by Loretta Lost
My eyebrows furrow as I look at the limp man in the couch. Something seems really off about Liam. I feel puzzled as I walk over and kneel beside him. I study his face and body, and a thought occurs to me. “Liam, have you lost weight?” I ask. He looks a lot leaner than he did a few months ago at my cabin in Pennsylvania.
“Yeah,” he says tiredly as he runs the back of his hand across his eyes. “Just about fifteen pounds or so. I haven't had as much time to work out lately.”
I place a hand on his muscled shoulder, and I realize that I can feel the difference in his physique. How did I not notice before? I’m not the only one with a low body-fat percentage. Are his dreams really so bad that they are taking a physical toll on him? If so, I should really try to get him help, but I don’t know how I could do it in a way that doesn’t make him upset. I try to remember his recent dietary habits: obviously, I'm not the best cook, and we get a lot of takeout food. But I haven't even seen Liam eating much of that—he mainly seems to subsist on coffee and five-hour energy drinks.
“Liam?” I say softly, with mounting apprehension. “Do you need to see a doctor?”
He groans, turning away from me slightly in the couch. “It’s just these damn nightmares. They won't let me sleep.”
“The dream about the baby?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, Helen. The pressure is really getting to me. With how much time I spend at work, and now with my mother... I just keep thinking that I'm going to fail as a parent. Maybe we should revisit the idea in a few months, or years, maybe after I've established my private practice and feel a little more comfortable in my career.”
“I... I don't know,” I tell him softly, dropping to a cross-legged sitting position on the floor. “I'm scared, too, Liam. But I really think that we should do it. It will only get more physically challenging for me to get pregnant and give birth as I get older. Plus, we will have less time to spend with our children, the older we are before having them. We will miss more of their lives.”
“Are you sure this isn't just about Carmen?” he asks. “Do you just feel sorry for your sister and want to make up for the loss somehow?”
“For god's sake, Liam! I want this. I thought you wanted this, too.” I sigh. “It isn't just about Carmen. Of course, what happened to her factors into this. But everyone in my life factors into this. I’m the only person capable of having children in my family, or in our little circle. Dad and Leslie can’t have kids. Owen and Carmen might never be able to. I feel a kind of… responsibility.”
“Those are bad reasons,” Liam tells me. “Family isn’t the way it used to be. If you have a child, it’s not going to matter that much to anyone else. You think that it will—but look at how many years you spent alone. In this city, people are always alone and isolated. You think the child would grow up with a doting grandfather and grandmother, or a cheerful aunt and uncle to take them to movies, or skating, or to the park. But those people might not be happy for you. They might desert you, or be jealous. What if Carmen’s reaction isn’t to love our child and be its favorite auntie, but she becomes the bitter old maid who is jealous that you had what she couldn’t?”
“No,” I say in surprise. “She isn’t like that.”
“She could be. You never know how people will react. Also, people get divorced, Helen. What happens if our differences break us apart, and we end up going our separate ways? What if I end up seeing the kids only on weekends and holidays?”
“Don’t even talk like that,” I tell him sharply, and I find myself fighting back tears. “Why are you being so negative?”
“I’m being realistic and talking about all the possible outcomes. DNA is the least of our concerns. Parents do so much emotional damage to their children that it overshadows any physical harm that could be caused by an unlucky genetic matchup.”
“Then why do you even want to get married to me?” I ask him. “Do you want to back out of that, too? If so many things can go wrong and we are doomed to failure, then why bother trying?”
Liam sighs. “We’re not doomed to failure, Helen. I just have a headache, and I’m not feeling very well right now.”
“I don’t understand you,” I tell him harshly, standing up and moving away. “You’ve always been so brave and determined, and right now you’re just being weak.”
“Why is it weak to question our decision? I just don’t think there are any good reasons to rush to have children right now. Can you think of one good reason?”
“I have a thousand reasons. But mainly, I love you and I think this would bring us joy and make us feel more fulfilled.”
He pauses for a few minutes before responding, and my anxiety grows as I wait for him to answer. I am beginning to think he has fallen asleep when he finally speaks again. “I think I was wrong,” he says. “I think I was just swept away in the excitement of getting engaged, and that I'm not really ready to start a family. People are having children at much older ages these days. Maybe we can wait.”
I put my hands up in the air in surrender. “Sure, Liam. Do you want to cancel the wedding, too? Were you just swept up in the excitement of saving me from a car accident and performing surgery on me, so you felt like a hero? But you didn't really want to be stuck with me for the long term after all?”
“You’re being overemotional right now, Helen. Of course, I still want to marry you, you foolish woman. I think we both need to get some sleep.”
“Fine,” I tell him in annoyance, moving toward the bedroom. “But you can sleep right there. We don’t want to risk you getting me pregnant!”
He turns over in the couch to face me, and I can see the dark shadows under his eyes. He forces a little smile. “Maybe we can risk it sometime soon, when I’m feeling a bit better.”
It’s hard to see him like this. I don’t really know what to do. “Hey,” I say softly. “Can we please do the DNA testing anyway? I still think we should find out what information we can, even if we decide to delay having children.”
