by Kris Ripper
Dred scooped James into her arms and followed. “Auntie, that’s really not how shared custody works . . .”
We sat on the porch until their voices faded completely and the front door opened and shut.
“Okay.” I sat back, trying to catch as much of the sun as I could on my skin. “That was wild.”
“I feel like I just got run over by a semi.”
“Is it wrong that I’m relieved I wasn’t invited on their walk?”
“Are you joking? I would have cried.”
I smiled up at him. “Yeah, but that thing at the end there—you’re a reliable adult for James. That was cute.”
“That was— I don’t even know.” He pulled out his phone and held it to his mouth in the position that meant he was catching the microphone so he could send Obie a voice message. “So basically Aunt Florence is a huge control freak, but I think I just agreed to do what she said because—because—I don’t know why, except I couldn’t not agree. Please advise.” He put away his phone. “I need another nap now.”
“Yeah. Me too. Except then she’d get back and dinner wouldn’t be done and we’d get in trouble or something.”
He began an organized set of stretches. “I do not envy the poor heathens on the other end of her missionary shtick. They probably convert in sheer self-defense.”
“On the other hand, that’s kind of exactly as I’d imagine Aunt Florence being.”
“True. A force of nature.”
“Yep.”
“We should get dinner going.”
“Yep. What do you want me to prep?”
He carefully levered himself upright. “Everything, Zane. I want you to prep all the things. Let’s see what we’ve got.”
Dinner turned out well, and I snuck a peek at Emerson’s book later. It was hard to imagine him meditating, let alone doing yoga, but then again, Aunt Florence really was a force of nature. It was even harder to imagine him explaining that he hadn’t followed through.
And damn. I’d been kind of in the middle of maybe possibly telling Dred how I felt. Ish. Now what?
The application process at the action agency was apparently grueling. But not so grueling Dred couldn’t send down-to-the-minute text message updates.
I’ve been sitting in this room for ten minutes. This broad is still inputting my application. I COULD HAVE JUST FILLED IT OUT ONLINE, FOR FUCK’S SAKE. >:-(
Application: entered. For her next trick, this lady will try to do math.
Okay, I’m a jerk. She said her kid was up all night and apologized for being slow.
I’m a super jerk. Her kid has Down’s syndrome. Maybe I’m the same amount of jerk? I can’t decide if it’s ableist of me to feel more jerky about shitting all over a mom with a Down’s kid than I’d feel about shitting all over a mom with a kid who doesn’t have Down’s.
A minute and a half later:
Nah, fuck that. If James had DS I wouldn’t want people feeling sorry for me because of it. I’m the usual amount of jerk.
But for real, this broad types with one finger of each hand and keeps staring at the keyboard like the letters have changed position since the last word.
How does someone get to her age (like, she’s gotta be forty, it’s not like she’s ninety and only ever used a typewriter) without figuring out computers?
Z, I am DYING, send help.
I should have brought James. At least he would have entertained me. O offered to keep him at the house, but at this point I might be here FOR-FUCKING-EVER.
She wants proof of my income. I showed her. I explained the business. I explained the profit and loss. She said, “So do you receive a paycheck once a week, once every other week, or once a month?” SERIOUSLY, WOMAN, WAKE THE FUCK UP.
I wish I had coffee.
She just said, “You’re so fast on your phone! It takes me a long time to send one of those messages!” Uh-huh. I believe it, lady.
She’s confounded by my unstable income. “But this can’t be right. This says your net for November was $235. But for December it was over a thousand!” I’m seriously going to wig the fuck out and start breaking shit right now, Zane, no joke.
Sorry, now you’ll probably be subpoenaed because they’ll confiscate my phone and find I texted you in advance of my crime.
They’ll want to know how many times I threatened violence and if it was a new thing.
What did that dumb kid say? He was purifying the gays?
No. I can’t think of anything here to purify. It’ll just look like some black bitch freaked out on some people.
Damn it. I can’t go out like that. Like an angry black woman stereotype. I guess I can’t break anything.
JESUS. She’s really stumped trying to average my earnings. THIS IS ENDLESS.
