First Comes Love (15 page)

A
N HOUR LATER,
the exhausting dog-and-pony show is finally over, and I make an announcement that everyone can head toward the auditorium unless they have any remaining questions. After a mass exodus, only two pairs of parents remain: (1) the Eddelmans, who have asked roughly sixty percent of all questions tonight, most of which are completely specific to their child, Jared, who, we have all learned, has a nut allergy, a latex allergy, a phobia of birds, and a propensity for nosebleeds; and (2) Will and Andrea.

I take a deep breath and address the Eddelmans, who give me a three-minute monologue about Jared's EpiPen, while, from the corner of my eye, I watch Andrea and Will inspect Edie's cubby. I nod earnestly, reassuring the Eddelmans that I am very well versed in life-threatening allergies but also fully confident that parents will respect the strict no-nut policy.

“We are very, very careful,” I say, acknowledging their concern. “Please rest assured that Jared will be safe at school.”

Finally appeased, the Eddelmans thank me and move along, leaving only Will and Andrea. My heart is in my throat as I turn to them.

“Hello,” I say, my fake smile back in full force. I focus solely on Andrea, glancing at her gray roots, feeling grateful that I've yet to find one on my own head. A small victory.

“Hi, Josie. I just wanted to introduce myself. I'm Andrea,” she says. She gives me a genuine smile as she starts to shake my hand, then stops, perhaps because her hands are as clammy as mine.

I take a deep breath and tell Andrea that it's very nice to meet her, too. At this point, I decide that I can no longer delay making eye contact with Will, so I force myself to meet his gaze. I feel a stab of pain in my chest. He is as perfect as I remember. Even more so. “Hi, Will,” I say. “It's nice to see you.”

“Hi, Josie,” he says.

I drop my gaze to the two open buttons of his teal checked Vineyard Vines shirt, and remember how soft his chest hair used to feel against me when we were making love.

“It's been a while,” I say, my eyes shifting to the whale logo on the breast pocket.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “How's your family?”

“They're well. My parents…are…still divorced,” I stammer, “but both are pretty happy. Meredith married Nolan and they have a daughter.”

Will nods and says, yes, he heard that—and I give him credit for not pretending that I hadn't crossed his mind once in all these years and that he knew nothing about my life. He glances at Andrea and quickly explains, “Nolan was Josie's brother's best friend.”

She nods, clearly aware of exactly who all the players are, and oddly, I'm both touched and annoyed by this. On the one hand, how dare he talk about my brother to her, especially when he never even met him. And yet, deep down, I know I'd feel worse if Andrea had no clue who Daniel was.

“That's really cool that they got married,” Will says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, perhaps second-guessing his use of the word
cool
. Is it really cool when two people connected to a terrible tragedy wind up together? I mean—it'd be cool if Daniel were still alive. But he's not.

I let Will off the hook and quickly agree, though, because I don't want to talk more about my sister's marriage or my brother's death. In case this isn't clear, I make my face as blank as possible, a tough thing to do when you're churning with emotion, but something I've become good at over the years.
Impassive,
I remember Will calling me during our final fight—a charge that led to me shutting down completely.

“So anyway, we just wanted to say hello,” Andrea says. “Because otherwise it might be sort of awkward…given your history with Will.” She chooses her words carefully. “I mean, I guess we just wanted to acknowledge the elephant in the room.”

“Yes. Thank you,” I murmur, surprised by what appears to be her complete lack of an agenda aside from pleasantness, courtesy, perhaps even kindness.

Andrea smiles. “We were so happy when we got the teacher assignments. We heard that you're the best teacher in the grade.”

“All the first-grade teachers are fantastic,” I say. “But I was happy to see Edie on my list, too.” The statement suddenly doesn't seem like a lie, if only because she really has been the catalyst for my life-changing plan.

“She really likes you,” Andrea says. “She talks about you all the time.”

I'm not sure I believe this until Will nods in vague agreement. “Yeah. We heard about your doctor boyfriend. In Africa.” He flashes me a fleeting look of skepticism that I can only interpret because I once knew him so well. He clearly doubts my story.

