by A. H. Kim
Charlotte and I are sipping chardonnay and picking at the shrimp cocktail on the patio buffet when Andreas Magnusson, CEO of God Hälsa, and his coral-lipsticked wife walk over.
“Elisabeth, great party,” Magnusson says. “And I just heard the latest sales figures. That makes how many record-setting quarters in a row—three? four?”
“Five, actually, but who’s counting?” I say, laughing lightly.
“I thought you said you had a metrics meeting every morning,” Charlotte says.
We exchange faux dirty looks.
“You look lovely today, Charlotte,” Magnusson says admiringly.
That’s an understatement. Charlotte’s seafoam-green charmeuse satin dress clings to her every wicked curve. It’s apparent to everyone at the party—most especially me—that Charlotte isn’t wearing a stitch underneath that gossamer gown.
“Have we met?” Magnusson’s wife asks Charlotte coldly.
“Let me introduce you to Charlotte Von Maur,” I say.
“Your friend?” Magnusson’s wife asks me.
“Oh no,” Charlotte interrupts, “we’re more than friends.”
Charlotte sneaks a mischievous look at me, and I flash a “don’t you dare” look back.
I can see Magnusson’s wife getting ready to dig further when I’m saved by a commotion in the distance. We hear peals of laughter as a tipsy young drug rep pushes a man into the deep end of the pool, creating a huge splash and showering a dozen nearby people with water. The tipsy girl apes horror, as if it were all an accident, while everyone else laughs.
The man swims toward the shallow end of the pool and stands. His wet shirt clings to his toned physique as he climbs up the pool stairs.
The trophy wives stop and take notice. The female drug reps cease their mindless chatter. The white-haired men feel their balls shrink.
“What a fucking showboat,” Charlotte says.
“Pot calling the kettle black,” I say.
Sam walks over to me, dripping. He leans in.
“I’m going to change,” he says.
“Don’t change too much,” I reply, giving him a kiss. It’s short enough for a work party but long enough to be noticed.
By everyone.
All eyes watch as Sam disappears into the clubhouse.
“Kudos to you for snagging the club pro,” Magnusson says to me. “The town’s most eligible bachelor.”
“Well, Sam and I have only just started to date,” I demur.
I notice Charlotte cringing at the word date.
So does Magnusson.
“Perhaps, but take some advice from me, Elisabeth,” Magnusson says. “I know you’re an ambitious young woman. But don’t become one of those bitter career women who put ambition before everything else.” Magnusson’s eyes are on me but his meaty paw is on Charlotte’s ass.
“Look around this crowd, Elisabeth,” he says, gesturing with his other hand. “God Hälsa may be an international corporation, but here in Princeton, we’re more like a family company. We don’t just work together. We play together. Vacation together. We send our children to the same schools and clubs together.”
Magnusson wraps his arms around me and Charlotte and pulls us close, like a python squeezing his prey. “Trust me, Elisabeth,” he says, “getting married and having a family won’t hinder your career. To the contrary, it’ll enhance it.”
“Darling, isn’t that the CEO of Mercy Medical?” Magnusson’s wife interrupts. In an instant, Magnusson releases me and Charlotte and slithers over to the other side of the pool.
“You two ladies look like you could use another drink,” Sam says from behind me and Charlotte. He’s changed into a pale mint golf shirt and pressed khaki linen shorts. He holds out two full glasses of chardonnay. Charlotte and I each take one.
“At least he’s good at taking orders,” Charlotte mutters.
“That’s why I like him,” I reply.
Before I met Sam, I had a Filofax full of men that I could call upon whenever I needed a date to a God Hälsa corporate event. Unfortunately, they all suffered from one of two fatal flaws: either they’re so obviously gay that it fuels speculation about the true nature of my “friendship” with Charlotte, or they’re such assholes that, at the end of the evening, they all but refuse to accept no as an answer.
Sam’s different. Like the farm boy Westley in my all-time favorite movie, The Princess Bride—I remember the young Robin Wright as Princess Buttercup was my first-ever girl crush—Sam does whatever I say.