You there? Showing a house? Breathing air? Drinking coffee? If I never leave this office, you’ll help the boys raise James, right?
Text messages are legally binding, I’m pretty sure.
I finally turned my phone on silent-silent instead of vibrate-silent, but it was too late. My boss, Steph, had come out to lean against the doorjamb.
“Hey.” Her eyes drifted down to my phone.
“Hey.”
“Someone special?”
“It’s my friend Dred. She’s filling out paperwork somewhere.”
“It sounds more like she’s messaging you incessantly somewhere.”
Since she’d been particularly touchy of late, I didn’t tease her like I usually would have. “Yeah. I guess she’s waiting to see if some organization will help her pay for daycare.”
“Ugh.” Steph elegantly draped herself into one of the chairs on the other side of my desk. I’d been front office help until recently, and since our new front office help had the week off, I was splitting time between his job and mine. Which was probably why Steph objected to my text messages; she wasn’t normally a micromanager. “Daycare. You’ll be doing that soon enough, Zane, and good luck to you.”
“Future Kid doesn’t even exist yet, so they definitely don’t need daycare.”
“Oh, you’ll find a kid.”
“You make it sound like I’ll find one in an alley or something.”
“We hope not. And no, I don’t mean find like you’ll stumble upon one. I mean find in the sense that you don’t necessarily know how it’ll happen, but it will.”
The hairs on the back of my neck rose. She didn’t know about Carlos and Tom’s offer of sperm. But that had most definitely been unexpected.
“Anyway, will you try the Schlotts again? I know she’s kind of a—” She twirled a hand beside her head. “But I still need to talk to her.”
I sighed. “Sure thing, boss.”
“You are planning to keep working after you’ve become a parent, aren’t you, Zane? I mean, I assumed.”
“Well, yeah. Unless you want to give me the kind of severance package that would mean I’d be set for life.”
She stood up. “Not likely.”
“Then obviously I’ll keep working. Jeez, Steph, what’s up your butt?”
She paused, all long limbs and business casual with just a hint of sex. “Nothing.” Away she glided, back to her own desk. I heard her start typing.
I waited until she seemed into her email or whatever, then loaded Dred’s messages.
Free at last. I’m so fucking poor they’re paying for him to go to daycare. Like almost all of it.
Not that I even wanted him in daycare. And like, with who? That place down the street where you can look in the window and see kids freaking the fuck out all day long, and you can always hear the TV blaring? Going home.
Aunt Florence already has an “interview” set up for us at St. Pat’s tomorrow morning. I’m so tired already. E said it’s leftover lasagna if you want to come for dinner.
Sure, I wanted to go over for dinner. I texted that I’d be over after the gym and went back to work.
I loved my midwife. She was the hottest lady regularly playing with my cervix. After she finished d
epositing the last of my prepurchased vials of frozen spunk into my uterus, we sat down at her desk for a post-insemination chat. In the beginning she’d had me do a visualization thing after, like I’d close my eyes and imagine the sperm swimming their way through my fallopian tubes, to my ovaries, finding eggs.
After about cycle six, we gave up on all that. I’d pull my clothes back on and sit in one of her chairs with my feet up on the other, waiting for her to be done with her notes in my chart.
“All right, fess up.” She looked at me over her glasses. “You tossed a Peet’s cup in my waiting room trash, didn’t you?”
“Aw, c’mon, Jane! You said—”
“I said you could have the occasional cup of coffee, as long as it wasn’t chemically decaffeinated and you didn’t pour a lot of poisonous flavoring into it.” She looked over her glasses at me. “You wanna tell me that coffee cup you just threw away had mother’s milk in it?”
“Hey, does Peet’s sell mother’s milk? That would solve all my problems! ‘Hi, can I get a medium-dark roast for me and a small mother’s milk for the baby?’ It’s a great idea, Jane!”
She rolled her eyes at me. And you wouldn’t think that could be quite so effective coming from a five-foot-tall, blue-haired old lady, but it was. “Give me your nutrition journal.”
