He Gets That from Me

by Jacqueline Friedland

“That’s not possible,” I explain calmly, relieved that she is simply mistaken. “Maggie was our carrier, yes, but we transferred fertilized embryos. She didn’t conceive those babies on her own.” I pick up the skyscraper fidget toy I have on my desk and absently start disassembling the thing.

  “I understand,” Dr. Pillar says, “but only one of the embryos you transferred seems to have implanted successfully. It appears the other one, which we thought was a success, never matured. There are any number of possibilities as to why it didn’t take—belated rejection by the endometrium, a blighted ovum, undetermined blastocyst arrest—but that’s not really the point. Your carrier must have ovulated shortly after the implantation, and then conceived an additional child all on her own.”

  Well, the doctor definitely has my full attention now.

  “It was so close in time to the first conception that nobody realized the discrepancy,” she continues. “But I’ve been looking over the records from the pregnancy, and it all makes sense now—why the second sac was smaller than the first, why one baby was so much smaller for the duration of the pregnancy. It’s because he was conceived at a different time. Their gestational ages were different.”

  “But that’s impossible,” I argue. “It’s like Biology 101. A woman can’t get pregnant if she’s already pregnant.” I may not be an expert in female anatomy, but even I know that much.

  “It is extremely rare,” Dr. Pillar explains, “but there are documented cases of this happening. It’s a process known as superfetation. Hormonal irregularities can lead a woman to ovulate when she is already pregnant. If that egg is fertilized during the appropriate window, there is no reason it can’t also implant into the uterus of an already-pregnant woman. It’s incredibly rare, but unfortunately, not impossible.”

  I’m stunned. This can’t be right.

  “But . . .” I’m silent, thinking, trying to process. I notice that I am now standing, half a skyscraper still in my hand, though I don’t recall rising from my seat.

  “When patients come in for fertility treatments, every now and then, there are surprises,” Dr. Pillar says. “And the fact that you opted for your GC to do a natural-cycle transfer made that all the more likely. She was never given the progesterone that would have shut down her ovaries. It makes sense that she could have ovulated again after the embryo transfer.”

  “But she wasn’t allowed to have sex,” I remember suddenly. “Right? Wasn’t that one of the rules?” We could sue her for breach of contract. Except that the courts in Arizona probably wouldn’t pay much attention to us, and even if they would, it wouldn’t change the fact of Kai’s parentage.

  “We did a blood test nine days after the transfer to confirm the pregnancy,” she tells me, and I am reminded of the call we received with the thrilling news that the transfer had been a success. They told us then that the blood test wouldn’t indicate how many of the embryos had implanted, but at least one had attached. “After that, the carrier would have been cleared for intercourse. Based on the gestational measurements of the babies that we recorded throughout the pregnancy, I would guess that they were conceived approximately two and a half weeks apart.”

  My desk phone starts ringing, and I see that it’s Erica, finally calling me back. Well, now Erica is going to have to wait.

  “Wow.” I drop back into my leather chair with a thud, trying to digest what Dr. Pillar is telling me. “So, okay, I guess that’s good then, that we know what actually happened here, what Kai’s genetic history is. We loved our carrier. It’s kind of nice to know that she’s the person who Kai came from, and now we have access to genetic information if he ever needs it.” I realize that means Nick is the biological father, which means we can have medical history for Kai on both sides of the family.

  “Mr. Gallo-Rigsdale . . .” Dr. Pillar’s tone is demanding, halting. “The carrier never agreed to hand over her own biological child. We may have a situation on our hands. She might want custody of the child.”

  Not for a moment can I believe that Maggie might want to take our son away from us, that she might claim he is her child. It was only the other day that she was telling me that Kai was my child, no matter who contributed the genetic material.

  “No,” I say quickly, “I don’t think so. She wanted us to have our family. She knows Kai is where he belongs, that there is no question in that regard.”

  “I am legally obligated to reveal the test result to her, to inform her of this development,” Dr. Pillar says, and I hear contrition in her voice. “I’m sorry Mr. Gallo-Rigsdale, but I think you should find yourself an attorney.”