Deciding I no longer need a Jack in my life, I give a little dismissive wave of my hand and say, “Oh, yes. Jack. We actually broke up. Last night…well, it was morning for him.”

“Oh,” Andrea says with genuine concern. “I'm sorry to hear that.”

“Long distance…It was inevitable….But I think we'll stay friends,” I babble, trying to make my story more believable.

Andrea nods. “Yes. It's always nice if you can stay friends,” she says, then glances at Will uneasily.

“Or not,” I say cheerfully, throwing her a lifeline.

“Or not,” Will echoes with a nervous chuckle.

A
FTER SEEING
W
ILL,
I experience a brief setback, granting myself a few days of self-pity and regret. But I remind myself that motherhood is what matters most to me, and that once I have a baby, I won't want to change a single thing about my past, including the fact that I lost Will, because all those steps will have been what led me to my child. I just have to get on with things.

So that Friday night, I throw myself back into my research, surfing a reputable sperm-donor site. I've yet to submit my credit-card information and pay for full access to the database; I just want to get my feet wet. As I read, I start thinking about other women in my shoes, as well as married couples who are here because the husband's sperm isn't good. Somehow, it helps to remember that I'm not the only one in this boat—and I tell myself to just take it one step at a time.

“Do I care about eye color?” I blurt out to Gabe at one point as I go through the menu of genetic options, making selections just for the hell of it.

“I don't know.
Do
you?” he asks with a yawn. He is reclined on the sofa, his feet propped up on two pillows.

“Well, I prefer brown-eyed guys,” I say. “But I'm not
dating
the guy. And I think I'd rather my child have my eye color.”

“Narcissist,” he says.

“I'm not a
narcissist,
” I say. “It's just—all things being equal—it might be nice if she looked like me.”

“She?”

“Or he. For some reason, I picture a girl,” I say, standing to refill my mug of coffee from the stale pot left over from this morning, then making a mental note to cut back on caffeine, starting tomorrow. I sit back down at the kitchen table, click the blue-eye box, summarizing aloud for Gabe. “Okay. So this is what I have so far….Caucasian, brown hair, blue eyes, medium or medium-dark skin tone—”

“Why not fair-skinned?” he asks.

“Because she'll be less likely to burn—and therefore less likely to get skin cancer.”

“All right,” Gabe says, sitting up and stretching. “I buy that.”

“Okay. Next: ethnic background,” I continue, scanning the continents and choices, as I check all the Eastern and Western European boxes, from Austrian and Belgian, to Finnish and French, to Scottish and Slovak, with a running commentary to Gabe as I move my mouse and click.

“What about that Brazilian guy you dated for a while? You contemplated getting accidentally knocked up by him, didn't you?”

“That was a joke. But he was pretty hot,” I say as I click the Brazilian box. “And…let's see…I'm also going to throw in Native American, Lebanese, and Israeli.”

“Why's that?” Gabe asks, appearing amused.

“Because you've got some Lebanese blood,” I say. “And I've always liked your face.”

“Gee, thanks.” He stands, stretches, then makes his way to the kitchen table, looking over my shoulder.

“And Israelis are badass,” I continue.

“I think that comes from living in a war zone rather than genes….Buckhead might not have that same effect,” Gabe says, sitting across from me.

“Maybe,” I say. “But I'm still keeping that box checked….And I think it would be cool to have Native American blood….Don't you?”

“I guess,” he says, now scrolling through his texts. “But FYI, there aren't a lot of blue-eyed Native Americans out there.”

“True,” I say. “But it could happen. Recessive genes and all that…Now. What about astrological sign? You think that's important?”

“To idiots it might be,” Gabe says, knowing I read my horoscope on a regular basis.

“C'mon, Gabe,” I say. “You promised you'd be my adviser here.”

“What do you think I'm doing?” He leans toward me, his elbows on the table. “I'm advising you
not
to be an idiot.”

