The Choices We Make (8 page)

16

KATE

“I saw Dr. Kadari today,” I said, holding hands with David while we walked a few paces behind the girls. We had promised them after-dinner ice cream if they did their homework first, and we were on our way to make good on that promise.

“Oh, yeah? How is she?” David's middle finger traced small circles on my palm, which tickled but not enough to pull my hand away.

“Good. Same. Tiny. Still with that perfect hair.” I sighed, running my other hand across my own hair, which was due for a wash.

David laughed watching me. “I hope you're not thinking of pulling that coconut oil out again.”

“I gave that to Hannah ages ago. Apparently it's great for baking.”

“I thought you just saw Dr. Kadari a few months ago?”

“I did,” I began, pausing to yell at the girls to stop at the edge of the sidewalk.

“They always stop, you know.” David pulled my hand up to kiss it. “I think soon you might be able to let that one go.”

“As soon as you stop cutting their grapes and hot dogs, I'll stop this.” I nodded and gestured forward with my other hand when the girls yelled there were no cars. “But, yeah, I saw her a few months ago for my annual. Today was for something different.”

“Everything okay?” David's tone was unconcerned, confident that if something was wrong, I'd have told him about it before now.

“Yup.”

“Good.”

There was a lull, and I ran over in my head how to say what I wanted to say. It all felt so complicated, what had happened with Hannah and Lyla, and after spending three painful hours watching Hannah sit and nurse one glass of wine at the bar, I had made a decision.

Before I could go any further with it, I needed to talk to David. But I couldn't think of how to appropriately express Hannah's devastation so he would see this was a good option—the best option, if you asked me.

We were minutes away from the ice-cream shop, and I needed to get it out before we sat down and ordered.

“I could help her, you know.”

David glanced over at me as we walked, but I kept my eyes straight ahead on the girls—who were jumping over the sidewalk cracks and singing some song I was too far away to hear.

“Help who? Dr. Kadari?”

“No, not Dr. Kadari. Hannah. I could help Hannah.”

“What do you mean? Help her how?” David asked, now thoroughly confused.

“I could carry a baby for her.”

David stopped walking so fast I didn't have time to adjust my stride, and my hand ripped out of his. I glanced between him and the girls, who had reached the ice-cream shop and were sitting at one of the tables on the patio—swinging their legs the way young girls filled with an abundance of energy do when forced to sit still.

He watched me, saying nothing, but I knew he was trying to figure out how to respond. A second later he took the two steps forward to reach my side, then grabbed my hand and pulled me forward a little too hard, toward the girls.

“No,” he said, walking a step ahead of me even though he was still holding my hand.

“No?” I responded, this time being the one to stop and pulling my hand purposefully out of his. I'm sure the girls were wondering what the hell we were doing, all the stopping and starting in the middle of the sidewalk.

“No,” he said again, hands going deep into his jeans front pockets, his shoulders rolling forward the way they did when he was angry.

I tried not to react the way I wanted to—which was to shout at him to use another word other than
no
.

“You don't get to veto just like that, you know.”

He bit his bottom lip, rolling it under his teeth and taking a deep breath as he stared at me, staring at him. “And you don't get to toss out an idea like that without talking to me about it first.”

“Isn't that what we're doing here?” I asked, sighing with frustration.

“Look, this is not the time or place, Kate. We're going to go over there, order some ice cream and hang out with our kids, and we'll talk about this later.”

“Fine,” I said, turning and walking toward the ice-cream shop.

I'm not sure how I'd expected him to react, and I knew how unfair it was to bring it up like that—at a time when we really couldn't discuss it—but it still pissed me off. As retorts of “my body, my decision” tickled my lips, I forced them back knowing what a bullshit response that would be. Of course it wasn't my decision alone—David had to be on board if this was going to happen.

So I needed to figure out how to get David on board.

* * *

Much later, after ice cream, showers for the girls, and barely two words exchanged between David and me, we sat in bleached wooden chairs—from my mom's garden patio set—on the rooftop balcony off our bedroom, tumblers of red wine sitting on the table between us untouched.