“Yes, ma’am. You sure I can’t do it on my phone and email—”
She held out her hand. “The way we’re doing it is fine. Hand it over.”
I sighed.
Jane read through my notebook, making the odd noise, and I did what I always did at Jane’s place: I studied the big bulletin board behind her desk, with all the snapshots of babies and children and families. Obviously it was there to give you faith that Jane would eventually pin your picture up there with all the others, the picture of you and your future kid(s). And even though I knew I was being played, every time I sat in Jane’s office I totally regained my faith in the face of all those giggling children.
“What kind of cake?”
“Hmm?” I asked, bringing myself back into the moment.
“What kind of cake did you have on—um—the Friday before last? And that Saturday.”
I blinked. “Vanilla. With salted caramel filling and chocolate ganache frosting. You trying to say I’m fat, Jane?”
She laughed out loud. “No, darlin’, and a little extra weight on your bones wouldn’t kill you. But I’m glad you’re eating more.” She handed me back the notebook and folded her hands. “So? What’s shaking, Zane?”
“Lucky cycle number thirteen. That’s what’s shaking. Or maybe what’s not.” I usually tried to hide how each day a tiny bit of hope sort of melted away. But I let Jane see, because she’d had a lot of women in her midwife fertility assistance practice, and she’d seen a lot of them get pregnant. “Am I wasting my time? Should I adopt? I don’t know what to do.”
Jane leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs. “You’re healthy, you’re only thirty-five, your charts indicate ovulation, you eat well, and you know damn well your timing was off on at least four of the twelve cycles you’ve inseminated, not including today.” She shrugged. “I think you need to concentrate on all the things your body is capable of, and you should remind yourself that as far as we know conception and a successful pregnancy are on that list. You’re probably just as able to get pregnant as you are to drive your car down the street safely. And even that, once upon a time, seemed impossible.”
I swallowed. It sounded pretty stupid. And pretty true, too. “You ever notice our names rhyme? Jane, Zane. Funny, right?”
“You say that at least once an appointment.”
“So . . . what should I do?”
She smiled. “Keep doing what you’re doing. Go to the gym. Do not smoke. Don’t drink to excess. Limit your caffeine. Maybe consider inseminating at home again, now that you know what you’re doing. The stats are lower, but I’ve seen it work in women who tried a lot of rounds in the office.”
“Actually, I kind of . . . a friend of mine—a couple, really—offered to donate. Well, one of them. Not both of them. You know what I mean.” I waited to see how she’d take it, almost expecting a repeat of the attorney twins.
“Known donor?” She nodded and started rustling around in a drawer. “Have him tested for everything, iron out your parenting agreements before you even think about starting, if he doesn’t currently have kids, you should think about having his sperm analyzed for motility, and—most importantly—trust your gut, Zane. If something feels bad to you, take a step back.” She tossed a folder across the desk. “And take this. It has every question you need to ask him, sample donor agreements, a list of things he should consider, and a few other goodies. Saves you from saying, ‘Hey, could you try not to ejaculate in the thirty-six hours before I ovulate?’”
“Whoa. You totally said ‘ejaculate.’”
Jane grinned. “It is a relatively regular part of the process, you know.”
“Sure. Sure. Yeah. Ejaculation. I’m an adult. I can deal with this.” I tried to remember what an erection looked like. I’d had sex with a boy or two. In college. Gay boys. You know, for fun. It was all pretty vague. “Um . . . right.” I shoved the folder in my bag. “Thanks for that. I’m not sure yet. I’m still thinking about it, and my-sister-the-lawyer is dead against.”
She waved her hand. “Let me put it this way: Sometimes known donor relationships end with hurt feelings. Sometimes they end in court, though not as often as people fear. But sometimes marriages end up in all those ways, too, and no one thinks that’s a good reason not to get married.”
“Well . . .”
I’d meant it as a joke, but Jane zeroed in on me. “Is there a lady on your horizon? Do tell.”
“There is no— That doesn’t even make sense.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
Blushing did not help my denial. “I might be kind of seeing someone. Casually. Very casually. Do not get excited.”
