First Comes Love (24 page)

“What?” he says with a passive-aggressive shrug. “I think it's a great idea. You need some time to think.”

“Any reason you didn't mention this idea to me
first
?” I ask, using my fingernail to scrape a piece of hardened shredded wheat from a cereal bowl Nolan left in the sink two mornings ago. It's now as hard as superglue. I finally give up and put it in the dishwasher.

“Any reason you didn't mention that you think our marriage is a joke?” he asks.

“I never said that. Nor do I think that.”

“Okay. Any reason you didn't mention that you think our marriage was a big mistake?”

“I didn't say that, either, Nolan,” I say, spinning around and staring at him.

He stares back at me with defiance and disdain. “What
did
you say, then?”

“I don't know, Nolan….I'm just…confused.”

“Well, as I said, I think you need to go away and figure it out.”

“I can't just
go away,
Nolan,” I say, my hands on my hips. “What about Harper?”

“I told you. I can handle things here.”

I look at him, thinking that he doesn't have the first clue about how to run the washing machine, let alone handle the myriad details of Harper's daily routine. I think about the last time I went on a work trip and how he didn't even get the mail for three days. “What about my job? Can you handle my job, too?” I say.

He shrugs. “Take a leave of absence. People do it all the time. Or just quit. You hate it. What's the point of doing something you hate?”

“I don't
hate
it,” I say, thinking that his oversimplification of everything is part of the problem.

“Yes, you do,” he says. “You
despise
it. You wish you had stayed in New York and become a famous actress.”

I open my mouth to correct him, as I never desired fame. I just wanted to be a working stage actress. At most I dreamed about a Tony—and how many Tony Award–winning actresses are household names? But this seems rather beside the point.

“Instead you're an attorney in Atlanta. Married to me. Huge,
huge
mistake,” he says.

“Nolan,” I say, my voice beginning to rise. “Would you please stop with this crap? I
didn't
say that.”

“Oh, but you
think
it,” he says. “Don't you?”

My mind races for a response, as I realize that he is partially right. And maybe, but for Harper,
completely
right.

“And you know what?” he continues. “There's nothing stopping you from getting a do-over.”

I pretend we're both talking about my job, and not a divorce, wondering how long it will be before one of us utters the word aloud. “I'm too old to change careers,” I say.

“No, you're not,” he says. “Isn't acting like riding a bike? Surely it's all still there….Just…go to some auditions….”

I swallow, a huge lump in my throat. “It's not that easy,” I say. “And besides. We can't leave Atlanta.”

“Yes,
you
can,” he says. “You can do anything you want to do, Meredith.”

I turn away from him, looking out the window over the kitchen sink, just like in Harper's drawing, and I feel myself tremble with the tantalizing, terrifying thought that he might be right.

O
n Monday morning, I take a giant leap forward and call the office of Dr. Susan Lazarus. According to my research, Dr. Lazarus is the leading fertility specialist in Atlanta, known for both in vitro fertilization and intrauterine insemination. My heart sinks when her receptionist briskly informs me that her first available appointment is nearly two months away. I tell her that I'll take it, then ask if she can please put me on a waiting list.

“If there's any cancellation…I'll drop everything and come in at a moment's notice. I'm pushing forty and a little bit panicked here….”

“I feel you,” she says with a little chuckle, dropping her professional persona. “I turn forty next week. Ugh.”

“Do you have kids?” I ask.

“Yes. Ten-month twins, thanks to Dr. Lazarus.”

“Wow. Congrats,” I say, feeling bolstered by the anecdote, though the mere thought that I could somehow end up with twins fills me with pure terror. “Boys or girls?”

“One of each,” she says.

I congratulate her again as she suddenly informs me that I'm in luck, she just noticed a cancellation on the calendar for this coming Friday at eleven, confirming my belief that sometimes small talk can really pay off.

“I'll take it,” I say.

I
GIVE
S
YDNEY
my entire update at recess that day, the two of us taking our usual supervisory spots on a bench overlooking the playground. As I watch Edie hanging upside down on the monkey bars, her arms dangling, her tiny torso swinging, and her face turning red, I fill Sydney in on Pete, as well as my upcoming appointment with Dr. Lazarus.

“I'm so proud of you, Josie,” she says, turning to give me a sideways hug. “And a little jealous.”