From that splashy debut at the country club and for the next five-plus years, Sam is my constant companion at God Hälsa corporate events: the summer pool party and winter ball, the annual board dinners and gala charity fund-raisers. Like Magnusson said, the God Hälsa social calendar extends beyond just work. We vacation with other God Hälsa couples: summers in the Hamptons, winters at Stowe and Killington.
It’s a win-win arrangement. Sam and I enjoy one another’s company. Having him on my arm makes me look both powerful and open-minded. I introduce him to business executives, all eager to throw money in his direction to improve their golf game.
Sure, I’ll admit the relationship isn’t always strictly business. Sam and I hook up from time to time—usually, when Charlotte and I have a fight and are “on a break”—and even then, Sam follows my lead and keeps things cool. No drama. No emotional hang-ups.
Everything’s working perfectly until that pivotal moment when I tell Charlotte that I’m thinking about starting a family.
“Why do you want to ruin what we have by bringing a baby into it?” Charlotte asks. “We both work like crazy. We barely have time to see one another as it is. Why do you want to make life even more complicated?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s my biological clock. I’m going to turn thirty-five next year. They say it’s a lot harder to get pregnant after thirty-five. I don’t want to be one of those women who wakes up one day and realizes she forgot to have children.”
“You just want to leave your superior genetic mark on the world.”
Maybe Charlotte’s right, but what’s wrong with that? What’s wrong with wanting to have children who will outlive you? Isn’t that part of being human?
I spend countless hours at my work computer researching sperm banks and artificial insemination. I find the whole process way too complicated. And I don’t love the idea of a dozen or more other children out there with the same genes as my baby.
That’s when it occurs to me: Sam would be the perfect sperm donor. I won’t even need to go to a clinic. I know Charlotte isn’t thrilled by the idea of starting a family, but I figure I should act now and beg for forgiveness later. After all, my eggs aren’t getting any fresher.
As I click through my Google research, I come across an article about a lesbian couple who had their sperm donor sign a waiver of his parental rights, only to have the donor change his mind and get partial custody. The article suggests two ways to avoid a similar outcome: have the sperm transfer done under a doctor’s supervision, or make a financial payment to the donor as “consideration” for the sperm.
“Let me get this straight,” Sam says, “you want to pay me to have sex with you?”
“Well, yes,” I reply, “but not for the sex. For the sperm.”
“Because, you know, the sex is totally worth paying for.”
“It’s just your sperm I want. The sex is just a necessary delivery mechanism.”
“Thanks, Beth, nice way to boost a man’s ego.”
“I’m serious, Sam. This is business, not personal.”
“I’m not going to seek custody of the baby,” Sam assures me. “I’m more than happy to share my sperm with you as many times as you want. No strings attached.”
“If you really mean that, then you won’t mind signing this.”
I han
d him a twenty-page contract and cashier’s check. Sam examines them both and frowns.
“There’s something wrong here,” Sam says.
I don’t know what the going rate is for sperm donation, but I thought ten thousand dollars sounded like fair consideration. Maybe Sam is getting greedy. Maybe he wants more.
“You forgot to put ‘for sperm’ on the memo line,” Sam jokes. When I don’t laugh along, he quickly signs the contract and endorses the check before taking off his shirt and reaching over to unbutton mine.
“Are you ready for your first insemination, Ms. Lindstrom?” Sam says.
Sam certainly gives me my money’s worth. A couple months later, I’m pregnant. When I come back from the doctor’s office and deliver the news to Charlotte, she doesn’t react the way I hoped.
“What about ‘no’ didn’t you understand?” Charlotte says. “I told you I didn’t want a baby, and I certainly don’t want to be in a relationship with someone who’d lie to me the way you have.”
I try to explain, but Charlotte won’t listen.
“Good luck being a single mother,” she says. “Let’s see how that works out for you.”
With that, Charlotte walks out.
It’s hard being alone and pregnant. Harder than I expected.
Once I start showing, everyone assumes the baby is Sam’s. After all, Sam and I have “been together” for over five years. The big question on everyone’s lips is: “When are the two of you lovebirds going to get married?”
With Charlotte out of the picture, I actually start to envision a life with Sam. He’s a good guy, and he tries hard to take care of me. He brings me my favorite Panda Express takeout (hey, don’t judge—everyone’s entitled to a guilty pleasure) when I’m working late. He holds my hair back as I’m retching from morning sickness. He tells me I’m beautiful even when I’m as big as a cow. He speeds me to the hospital when my water breaks.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask as Sam grips my hand.
“Why am I doing what?” Sam says.
“Why are you here, in this room, as I push out this bowling ball of a baby?”
Sam waits while I scream out in pain.
“Because I love you, Beth,” he says. “And I want to marry you.”
“I thought I was very clear in my instructions,” I respond. I’m trying hard to rest between contractions. “This was a business transaction. You were not to fall in love with me. Hard stop. Period. End of sentence.”
“Sorry, I’ve done everything you asked, but on this one, I failed.”
“You know, at some point, I’m going to get back together with Charlotte,” I warn him. “It’s just destined to be.”
“We’ll see. I’m betting you’ll fall in love with me. You know, most people find me very charming. And if you and Charlotte do get back together, I’m sure we can work it out. I’m good at sharing. Just ask my big sister.”
I’m momentarily speechless as another contraction takes over my body.
“If we get married,” I whisper, “you’ll need to do as you’re told. Take care of the kids. Make sure the help gets paid on time. Ignore the redheaded interloper in the woods.”
And like Westley from The Princess Bride, Sam leans over me, his perfectly coiffed hair falling over his eye, and replies:
“As you wish.”
hannah
eleven
It’s been many years since I’ve celebrated a real Halloween. My Hoboken condo building doesn’t seem to have any children—it’s mostly young professionals who commute into the city—but that doesn’t stop me from buying a bag of Hershey’s Miniatures every year just in case. I’d hate for a child to be turned away disappointed. The only time anyone ever knocked on my door on Halloween, it was a couple drunk young men looking for the “Drink or Treat” party up in apartment 302. I gave them a handful of Krackel and Mr. Goodbars anyway.
It’s always crazy at work on Halloween, and this year is no exception. Old Man Barker walks down the hallway of my white-shoe law firm wearing a purple velvet suit and matching top hat. He uses his walking stick to lightly whack Alice in Wonderland on the rear while the Mad Hatter chuckles by her side.
“Willy Wonka’s on the prowl,” I warn Tracy. She’s wearing a tight black leotard, racy leopard-print skirt and cat’s-eye glasses. It’s hard to tell whether she’s in costume or just retro-chic. Tracy has a way of looking effortlessly stylish.
“Shit, I thought he was supposed to be Prince,” Tracy replies. “No wonder he looked at me funny when I said, ‘I would die for you.’”
“Don’t worry about it. He was probably flattered. He loves people who give as good as they get. Who knows, you might even get a promotion out of it.”
A pair of third-year associates enter the library dressed like Dr. Seuss characters. The fat one was editor-in-chief of the Yale Law Journal; the skinny one clerked for Justice Sotomayor. They’re co-lead counsel on a high-profile death-row appeal the firm is handling pro bono, but right now they’re a distant fourth place in the firm’s annual Halloween contest, The Amazing Res Ipsa Loquitur.
“Dearest Hannah,” Thing 1 says in a plummy British accent, “what query hast thou?”
Thing 1 is from South Bend, Indiana, but he’s an ardent Anglophile. He’s the only other person I know who’s watched every Hugh Grant movie ever made, including Mickey Blue Eyes. Thing 2 stands there panting, having climbed the one flight of stairs connecting the lower and upper floors of the law library. He’s twenty-nine years old and almost three hundred pounds. The poor guy’s a heart attack waiting to happen.