Sounds of car horns and passersby and a baby crying out an open window a few houses down surrounded us, offering a reprieve from the uncomfortable silence that comes when the angry things you want to say are still mercifully inside—where they can't do damage to anyone but you.

“I'm sorry I didn't bring it up before I went to see Dr. Kadari.” In retrospect, sharing this giant decision with my gynecologist—who I saw once a year—before my husband was probably not the best idea.

“It's not about that,” he said, swirling the wine in his glass but still not taking a sip. He put the glass back on the table and stretched out his legs, crossing them at his ankles. One flip-flop was slightly askew, but he didn't seem to care. “It's that you even thought it was a real option.”

I swallowed hard, willing myself to discuss this calmly. “Okay, so why couldn't it be a real option?”

“Oh, I don't know. Maybe because we have our own daughters to think about. Or the fact that we have busy lives, and you have said more than once you don't want to have more kids?”

“But this baby wouldn't be my baby, our baby.”

“You're delusional if you think that's true,” David said, his words clipped with frustration.

I tried not to cry, in part at the nastiness of his tone, in part because I wanted him so desperately to see it from my perspective—something that was looking less and less likely with every passing minute. I drained my glass and then took David's.

“Well, cheers to you at least being willing to listen to my side of things,” I said, lifting his tumbler up and taking a huge gulp of wine.

“Kate, I don't want to fight with you—”

“Then don't!” The last sip of wine—its tannins bitter in the back of my throat—choked me, and I coughed violently. David turned sharply to look at me but didn't say anything or ask if I was okay.

Once I'd stopped coughing, with another sip of wine—my buzz growing but not dulling the flurry of emotions I was experiencing—I said, “I don't want to fight, either.”

David nodded and took his tumbler from my hands, having a sip of the nearly empty glass. “Are you even sure this is something Hannah and Ben would want?”

“Yes.”

“How? Have you talked with her about it?” His voice was tight, the look on his face more so.

“No, of course not.” I almost had, when we were out for a drink and she looked as if nothing would ever be okay again. I didn't mention that to David, however. I had enough of a fight on my hands at the moment. “But I know she wants a baby more than anything. I could give her that, David.”

David muttered something under his breath.

“What was that?” I asked.

He took a deep breath, scrubbing a hand roughly down his face. “Katie, I love that you love Hannah this much. Your heart is as big as they get. And you know I want them to have a baby. But let's look at this from a logistics standpoint. They haven't even been able to make embryos that survived long enough to put them back into Hannah's uterus. How would you carry a baby for them without embryos?”

I closed my eyes, not wanting to see his reaction when I said what had to come next.

“I would use my own eggs.”

He slammed his glass down on the armrest of the chair hard enough that I startled and looked over quickly, certain the glass had broken.

“You can't be serious.”

“I am.”

David stood, leaning on the railing, his profile in my view. His shoulders were hunched, his forearms flexing as he steepled his fingers together repeatedly.

“No fucking way.” Cold. Emotionless. Nonnegotiable.

Fine, then.
I would give it right back to him.

“Again, you do not get to veto this,” I said, tossing in a short mirthless laugh before finishing his wine.

He whipped around to face me, eyes blazing. “Do you really understand what you're suggesting?” he asked. “You're talking about giving Hannah and Ben one of Ava and Josie's half siblings. You're talking about giving away
your own
child. A part of you. Just fucking handing it over!” And in that moment I realized he wasn't mad about the decision or my lack of communication around it. He was upset at the idea of such a precious part of me belonging to someone else.

“But—but that's exactly it, David. This baby would not be my child. Or your child. Or Ava and Josie's brother or sister. It would only be an egg.
One egg.
An egg is not a baby. Or a sibling.” I was standing up now, too, facing him, my hands on his chest. Pleading. Shaking with too much wine too fast and the fear that he would never understand how badly I wanted to do this thing. “David, we are so lucky to have our girls. Can you imagine life without them? That is what Hannah and Ben are facing. A future without a child. They will never know what it's like to celebrate that first birthday. Or take pictures on the first day of school. Or write a note for the Tooth Fairy or from Santa, or to hear their child call them Mommy and Daddy. Can you even imagine?”

