Evan needed no further coaxing. She was right. He didn’t want to go off to college a virgin, and here she was, all smooth, sturdy limbs, ponytail unloosening and spilling glossy brown hair down around her shoulders. . . . But she had been wrong. It wasn’t good. Not for him, not for her. It had been awkward, lonely, and kind of sad. He’d rolled away afterward, for once not having a thing in the world to say to her. She was crying and trying to hide it; he could tell by the small, snuffling sounds she made.
“I have to tell you something,” she said, finally breaking the silence.
“What is it?” He propped himself on his elbow so he could look at her.
“I like girls.”
“Well, duh. You’re a girl.”
“No, you don’t get it. I like girls that way. I’m a . . . lesbian.” She began to gather her hair back into its ponytail. “I knew I was before we . . . before we did it, but I wasn’t a hundred percent sure, and I thought that if it was okay between us, then maybe I was wrong.” Her voice clotted with tears. “That’s why it wasn’t any good. I’m sorry. I used you. Can you ever forgive me?” She began to cry in earnest, noisy sobs, and she pressed her face into her hands to muffle them.
Evan took her into his arms. A lesbian! So that was it. There was nothing wrong with him. Nothing wrong with her either. They were just wrong for each other. He was so relieved he wanted to laugh. Or sing. “Hey,” he said, squeezing her tight. “No biggie, okay?”
“You mean you’re not mad?” She lifted her wet face to stare at him.
“Nope.”
“And we’re still friends?”
“Best friends,” he said seriously. “Best friends forever.”
* * *
In addition to the melon and prosciutto, Audrey steered him toward a baguette, two kinds of cheese, cherries, and some tiny little cookies that were covered in powdered sugar as well as bottled water and some fancy paper napkins and plates. Then she helped him lug everything back to his place. “Text me to let me know how it went,” she said. “And let me know if she says anything about the prosciutto.” These days, Audrey’s light brown hair was shorn down in a buzz cut, and her strong limbs had been embellished by the addition of several memorable tattoos. But she was still the Audrey he knew and loved; he gave her a bear hug and kissed her on both cheeks before they said good-bye.
The next day, Date Day, dawned perfectly blue and cloudless. Evan loaded up his car and drove to Park Slope to pick up Miranda and Celeste. He found them waiting downstairs by the curb, Miranda in a snugly fitting sundress with ladybugs all over it and a straw hat, and Celeste, strapped into a car seat, wearing a one-piece romper, pointing and flexing her bare toes in the air. “You look great,” he said, allowing his gaze to roam over Miranda’s creamy shoulders and lush body. He loved that she wasn’t one of those skinny, breakable-looking women, all clavicles and jutting hip bones. No, she was as full and ripe as a peach. What was the name of the magazine she worked for? Domestic Goddess? It could have been coined for her.
He strapped the seat into the car and they took off for the park. Not that they couldn’t have walked, but there was so much stuff to deal with—food, blanket, two diaper bags, stroller—that he thought it might be easier to drive. In keeping with the charmed spirit of the day, he found parking immediately, and they set out looking for a spot where they might spread out. As they walked, Evan imagined how they must look: a man, a woman, and a baby equaled a family in most people’s eyes. But it was obvious that Celeste was not his child, or Miranda’s either. Her dark skin set her apart, a distinct and different genetic code visible to the world. Well, they would think she was adopted, that’s all. The reasons why could be many and varied; no one would guess the real truth.
* * *
It had been more than two years ago, when they’d both turned thirty-five, that Audrey had come over with a bottle of seriously good Scotch and made him a proposition. “I want a baby, Evan,” she said. “And I want you to be the sperm donor.” She took a long swig of her drink and waited.
“Whoa,” he said. “That’s some bomb you just detonated, you know. How am I supposed to feel about this?”
