First Comes Love (25 page)

“You mean the sperm of an acquaintance?” she asks with a calm poker face.

“Yes. A guy I've recently met. I guess you could call him a friend,” I say. “Do you think that's a bad idea?”

“I think this is entirely a personal decision. A
very
personal decision.”

Gabe makes an exasperated sound and says, “But aren't there a lot of
risks
to doing this with some guy she barely knows?”

“There are pros and cons to every reproductive scenario,” Dr. Lazarus replies. “We believe in helping women make a choice that is right for them…and supporting that choice, both medically and legally. We have a family law practice we work closely with….They can help you draw up a contract that works for you. And of course we would handle the insemination in the office.”

“See?” I say, looking at Gabe, jubilant. “I told you, if I do it at the doctor's office, it's foolproof.”

“I wouldn't say
foolproof,
” she interjects. “Nothing ever is foolproof when it comes to the ever-shifting body of reproductive law…but the way we handle it is as close to ironclad as you can get. And we've done it that way for many women.”

I glance at Gabe, who crosses his arms in not-so-subtle protest.

“Of course there are emotional issues that can't be provided for in a contract. And it sounds as if that might be your concern?” she continues, now looking at Gabe.

“Yes. As a matter of fact, it
is
my concern,” he says, nodding. “What if this guy she barely knows turns out to be crazy? And he won't leave her or her kid alone? What then?”

“Well, that could happen with any guy,” I say, turning to him. “And I'd handle it the same way I would if I were
dating
the guy and he turned crazy. With a restraining order.”

“You'd be okay getting a restraining order against the father of your kid?” Gabe's voice is slightly raised and agitated.

“He wouldn't be the
father,
” I say.

“Right. He'd just be the creepy sperm donor you got a restraining order against,” Gabe says with a shrug. “No biggie.”

Before I can reply, Dr. Lazarus clears her throat and tentatively interrupts our sidebar. “Might I make a suggestion?”

“You may,” I say, feeling fairly confident that she will be on my side.

“Let's focus on
you,
Josie,” she says, pointing at me. “Because we know that part of the equation. We know you want to use one of
your
eggs and carry
your
child, correct?”

“Yes,” I say, nodding emphatically. “We do know that.”

“So. Let's focus on
your
preconception care and check for any potential risks to you during your pregnancy.”

I tell Dr. Lazarus that I think that's a fabulous idea.

She continues earnestly. “No matter which donor sperm you decide to use, we want you to be your healthiest self, both physically and emotionally.”

I nod, feeling another burst of excitement, as Gabe manages to look slightly less glum. We both watch and listen as Dr. Lazarus puts on her reading glasses, glances through my forms, and begins to ask detailed follow-up questions about my health history. She then asks me if it's okay if Gabe stays while we discuss my reproductive history. I tell her yes, he can hear anything. “We're best friends.”

She smiles, nods, then asks if I've ever been pregnant before.

“A few scares,” I say with a laugh. “But no.”

“So no miscarriages?”

I shake my head. “I don't think so. I mean…occasionally I'm a little late and have a really heavy period…and sometimes I wonder if that could be a miscarriage….But no, I don't think so.”

I glance at Gabe, who grimaces, then crosses his arms, as Dr. Lazarus continues to ask questions about my cycle, menstrual history, vaccinations, and contraceptive use. I tell her I have a very regular twenty-eight-day cycle, that I'm all up-to-date on my vaccinations, that historically I've been on the pill
and
use condoms, though I went off the pill a few weeks ago, and have not been sexually active in several months.

“Any abnormal Pap smears?”

“Umm…just one,” I say. “It turned out to be nothing, though. Just a yeast infection.”

“All righty, then,” Gabe says under his breath. “Can I please wait out there?”

“No,” I hiss, glaring at him. “You can't.”

Gabe sighs and stares at the ceiling as Dr. Lazarus segues into a conversation about nutrition and exercise, alcohol and nicotine. I tell her I don't smoke, but I do drink socially.

She nods. “Okay. A glass of wine here and there is fine before conception, but try to limit it to that.”

“What about coffee?” I ask.

“I recommend limiting your caffeine to three hundred milligrams per day….So about two eight-ounce cups.”

I get out my pad and start to take a few notes, but she reassures me that all the advice will be on my printed materials. “I'll also give you a prescription for a prenatal vitamin, as you will need plenty of folic acid. Additionally, you should make sure you're eating a variety of foods rich in fiber, calcium, and other nutrients. Avoid sugar and processed foods….You just want to be as healthy as you possibly can to get your body ready for pregnancy.”

“Okay,” I say, feeling determined. “Gabe's a great cook. And we live together.”

“Well, that's a big help,” she says, smiling at him, then me.

I smile back at her. “So is that it?”

“Almost,” she says. “I'd like to do a quick physical exam and then we're going to take some labs.”

Gabe looks horrified.

“You may skip the exam,” Dr. Lazarus tells him with a smile. She stands, walks around the desk, and shakes his hand. “It was very nice to meet you, Gabe. Josie's lucky to have you in her life.”

The comment seems to catch him off guard, but he mumbles a polite thank you.

