom. Listen, I gotta go,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “My ovaries just set up a picket line. Time to negotiate.”
After I hang up, I sit back and look out the window at a mirrored building in the distance, refracting and splitting the warm afternoon light. If I unfocus my eyes, it reminds me of the ocean as the sun sets. It’s one of my favorite things to watch. Incredibly relaxing. I grab my phone and check the time. I have an hour until sunset starts. Plenty of time to get over to the beach and enjoy it. It feels imperative with my current mood.
My mind set, I grab my keys, ID, and a water bottle on my way out the door. My Mustang waits in the driveway as if to say, “I’m already halfway there.” A tiny smile grows, pulling my cheeks tight as I peel out.
When I get there, stalled only by a minor traffic backup, that gorgeous glowing source of life is minutes away from touching the water. I throw the car into park and vault myself across to the sand, getting as close to the water as I can without landing in a wet spot when I sit. And sit, I do. I set myself down with purpose and force my water bottle into the sand next to me. Tears prick my eyes as the sun and the Pacific finally touch.
The glow settles seamlessly, melting harmlessly into the surface of the water. The dissolve is silent, the feeling innocent like a fruity lollipop in the summer heat that liquefies and sticks to your hands. My mind darts around my childhood memories—things like sharing sucker flavors with my friends. We’d talk about how we would be a million different things—point guard in the NBA, subterranean explorer, surf-and-scuba ballerina, librarian at the library of Alexandria, queen of Atlantis—before we’d decide we were done taking over the world. Then maybe we’d all have kids at the same time and raise them together… while living on Venus. The dreams were wonderful and impossible—or at the very least, unlikely, but they were unlimited.
Having a child alone has never been my dream. I doubt anyone dreams of being a single parent. It could happen, I suppose, but if that person exists, I’d love to talk to them. Maybe borrow some of the balls they possess, because they are clearly fearless. Still, the closer my chances of bearing my own child get to hopeless, the more I feel compelled to make it happen.
Shit. At twenty-eight years old, I feel like all I have are limits.
I want my impossible dreams back.
Nora stares at me long enough that I decide to wad up my straw wrapper and toss it in her gaping maw.
“Yes, it’s rare, but it can happen even younger,” I say in a rush to fill the awkwardness with a more casual no-big-whoop normalcy.
She finally closes her mouth when she realizes I threw something in there that was not food.
“Thanks very much,” she says, her watery Irish accent spiking slightly. She was born in Limerick, but has lived in the States since high school. She scowls at the spitball pinched between her fingers. Her narrowed hazel eyes shift to mine before she flicks it back at me.
“Nasty.” I bat the slimy ball away. “Will you say something… I don’t know, comforting?”
She huffs. “Hun, you know I prefer that you cut to the chase as opposed to this ‘drag out the misery’ routine.”
“Premature menopause isn’t enough of a hint? Damn, Nor, what does a girl have to do to get some sympathy from you? Pity, even?”
She twists her long black hair on top of her head and knots it into itself. I still don’t understand how that can work without a tie. “My mother was Korean, not comforting. She didn’t know how to be both, so I learned from unconventional sources.”
“What about your father? He’s Irish. Surely he gave you something.”
“Yeah, he’s Irish. He taught me how to drink a pint and swear properly.” Her expression is guarded, but her eyes are dancing.
“I’m sure he’d love to know his legacy will live on with you. I’m going to write that in his Christmas card. Where is Mr. Bennett living these days?” I ask.
“He moved to New York last year after he retired.”
“Cool. We should go visit.”
“Well—”
“After you help me stop freaking out!”
Everyone in the restaurant is staring at us. “Preparing for a scene in our indie film,” I say. As we live just outside of Los Angeles, most people just turn away, uninterested. I turn back to Nora.
“What am I supposed to say?” she asks, shrugging. “Yay for no more periods?”
I fall forward, narrowly missing my ginger ale and dramatically face-plant on the table before I say, “You are. Incredibly. Helpful.”
“I try.”
Some kind of rage-driven gurgling sound rumbles out of me and I push to sit up. As I do, the napkin from the table comes with me. Attached to my forehead. The bottom sucks into my mouth as I breathe in.
Nora completely cracks up. “Okay, I’m going to take pity on you just this once,” she tells me as she tries to tamp down the hilarity. She picks the paper napkin off my face and holds my hand in both of hers. “Aside from missing out on monthly cramps and cotton corks, what’s really going on here?”
I scratch at my forehead and take a breath, preparing to spill my holy-shit beans. “I… think I want to have a baby.”
Her eyes bulge. “With who?”
I tilt my head and bat my baby blues at her. “With you,” I answer with a wink.
Her expression morphs from surprise into humor. It’s far too easy for her. I resent it. “You know that’s not possible, right?”
My eyes roll on my intellect’s behalf. “I hate you.”
“It would be easier,” she says, unruffled. “What about egg freezing?”
“Why does everyone say that? Don’t you think I’ve thought of it?” I ask impatiently. “Basically”—I begin ticking off reasons on my fingers—“hella spendy, too much debt already, and the crappiest insurance this side of actually having insurance.”
“Recipe for success!” Nora’s sarcastic decree is sincerely appreciated but the “touchdown!” arms are unnecessary. At least I know she feels me. Of course she ruins my gratitude by adding, “Sperm-dot-com, it is then?”
I sit back in the booth, sighing with irritation. “I’m suddenly quite unsure as to why I wanted to talk to you about this.”
“I’m your best friend?”
“Why are you saying that like it’s a question?” I snap. We’ve been besties since high school. We even shared an apartment during undergrad at USC and managed not to kill each other. There were homicidal moments, I’ll grant you, but we survived. As did our friendship.
“I’m sorry, love,” she says, reaching across to grab my arms at the wrists. “I’m being
a dick—though I don’t have a dick regardless of my enormous balls, so don’t get any ideas.”
That’s about all I can take; I crack. It starts with laughter, but before I know it, tears are running down my cheeks.
“Crap. One too many.” She gets up from her side of the booth and shoves me over with her hip. “Don’t do that! I get it, it’s stressful. You don’t want to have to make this decision, but here it is.”
I fall onto her shoulder and make sure to wipe my nose on her sleeve.
“Right,” she says.
And with that I know my determined, whip-smart friend is ready to batten down the hatches. Or whatever. She wraps her arm around my shoulders. “Let’s do this. Cry it out. I’ll shoot eye daggers at any looky-loos who think it’s an elephant and not a human being wailing in the middle of a diner.”
“Nora,” I moan, but not in the sex noise way. I straighten, but she maintains a hold on my shoulders.
“From what I understand, no one is ever ready to be a mom,” she says, suddenly free and clear of sarcasm and snark. “If that’s what’s throwing you, just let that shit go right now. Have you considered adoption?”
I nod and sniffle. “I know that’s always a possibility.”
“But you want to have your own.” She says it like she knows. She’s not wrong.
“Yeah,” I say with a sigh. “I want the opportunity. I thought I’d pop out a couple in my thirties somewhere, but… you know.”
“Life is what happens—”
“While you’re busy making other plans, yeah,” I say.
“John Lennon.”
“I know.” I give her the side-eye. “Please don’t barrage me with Beatles’ trivia right now. I can’t deal.”