  Chapter 15

  MAGGIE

  MARCH 2008

  As one of the hottest new companies in LA, BoomStander has already rebranded itself in the weeks that I’ve been absent. No longer is it simply a pop-culture blog; the company is now expanding into a commerce platform as well. As part of their push to be at the forefront of life and style, they also run an excellent daycare facility onsite.

  When we reach the wide glass doors of BoomBabes, Wyatt becomes instantly transfixed by the brightly colored climbing equipment and oversize toys that are visible just inside. He barely gives me a second look when I kiss his forehead and hand him over to a redheaded young caregiver, a woman who looks like she just stepped out of a shampoo commercial. He runs off, beelining straight to the play-kitchen. Just like his daddy, I think wistfully before remembering my festering anger at Nick.

  I head off to my post in reception, two flights down.

  As I approach my desk, I notice that it’s covered with congratulatory flower arrangements and greeting cards. My co-worker Bara spots me first and rockets out of her chair to welcome me with a too-tight hug. This embrace is followed by a similar squashing from Jean-Marie, and even a low-key squeal of delight from Amanda. The display of affection feels more appropriate to long-lost friends than recent acquaintances, and yet I find myself leaning in, enjoying the sensation that I belong somewhere.

  “Oh my God,” Bara says as her eyes roam over my frame from my ears to my ankles. “You look like you were never pregnant.” Bara is a recent college graduate with the body of a twelve-year-old boy. I could probably fit four of her into the pants I’m currently wearing.

  “That’s definitely a lie,” I say with a smile, “because I’m still sporting at least half of the weight I gained—but I appreciate you for trying.”

  “Okay, bust out the pictures, let’s see those babies!” Amanda gives me a light shove on my arm as she peers pointedly into the gaping tote bag that’s still hanging over my shoulder. Amanda is only a few years older than I am, and she has mentioned several times that she can’t wait to get pregnant after she and her fiancé get married a few months from now. Bara’s ponytail bounces as she stands beside Amanda, nodding in agreement.

  “No. Guys.” I’m silent for a beat as they gaze back at me expectantly. “It’s not like that. Once I handed the babies off to their dads, that was the end of my involvement.” I rub my hands together like I’m wiping off dust. “Kaput.”

  “Yeah, but . . .” Bara’s round blue eyes grow wide as she puzzles through my response. “You have to have taken at least one picture, right? Not even right after the delivery?”

  Without warning, I’m hit by an intense rush of panic that I’ve given away too much, that I’ve lost some part of myself. The feeling of emptiness is harsh and frightening—but then, as quickly as it arrived, it’s gone.

  I move closer to my desk and drop my tote down to the floor beside it as Amanda and Bara watch me. “There are pictures,” I explain, “but they belong to the dads. I didn’t take any. Not my kids.” I shrug, punctuating my detachment, then flop into my desk chair, relieved to be off my feet. My body doesn’t feel like my own yet, and I wonder if I’ve rushed back to work too quickly. “It was like watching a good friend’s children—my responsibility, but not my babies.” I jiggle my mouse to wake up the computer. “Ooh! I do have a really cute shot of my sister with W
yatt when she was in town, though. Want to see?”

  I pull my digital camera from my tote and click around until I find the right picture. When I land on it, the image makes me grin all over again. Wyatt’s sitting on Tess’s lap in front of a fountain at the Grove shopping complex. Tess is smiling brightly at the camera, oblivious to the fact that sweet little Wyatt is holding an open bottle of water and pointing it down into Tess’s lap. The picture was taken at the exact moment that the water began spilling from the bottle, but before anything actually landed on Tess. I laugh every time I look at it, especially when I remember Tess returning to my apartment with soaking wet cargo pants and a very giggly Wyatt.

  I hand the camera to Bara, who laughs out loud and then passes it to Amanda’s waiting hand.

  “Hilarious,” Amanda declares. “You should post that.”

  “I’m not on Facebook,” I confess.

  “Seriously?” Bara glances at Amanda in disbelief and then looks back at me.

