First Comes Love (10 page)

“Oh, I
love
it,” Josie said, turning to me. “What do you think, Mere?”

“Too fancy,” I said, shaking my head.

“Just
try
it,” she insisted.

I sighed, letting the two of them help me into it, then zip me up and arrange the train at my feet.

“Wow,” Josie said as she spun me toward the mirror.

I looked at my reflection and couldn't resist a small smile.

“See?” she said. “I
told
you.”

“It
is
pretty good, isn't it?” I asked my sister.

“It's
perfect
. And so is the ring. And so is Nolan. And so is your life, you bitch.”

“You're the bitch,” I said, smiling back and deciding, once and for all, that I was going to go through with it.

And that was that. In the next few months, everything happened quickly. I resigned from my job, landed a new law firm job in Atlanta, and bought my childhood home on Dellwood from my mother. It was the perfect solution, as she felt that the house was too big for her to live in alone but desperately wanted to keep it in our family.

Then, one beautiful, bright autumn afternoon, I stood in the front of the church where Daniel's coffin had rested and exchanged vows with his best friend.

T
he morning after my last date ever, Pete calls while I'm still asleep, leaving me a rambling voicemail.

“So I've given it a lot of thought,” he launches in without saying hello. “Well, as much thought as you can give something in less than twelve hours, of which seven were spent sleeping….So anyway, contrary to your opinion, I think chemistry can develop over time. In fact, I can think of several significant examples in film and literature in which one or both parties had absolutely no romantic interest in the other at the outset of their interaction—only to find that it blossomed—intensely—later.”

I smile as I listen, suddenly genuinely interested—not necessarily in Pete himself, but in where he's going with this.

“So I say we give it another try, just to be sure….In fact, if you're free tonight, I'm going to a rooftop party. I'd love for you to join me…and you're welcome to bring a friend—so she can judge me, perhaps offer a second opinion. Soooo…give me a buzz and let me know what you think.”

I listen to the message one more time, then delete it, shaking my head at the predictability of it all. It is a page right out of one of those dating handbooks—my sudden indifference and independence, neither of which can really be faked, had made me more attractive to the opposite sex.

I call Pete back immediately, something the old strategic me
never
would have done, and say, “So what are your examples from film and literature?”

“Who's this?” he deadpans over loud music.

“It's Josie,” I say, mimicking his dry tone. “Your blind date from last night.”

“Oh! Yes, hi there, Josie,” he says, turning off his music.

“So what are your examples?” I say again. “And do you have any real-life examples or just fictional ones?”

“I'll tell you in person. Tonight.”

“So you really are asking me out two nights in a row?”

“Yes,” he says. “I really am.”

“You know that's, like, 101 of what not to do if you like someone?”

“Who said I liked you?”

“Touché,” I say, grinning into the phone.

“So what do you think? About the party? It should be fun. I hear this chick throws Gatsbyesque parties. Over the top.”

The description tempts me for a second, but I reply with a quip. “How did Brio boy score an invite to a party like that?”

“She tore her ACL ballroom dancing. I worked on her knee,” he confesses. “She told me I was welcome to bring friends.”

“She probably meant guy friends,” I say. “I bet she likes you.”

“Nah. It's not like that,” he says. “So are you in?”

I hesitate, but am determined not to succumb to the slippery slope. “I don't think so,” I say, holding firm.

“That's it? You ‘don't think so'? You're not even going to make something up? Like, tell me you already have plans or something?”

I laugh and say I actually
do
already have plans.

“To do what?” he says, breaking another cardinal rule—don't ask nosy questions during your first phone conversation.

“I'm staying in tonight. I'm going to research sperm banks,” I say.

He laughs, but when I don't respond, he says, “You're not kidding about that, are you?”

“Nope,” I say, trying not to think about the potential good genes that could be awaiting me on that roof tonight. It's the false promise that has always motivated me, kept me going out weekend after weekend. There is
always
an agenda; the point is
always
to meet someone. Even if disguised in the form of a girls' night out. Even if you're one of those people who pretends to actually enjoy going to the movies or eating at a bar alone. Even if you try to convince yourself that you just want to enjoy a nice end-of-the-summer rooftop party.

“Well, at least that's a lofty pursuit,” he says. “Will you let me know how it goes?”

“Are you really interested?”

“Yes,” Pete says. “Moderately.”

I hang up, wondering if he's talking about me or my project. I have a hunch that it is both, and have to admit that the feeling is mutual. But I remind myself that moderate interest is no longer my thing.

A
S PROMISED,
I
dedicate the rest of the day to donor research, taking detailed notes about fertility doctors and sperm banks in Atlanta on a lined yellow tablet I previously used to jot down interesting profiles (including Pete's) from Match.com. As I surf and read and pop into various chat rooms, I feel increasingly excited and empowered, liberated to let the whole marriage dream die. All I need is some good sperm and a doctor to put it in me. It isn't going to be easy—or inexpensive—but it is much more straightforward than finding “The One,” and more important, blissfully within my control.

Every few hours, I go find Gabe somewhere in the house or yard and share nuggets of my newly acquired expertise. He listens intently, the way he always does, but I have the feeling he's mostly humoring me. His interest is finally piqued when I stumble upon a website dedicated to sharing the testimonies, both positive and negative, of parties involved in third-party reproduction, from the egg and sperm donors, to the donor-conceived children, to the surrogate mothers, to the actual parents.