“Hey, why don't you do it with me?” I say excitedly.

She laughs. “Matching cars and kids?”

“I'm serious! Would you ever consider it?” I ask, as I hear Meredith scoffing in my head, proffering my suggestion as further proof that I'm not taking motherhood seriously.

Sydney shakes her head and gives me an adamant, animated
hell no.
“I'm seriously impressed that you're doing this…but personally? If I had to choose just one, I'd rather have a husband than a baby. But definitely in that order.”

I nod, thinking that although I want both, too, the baby part of the equation has always been more important to me—at least since Will and I broke up. And if I'm honest, I think I might have even felt that way then. I loved him, yes, but he also felt like a prerequisite for motherhood. The means to an end.

She gives me a thoughtful look, then says, “Are you scared?”

“A little,” I say. “Mostly just about logistics.”

She murmurs her agreement, then asks if I will still live with Gabe or move into my own place.

I frown and tell her I haven't figured that out yet, as I hear Meredith's voice again, mumbling that this is par for the course.

“Gabe knows your overall plan, though? That you want to have a baby?”

I nod and say of course, Gabe knows everything.

“And?” she asks. “What does he think?”

“He's supportive….Unlike my sister, who is her usual judgmental self.” I pause, then say, “But he's not really down with the idea of Pete as my donor.”

Sydney raises her eyebrows. “That's 'cause he's jealous.”

“Stop it right there,” I say, knowing exactly what she's getting at. “How many times do I have to tell you men and women can be friends?”

She smirks. “Yeah. That's what Harry and Sally said.”

“I'm
not
Sally,” I say.

“Maybe not. But he's definitely Harry,” she says.

“No, he's
not,
Syd….Didn't I tell you about his new girlfriend?”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“I'm serious….He really likes her.”

“Yeah. But only because he can't have you.”

I shake my head. “No. His objection to Pete is purely a practical one. He thinks I should use an anonymous donor rather than someone I know. He's worried that it would get too…weird. Messy.”

“And you say…?”

“I say I'll take that chance. Pete's smart, attractive, and really sweet. It just feels…right.”

“Oh,
reeally,
now?” she says, her voice dripping with innuendo of the sexual kind.

“The right
donor,
” I say. “I have no interest in dating him, either.”

“Well, then,” she says, sitting up straighter. “Introduce us.”

I laugh and say not a chance.

“Why not? He could be my soul mate. You'd deprive me of that?”

“Yes. Because
that
would
be too weird,” I say, feeling oddly possessive, if not of Pete, then at least of his sperm.

T
HAT EVENING,
I
find Gabe out back, grilling three hot dogs while listening to Bob Marley.

“Hey,” I say, leaning against the deck.

“What's up?” he says, without looking my way.

“Is Leslie coming for dinner?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. And she's a vegetarian. Remember?”

“Oh, right. How could I forget?” I say, only a little snidely.

He either misses or ignores my tone, and asks if I'm hungry. “I threw an extra dog on just in case.”

“Sure. Thanks,” I say, then ask about his day. Gabe's worked for the same company for nearly a decade, but I'm still not exactly sure what he does for a living—other than that it involves graphic design, computers, and a lot of high-maintenance clients.

“Everyone and everything annoyed me.”

I laugh and say, “So, the usual?”

“Pretty much. How about yours?”

“It was okay,” I say. “I told Sydney about my baby plan. And my appointment with Dr. Lazarus on Friday.”

He nods without looking at me. “So what exactly is going to happen on Friday?”

I shrug and say I'm not sure. “It'll probably just be an introduction and a discussion of my options.”

“Is Pete going with you?” Gabe asks as he turns down the flame on the grill.

“No,” I say, though the thought did cross my mind earlier today.

“Why not?” he asks. “Have you changed your mind about…using him?”

“No,” I say. “He's still kind of at the top of my list. But there's no need for him to go with me…not at this point….I was thinking of asking my mom. It'd be nice to have someone there. You know—for moral support.” I give him a needy look, then add, “Hint, hint.”

Gabe rolls his eyes and says, “You want me to go?”

I put my hands together in prayer. “Would you? Please?”

“I guess,” he says with a big sigh.

“You think Leslie'll be okay with it?”

“Why wouldn't she?” he asks.