  I don’t want to admit to them that I’m concealing my single-mom, entry-level job status from all my pretentious old prep-school friends.

  “But you work at a media and pop culture company,” Amanda starts to argue.

  “I’m only an admin,” I say. “Answering phones and keeping order in the office doesn’t require me to have an active internet presence. It does, however, require me to catch up on whatever I missed since I’ve been gone.” I smile apologetically and turn my eyes back to the computer.

  As they each return to their own seats, I log into my email and find a to-do list from my supervisor, Sandra. It’s mostly busywork that I can handle with relative ease, but the list is three pages deep, so I figure I’d better get started. I also have an email from the daycare center telling me that Wyatt is already busy playing trains with two other little boys and that I can come visit at lunch time if I’d like.

  As I marvel again at how lucky I am to have found this job, another email appears on the screen, this one from Chip Rigsdale. Curious, I click on it right away.

  Hi Maggs!

  The boys are doing great, and Donny and I are loving being home on paternity leave with them. It’s going to be rough leaving them every morning once this period of time expires. I just wanted to tell you that I think your boy Nick is trying to make a statement, and that maybe you want to sit up and listen. Donny says I’m being a busybody (again), but so be it. We just opened a baby gift from Nick, and I would say it’s a definite declaration.

  He sent us a personalized baby book—you know, like one of those scrapbooks where we can record all of their firsts, save a lock of hair, and so on. The book is incredibly cute, lots of teddy bears and firetrucks, etc., etc., and the front cover reads, “Happiest with our Dads.” He also included a card, and I won’t rehash the entire treatise he wrote, but suffice it to say, he thanked us for opening his eyes about different kinds of families, and then he went on, and on, and on, and ON, about how much he misses you. I’m sure he’s hoping that one of us will reach out to you on his behalf. Well here I am, babe. Throw the poor guy a bone! Look, I wouldn’t presume to tell you how to live your life, but I do feel strongly that you are punishing yourself needlessly. The man is SORRY. How many more bouquets does he have to send you before you relent, Woman? Donny and I only want to see you happy. You’ve done so much for us, and I’m just trying to return the favor here.

  Talk soon,

  Chip

  I can’t. I can’t do this right now. I’ve been back at work for a hot second, and I need to focus on my job. Not Nick. I’ve been trying so hard not to miss him, but the constant barrage of flowers and emails has made it very difficult for me to remember why I was so angry at him. Bigotry, I remind myself again, intolerance. Chip’s email suggests that Nick has evolved, but I’m still not sure I’m willing to open myself up to him again.

  Instead of figuring out how to respond to Chip, I turn back to Sandra’s list and start with task number one.

  Later that evening, Wyatt and I are meandering home from where the bus has dropped us. As I navigate the uneven sidewalk, pushing the stroller over bumps and cracks, our moving forms cast long shadows against the sidewalk.

  The lingering sunshine is a reminder that springtime is coming. The seasons aren’t all that variable in LA, but the longer hours of daylight do mark a certain passage of time, a reminder of how long we’ve been here.

  After a busy first day back at work reconciling expense reports, organizing travel arrangements, and calendaring a staggering number of internal and external meetings for senior management, I am wiped out. Wyatt, on the other hand, seems to be completely energized from all his creative play with the other children at BoomBabes. His sudden enthusiasm for every tree root and sidewalk divot fills me with contrition that I haven’t done a better job of stimulating his mind or socializing him since Tess went back to New York. At least now he will have BoomBabes to look forward to each weekday.

  An uninvited voice pipes up inside my head to say that LA was never supposed to be my final destination—just a safe place to wait out the pregnancy and plan for the future. Now that I have the final payment from Chip and Donovan, it’s time for me to start figuring out my next steps.

  As Wyatt and I continue toward home, I mentally sift through my options. I enjoy the office culture at BoomStander, and it’s possible that I could find a degree program in LA that would allow me to continue working for the company part time. I’ve also been toying with the idea of moving closer to New York— near Tess, and even my parents, if we ever get back on speaking terms. But I think I would feel too guilty moving Wyatt to a place that’s a full plane ride away from his father. At least in LA, it’s only five hours in the car if Nick ever wants to see his son—

  “Daddy!!!!!!!!!” Wyatt suddenly shouts, as if he has heard my thoughts.