“No,” he says, turning away again. “I won’t do it. But feel free to get tested without me.”
“I will,” I tell him, moving toward the bedroom. I am very frustrated as I reach for my phone and text Leslie:
I wait for a few seconds before my phone pings.
My stomach sinks a little and I feel crushed. I was unable to see for so long, and I hate being in the dark about anything at all; literally or figuratively. I am staring blankly at the walls and feeling sorry for myself when my phone pings again.
Collect the saliva on my own? A terrible idea strikes me, and I move back to the doorway of the bedroom to gaze upon Liam’s sleeping form. I wonder how difficult it would be to steal his saliva? Should I try to do it now? Would I have to keep it cold, or is it different from harvesting an organ? Not that I know much about harvesting organs, but I have seen movies.
Oh god, is this a crime? It must be an invasion of privacy or something of the sort. It really is cruel of me to even consider stealing my fiancé’s genetic material so that I can get information to make myself feel better. But maybe if I’m careful, I could conceal my actions so that he never finds out? I could use fake names to protect our privacy, and I could make sure that no one has access to his information other than me.
It can’t do any harm, right? He was just so adamantly against the idea, but what if he changes his mind at some point in the future? We could probably get tested from a different source, but it would take forever. With us getting married in two weeks, and with the potential of having children together…
I need to know.
The guilt I feel is dwarfed by my curiosity and need for reassurance. I lift my phone to text Dr. Howard back:
Somehow, I already feel better. I feel like a spy, or a secret agent. I feel like a badass, like we are Mr. and Mrs. Smith about to double cross each other, but only to be clever and gain the upper hand—not to actually hurt each other. Moving over to the bed, I formulate my plan of attack. How will I steal Liam’s saliva w
ithout him noticing? And how much do I need? I will need to ask Leslie tomorrow. She said that it needed to be collected in a vial, so it probably is a little more than a quick swab.
Liam will need to be more than just deeply asleep. He’ll need to lose consciousness.
An idea suddenly strikes me.
Yes. It’s perfect.
Tightening my grip on my phone, I scroll through my contacts and find the person I need to dial. When I hear the voice on the other end of the line, I smirk to myself.
“I need your help,” I say in a whisper, so Liam cannot hear me. “I need you to steal something for me.”
There is silence, and then a voice speaks:
“Why should I help you?”
“Because,” I demand in a hushed voice, “you owe me.”
Chapter Five
As I exit Dr. Howard’s office with the vials and instructions tucked away in my purse, I begin feeling like a sexy secret agent again. When the sun hits my face and I have to reach up and pull my sunglasses down to protect my eyes, I legitimately feel like a superhero. Being able to see so much brightness that I need to dim my vision is still so novel to me.
Heading over to my new car, I open up the driver's door and slide into the seat. A familiar pang of pain in my abdomen causes me to wince. Of course—I got my period earlier today. I didn't really need to head to the doctor to confirm that I wasn't pregnant yesterday, because if I had just been patient, I would have had my answer today. However, I am happy to see my period, because I know that it is a sign that I am healthy.
To combat the menstrual cramps, I turn on the heated seats of my new Toyota before putting the car in gear to drive to my destination. I discovered last month, very much by accident, that the heated seats feel wonderful on my lower back and just completely soothe the pain.
Anyway, I won't allow mundane menstrual cramps to interfere with my exciting secret mission. No real lady spy ever would. Not that I know much about real lady spies, but I have seen movies. I think that if I could have any career other than being a writer, I would definitely want to be a spy. Writing was always my dream job when I was growing up, but after I've actually written a few books and experienced the soul-crushing immobility of sitting at a desk for hundreds of hours, I can't help fantasizing about something more exciting. Something where I get to move around.
Although writing may be the most adventurous job imaginable when it comes to the mind, it is one of the most isolating and uninteresting jobs when it comes to the body. I sometimes look back on my time spent locked away in my cabin in New Hampshire, and I wonder what on earth I was thinking. Being so cooped up, never touching another human being, and hardly even hearing other human voices—it really was self-inflicted torture.
I think that part of me was dying a little on the inside with every passing day, as much as I tried to be content and enjoy my natural surroundings. People need other people. It’s naïve and pigheaded to pretend otherwise.
And sometimes, people need to double-cross, betray, manipulate, and blackmail other people, too. It's fun.
As I drive across town to meet my “contact” at the “drop point,” I can't keep from grinning. The package I'm carrying might not be explosives or secret codes to detonate said explosives, or microchips with encrypted data that lead to bank accounts containing billions of dollars, but the two little empty plastic vials are rather important to me.
Leslie said I had to wait an hour after eating or drinking to collect my saliva in the vial, so I will have to do it after I meet with my contact. I push my foot down on the gas, speeding only a tiny bit to add some excitement to the trip. Since my car accident, I have been driving like a grandma, so even a little speeding causes my heart to flutter in my chest. I can't wait to deliver “the goods” so that the covert operation to steal my fiancé’s saliva can commence. It’s just saliva, after all! It’s not like I’m stealing his sperm for use with a turkey baster. I giggle a little at the thought. Now that’s a covert operation that I would be morally opposed to.
I am hoping that once my associate collects the sample, and I ship the vials off to the doctors at Johns Hopkins, that I will finally be able to breathe and get on with my life. For the past few days I've just been a total mess, and completely unable to write. Sitting at home alone while Liam is at work, and binge-watching Netflix to escape my anxiety just makes me feel like a worthless waste of space.
Any amount of information that I might be able to glean from these DNA tests could be the key to helping me relax and move forward.
I don't want to be one of those women who considers merely being pregnant a replacement for a full-time job. Of course, it's an important job and I'll need to spend a lot of effort on eating right and exercising, and just taking care of myself more in general. I might go to pregnancy yoga classes, or get prenatal massages. I will do all the personal pampering that I never cared to do before, because it won't just be for me anymore.
But that's not all I'll do. No matter what, I will endeavor to be disciplined and keep writing.
Pregnancy is not a free pass to unlimited Netflixing. Not even if it's really great Netflixing.
The whole point of having a baby is to create. That is also the whole point of my writing. I simply can’t get enough of some of the intense and masterful television shows that have been released in recent years, and the visual pleasure can be overwhelming to a girl who has only listened to TV for damn near a quarter of a decade. But while the multitude of magical series is alluring and seductive, I simply start to hate myself when I deteriorate into being solely a consumer. I just vegetate until I am a lump of mush on the couch, living only vicariously, and absorbing information and feelings that other people want me to feel. No, I won't allow it anymore. Not without moderation.
I have my own stories to tell, and stories to live. My constant, desperate need to escape into the stories of others, the stories created by others; it's a sign that something is deeply wrong. Something is missing. I should be one of those people writing those amazing TV shows!
For the first time, I admit to myself that I don't just want to have a baby because of Liam and my family. I have always wanted to have children, for myself. It is a deep and overwhelming desire that I tried to suffocate. For much of my life, I doubted whether I would ever be able to really find love. There weren’t too many men who were interested in a blind girl, and their interest was usually temporary. I had completely given up when I locked myself away in New Hampshire; I had given up on love, and life, and family.
Liam woke up all my latent desires. He showed me that I could have all the things I never dreamed would be in the cards for me. How dare he come into my life and give me so much hope and excitement for the future? How dare he propose to me over and over again, and make all these promises of love and success and happiness?
It’s all his fault. He’s the one who made me believe I could even dare to be happy. Really, truly happy. He’s not allowed to get scared and withdraw from me now. He’s not allowed to throw this all away. And I think it’s completely justified that I’m stealing his DNA.
I’m feeling high on these thoughts, and revved up by the little drive when I pull into the underground parking garage of an elegant new skyscraper. I pull into the visitor's parking area, and park my car next to a familiar Subaru Forrester. I feel like a superspy again when I turn off my vehicle and scan the area for witnesses.
There is a dark, shadowy figure sitting in the driver's seat of the Subaru. He is no doubt waiting for me to drop off the package before he makes his getaway. Stepping out of my car carefully, I walk around my vehicle to the car beside me. I continue looking around to be extra alert of my surroundings, and I keep my hand on my hip, as though I have a secret gun holstered there for protection.
I slide into the driver's seat of the Subaru, and turn to my liaison with an expressionless look on my face.
“He can never know that I'm the one behind the kidnapping,” I say softly. “Are you sure you
can be discreet?”
The man sitting in the driver's seat holds out his hand in annoyance. “Of course. Do you have the stuff?”
I reach into my purse and pull out the sealed Ziploc bag containing the plastic vial for Liam's sample. “You have to get it back to me tonight, so don't delay. I'm on a deadline here.”
“I can work on a deadline,” the man says quietly. Then his tone shifts abruptly and he begins to whine. “You're so mean, Helen! I can't believe you're making me do this. It's going to completely ruin his bachelor party! Will you take off those dorky sunglasses? I know you want to look super cool, but we're in an underground parking lot, and it's already dark!”
Stupid Owen. He had to go and ruin my spy fantasies.
Taking off my sunglasses, I sigh. “It doesn't ruin his bachelor party. In fact, it makes it even better because you're kidnapping him when he doesn't expect it. And you're guaranteeing that he will get drunk enough to pass out. I bet the original bachelor party that he agreed to wasn't nearly as wild as this one is going to be!”
“Sure,” Owen says grumpily, “but you're making me betray my best buddy. On the one day when men are supposed to unite in solidarity against women. This is such an atrocious violation of the bro-code that I should be put in bro-jail.”
“Well,” I say, leaning forward, “that's why you can't get caught. Bro-jail is a hard place, for hardened felons, and you won’t last a day there.”
“Ugh. Remind me why I'm doing this?” Owen asks.
“Because you lied to me for months when we met. You never warned me that Liam was being paid to seduce me and only dating me for the sake of his career.”
“But it all worked out! And you guys are going to live happily ever after!”
“And if it didn't work out? Liam would have broken my heart, using me as a stepping stone on his way to success. I would have been crushed. You're just lucky that he fell in love with me, too, or you would have been an accessory to his crime.”