“That’s what I want to find out,” she said, nudging the glass she’d poured him in his direction. They’d spent the next two hours parsing the situation from every possible angle. She was getting older, with that damn biological clock ticking louder and louder in her head. Yes, she would have rather had a partner, but she’d just broken up with her last girlfriend and she was afraid she’d miss her chance if she didn’t act now. As for going to some anonymous donor, why do that when she had him in her life? “You’re like family to me, Ev,” she said. “I’d be so thrilled if you’d be my baby’s father.”
“Donor is not the same as father,” he pointed out. “And I do want to be someone’s father—at least someday.”
“This wouldn’t mean that you couldn’t. This is an added to, not an instead of. And you could be as involved in his or her life as you wanted. I’d leave that up to you.”
In the end, he’d agreed, and when he asked how she wanted to handle the mechanics, she gave him the name of a clinic where he’d need to go once a month. The whole thing had been weird and a little distasteful—heading to the men’s room with a stack of magazines and a collection jar, sheepishly bringing the sample up front, looking out at the sea of other guys in the waiting room, hanging out until it was their turn. This went on for nearly a year, a year in which Audrey did not become pregnant.
Finally, she went for an examination by a highly regarded Park Avenue specialist; he went along with her. When the exam was over, she walked into the waiting room and sat down next to him. Her expression was grim. “Are you all right?” he’d asked. Maybe there was something seriously wrong with her; maybe she was going to die.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Totally fine. Everything is in good working order—great, in fact.”
“So then why can’t you . . . ?” He trailed off as the humiliating implication became clear. “It’s me, right? I’m the problem.” He felt a slow burn creeping up from his neck to his face.
“Oh, Ev,” she said, and her eyes filled. “I’m so sorry. The doctor suggested that you have some tests to find out what’s wrong.” She leaned over to hug him, but he went rigid. Audrey was his best and oldest friend, but at the moment, he wanted to punch her. To think that he had been getting it up, month after month, to help her out and to learn that all this time, he’d been shooting nothing but blanks.
“It’s not your fault,” he said stiffly. “But if you don’t mind, I’m going to leave now. I need to deal with this on my own.” He had gotten totally shit-faced that night; he was so drunk he had no idea how he’d managed to get home. When he woke in the morning—the daylight stabbing his eyeballs, the sound of the water running in the kitchen a deafening roar—she was there, bringing him a cool compress, a glass of freshly squeezed OJ, and a couple of extra-strength Tylenol.
“Hey,” she said. “How are you?”
“Terrible,” he croaked in return. He accepted the juice and gel caps; the compress was soothing on his forehead. “How did you get in anyway?”
“I have your keys, remember? Or did all the booze kill the brain cells where that information was stored?”
It took a while, but they did get over it and were even able to laugh about it. Audrey met someone and fell in love; her new partner had three kids of her own and was not eager for more, so Audrey had not pressed it.
Evan had taken her advice and submitted himself to a battery of tests: semen analysis, scrotal ultrasound, transrectal ultrasound, postejaculation urinalysis along with hormonal and genetic screenings. He’d drawn the line at the testicular biopsy, but what the doctor had found was damning enough even without it.
“Some men have abnormalities in the morphology; that is the shape of their sperm. Others have it with the motility.
” He sighed and Evan braced himself. “In your case, there are significant issues with both.”
“Kind of like a double whammy?” Evan had said.
“Kind of,” the doctor agreed. “And to compound the problem, you also have an unusually low sperm count.”
Evan just nodded. “I guess the chances of my having a kid of my own are not too great.”
“When you’re ready, you can start to explore other options,” the doctor said, not unkindly.
“Such as?”
“Donor sperm. Or adoption.”
Evan gathered up all the information the doctor had given him—leaflets and printouts, a big fat study about the issue—and left the office. He’d never thought seriously about fathering kids until he found out he couldn’t. The knowledge brought with it shame and a weird, twisty kind of despair he had never felt before. His biological stock had just seriously plummeted; who would want him now? He came to a garbage can on a street corner, where he deposited everything the doctor had given him. He never revealed what he’d found out about himself; apart from Audrey and the two doctors who’d examined them, no one else knew.
“How about over there?” Miranda asked, pointing to a spot on the Long Meadow. “Does that look good to you?” He nodded and went ahead a few steps so he could spread out the blanket. Then he turned to see Miranda struggling to wheel the stroller over the grass.
“Let me help,” he said, pulling the stroller as she pushed. He looked down at Celeste, who was looking straight up at him. She seemed to like the swaying motion of the stroller, because she opened her mouth in a gummy grin; Evan’s chest puffed slightly with pride that he’d helped elicit it.
When they were settled, Miranda lifted her out of the stroller and placed her down on the baby quilt she had brought in one of the bags. Celeste’s dark eyes—more brown than blue, Evan noticed—were looking around. Twittering sparrows, a squirrel scampering up a tree, a little boy on a neighboring blanket with a big red ball—she seemed to be taking it all in quietly, reflectively even. “She likes it here,” he said.
“I think you’re right.” Miranda leaned her face down to the baby. “You like the park, don’t you, baby girl?” Celeste cooed in response.
Evan began setting out the food. The plates Audrey had selected were blue and white; the fruit, bread, and cheese looked especially appetizing against them. He never would have thought of that, but when Miranda said, “Oh, this is so nice! Thanks for pulling it all together,” he was glad Audrey had. They talked while they ate: how Evan liked living in Red Hook, the awkwardness of eHarmony, freelance work versus a steady job. Miranda said she was worried about leaving Celeste when she went back to work. And she was saddened by the present estrangement from her circle of close friends.
“What about Bea?” he asked, and he bit a cherry from its stem. “Didn’t you say that she was really supportive?”
“Totally.” Miranda helped herself to the prosciutto, which she deemed excellent. “But she got the part in that play she tried out for. She’s in Oklahoma City for the next eight weeks.”
“Bad timing,” he commiserated.
“For me,” she said. “It’s a great break for her, though—leading lady for a change. But you know who called me? Geneva Bales—she’s the journalist who did that story for Metro.”
“Really? What for?” He remembered what she had told him about the interview.
“That’s what I was wondering. She said she just wanted to see how Celeste and I were doing.”
“Did you get the feeling she wants to be friends?”
“Not exactly. It was like she was still acting like a reporter, even though the piece was finished. Lots of questions, you know? I thought it was kind of odd, but then she didn’t call again, so I let it go.” Miranda sighed and then took another slice of prosciutto. “This really is fabulous.”
Score one for Audrey, Evan thought. He’d text her later. After they finished eating, he wiped the powdered sugar from his fingers and brought out his Leica.
“Is that the camera you use at work?” Miranda asked. She’d picked Celeste up and held her against her ladybugged front.
“No. That’s strictly digital,” he said. “This baby is from another era.” He held it out so she could see.
“Nice design,” she said.
“It’s the best,” he said. “Compact, lightweight, easy to handle. And no one has to know that you’re using it. You can be invisible.”
“What do you mean?” She shifted position as Celeste buried her face in her chest—rooting around for a nipple, no doubt.
“I’ll show you.” Evan raised the camera up in a casual, even nonchalant fashion; he didn’t even seem to be looking in Miranda’s direction. But all the while he was snapping away, the depression of the shutter making a slight, easy-to-miss sound. The light was perfect; no flash required. He must have shot a dozen frames: Celeste pressing against Miranda, Miranda smiling down at Celeste, Miranda bringing out the bottle of formula, Celeste’s lips pursed in anticipation, the utter relaxation of her limbs as she began to suck, the rivulet of formula that dribbled down her chin, Miranda’s hands as she gently wiped the small face clean.
“So you’ve been photographing us all this time?” Celeste had dozed off, and Miranda carefully settled her in the stroller to nap.
“Uh-huh. And you were hardly aware of it, right?”
“I get it,” she said, smiling at him. “You want to disappear.”
