Halfway There (2 page)

We didn't talk much. Mostly we went to parties, drank, and had sex. One of the last times we were together was at a party in D.C. We had gone to a Beach Boys concert and ended up on the roof of a friend's apartment building. At some point, Denise convinced me it would be a good idea to climb out on the ledge of the building to hear the end of the concert. I must have been drunk because I did just that. Underneath the stars, we sat on this three-foot shelf about ten stories up and listened to aging rockers sing about endless summer days. It was pretty wonderful.

Later that night, we helped throw a woman into the rooftop swimming pool. God, did she put up a fight. She fought all the way, screaming obscenities no one really heard because we were all laughin so hard. She hit the water and sank. We watched as she clawed her way to the surface, coming up spitting and cursing. She was beyond pissed because she had been carrying a gram of coke. After we heard that, some folks wanted to figure out how to drain the pool and snort the residue. Diehards.

“You're pretty quiet down here. Do you want another one?” The hot little bartender broke into my thoughts.

“Sure, I'll take another one.”

“Fuck,” I thought looking at her ass as she walked away, “you probably weren't even imagining your first zit back then.” That realization hit me pretty hard. I looked back toward the dance floor and took another bite from my burger.

A woman with purple hair cut short around her ears and pointed in spikes toward the ceiling had just started to dance. Her arms were covered with tattoos. Actually, it was the tattoo craze that announced my entrance into middle age. I didn't get it. Why in hell would you tattoo a picture on your body that would be there forever? What would it look like in ten years? What if you changed your mind and decided a dragon coming out of your underwear didn't do it for you anymore? What then? It was easier for me to understand my sister wearing maternity thongs than it was for me to understand “body art.”

Obviously Purple Hair wasn't my type. What was I looking for anyway? I was happy, wasn't I? I had a lover, and we'd been together for more than fifteen years. I'd made it. What did these kids know? She looked over my way and flashed a smile. Her teeth were white and straight. She flipped her head back, completely abandoning herself to the music. I could imagine blue eyes beneath half-closed lids as she
bounced the other way in time to the beat.

It didn't seem so long ago that I was on the dance floor in a tight pair of painted jeans, flipping my huge perm to Laura Branigan crooning overhead while Denise ground her hips into mine. Sometimes as we danced, I looked at the people sitting at the bar. Once a woman smiled at me through the sparkling disco lights. I remember it so clearly because the lights made her silver hair almost glow like a halo. I laughed and whispered in Denise's ear, and we spun back around. In that instant I had been so sure I would never have wrinkles, wide hips, or white hair, and I certainly would never be at a bar looking at some young thing on the dance floor. Yet, here I was.

“You need anything else?” the bartender asked.

“No,” I said looking down into my empty mug. “I'm done.”

I paid for my dinner and headed toward the door. Outside, the crowd was gathering for another Friday night of drinking and dancing, flirting, and hookups. I looked at all the hopeful faces and headed for my car. I was going home to my cat.

“You know, I'm going to be thirty-eight this year,” I said as I nuzzled the back of my lover's neck. We were lying in bed, turned toward the window of our bedroom, breasts to back, like spoons. I breathed in the smell of her hair. Grecian Formula is an acquired taste, but it has a soothing aroma once you get used to it.

“Yes, I know you're going to be thirty-eight,” she yawned. I knew it wouldn't be long before she'd reach over for her earplugs. She said they helped her sleep better, but I always felt as if she used them to block me out. They were like tiny transporters to her own little world. I hated them.

“I was just wondering if you, if we, well—I want to have a baby.” This hadn't come out the way I had
hoped. My voice sounded desperate. Ellen rolled over and looked at me.

“What makes you say that?”

I didn't look directly at her. I closed my eyes and turned on my back. “I just thought if we're going to do this, we should probably do it pretty soon.”

“You want to do it because your sister just got pregnant, don't you?”

“No. We talked about having a baby before that. My sister has nothing to do with it.”