David watched me, his mouth still drawn tight with anger.

“I can do this. Dr. Kadari gave me the green light, physically. I'm young and healthy, and I know how to carry babies. Besides, Hannah is my best friend. There isn't anything I wouldn't do for her.”

“Isn't that sort of the problem here, Kate?” David's voice had softened, but his eyes were still furious.

I cocked my head, unsure which part of it he was referring to.

“You've already decided to do this for Hannah. This crazy thing, that would mean going through a lot of stuff I bet you don't even know the half of, spending nine months being pregnant with a kid I had no part in making, then giving it away. Just like that. Giving your child away. And you didn't even
consider
talking with me about it first? I mean, really, Kate. You're talking about having a baby with another man. What the hell did you expect me to say?”

“Jealousy does not look good on you.” As soon as the words left my mouth I regretted them. I knew it wasn't jealousy. I hadn't looked much past Hannah's need and my ability to fill it—and all David was doing was calling me out on my gross oversight.

“Jealous! You think I'm fucking jealous?” He took a quick step toward me, and I instinctively backed away, his tone suggesting a little distance was probably the best option. “Why does it have to be you? Why can't they find someone else?”

My words came out tangled, urgent and without the confidence I'd hoped for. “Because no one else loves Hannah as much as I do. It isn't just about an egg, or making a baby with someone other than you, or being a uterus for hire. It's about doing something for my best friend that will change her life
because I can
. I want to do this, David. Please help me do this. I can't—I won't—do it without your support.”

I was crying now, handfuls of his shirt held tight in my fists, our faces only inches apart. He took his hands and wrapped them around the sides of my face and I leaned deeper into him. After a few moments, I felt his lips on the top of my head, then on my forehead and cheeks. He smiled, and I smiled back, knowing I had broken through—he was on my side, like I knew he would be eventually.

“I hear what you're saying.”

Relief flooded me. “Thank you, I know it's going to be—”

“Kate, stop. The answer is still no. I'm not okay with you doing this, and that isn't going to change.”

And with that he kissed my forehead again, stepped around me and headed inside our bedroom, leaving me to face the night sky, speechless, my cheeks wet with tears and my stomach sour with wine and disappointment.

17

HANNAH

Claire shoved a plate of goat-cheese-stuffed dates and another of miniature bocconcini, tomato and basil appetizers on skewers at me. “Put these on the table out there, would you?” I took the plates, then tucked the bottle of balsamic glaze she passed to me under my arm. “I want swirls, okay? Not zigzags.”

Even though she was younger than me, and I was the one with the culinary expertise, my sister never failed to make me feel like I was her assistant in situations like this. But because today was Mom's sixtieth, I had promised myself I wouldn't do my usual when Claire got like this—which was to roll my eyes like a teenager and do the zigzags rather than the swirls, giving her an “Oops, I must have not heard you” when she called me on it later.

Peter and Claire lived in Pacific Heights in a Victorian Queen Anne–style house that was butter yellow—all too yellow, if you asked me—and had colorful stained glass windows at the front. Ben, enamored with the architectural details like the turrets, wraparound porch and patterned shingles, loved the house. But it felt too big and, somehow, despite its warm-colored paint and intimate nooks and crannies, also felt cold and hollow to me. However, Claire would have said I was just jealous and she might have been half-right about that. It was more house than I could ever dream of owning, especially since the years of fertility medications and procedures had drained our savings.

Mom's suite was off the back, complete with a small kitchen, bathroom, sitting area and bedroom, and it suited her perfectly. She never missed an opportunity to tell people how gorgeous the house was or how grateful she was that Claire and Peter made space for her in it. I always felt compelled to add they were never home, between Todd & Associates and social events and weekend getaways, so it wasn't much of a hardship to share the space. But I kept my mouth shut because at least Claire had offered. I couldn't say the same.