“I trust you'll help her make a sound decision about her next steps?” she says.

I hold my breath, awaiting his response, half expecting something snarky to come out of his mouth. Instead, he simply nods and says, “Yes. I will. We just want a healthy baby. Right, Josie?” He turns to look at me.

I swallow, feeling a little teary, then tell him yes, that's all we want.

N
olan and I barely talk the week following our anniversary, and when we do, our exchanges are strained and formal. I'm not sure whether I'd call it a stalemate or a standoff or simply the calm before the storm, but I find myself seriously contemplating his “suggestion” that I go to New York. I can't imagine leaving Harper for more than a few days, but the prospect of spending some time alone becomes something of an obsession. It doesn't help my mental state that I've just been staffed on a mammoth product liability case with Larry Goldman, the biggest asshole partner in the firm, who gave me a scathing review last year because I dared to miss a deposition when I came down with a 103-degree fever.

When I give Ellen the update over the phone one morning, she tells me I'm welcome to stay at her apartment in the city.

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“Of
course,
” she says. “Absolutely.”

“Oh,
thank
you…It would only be for a few days….”

“Stay as long as you want. Stay a week.”

“I don't know…I think I'd feel too guilty leaving Harper for longer than a couple of nights.”

“You shouldn't feel guilty,” Ellen says. “I'm often gone from Isla a week at a time, and she's totally fine with Andy and his parents.”

“That's different—you're actually
working,
” I say.

“Yes. But we all need time to ourselves sometimes,” Ellen says. “It doesn't make you a bad mother.”

“Maybe not,” I say, thinking that it might not make me a bad mother, but I'm pretty sure the way I'm feeling does make me a lousy wife.

T
HE FOLLOWING
M
ONDAY,
I call in the big guns and meet with Amy, telling her everything I told Ellen, only more candidly. She listens intently, then says, “Why New York?”

I frown, thinking for a few seconds before I say, “I don't know why Nolan suggested New York. Maybe because that's where I lived when we started to date…maybe because he knows I'd have a free place to stay there—my friend Ellen has an apartment….Honestly, though, it doesn't have to be New York. I just want to get away. From him. From work. Even from Harper.”

I wait for a lofty psychological explanation—something about how common my feeling is among mothers with young children.

Instead, she simply says, “You should do it, Meredith. You should go
now
.” She looks into my eyes with her trademark confident, clear-eyed stare.

My heart skips a beat. “Really?”

“Yes. Really.” She nods again, her bob in full motion.

“And do what, exactly?” I say, wanting to be clear about the permission slip she's signing for me.

“Take a vacation. Maybe even a short leave of absence, as Nolan suggested. Go to New York. Alone.”

I shake my head. “They'll never let me take a leave, especially now that I'm on this big case….”

“Yes, they will,” she says. “Especially if you tell them you need the time for your health.”

“You mean imply I have cancer or something?” I look at her, appalled.

“No, I'm talking about your
mental
health. Which can be just as critical.”

I sigh, considering the implications. “If I admit to some mental problem, then I'll
never
make partner. Even if I go back to full-time.”

“First of all, they legally can't hold that against you. Second of all, I didn't realize that making partner was your dream?” she says, calling my bluff because she knows that making partner has never been something I cared much about. I mean, it would be a satisfying accomplishment; it would translate to more money; and it would make my parents very,
very
proud. But basically, I'm perfectly fine as a senior associate.

“It's not my
dream,
” I say. “You know that.”

“Well, then? What's your next excuse?”

I stare at her, my heart now racing. It was one thing when Nolan told me to go to New York. And even Ellen. It's another thing altogether hearing it from Amy. “I guess I don't have one,” I say.

“Okay, then. Tell your firm you need some time off. They'll put someone else on this case. You're replaceable.”

“What if I'm so replaceable that they fire me?”

She shakes her head, adamant. “They wouldn't do that…especially not if you cite your health….But who knows? Maybe you'll quit when you get home.”

“Maybe,” I say, wondering why I haven't already. Was it nerve that I lacked? Or simply a viable alternative?

“There's really no downside here,” Amy says. “So go home and book your flight, pack your bags, and head to New York City for a week or three….”

“
Three
weeks?” I say, her advice suddenly sounding so rash and extreme that I fleetingly question
everything
she's telling me. “That's out of the question. I could never be gone from Harper for longer than a week….Besides, wouldn't that constitute
abandonment
?”

Amy shakes her head. “Absolutely not. A few weeks away does not an abandonment make…and after all—it was
Nolan's
idea. Your
husband
made you the very kind offer to take some time to think—”

I interrupt her, shaking my head. “I wouldn't call it ‘kind.' I'd call it passive-aggressive. I actually don't think that he thinks I'll do it.”

“All the more reason,” she says.

“How do you figure?”

“Because this is just another sign that you aren't on the same page. He's challenging you, your love for your family, maybe even your mothering.”

“Okay…so doesn't going to New York simply prove to him that I'm somehow inadequate?”

“Do you
feel
inadequate?” Amy asks.

I consider the question carefully, then say, “Sometimes. Yes.”

“Because you need some time to yourself?”