“Sure. Fine. Let's pretend I believe you. Why now?”

“I'm not getting any younger.”

“Oh, that's a great reason to have a kid.”

We had agreed a long time ago that I would be the one to get pregnant. We had joked about it. Having a kid was always something we could do later. There was always time to have one. We had never been in any rush, but now, all of a sudden, time had slipped away from us. All of a sudden, getting pregnant seemed like a “now or never” proposition.

“Don't you want to have one?” I changed the subject.

“I wanted to adopt. You were the one who wanted to have one yourself.” She leaned over to get her
earplugs from the nightstand. “Let's talk about this in the morning. I'm pooped. Okay?”

I rolled over onto my side and pulled Ellen's arm over my stomach. She kissed me on my cheek. “I love you,” she said. I pushed my butt up against her and listened as her breathing became deep and even. I lay awake for a long time until, finally, my restless mind relaxed, and I too fell asleep.

The next morning, I was up early and at the computer. I could hear Ellen downstairs talking to the cats. They were engaged in the usual morning ritual during which Ellen waved the can of cat food in front of them and then slowly opened it as they meowed and purred their approval. Raleigh, the biggest and most obnoxious of the group, was, as always, the loudest. Most likely he was already up on the counter trying to get at the juicy morsels. While Ellen tended to the cats, I searched the Internet for sperm banks. The California Cryobank was at the top of the list.

Ellen came up with coffee. “What'cha doin'?”

“I thought I'd see how much getting pregnant is going to cost us.” I took the cup from her hands and showed her the website.

“Hey, go to the list of donors first. Let's see what they've got.”

I clicked the link and a form opened up. We'd have to register first. This required names, addresses, and the all-important credit card number to set up an account. That brought about a whole discussion concerning which card to use, how much was on what card, and why in the hell we had so many of them in the first place. Eventually, we decided to use the American Express card as a compromise. At long last we were ready to look at the list of donors.

It was extensive. I think every nationality, ethnicity, and educational background was listed. I was thankful that there was a way to sort through them using a set of criteria. Now, all we had to do was decide exactly what criteria we wanted to use.

“Okay, let's start with ethnicity. Irish, right?” I asked.

“No, Scottish mostly, with some Irish, English, and Jewish thrown in for good measure.”

“I have no idea how to look up all that.”

“You could just go with basic white,” she suggested. After a look from me, she said, “Just type in ‘Scottish' and see what happens.”

I typed and hit enter. A list of about two hundred numbers and profiles appeared on the screen. “Now what?”

“Hair.”

“Why is hair so important?”

“You like my hair. Wouldn't you want our kid to resemble me just a little?”

“No. One of you is enough already.”

“You're not funny.”

“Hey, here's one. He's got brown wavy hair and blue eyes. Sounds like he could be your brother,” I said.

“Yeah, but look at what he does for a living. He's a maintenance man.”

“When did you get so snooty?”

“I don't know. I would want more for my kid.”

“Good Lord, Ellen, genes aren't destiny, you know.”

“Fine, but look at what he called his dog. That should tell you what kind of guy he is. For heaven's sake, he named his dog ‘Jacko.' What kind of stupid name is that?”

“Are you seriously suggesting that what he named his dog somehow makes a statement about the quality of his sperm?”

“Somebody must think it's important. Why would they list it?”

Obviously, this wasn't going to be resolved in one morning. I downloaded the list to consider later. I
wasn't sure what we'd do after we picked one. It wasn't as if we could really use the turkey baster, could we?

We let the whole idea die down a bit. Neither of us wanted to push the other into something we weren't ready for. Besides, I had more questions than I had answers. The issue didn't come up again until a few months later when I went in for my annual checkup. Nothing special. Go in. Get naked. Put on a stupid paper robe. Weigh-in. Cold stethoscope. Check the blood pressure. Then, the always popular, “Slide down please, and put your feet in the stirrups.” I had been to this doctor several times. I felt pretty comfortable with her, so after I finished counting thirty or so tiles on the ceiling, I asked, “If I wanted to have a baby, how would I go about it?”