“If you were the product of a sperm or egg donor, do you think that something would feel missing in your life?” I ask him after reading aloud a particularly troubling account of a donor-conceived teenaged girl who knew virtually nothing about her biological father and is now grappling with her identity, concluding with
I will never forgive my mother for her selfish decision, one that has left a permanent hole in my heart and soul.

“Sounds like a typical melodramatic teenager to me,” Gabe says, glancing over his shoulder. A homebody, he has stayed in tonight to watch
Broadcast News,
one of his favorite movies, and hits pause as he finishes his reply. “If she knew her old man, she'd just find something else to hate her mom for.”

“Maybe,” I say. “So you don't think you'd feel bitter?”

“If I didn't know my biological father?” Gabe asks with a wry look because he actually
doesn't
know his biological father, who died of prostate cancer just after Gabe's birth. The only father he's ever known is his stepdad, the soft-spoken, kindly professor his mother married when Gabe was seven. For a couple of years, Gabe called him Stan, but at some point started to call him Dad.

“But even though you didn't know your real father,” I say, trying to differentiate the scenarios, “you at least knew who he
was
. He was never a complete mystery.”

“But a sperm donor doesn't have to be a complete mystery, either,” he says. “You said yourself, earlier today, that there are all sorts of different arrangements.”

“True,” I say, thinking of the story I read about the girl who connected with her donor dad and biological half siblings via Facebook. “But that presents another whole set of issues.”

Gabe shrugs, still staring at the frozen screen, right in the middle of the scene where Albert Brooks sweats profusely. “Everyone has issues. And at the end of the day…you are who you are.”

I blink and say, “What does that mean? ‘You are who you are'?”

He sighs. “Let's say I found out that I actually came from donated sperm, rather than the man I know from old photos and a few memories….Or let's say that my mom had an affair with the milkman and I just found out….Then I'd
still
be exactly who I am today.”

I stare at him blankly.

“I mean, it's just a donated cell,” he says. “At the end of the day, it's no different than a donated heart or cornea or kidney.”

“It's
totally
different,” I say, even though I want to believe in what he's saying. “A cornea is not the same as half your DNA.”

“Granted,” he says. “But it also doesn't change who you
really
are. Whether I came from my biological father or donated sperm, I was still raised by my mom and Stan. My
dad
.”

I take a deep breath and say, “But what if I had a baby with donated sperm and
didn't
ever get married? What if I never gave my child a father of
any
kind?”

“Well, that's a different issue altogether….That's about the people in your life, rather than your identity. And that scenario could happen anyway. People die. They leave. Lots of people grow up without a mother or father. So if you didn't ever marry, then your child would just have you.” He shrugs. “So what?”

“So
what
?” I say. “Isn't that sad?”

“Sadder than never being born at all?”

I nod as he offers his final summation. “People just need to be who they are.”

I stare at him, digesting his Gabe-like quote, as he hits play on his movie and I move on to an uplifting testimony from a grandmother of a donor-conceived baby being raised by her lesbian daughter and partner. I reassure myself that the positive, inspiring stories with hunky-dory endings seem to far outweigh the tales of woe, especially when everyone involved is honest from the beginning. At the end of the day, it isn't so unlike traditional families, really, all of us vulnerable to tragedy and estrangement, lies and secrets.

“Gabe?” I say.

“Uh-huh?” he asks, this time not pausing the movie.

“Do you think I'm crazy for considering this?”

“Are you
really
considering it? Or is this just like your Buddhist meditation kick?” he asks, still staring at the screen.

“I'm
more
than considering this,” I say, feeling my first wave of genuine fear, which in a sense confirms my answer. “Do you think I'm crazy?”

“Yep,” Gabe says with a smirk. “But no crazier than usual. And like I said—people just need to be who they are.”

T
HAT NIGHT BEFORE
I go to bed, I call Meredith, really wanting to talk to my sister about everything. I can tell right away she's in a bad mood, which is pretty consistent these days.

“What's wrong?” I ask her.

“Nothing.”

“You sound pissed off.”

“I'm not.”

“All right,” I say. “So what'd you do today?”

“Three loads of laundry. Grocery shopping…oh, and I picked up Nolan's shirts at the dry cleaner's,” she says, perfecting her martyr routine.

“That's it?”

“Hmm. Let's see…I also took Harper to Buckles.”

“Did she get some cute shoes?” I ask.

“No. She pitched an epic fit over a pair of purple glitter sandals…and we had to leave.”

I laugh, and she adds gratuitous commentary. “Mom says there's no justice in the world since I never pulled stunts like that. That was your department.”

Weary of the good girl–bad girl shtick, I sigh, but decide to use it as an opening. “So I guess that means I'll have the perfect child!” I chirp.

She doesn't react to this, nor does she even bother to ask what
I
did today, which is just common fucking courtesy. Instead she informs me that she ran into our old friend Shawna at the shoe store. She was buying her son his first pair of sneakers—little blue Keds.

“How'd she look?” I ask.

“Very good,” she says.

“Did she lose her baby weight?”

“Yes. She looked thinner than I've ever seen her.”

“Too thin?”

“No. Not too thin.”

“Did she seem happy?” I ask.

“As happy as you can be with a toddler,” Meredith replies.

“Did she ask about me?” I say against my better judgment. Meredith always accuses me of making things all about myself.

“No…but she did tell me y'all haven't talked in months?” I detect a note of satisfaction in her voice, and feel another wave of irritation along with a stab of sibling rivalry at the mention of Shawna, our only shared friend growing up.