Because she's controlling and clearly doesn't like me,
I almost say, but decide to treat it as a rhetorical question. “That'd be really awesome, Gabe,” I say. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” he says with a nonchalant shrug. “Besides. I want to be there to hear this doctor tell you that acquaintance sperm is a really shitty idea.”

“Acquaintance sperm?” I laugh. “Is that a scientific term?”

“Yes…I mean…this Pete guy seems nice and all…but he could be a serial killer with…a recessive cystic fibrosis gene, for all you know.”

I laugh.

“Well, he
could
be,” Gabe says, transferring the hot dogs to a plate, then turning to walk inside.

“I'm sure Dr. Lazarus will do thorough testing,” I say, following him into the house.

“The ol' serial killer test?” he says, glancing over his shoulder.

“Well, any sperm donor could be a serial killer,” I say. “So could any boyfriend, for that matter. Hell, for all you know, Leslie could be one….”

“I've never heard of a female serial killer,” he says.

“Well, even if she's not a full-fledged murderer, she could be shady….She could have all kinds of skeletons you know nothing about.”

“I guess,” he says. “But the difference is…I'm not planning on impregnating Leslie anytime soon.”

“Not anytime
soon,
huh?” I say, my hands on my hips.

“Stop changing the subject,” Gabe says. “We're not talking about me. We're talking about you and your…capricious choice.”

“It's not a capricious choice,” I say, although I can't remember exactly what the word means.

“Okay,” he says, pulling a bag of hot dog buns out of the bread drawer. “Tell me again, then. One more time. What's so special about Pete? Why him?”

“Why not?” I say, unable—or maybe just unwilling—to articulate my gut feeling about using Pete.

“That's your answer?” He gives me an incredulous stare as he tosses a bun to me. I miss it, and watch it land on the kitchen floor.

“Yep,” I say. I pick it up and put it on my plate, deciding to go with the five-second rule. “That's my answer.”

O
N
F
RIDAY MORNING,
after Gabe and I both call in sick to work, we walk into a nondescript Midtown office building for my appointment with Susan Lazarus. As we sit in the waiting room, I fill out endless forms, answering exhaustive questions about my medical history, while Gabe plays solitaire on his phone. At one point, I glance over his shoulder and read a text from Leslie that says:
Where are you?

With Josie,
he writes back, which both surprises me and piques my curiosity enough to covertly read the rest of the conversation, in real time:

Oh. At lunch?

No. Just out and about
.

Can you call me?

Can't at the moment—but will in about 30?

Sure…Imy.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him smile, then type:
Imy2
.

At this point, he catches me reading over his shoulder.

“Nosy,” he says, tilting his phone away from me, just as my name is called by a young woman in lavender scrubs.

I stand and look at Gabe. “You coming?”

“You want me to?”

“I want you to,” I say.

A moment later, we are ushered into a small office. A diminutive woman with a pixie cut sits behind a large, antique desk that seems too heavy and ornate for her. She stands and says, “Josephine?”

“Josie,” I say, nodding.

“Josie,” she repeats, giving me a warm smile. “Please come in. I'm Susan Lazarus.”

I like her immediately—perhaps because she uses her first name—and I smile back at her as we shake hands. “This is Gabe,” I say.

She nods, shakes his hand, then tells us to please take a seat, gesturing to the chairs across from her desk.

“So,” she says brightly, “what brings you here today?”

“Well, um, I want a baby,” I say, overcome by a sudden rush of excitement.

She gives me an even wider smile, then says, “Well, you've come to the right place….So tell me, Josie, have you been trying to conceive?”

I shake my head and say, “No. Not at all. I'm not married….I'm single….I want to use a sperm donor.”

She nods, completely unfazed. “Perfect,” she says, then turns to Gabe. “And will you be donating your sperm?”

“Nope,” he says. “I'm just here for moral support.”

“That's
wonderful,
” she says. “And so very important given Josie's journey ahead.” She turns back to me and says, “Have you thought about your donor?”

“Yes,” I say. “I've been reading and researching quite a bit.”

“Good,” she murmurs, nodding. “And tell me about that.”

“Well. I've read a lot about sperm banks…women who have gone that route. Children who were conceived that way…and I don't have a problem with it….I get that it's more straightforward, with fewer strings attached…but I just think that I'd like to use…acquaintance sperm,” I say, exchanging a look with Gabe.