My doctor peered over the sheet draped across my legs. She raised an eyebrow and went back to work.

“Well, you see the sperm travels up—” she started.

“Very funny. Really, my partner and I have been talking about it. We think we've found a donor. I don't know where to go from here. Is it something you do?”

“Everything looks fine. You can get dressed,” she said, getting up from her stool. “You'll want to talk with someone at a fertilization clinic. I could provide
you with a few names.”

I took her list. It didn't really help. What would I say to them? How would I start this whole process? Ellen and I talked about it that night. She said I should call and tell them what I wanted. That's what they were there for, right? After looking over the various names, we decided to go with the clinic associated with my doctor's hospital. I called the next day.

“Hi. Um, I would like to talk to someone about artificial insemination.”

“Yes, we can help with that. You'll need to set up an appointment. You're in luck, too. We just had a cancellation. Can you come in on Friday?”

I scheduled the appointment. The next few days were nerve-wracking. I wasn't sure how I would explain the situation. It's not that I'm overly closeted, but I don't usually announce to total strangers how I live my life. In this situation, however, it looked as if I would have to do just that. Despite the fact that Ellen and I were in this together, I decided to go to the first visit on my own. Ellen dropped me off at the clinic on Friday morning.

The waiting room was filled with women, a couple of men, and a few kids. It was bright and cheery. I went to the counter. The nurse passed me a clipboard.
There were several forms to fill out. Of course, I got stuck on the first line that asked for my spouse's name. Bravely, I wrote Ellen's name. I felt a little guilty that I wished her name were more gender-neutral. I finished up the forms and handed them back to the nurse. About thirty minutes later, I was called into the doctor's office.

She was about my age with long hair pulled back from her face by a headband. Her name was embroidered on the white coat. For some reason, this reminded me that I had to take my car in to get its oil changed.

“Aubrie, what brings you to our clinic?” she inquired.

I took a deep breath and started to explain my situation to her. She listened well and asked a few questions. She let me know that because the clinic was part of a Catholic hospital, I wouldn't be able to use their sperm bank, but I could certainly have the sperm sent to the clinic. Because she had been so nice, I decided not to start an argument with her about Catholic morality. She merely worked there. Instead, I asked her to explain the procedure. I figured Ellen and I would work out the details of the sperm transportation later. The procedure sounded
relatively simple. I had to determine when I was ovulating, using an over-the-counter ovulation kit. When I was ovulating, all I had to do was call in, and they would have me come to the clinic. Yes, my partner could come. She could be in the room when they slipped the stuff in. There were two different procedures, but I didn't pay close enough attention to understand which one was which. She wasn't talking about a turkey baster, so I wasn't worried.

“Okay. If you want us to work with you, we'll need to fill out a few more forms. I have another client scheduled, so if you'll just go to the next room, I'll have my interns finish up.”

I walked to the next room and waited. Pretty soon a young man and a young woman, both all smiles and professionalism, walked in. Neither one could have been older than thirty. They sat down and asked me if I wanted anything to drink. Sure, I thought, but what I want isn't normally served in a doctor's office. On the heels of that, I thought ahead about being dry for nine months. If you'll pardon the pun, I found the idea quite sobering.

They reviewed my form, then started to take my medical history. It all seemed to be going nicely. I was feeling pretty good. I could do this.

“Now, Mrs. Elliot, how long have you and your partner been trying to get pregnant?”

I stared at the young man. His eyes were direct and honest. I looked at him a moment longer, considering. At last I said, “Doctor, my partner and I could try forever, but it just ain't gonna happen.” I smiled trying to show him I was teasing.

All the color drained from the poor kid's face. His olive complexion went ivory. I laughed trying to lighten the moment. “It's okay,” I soothed. “If we could do it the usual way I wouldn't be here.” He forced a little grin back at me. It took about fifteen more minutes until we were finally finished. I met Ellen in the lobby.