by Loretta Lost
“Dr. Howard was telling me—”
Owen cuts in before she can finish: “Helen, I want to apologize on behalf of Liam’s swimmers. They are clearly an inexperienced and disorganized bunch of soldiers. If you need a real man to get up in there and impreg…”
“No,” I say in unison with Helen who makes a face as she nearly shouts, “No!”
“What?” Owen asks innocently. “I was going to say that I have a great OBGYN friend who could help with IVF or something like that.”
Helen rolls her eyes at this. I am about to roast my buddy for doubting my swimmers, but the waitress comes around at this moment with our order of appetizers. She expertly balances all the plates before placing them down on the center of the table. My mouth begins to water at the sight of sliders, mozzarella sticks, and my personal favorite, chicken wings. The perfect comfort food after a long day at work. As soon as the waitress leaves, everyone reaches for a wing.
I am so eager to take my first bite that I rip into the meat without thinking. As soon as the sauce hits my tongue, my eyes begin to water. When I inhale sharply, I swear that my nostril hairs are singeing due to the insane amount of heat on this tiny wing.
“Owen!” I manage to croak out between fits of coughing. “What the hell did you order?” It takes great strength to fight back the urge to throttle him, but then again, it usually does. Looking over to my left, I see that Helen is also surprised by the heat, but handling it far better than I am. Her eyebrows are lifted in amusement, but she doesn’t seem too enraged, and she isn’t even reaching for a glass of water.
“It’s the Triple Homicide Hellfire,” Owen boasts proudly. “You were in the bathroom, so I decided to be creative. Plus, there’s three of us. I thought it was poetic.”
“But then,” Helen says as she licks the sauce off her fingers, “wouldn’t it be murder-suicide?”
“No way!” Owen says sharply, ripping a chunk of meat off with his teeth, caveman-style. His eyes begin to tear up and his face grows red as he speaks haltingly. “Everyone knows suicide wings are for pussies. Triple Homicide Hellfire is the sauce of real men.”
“Owen, you’re crying like a baby,” I point out. “Maybe you should have ordered the sauce of lesser men.”
“Oh, Liam, my dear and delusional friend,” Owen says, shaking his head slowly as tears slide down his cheeks. “Don’t you know anything? Chicken wings are like sex. If it’s not hot enough to make you cry, you’re not doing it right. And you’re never going to get anyone pregnant with that attitude!”
Helen and I stare at him for a moment in astonishment, until I hear her begin to laugh softly beside me.
I nudge her with my knee. “Hey, don’t take him seriously. I’m totally doing it right.”
“You are,” she says softly, “usually. But it didn’t seem like you were making enough time this past month, to actually try.”
She is right, of course. Around her ovulation when we both knew that she was most fertile, I somehow managed to pick up extra shifts at work and barely be home at all. What is wrong with me? We decided to do this together. I legitimately tried my best to get her pregnant in previous months, but lately I’ve been losing focus and growing distant. Why am I avoiding her? Why am I so freaked out that I can’t even think about having a child without feeling like I’m going to vomit?
“I’ve been wondering if you changed your mind about wanting kids,” Helen is saying hesitantly. “It just doesn’t really feel like you’re all-in.”
“There’s your problem right there,” Owen says, leaning forward with an ear-to-ear grin. “It definitely has to feel like he’s all in.”
Helen glares at him and Owen makes a high-pitched yelp.
“Ow! Wha’d’you that for?” he mumbles, and I gather that she kicked him under the table.
“But it could be pointless,” Helen says, ignoring Owen and turning to me. “Even if we had more time to try… there could just be something wrong with me.”
A pang of fear causes my chest to tighten. “What do you mean?”
“Leslie said that I might have amenorrhea due to being underweight. I might not be able to conceive unless I get healthier and my hormones are more balanced.”
