Give, a novel

by Erica Carpenter Witsell

  She could hear noises in the apartment below her, too—footsteps and muffled voices. On a morning like this, the city seemed made up of millions of little clusters. Meg and Becca, the couples on the streets, her downstairs neighbors doing whatever it was they did. They were all like little molecules, each person linked to another by an invisible bond, while she was an atom, alone.

  Emma shook her head at the thought. She knew she had no reason to feel sorry for herself. She was not friendless; her solitude here had been her choice, and it was a choice she knew she would make again. Yet the sense of otherness she had felt at the show last night still colored her mood and gave an unfamiliar weight to her aloneness.

  Throughout the morning, she thought of Becca’s words on the phone, and gradually, her mood lightened. Maybe what she had seen last night wasn’t about trying to be something else, as Emma had thought at first. It had seemed to her, then, that the performers had been merely simulating roles—roles that Emma had assumed most lesbians eschewed. But maybe, ultimately, that wasn’t the point. Maybe they weren’t simulating the roles as much as claiming them. Maybe it was just a way to turn erotica on its head, to take some small portion of its power for themselves.

  When she looked at it like that, she could understand what Becca meant. She could even begin to see what Lily, and the others, had seen in the show. It didn’t turn her on, but at least she was getting it, she thought.

  CHAPTER 35

  Jessie

  Months passed. Laurel’s phone calls grew more frequent as the conception of a child did not proceed as planned. Jim’s graphs of Sue’s temperature still looked reassuringly like the ones in the back of the fertility book they had bought at the local bookshop. So what was the problem? They didn’t understand it. Sue began to use ovulation predictor kits, and when the blue smiley face appeared on the stick, Sue’s initial was immediately penned in on the intimacy calendar. But even with these perfectly timed efforts, Sue’s temperature continued to dip on the twenty-eighth day of her cycle, her period arriving predictably the next morning. Increasingly frustrated, the threesome did not wait long before making an appointment at the Center for Reproductive Science in Minneapolis. Sue was forty-five; time was of the essence.

  When Laurel called Jessie the evening after the appointment, Jessie was already in bed, struggling to keep her eyes open to finish an article on the role of microbes in digestion in one of the scientific journals piled on the floor by her bed. When she had moved into this house, she had intended to buy a frame for the futon mattress where she slept, but she had never gotten around to it. Sleeping on the floor also meant she hadn’t needed to buy a bedside table. She picked up her new cell phone from the floor beside the magazines and fumbled with the buttons.

  “Hi, Mom,” she said, moving the phone to her ear.

  “Jessie? How’d you know it was me?”

  “I finally got a cell phone. It tells you who’s calling.”

  “Oh. Interesting. I woke you, didn’t I?”

  “No. I was just reading.” Jessie laid the magazine on its pile by the bed and leaned back on the pillow she had propped against the wall.

  “Well? How did it go?” she asked.

  There was a brief pause. “Not well. But . . . you sound tired. We can talk about this in the morning.”

  “No, it’s fine. Tell me. What did the doctor say?”

  “Well, to make a long story short, it turns out Sue has endometriosis.”

  “When the uterine lining grows—”

  “Yes,” Laurel interrupted her. “Uterine tissue grows outside of the uterus. Sue has always had very painful periods, you know.” She said this as if she had known Sue for years, and Jessie felt a twinge of irritation with her mother.

  “And so? Can they treat it? Do they think that’s why she’s not getting pregnant?”

  Laurel sighed. “No, and well, yes. Surgery is an option for some women, but the doctor didn’t think Sue was a good candidate.”

  “No?”

  “Well, her age, you know. He didn’t think that even if they did the surgery, which can be very invasive . . . Well, the odds don’t look good.”

  Now Jessie sighed. “Oh.” Was that a hint of relief she felt? “I’m sorry, Mom. That must have been hard to hear. Especially for Sue.”

  “Yes, it was. We are very disappointed.”

  “I bet.” Jessie cast around for the right thing to say. “Tell Sue I’m sorry,” she said, and she meant it. She scooted down on the pillow until she was almost horizontal. She knew that after she hung up the phone she would not pick up the magazine again.

  “You know, Mom,” she said. “Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be.”

  “What wasn’t?” Laurel’s voice sounded surprised, defensive.

  “Oh, you know. You three having a child.”

  Laurel snorted. “Oh, we’re still planning on having a child.”

  “You’re going to try to adopt?”

  “Oh, no. Sue may not be able to conceive naturally, but she can still carry a child.”

  “Mom, I’m sorry. I’m not following you.” Jessie glanced at the clock by her bed, calculating how many hours until her alarm went off, how much sleep she’d get if she were to fall asleep right now.

  “The doctor recommended in vitro. Fertilization. They make an embryo and implant it in the woman’s—”

  “Mom, I know what in vitro is.”

  “Oh. Of course you do.”

  “Well? Go on.”

  “Well,” Laurel hesitated. “Even though Sue is technically still fertile, human eggs are just not that . . . that . . . that robust at her age.”

  “Really,” Jessie said dryly. She was amazed that they hadn’t considered this before. A woman’s eggs, formed inside the female fetus while still in utero, were precisely the age of the mother. So Sue’s eggs were forty-five, almost forty-six. It wasn’t impossible, but Jessie did not doubt the doctor’s reluctance.

  “So, what did he suggest?” she asked. She smiled to herself, imagining the scene at the doctor’s office. All three of them would have been there, of course. Jim, with his wiry frame and straggly red hair, Sue in her formless jeans and thrift-store button-down, Laurel in a monochrome, polyester-blend sweat suit and her gray mullet tied back into a ponytail. What had they told the doctor, she wondered? Absolutely everything, she was sure; they would not have considered anything less than full disclosure.

  “Well,” Laurel said. “We’ll need an egg donor.”

  Jessie pushed herself back up to sitting and took a sip of water from the Nalgene bottle she kept by her bed. She suddenly felt much more awake.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a pause.

  “And?” Jessie prompted.

  Laurel laughed uncomfortably. “Well, we are very picky, you know. We don’t want our child to have the genes of just anyone.”

  “Well, it . . . the baby, I mean. It’ll have Jim’s genes anyway, won’t it?”

  “Well, of course. But that’s just half, isn’t it?”

  Jessie shrugged. “It’s better than nothing, right?”

  “Ha. You sound like the doctor.”

  “Why? What did he say?”

  “He said all humans share ninety-nine point nine percent of their DNA anyway.”

  Jessie laughed. “Well, that’s true, isn’t it? It’s a good point.”

  “Well, as Sue pointed out to him, we share ninety-nine percent of our DNA with chimpanzees, too. But that’s not the point either. It’s the point one percent we care about.” There was a brief pause. “Wouldn’t you?”

  “Wouldn’t I what?”

  “If you were going to have a child, wouldn’t you want to know she had your genes?”

  “Honestly, Mom, I don’t know. I’ve never given it much thought. But I know that lots of people do in vitro with egg donors. And you can look at profiles of the donors, I’m sure. You can try to match—”

  “Oh, we don’t care about hair c
olor.”

  “What then?”

  “Oh, Jessie. Don’t be obtuse. It’s just that not everyone is as . . . We don’t want just anyone’s . . . Oh, come on. Don’t you understand?”

  Jessie sighed. “I guess.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So? If Sue’s eggs aren’t viable, and you don’t want to use an egg donor—”

  “We’re not opposed to using an egg donor. We just don’t want eggs from an unknown donor.”

  “So you want someone you know, someone smart enough—”

  “Jessie.”

  “It’s okay. I get it. You want someone—someone whose genes you wouldn’t mind your child inheriting—to donate her eggs.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, do you have anyone in mind? They’d have to be pretty young, wouldn’t they?” How many young women did Laurel know well enough to ask for this kind of thing?

  “Yes.”

  There was a moment’s silence on the line. “Jessie? I hope this isn’t too much to ask. And of course you can say no. We would totally understand. But we did think of you.”

  “What?” Jessie said reflexively, although she had understood immediately. Laurel wanted her to donate her eggs. She saw instantly that it made perfect sense to her mother. Jessie was young. She was healthy. She was bright. She was a known donor. But more than that, Jessie shared half her mother’s DNA. If Jessie was the donor, this baby would be—genetically, at least—even more related to Laurel than it would be to Sue. Laurel would get her stake.

  “Jessie? You don’t have to answer now, of course. All I am asking is that you think about it.”

  Jessie didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing. Her mind reeled.

  “Are you there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jessie, you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. But just think about it. It would be so perfect. Jim would be the father—we know he’s got good genes. Sue would carry the baby. And—if you say yes, of course—I’d be the genetic grandmother and co-parent. Plus, we’d love to have your genes, you know.”

  “They’re half yours, Laurel,” Jessie said dryly. “That’s why you want them.”

  Laurel laughed shrilly. “Well, that’s part of it. I won’t deny it. But your father’s a smart man, too. I’ll give him that.”

  “Well, you certainly didn’t mind passing on his genes the first time around.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. Just that you must have thought his genes were good enough for your children the first time you got pregnant.”

  There was a brief pause, which made Jessie doubt, not for the first time, that her mother had given much thought to getting pregnant at all. Jessie did not regret her birth—how could she? Still, she knew a small part of her blamed her parents for it. How could they have been so foolish as to have a child when they were not committed enough to make their marriage work?

  “Of course I did,” Laurel was saying. “And I was right, wasn’t I? You two girls turned out perfectly. You’re beautiful, athletic, brilliant . . .”

  Jessie snorted. “You don’t have to flatter me, Laurel.”

  “I mean it. Just look at you.”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  “Will you at least think about it?”

  “Yes. I’ll think about it.”

  “That’s all I ask. Just think about it.”

  “I said I would.”

  Again, there was silence on the line.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s late. I was about to go to bed.”

  “Of course. I’m so sorry. And you sounded so sleepy. Is everything okay? I should have asked before. I was just so preoccupied with all of this—”

  “I understand, Mom. Everything’s fine. I just want to go to sleep now.”

  “Okay. Well, goodnight, then.”

  “Goodnight.”

  “Jessie?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. For considering it. For being such a wonderful daughter.”

  “Okay, Mom. Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight.”

  Jessie silenced her phone and turned off the light. She lay back against her pillow and closed her eyes, but all her sleepiness was gone. Her mind raced. With a sigh, she turned the light back on and picked up the copy of Science she had put down when Laurel called. But even as her eyes dutifully followed the lines of words, her brain refused to register them. Instead, it returned again and again to her mother’s question. She glanced at the clock again. It was almost midnight, and even if she managed to fall asleep in the next half hour, she’d get barely six hours. She anticipated the exhaustion she would feel tomorrow afternoon—she had a microbiology lab to teach from one until four—and felt a stab of irritation at her mother. Laurel could have waited until the morning, at least.

  Twenty minutes later, Jessie was still awake, the microbe article unfinished on the floor. Sighing, Jessie climbed out of bed and walked into the dark kitchen. She heated some milk on the stove and sat with it in the large armchair she had been thrilled to find at the Salvation Army. It had big armrests where the upholstery had worn smooth, and she rested the mug of steaming milk there while she pulled a blanket over her legs.

  Now that she was up, Jessie didn’t mind how late it was. She liked the silence of the night at this time of year, the busy chatter of summer nights behind them. The living room was dark except for a soft glow from behind the glass of the wood stove. The fire she had lit this evening had burned down to a few red embers, but she did not get up to add another log.

  She plucked the dimpled skin of the hot milk with her thumb and forefinger and dropped it into her mouth. The film stuck to her teeth; she took a small sip of milk.

  She settled back in the chair, cradling the cup in her hands, blowing on it softly. For a moment, she saw herself as an outsider would: the cozy chair and steaming milk, the dying fire and warm throw, and she thought of how serene she must look. She did not feel serene. Again, a flush of anger at Laurel swept over her. Why had she brought this up tonight?

  But Jessie knew she could not wholly blame Laurel for her own thoughts. She could not blame her for the memories that would not let her sleep. For Laurel’s question had stirred up the mire of Jessie’s past, and now a memory bobbed again and again to the surface no matter how she tried to turn her thoughts.

  Three years ago, she was dating a man she had met outside of Albuquerque. She had been hitchhiking home after a weekend backpacking trip in the Sandia Mountains. She was wearing the one pair of clothes she had brought with her, and they were grubby and rank. Her fingers were streaked with soot from the temperamental backpacking stove she had had to disassemble yet again that morning before it had begrudgingly heated the water for her morning cup of tea and bowl of instant oatmeal. