by Emily Giffin
“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.
—
AFTER SEEING WILL, 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 t
his 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.”
“Okay,” I say, nodding in agreement.
“But, Josie?” he says, putting his hand lightly on my arm. It’s not unheard of for him to touch me, but it is unusual, always catching me slightly off guard.
I look up from my computer. “Yeah?”
“All of this is sort of bullshit, isn’t it?”
“Why do you say that?” I ask. Although I have the same general feeling, I want him to put it in words for me.
“I don’t know. It’s just—whatever the donor dad is doesn’t necessarily mean the kid will turn out that way, especially when you remove nurture from the equation.”
I nod and murmur my agreement.
He continues, “And you’re going to love your kid whether it’s a boy or a girl. Or a fair-skinned, reptile-loving woodworker—or a brown-eyed, sporty…aloof Aquarius.”
I smile and say, “I know….It feels a little ridiculous, checking the boxes for a baby. Maybe I should pay up and just get to the essays and photos.” I scroll down the site, clicking on the price menu.
“Definitely. Let’s do that,” Gabe says, as I pull my credit card from my wallet and begin typing in the numbers. It feels a bit hasty, especially when I’m not even sure this is the sperm bank I will ultimately use, but I’m afraid of losing momentum, as well as Gabe’s attention. Before I click the final button making payment, I say, “You really think I should pull the trigger here? This isn’t cheap.”
“Yeah. I do,” Gabe says, nodding. “I think this will give us a good gut feeling.”
I look up at him and say, “But you’re always saying I have bad instincts when it comes to guys….”
“You do,” Gabe says, smiling. “That’s why I said give us a gut feeling. Now. Move over, and let’s read these essays.”
chapter twelve
MEREDITH
If you don’t want to have sex with me, maybe I should find someone who will.
Those are Nolan’s exact words when I rebuff his Monday morning advances, and the first thing I share with Amy once I’m settled on the white slipcovered sofa in her Midtown office for my monthly appointment. The comment has been echoing in my head all day as I draft a response to an emergency motion to compel, prepare for a hearing on a motion to dismiss, and attempt to negotiate a global settlement on behalf of one of my top (but least likable) clients.
“He said that?” Amy asks, leaning forward in her usual straight-back chair across from me, looking the slightest trace appalled. She doesn’t often overtly disapprove of Nolan, but I relish it when she does. It is my validation, an excuse to feel the way I do.
“Yes…He said it jokingly,” I reluctantly confess. “But he still said it.”
Amy nods, her calm, inscrutable mask returning. “And how did you respond?”
“I told him to go for it,” I say, reclining into the sofa cushions. “If he can find someone who wants to have sex at six-thirty A.M. on a rainy Monday, all power to him.”
“Did you really say that?”
“More or less, yes,” I say, as I admire Amy’s polished ensemble—wide-legged, cuffed navy trousers, a bright white button-down blouse, and black pumps that look fresh-out-of-the-box new. Everything about Amy is crisp, uncluttered, smart—her clothing, mannerisms, and advice.
“Hmm. Well, try to avoid responses like that in the future,” Amy says. “Joking or otherwise.”
“He started it,” I say.
“Yes. But you don’t have to play along….He just might take you up on your suggestion.”
I shake my head and say, “He would never do that.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
“Don’t be naïve, Meredith,” Amy says. “Pretty much all men—and all people—are capable of cheating under the right circumstances.”
It is the sort of concrete insight that sets her apart from so many other therapists, and the main reason I keep coming back to her. She actually adds to the conversation, rather than just listening to me talking away self-indulgently.
She adds, “Do you know how easy it is for a nice-looking, successful man like Nol
an to find someone who will have sex with him?” She taps her mechanical pencil on her tablet, the rhythm of a rhetorical question.
I give her a little shrug.
“Well. It’s easy to be cavalier when you’re confident nothing is going on,” Amy says. “But what if he actually had an affair?” She crosses her legs. “How would you feel?”
I sigh and tell her that I can’t fathom Nolan ever cheating on me. “He’s far from perfect, but he’s not a liar,” I say, thinking that his flaws fall more under the heading of not doing things. Not listening. Not helping with Harper. Not putting his clothes in the hamper.
“Well, I’d like you to try to imagine it anyway,” she presses. “Picture Nolan…spending time with one of his more attractive female friends. Innocent at first…They simply enjoy a strong rapport—a genuine, platonic affection.”
“He doesn’t have female friends,” I say.
She gives me a skeptical look.
“What?” I say. “He really doesn’t.”
“Okay. Then perhaps a colleague. Someone he likes and respects at work.”
“Honestly, I can’t picture anyone that fits that bill,” I say, just as Diane West, our new neighbor and a recently divorced mother of one teenaged son, pops into my head. Diane is a decade older than I am, somewhere in her mid-forties, but has a fantastic figure, an elegant sense of style, and an impressive career as an equine veterinarian.
“Okay. I just thought of someone,” I say, deciding to play along with Amy’s game. “Our neighbor Diane.”
“Okay.” Amy nods. “Tell me about her.”
“She’s a horse vet. She also rides. Pretty, very confident.”
“Comfortable in her own skin?” Amy says, an expression she often uses, and one of her litmus tests for happiness.
“Yeah. That’s a fair description,” I say, thinking that Diane also looks quite comfortable in tight riding pants.
“Okay,” Amy says, nodding as if we’re finally getting somewhere. Her sleek black bob swings forward, then settles right back in place. “So one night, Diana—”
“Diane,” I correct her. Somehow this seems like a relevant detail.
“Right. Diane stops over to borrow a cup of sugar—”