“I see,” I say quietly, but it feels like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. What the hell is wrong with me? I know that I want to have children, so why have I been so scared shitless lately? What is up with this gnawing feeling in my gut that something is going to go wrong? Nothing can go wrong. Helen and I are happy together, and we’re as ready as we’re ever going to be. All the pain and complications that we suffered through when we first met is far behind us. Why can’t I let go and move forward?
“Waitress!” Owen shouts out loudly as he flags down our server. “Get this woman a plate of nachos. She’s trying to have a baby!”
When the whole bar erupts in cheers and applause, and dozens of strange men lift their beers in congratulations, I know that I should be enjoying this moment a whole lot more. I force a smile and give a small wave of thanks to calm them all down.
Helen’s cheeks darken considerably. “God, Owen. Why don’t you give every Yankees fan in the city front row seats to our bedroom while you’re at it?!”
“You’re joking, right?” Owen asks. “Of course, you’re joking! But wait—are you joking? Because I could get a lot of money for…”
“She’s joking,” I tell Owen, reaching forward to steal his drink. “You’re gonna have to lay off the appletinis, buddy.”
As he sulks, I turn my attention back to Helen. Her eyes are downcast, and I can see that she is genuinely worried about her ability to get pregnant. I feel responsible for taking care of her emotions and her health, and I know how important this is to her. When we first got engaged and started trying to conceive, we were both so happy and filled with hope for the future. I don’t know what changed along the way, but my anxiety has been building to the point where I sometimes want to run away and hide in my car, and blast music loud enough to split my eardrums.
I realize that Helen and Owen have been chatting while I’ve been lost inside my own head, and I try to tune in to their conversation.
“…really only inviting eight people?” Owen is asking, incredulous.
“Eight?” Helen responds, looking to me with puzzlement. “Liam, I know we agreed on a small wedding, but we can’t possibly trim the list down anymore. Didn’t we agree on ten people?”
“Yeah,” I say hesitantly, “but I’m not comfortable with inviting my mother and father.”
Helen and Owen exchange looks.
“You have to, bro,” Owen says gently, wiping the hellfire sauce off his lips with a napkin. “You’ll regret it if you don’t. Besides, haven’t you started trying to mend your relationship with your mother? She’ll be so brokenhearted if she doesn’t get to come to the wedding of her only child.”
A little shiver runs through my spine as I remember my dream. I toss the rest of my scotch down my throat before reaching for Owen’s appletini. I finish off his beverage in the space of a millisecond, and I am surprised to note that the flavor was quite refreshing, and not sickly sweet like I had imagined. I’ll never admit it to him, or anyone, but I really liked that damn appletini, and I almost want to order another for myself.
“Liam,” Helen says, placing gentle pressure on my leg with her small hand. “I thought things were getting better with your mother?”
“Kind of,” I tell her softly, grasping her hand in mine and interlacing my fingers with hers. “I don’t mind my mother so much, but every time I go to pick her up, I see my father staring at me from the window with these demon-eyes. He looks like he’s formulating a plan to peel my skin off and bury me alive, or maybe just hoping that I’ll burn in hell.”
Helen shudders a little. “Do you really think he means you harm? Even so, what could he do from the confines of a wheelchair?”
“He can do enough,” I inform her. “He can do more than enough.”
“I understand you not inviting your father,” Owen tells me, leaning forward with a frown. “After all, you are inviting James, right? You can substitute a judo master for a father—that’s what happens in all the cool martial arts movies! But you really should let your mom come, Liam. She’s just as much a victim as you are.”
Inhaling deeply, I find myself frowning. “Is she?”
“Ow,” Helen says, pulling her hand away. Only then do I realize that my grip had tightened to the point where I was crushing her. “Are you okay?” she asks me with a startled look.
“Yeah,” I say, exhaling deeply. “I just don’t like thinking about my family and the way I grew up. It makes me miserable and keeps me up at night.”