  And then I see him.

  Half a block ahead of us, leaning against the railing that leads to my apartment building, stands Nick. His arms are folded across his broad chest and there’s a cautious smile on his tanned face. I barely have time to register the wash of joy that runs through me at the sight of his face before Wyatt wriggles out of the stroller and begins running toward him.

  I take another second to look over at Nick before I realize that Wyatt’s headed straight into the busy street between us without any awareness of the cars barreling in each direction.

  “Wyatt! No!” I break into a run, chasing after him. He’s already several feet ahead of me, and he’s darting off the sidewalk with improbable speed. Cars are careening in both directions, and an old blue Chevy is headed directly toward him.

  Suddenly, everything is moving in slow motion. I see Wyatt’s little feet moving farther away, Nick racing toward us from the opposite side of the street, the face of the man driving the Chevy, his eyes turned down toward the dash. With every ounce of energy I have, I run. It feels like I’m running for both an eternity and a split second. Finally, finally, my hands connect with Wyatt’s back and I rejoice at the contact. I shove him, hard. We both fall to the ground, and I feel the sting of the concrete scraping my knees as Wyatt emits a wail. I hope I haven’t hurt him, but I thank God that he is clear of the car’s front bumper. Then I hear the blast of a horn, so close it’s nearly inside my head, and I turn toward the Chevy, knowing that it’s too late.

  When I wake up, I’m in a dark room, and I feel an impossible weight on my abdomen. There is beeping from a machine somewhere. I turn my head and see Nick sitting in the chair beside my bed, his eyes closed.

  “Nick.” My throat is scratchy, and the word comes out as barely a whisper.

  His eyes open slowly, but when they finally focus on me, he jolts upright. “You’re awake!” His chin is covered with more stubble than I’m used to.

  There is an IV in my arm and a breathtaking throbbing in my head. My mind plays a quick reel of Wyatt in the street, the blue Chevy. I force out the only word I can. “Wyatt?”

  “He’s fine. He’s with Lydia from
your building.” He glances over his shoulder toward the brightly lit hallway. “Let me, I’m just—I’d better grab the doctor.” He hurries out of the room and leaves me to absorb the relief of Wyatt’s safety on my own. I begin to drift off again, my lids too heavy to keep open.

  The next time I wake up, sunshine fills the room. My throat feels like it’s lined with needles. Nick is standing by the door with his back to me as he talks with someone in the hallway.

  “Water,” I croak, but I’m quieter than I mean to be.

  “Mommy!” I hear Wyatt’s voice before I see him. He’s seated in a large armchair beneath the window, a coloring book open on his knees. “Daddy, water,” he calls over to Nick.

  Nick begins lifting a finger to his lips, as though he’s going to shush Wyatt, but then he and the doctor notice that I’m awake.

  “Well, good morning,” the older woman says as she and Nick both move toward the bed. She fills a small cup with water from the plastic pitcher beside me and hands me the cup; I take small, wonderfully redemptive sips as she fills me in.

  “You took quite a hit,” she says, “but it looks like you’ll heal up fine. A jagged piece of the car perforated your abdomen, but the ambulance made good time, and we’ve stitched all your parts back together.”

  “Humpty Dumpty,” Wyatt mumbles from where he’s resumed coloring.

  The doctor’s lips turn up and she shakes her head good-naturedly. “Not even that bad.”

  I try to nod, but I just want to go back to sleep.

  I open my eyes to what feels like early morning. The ferocious pounding in my head has decreased to a more manageable headache. I turn in the bed and start to move, but Nick comes rushing from the other side of the room.

  “No, no, no, don’t strain.”

  “How long have I been here?” I ask as he props a pillow behind me so I can sit up slightly. I notice that he’s still wearing the same shirt he had on when I first spotted him outside my apartment.