“I’ll get excited when you do. The important thing to do with known donors is talk about everything. There’s a whole list of questions in that packet, and you should go over all of them with him and his partner. Possibly with a bottle of wine. It’s a long list.”
“Oh great. ‘Thanks for offering your sperm. Now for your pop quiz.’”
“Better to talk now than later. If they react in any way uncomfortably, you can still back out with no hurt feelings. There’s actually some suggested language in there for a few different scenarios. And can I float another idea?”
“Shoot.”
“Obviously the risk of inseminating at home with donor sperm from someone who hasn’t been cleared through a cryobank or a clinic is that you might pick up a sexually transmitted infection. However. If you talk with him, if he’s been monogamous with his partner in terms of fluid transfer, if he’s willing to be tested for everything, if all of his answers feel right to you—you might think of taking it easy for a cycle. Inseminate once or twice or three times, if that works in both of your schedules, but keep it laid-back. Consider it a shot in the dark. Maybe don’t temp after you inseminate. Give your body a chance to just be for a couple of weeks. High levels of anxiety are anathema to conception.”
“If that’s true, then I’ll never get pregnant.”
She shot me an unimpressed look. “Well, keep me posted. Eat salmon, Zane. And seriously, keep the coffee in moderation. I’ve seen a lot of coffee-drinkers conceive, but think about what will happen when you’re passing everything through to the baby. Think about your own milk, okay? All things in moderation.”
“Yeah, okay, okay. I give up. I give in. Whatever you say, oh wise midwife of the north.”
She wrinkled her nose in a gesture way too cute for someone in her seventies. “Give me a call if you decide to skip next cycle.”
“I will. Thanks, Jane.”
“My pleasure. Take care of yourself.”
“You too.”
I waved good-bye to the girls at t
he front and got in my car. I could do this, with Carlos and Tom. I could bring over homework and a bottle of wine and shoot the shit and talk about this whole thing like a serious adult. Like all of us were serious adults. Maybe it’d seem like a good idea. Maybe it wouldn’t. But either way, now that it was an assignment, I could get it done.
Before I pulled out of my parking space, I added a new task to my list: Dinner and homework with C&T.
If you’ve never been trying to conceive—that’s TTC in the lingo—then I don’t know how to explain the two-week wait to you.
Well, first, the luteal phase isn’t necessarily two weeks. My luteal phase—that’s the part of the cycle between ovulation and either getting your period or testing pregnant—is twelve or thirteen days long. It’s been fourteen a few times since I’ve been tracking my fertility, occasionally longer. Once it was twenty days long, but thankfully that happened before I was actively trying to get pregnant. If it happened after an insemination I’d have been certain I was having a baby. If I was having sex with a person of the sperm-ejaculatory persuasion (and not trying to conceive) I probably would have had a heart attack.
Every TTC cycle is its own little circle of hell, and the two-week wait is when someone who’s trying to get knocked up almost loses their mind. Every single month. Every month you try to get pregnant, if you understand how it works and you’ve been intentional, the two-week wait does you in.
For over a year my whole universe had been divided into pre-ovulation and post-insemination, two or so weeks on one side and almost exactly two weeks on the other.
And here’s the thing about early pregnancy symptoms, in case you’re wildly curious: every single one of them can also be a PMS indicator. Even if you never in your life had sore breasts before your period, the minute you read it might mean you’re pregnant you get them every month. And every time you think, Maybe that means I conceived! Then your goddamn period comes and screws everything up.
The downward spiral after that is so fucking intense it takes your breath away. You can’t believe in anything good. You have no hope. And after twelve cycles you try not to talk about it with anyone because as sick as you are of not being pregnant, everyone in your life is even more sick of it. Jaq and Carlos used to take me out to dinner after every big fuckin’ negative. That stopped after about the third cycle. Then it was just me and Jaq drinking—or me drinking and crying, and Jaq soberly trying to tell me that it would happen, probably sooner than I expected. That lasted until the fifth cycle. My luteal phase ran fifteen days and I thought—I swore—I was pregnant. I was so sure of it I even told Jaq it might be true.