“Well, yeah,” I say, biting my lip. “Because I want to be alone. Among other reasons.”

Amy pushes her hair behind one ear, then the other, and says my name calmly, reassuringly. “Meredith, all mothers occasionally fantasize about an escape. Taking some time off. You, however, are in the unique position to actually
take
that time. You have financial security…and a husband who has given you his permission, albeit passive-aggressive permission. So go. Think. Decide what it is
you
want and need. Maybe it's a divorce. Maybe it's a new career. Maybe it's nothing more than a little time to yourself and a fresh perspective on things. Regardless, I do believe that you'll be an even better mother on the other end of some reflection.”

I smile, grateful for the inclusion of the word
even
. I tell myself that I
am
a pretty good mother, otherwise I might have been long gone by now.

“If you end up happier…this could really be a gift to Harper in the long run.”

“Maybe,” I say, frowning as I picture my daughter's face peering at me in her darkened bedroom, telling me that she needs another story, a drink of water, or simply a “mommy cuddle.” She can't even fall
asleep
in her own bed if I'm not sitting in the rocking chair beside her. How will she ever be okay for a week or more without me? I suddenly shift gears, fast-forwarding years from now, picturing Harper as a young woman sitting in an office like this one while she discusses her deep-seated issues. How they all stem from the time her mother left her when she was only four.

I hear Amy say my name.

I look at her. “Hmm?”

“What are you thinking?” she asks.

“I don't know,” I say, shaking my head. “I just don't know if I can do this….”

“Yes, you can,” she says.

I take a deep breath, then exhale as Amy reassures me that Harper will be fine. “She'll be with her father and grandparents and aunt, in competent, loving hands.”

“I wouldn't call my sister particularly competent,” I say, but feel my first real urge to talk to her since our fight, if only for Harper's sake.

“Harper will be fine,” Amy says again. “And
you,
Meredith, need to find a way to be fine, too.”

T
HE NEXT MORNING,
I wake up and decide to go for it. Take Nolan's dare, Ellen's offer, Amy's advice, and most important, follow my own gut. I take a shower, put on my best black suit and heels, and get to the firm early, even before the most dogged associates with no children or personal lives. I head straight for my office and promptly begin to take inventory of my cases, realizing, with some mixed feelings, that Amy is right—I am indispensable on absolutely nothing. A very small, insignificant, albeit overworked cog.

About an hour later, I work up the nerve to send an email to our managing partner, Mike Molo, requesting a short meeting with him. I am pretty sure Molo has no clue who I am, our only real interaction occurring on the elevator when he asks me to push the button for floor sixteen, one above mine. So I'm flabbergasted when I spot him in the hallway outside my office, reading my name plate, an expandable Redweld file in one hand, a Starbucks Venti in the other. After confirming that he has the correct utterly replaceable associate, he takes a sideways step, now filling my doorway, and says, “Good morning, Meredith.”

“Good morning, Mike,” I say, my heart pounding as I stand to meet his gaze.

“You wanted to talk about something?” he asks, his voice as imposing as his frame.

“Yes….Yes, I do…but I would have…come to you,” I stammer.

“It's okay. I was in the neighborhood. Why don't we have a seat?” he says, pointing to my desk chair.

I sit back down as he walks the rest of the way into my office, glances around the crammed quarters, then eases himself into the chair across from my desk.

“So what's up?” he asks, taking a long sip of coffee, as if we're old pals, or at least equals.

I take a deep breath, then give him my rehearsed opener. “Well, first of all, I'd like to say that I've been working at this firm for more than seven years…and that I've had mostly excellent reviews….And I have met or exceeded my billable requirements every year, both as a full-time associate, and after my daughter was born, as a part-time associate.”

“Yes. You have an excellent reputation. Thank you for your fine work and commitment.” He nods, looking serious, but I detect a sparkle of something in his eyes, like he knows what's coming and is somehow amused by it. “So what are you working on these days?” he asks.

“The Lambert case,” I say, trying, likely unsuccessfully, to hide my distaste. “Pretty much exclusively.”

He whistles, then winces. “Ohh. Sorry to hear that. Goldman's a real charmer, isn't he?”

“Yes,” I say, giving him a genuine smile. “He is, indeed.”

Molo grins, then says, “So is that what you wanted to talk to me about? Goldman?”

“Oh, no. Not exactly. Actually, not at all…” I babble. “I just wanted to talk about work in
general
….”

“Okay. Let's cut to the chase. Are you resigning? Or just requesting a leave of absence?” He takes his last sip of coffee, then aims the cup toward my wastebasket, a full four or five feet away. He makes the shot, then says, “Because I would really recommend the latter.”

Stunned, I say, “Yes, sir. The latter. I would love the latter.”

“How long do you want?” he asks.

“Two weeks? Maybe three?”

He raises his brows and says, “You sure that's all?”

“Three would be amazing.”

Molo nods, then says, “How about a month?”

My smile turns into a grin. “Thank you so much. A month would be amazing.”

“Fabulous. Enjoy,” he says, glancing at his watch, then abruptly standing. “Just tell Goldman and HR I signed off on this. See you in a month. I hope you come back. But Godspeed either way.”