“Not permanently.” He smiled back, cradling the camera in his hand. “Just while I’m shooting. Once I’ve developed the film and start looking at the contacts, I’m back on the scene again. It’s pretty stressful, actually.”
“Is it?” Miranda adjusted the canopy of the stroller so that Celeste was shaded as she slept.
“Very. While I’m working, I never know what I’m going to get—only what I think I’m going to get. Or hope. Or pray. With digital, you can see what you’ve done right away; with analog, you’re working on pure faith.”
“Pure faith as an operating principle sums up a lot of things, don’t you think?”
“Can’t disagree with that.” He stood and began to gather up the used plates and napkins. “Do you want to walk for a while?” he asked. “It’s such a nice day.”
Now that the food was eaten, their load was lighter. Miranda stuffed the blanket into the basket under the stroller, and she and Evan each took a diaper bag as they made their way around the park. Celeste was just stirring as they came to the carousel.
“Should we take her for a ride?” Evan asked. He remembered coming here with a whole bunch of friends when he was at Pratt; the carousel had been pretty seedy back then, with missing or damaged animals. But it had clearly been restored, and today, the brightly painted horses bobbed gently as they spun on their circular path.
“Let’s!” she said eagerly. Evan insisted on buying the tickets and looked around for the right horse. “How about that one?” He pointed to a pale, dappled gray with a salmon-colored saddle and green pennants circling the column of its neck. “Or that one there?” It was the color of a storm cloud and had its head down, as if about to charge.
“Maybe she’s not ready for those yet,” Miranda said. Evan felt like an idiot. He should have known that Celeste was too little for a moving animal. But Miranda didn’t seem bothered by his response; she’d already started walking toward the carousel. “How about that?” She led the way to a dragon-shaped chariot, and Evan took a few pictures of the creature—scaled body, open mouth, wings poised for flight—before he joined her. Celeste, who’d still appeared a bit drowsy when they boarded, responded immediately to the lilting music as it began to play.
“She’s dancing,” Evan said as she squirmed and rocked.
“She is.” Miranda kissed the top of her head. Then she turned to Evan. “Would you like to hold her?”
Evan said nothing, but opened his arms. He’d been watching Celeste all day, capturing her small gestures and the nuances of her expression on film; but he had barely touched her, much less held her. She was so warm and animate in his arms—it was like her whole body was humming. He did not kiss her—that would have been presumptuous—but he did bring her close and dipped his head so he could inhale her baby smell: shampoo, soap, powder, and the faint whiff of ammonia; she probably needed to be changed. When he was younger, Evan had not thought much about kids. But being sterile suddenly felt like an unbearable loss. He was surprised—and horrified—that his eyes welled suddenly, and he turned away so Miranda would not see. Audrey was right. He was a wuss.
“Are you okay?” Miranda asked as the ride slowed.
So she had seen. “Hay fever,” he lied.
They walked slowly back toward the car, Evan still carrying Celeste. She felt good in his arms, like a cat or the large rabbit—a Flemish Giant—he’d held once at a county fair. They stopped so Miranda could change Celeste’s diaper and again for a Popsicle from a vendor just outside the park. Miranda let Celeste have a lick; she seemed surprised by the cold and sneezed several times, as if to clear her head. She dozed again as they drove down the hill and woke blinking and yawning when Evan pulled up in front of Miranda’s house. He double-parked so he could help her up the stoop with the stroller and the rest of her stuff.
“This was the best day I’ve had in a long time. I love having her, but it’s hard being on call twenty-four/seven. And it’s not like I had much preparation for it. It all happened so suddenly. But today, well, Celeste didn’t even cry once,” she said, looking up at him. “Do you know what a relief that is?” Her fingers knotted easily with his, and he responded by tightening his grasp. “She must have had a good day too; thank you so much for making it all happen.”
“You’re welcome.” He was ready to kiss her, but then a honk from a car trying to pass made him look away.
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