I reach into my bottom desk drawer and pull out a bright yellow envelope.
“‘The attorney-client privilege is recognized in every jurisdiction,’” I read aloud, “‘but other privileges vary by state. Which of the following is not a recognized legal privilege in any state? A. Spousal privilege. B. Sibling privilege. C. Parent-child privilege. D. Pharmacist-customer privilege. Or E. Accountant-taxpayer privilege?’”
Things 1 and 2 stand there thinking.
“C’mon, dude,” Thing 2 says, “you’re the freaking Supreme Court clerk.”
“We handled complex Constitutional conundrums, not elementary evidentiary motions,” Thing 1 responds snootily.
“Well, don’t look at me,” Thing 2 says. “I went to Yale.”
The two Things nod at one another to indicate “Enough said.”
“The last two sound the most implausible, so they must be real,” Thing 1 reasons.
“And I read about the spousal privilege while studying for the bar,” Thing 2 says.
“The first or second time?” Thing 1 asks.
Thing 2 makes an obscene gesture.
“Five more seconds,” I say.
“When in doubt,” Thing 1 begins.
“Always pick C,” Thing 2 concludes.
The Things look at me.
“You picked C, the parent-child privilege,” I say. “Is that your final answer?”
“Yes,” Thing 1 and 2 say in unison.
“I’m sorry, gentlemen, but you are incorrect. The answer is B, the sibling privilege.”
“Damn, I knew it,” Thing 2 says. “You can never trust a sibling.”
“You knew it,” Thing 1 says bitterly. “Pish-posh.”
“Gentlemen, you’ll need to re-shelve this cart of books before you can proceed to the next station,” I say. “Tracy will follow behind you for quality assurance.”
Tracy grins as the Things check the spine of the first book and roll the cart down toward the federal law section of the library. As I scan the cart, I have to smile. It’s taken me years to train Tracy to arrange the books on the library carts in such a way that maximizes the efficiency of re-shelving. Only someone who knows the library as well as Tracy does could produce a cart of volumes so completely in disarray
.
Hours later, drunken whoops erupt from the appropriately named Drinker Conference Room, where The Amazing Res Ipsa Loquitur awards are being handed out. I exchange a few pleasantries in Spanish with the night janitor before he starts vacuuming the library stacks.
“What did you say your sister-in-law’s name was again?” Tracy asks. She peers over her cat’s-eye glasses at the computer screen. Her long nails make a clicking noise on her keyboard. The sound reminds me of my beloved Smith Corona typewriter from college days.
“Elisabeth Lindstrom, spelled with an s instead of a z,” I say.
“That’s what I put in,” Tracy mutters, “but I’m coming up empty.”
“What are you looking up?” I ask.
“The government’s witness list.”
“For what?”
“United States v. Elisabeth Lindstrom,” Tracy answers. “Geez, for someone who’s taken a blood vow to avenge her sister-in-law, you don’t seem to be making much of an effort. You’re like the O.J. Simpson of whistle-blower lawsuits.”
“Why are you looking for the witness list?”
“I figure the prosecution’s witness list is the best source of info on who might’ve conspired with the au pair.”
“What client code are you using?” I ask. At my law firm, you can’t run a search on any database without first putting in a client code, and it’s against the firm’s rules to misuse client codes for personal use. I’m a stickler for rules.
“I’m not using a client code.”
“Then how are you running that search?”
Tracy doesn’t answer. She clicks the mouse in a rapid barrage as document after document flashes across the screen. It’s giving me a mild case of seasickness.
“What site are you using? That doesn’t look like PACER.” PACER is the federal court system’s database of pleadings and decisions.
“PACER sucks,” Tracy says.
“Yeah, well, unfortunately, PACER is the only game in town.”
“Not anymore,” Tracy replies. She pauses her clicking to move the cursor to the top of the computer screen and draws my attention to the URL name.
“It’s called PacerSux.com,” she says. “It’s a free website for federal court documents.”