We'd organized this surprise party for Mom, which would be mostly attended by her bridge and book club friends, a few neighbors, and Claire, Peter, Ben and me. I had been dreading it for weeks, edgy with all the recent infertility issues and knowing Claire and my mom would want an update. Ben made me drink a shot of bourbon before we left the house, knowing that spending an evening with my mom and sister called for a stiff drink, and thankfully I was still warm and relaxed from the alcohol.

“What else do you need me to do?” I stood in the kitchen doorway, watching as Claire dashed from stove to fridge to island, hands busy but outfit perfectly intact and stain-free under her similarly pristine apron. I almost laughed thinking about my own apron—covered in so many stains you almost couldn't make out the picture on the front, which was a dill pickle with the words
I'm kind of a big dill
written underneath it. David and Kate had bought me that apron when I got the job at
Femme
, and it never got washed—I was superstitious about wiping away the splashes and splotches, because they were the result of a lot of hard work and creativity.

But though Claire looked entirely put together today, she seemed off, distracted, opening the fridge door and standing in front of it with one hand on her hip, staring into the shelves but taking nothing out.

“Did you bring the cupcakes?” she asked, still standing before the open fridge.

I paused. “Of course I brought the cupcakes. You saw me walk in with the cupcakes twenty minutes ago, remember?” As was customary for any family birthday, I'd baked and decorated two-dozen red velvet cupcakes with cream cheese frosting—using my grandmother's recipe.

She didn't respond, now busy lining up wineglasses and champagne glasses on the kitchen island. As she turned she caught the edge of one of the glasses and it fell over, breaking on the granite surface.

“Shit!” she said, jumping back to avoid the glass. She grabbed a dustpan and broom from under the kitchen sink and swept the glass off the counter so quickly I barely had time to tell her to be careful not to cut herself.

My eyes narrowed as I watched her sweep the final shards into the dustpan. “What's the matter with you?”

“Nothing. What do you mean?” She dumped the broken glass into the garbage and tucked the broom back under the sink.

“Something's weird. You're all distracted and clumsy.”

“I am not,” she said, her voice going up an octave. I gave her a look, and she tilted her head back and sighed as she stared at the ceiling.

“Fine. I'm pregnant.”

Of all the things I could have imagined her saying in that moment, this was not one of them. The bourbon started rising back up from my otherwise empty stomach. Claire had never once talked about even wanting a child. The jealousy that lit up inside me was almost too much, and I sat down hard on one of the island's steel stools.

“It's early. Only six weeks. And it was
not
planned,” she said, looking back at me, as if that was supposed to explain everything. There were tears in her eyes, and in that moment the jealousy abated just enough for me to see she was struggling with her news as much as I was. At least I didn't have to shout “Congratulations!” and hug her as if it were the best news I'd ever heard.

I nodded and looked down at the counter, where a few tiny shards of crystal clear glass remained. “What does Peter think?”

“He's thrilled, as you'd expect,” she said, her voice betraying her irritation. “But he isn't the one who will have to put his career on hold, or wear ugly maternity clothes, or breast-feed.” She ran a paring knife through a lemon, her quick strokes slicing it into wheels, and I wanted to shout at her that being a mother was so much more than that. But I was rendered speechless at her next statement. “I considered not having it,” she said, quietly to ensure only the two of us would hear her, cruelly clueless that I was the only one who really needed protection from her confession—it was as though she sliced right through my middle with her paring knife. She looked at me then, and my face must have said it all.

“Shit, Hannah. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that... With everything you and Ben have been going through, that was majorly insensitive of me. It was just such a surprise, and I'm a mess. My brain has been taken over by this baby.” She put down her knife and lay a lemon-juice-wet hand over mine. I tried to smile, then told her I was glad she was keeping the baby, and could tell it made her feel better.

I watched her cut another lemon, noting her smooth, blond ponytail, pink-hued cheeks and diamond stud earrings, all of it pretty and purposeful. Life was so fucking unfair at times. She had the thing I wanted more than anything—even worse, she got it by accident when I had been trying for years. And I had what she wanted: infertility, the perfect excuse to justify a child-free life.