“That’s not good,” Owen says. “You’re going to need your beauty sleep before the wedding! Those photos will be hanging on the walls for your kids and grandkids to see, for generations and generations. It simply won’t do if you have gross puffy bags under your eyes, Liam.”
“Great,” I say glumly, “now I feel even worse. Can someone please change the subject?”
Helen nods. “Actually, there is something I wanted to discuss,” she says slowly and with a bit of excitement in her voice. “How do you feel about genetic counseling?”
I look at her with surprise. “You mean DNA testing a couple trying to conceive? But isn’t that for people who think they might be carriers of something like Huntington’s disease or Tay-Sachs?”
“Usually, but Leslie said that we could get into the study because of my LCA.” Helen pauses and glances at me furtively. “Besides, we might be carriers of those diseases and not even know it. I think it would be really reassuring to find out, Liam.”
Her reasoning is solid. As a doctor, I spend so much time thinking about the health of others that I have never really considered genetic testing for myself. The dark pit in my chest opens wider, as more and more fear accumulates inside me. What am I afraid of? Genetic testing could be a great idea, right? But what if we found some hidden disaster, buried deep in our DNA. What if we learned that our child could be born with some incapacitating illness, like cystic fibrosis, or worse yet, some rare disease that doesn't even allow the baby to live until its first birthday?
It's rare, but it happens. As many patients as I see due to accidents or lack of maintenance, a large portion of the sick people are still visiting the hospital due to issues that they were born with—like Helen.
The results can't possibly be good. That's the problem with genetic testing: they will always discover things that are wrong with you. Our DNA holds the secrets to all the ticking time bombs that will eventually explode, with devastating consequences to our bodies and our lives. While I am not a geneticist, I have some idea of the nastiness that we could discover. Will I get dementia or Alzheimer’s when I'm older, and lose my mind? Do I have an extremely high risk of getting a certain type of cancer? These are just some of the things that quickly come to mind. If we have children, will they be doomed to suffer all the pain that we have felt, in addition to all the pain we narrowly escaped by not having all the bad genes required for a certain disease?
And worse yet, how have our lives impacted our genetic material? Have I had too much to drink, have I spent too much time in the sun, have I been around too many chemicals? What mutations have occurred, and what darkness will we pass down that cannot be measured? Will I be a good father? Will I even be an adequate father? Will I be there enough? Will I be enough?
Or will I be a monster? Cruel and full of hatred, like my father?
And will my sons have to suffer for my sins?
“Hey,” Helen says, rubbing my arm. “Liam? Do you think it's a good idea?”
I gaze at her, and study her features. It’s hard to believe that she is mine. This beautiful, strong, funny, and impossibly independent woman is going to be my wife. My actual wife. It feels like my brain and body are still caught somewhere in the past, and struggling to catch up to my reality. We’re happy. We’re going to continue being happy. We’re safe from harm, and financially secure. We respect each other. All these good things surround me, so why do I feel so... cold?
There is no baby. There never was a baby.
The words echo in my brain, and I wonder what they mean. Will we learn that having children together will result in heartache? Will she leave me? Sometimes I don't understand why she sticks around anyway, after all that I've done. After all the lies, and after seeing my family—surely she must know that there are many men out there who would be a far better choice for her to marry. Other men, in her social class, might not have to work so hard to become successful. They could spend more time at home, more time with her, and more time with any children they might have.
“Be careful, Helen,” Owen says as he polishes off the mozzarella sticks. “He has his serious-thinking face on. Whatever's going on in his head is dark and heavy. We may even be in for a lecture.”
I swallow a bit of saliva before shaking my head. “No lecture. I just don't think DNA testing is right for us. There are privacy concerns, for starters; it is such a new field that there aren’t enough laws in place to protect our genetic information. Insurance companies could take advantage of the reports and decide to decline coverage, or increase the rates until they are astronomically high.”
“See?” Owen says. “He's lecturing.”
Helen shakes her head. “I don't care about insurance, Liam. Maybe we can do the tests anonymously, or under pseudonyms. What does privacy matter when we're thinking about the health of our future children?”
“There’s nothing we can do with the information,” I tell her. “So what, we take the tests and find out something really fucked up—are we just going to decide we don’t want children? Are we going to break up and go find other people to have children with, so they won’t be sick? Or are we going to gamble?”
“Liam, this isn’t fair,” Helen says quietly. “I just… I don’t want what happened to Carmen to happen to me.”
Her features are darkened by grief and uneasiness. When I turn to Owen for help, I see that he has a similar look on his face. I know that Carmen losing her baby really affected both of them, and Owen has been working tirelessly to help find a solution to her infertility.
“I think you should do it,” Owen tells me earnestly, before taking a bite out of a homicidal chicken wing. When his eyes grow teary, I know he is trying to dissolve the tension of the serious situation with comedy. “Genetic counseling is a great idea, and this sounds like a wonderful opportunity.”
“Maybe,” I say, pulling out my wallet and placing a few bills on the table. “But this is between me and Helen, and our DNA, so I think we’re going to have to discuss the situation in private.”
“That’s not nice,” Owen says with a pout. “We’re practically family!”
Rising to my feet, I place a hand on his shoulder. “I know, brother. If you ask me, DNA is bullshit. The whole concept of blood relatives is bullshit. You are the family I choose, and I would lay down my life for you. I never had much luck with the other kind. No one who was actually blood ever bothered to give a shit. My parents hate my guts. My father considered me a nuisance to avoid from the moment I was born. Why would my children be any different?”
“They would be,” Helen says softly. “Your children will adore you, Liam. They will idolize you, and you will be their hero. Because you’re everything that a good father should be. You’re the man that your father should have been.”
Her words cause my heart to swell. The darkness inside me recedes a little, and I feel stronger. Is it true? Does she mean it?
Placing her hand on my arm, Helen smiles at me. “I’m sorry that you never got to experience what a real father is like, but you will now. My father will be there for us, and he’ll teach us all the things that we need to know.”
I frown a little. “Your dad nearly broke us up…”
“He may have been a real asshole to you this past year, but he has always
kept our best interests at heart. I think he was mostly just testing us. He did help us out financially, and help with your career, after all. He’s a good father, and he will be a great grandfather.”
“Hey,” Owen says, rising to his feet and looping one arm around me, and the other around Helen. “You guys are so gloomy. Who cares about all this ancient history? One or two bad apples in your immediate family isn’t the end of the world. Our lives are made up of all the interactions with the dozens of people we meet along the way: teachers, friends, colleagues, lovers, strangers on the bus, dental hygienists, and parole officers.”
“And the books we read,” Helen adds as she makes eye contact with me. “The TV shows and movies that we watch.”
“Yeah!” Owen says, clapping me on the back. “We’re all related somehow. Just by spending time with each other, and communicating like this, we are affected; we are changed. Cheer up, Liam. Maybe your kids will be the first members of your bloodline you’ll really be proud to call family.”
“Maybe,” I say quietly, but I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong.
There is no baby. There never was a baby.
These words send a chill through me, like a supernatural omen forewarning of disaster. Somehow, I don’t think I’ll ever have a son or daughter to hold in my arms.
Chapter Four
Helen Winters
“I won't do it, Helen.”
“Please,” I implore him, “try to be reasonable about this.”
Liam shakes his head as he moves around the apartment. “I already told you my reasons. The genetic counseling is a bad idea, and I don't want to get tested. If you want to get tested on your own, I completely understand, but it's a personal choice.”
“It's not that personal. I am not the only one contributing genetic material to the baby.”
“Jesus, Helen, please! Can we stop talking about the baby stuff for five minutes? I just want to relax right now. I need to relax.” Walking over to the couch, Liam pulls off his shirt before collapsing to the cushions.