I shake my head and say, “Well, I'm sorry…but I just can't do an Aquarius. They're notoriously cold. Detached,” I say, thinking of Will.

“You'd rather have an
attached
sperm donor? Isn't that sort of the point of using an anonymous donor instead of someone you know?”

“Yes, but I don't want an emotionally detached
child,
” I say.

“Okay. But zodiac signs aren't genetic,” he says. “Assuming you believe in that crap, the sign of your child is determined by when your child is born, right?”

I laugh and say, “Oh,
yeah
! Good point! See? This is why I need you!…Religion…? Hmm…I guess Christian, right?”

Gabe raises his eyebrows and says, “What about your Israeli tough guys?”

“Good point,” I say, clicking the Jewish box, then deciding religion doesn't really matter to me at all and clicking the “all” box. “How about this one? Favorite pet.”

“Favorite
pet
? Is that really on there?”

“Yes,” I say, reading off the choices: dog, cat, bird, fish, reptile.

“That's ridiculous,” he says. “Who cares?…But if you're picking one, you gotta go dog.”

I nod, then think of Pete the PT and his cat, Fudge, and check the cat box, too.

Gabe says, “What if he's allergic to dogs and cats? And can only have a fish?”

“All the more reason not to pick him,” I say. “I don't want my kids to have allergies.”

Gabe nods, then says, “Okay…but have you ever noticed that smart people seem to have more allergies?”

I laugh and say, “You only say that because
you
have allergies….Although Adam Epstein had bad hay fever, and he was probably the smartest guy I dated.”

“Well, there you go,” Gabe says.

“Okay,” I say, looking back at the computer. “Next up is education….I want a college graduate, right?”

“As opposed to a dropout?”

“Yes.”

“But Bill Gates and Ted Turner both dropped out of college,” Gabe says. “Can you get their sperm? Ted's right here in town….”

“C'mon, Gabe. Focus,” I say, trying not to smile. “This is serious….How about grad school?”

“If you can exclude lawyers.”

“Right,” I say, thinking of Meredith and pretty much any colleague of hers I've ever met. “What about hobbies?” I read off the categories: musical, athletic, culinary, craftsman, creative/artistic, technology, and outdoor recreation.

“Go craftsman,” he says.

I can't tell whether he's kidding. “Why?”

“Why not?”

I smile, skipping this section for now, suddenly thinking that this entire exercise feels bizarre, borderline preposterous.

“Let's see,” I say, scrolling down to the final question. “This one's called ‘personal goals.'…They ask the donors what matters most to them….We have ‘fame'—”

“Hell, no,” Gabe says, cutting me off.

I nod in agreement. “Financial security?”

“Nah. Too risk averse…You don't want dweeby sperm.”

“Religious slash spiritual?”

“Maybe. But is that one box?”

I nod.

“Well, I like spiritual, but not religious. You don't want to get a rigid, judgmental extremist.”

I give him a look and say, “Not all religious people are rigid, judgmental, or extreme.”

“True. But you avoid those types if you don't click that box.”

I nod, grateful that he's finally being serious. “Okay. How about ‘community service'? Or ‘improve environment'? Or just a nice general ‘help others'?”

“Yeah. I like all those. Check them, for sure.”

“How about ‘travel'?”

“I like that, too,” Gabe says. “Adventurous spirit.”

“Marriage and family?”

“Hmm. Nah.”

“Why not?”

“Because if marriage is his goal—and he's donating sperm? Doesn't that seem to indicate that he's not very successful in achieving his goals?”

I laugh. This is Gabe at his absolute best—funny and insightful. “How about this one—‘to be happy'?”

Gabe pauses, deep in thought. “Hmm. It's a little simplistic…verges on hedonistic.”

“It says
happy,
” I say. “Not
pleasure seeking
.”

“Yeah, I know. But is the point of life to be happy—or to make other people happy?”

“Well, doesn't making other people happy make
you
happy?”

“I wouldn't know,” Gabe says with a smirk.

I laugh.

“But I like it,” he continues. “If I were you, I'd check that one, the travel box, and all the ones about helping others.”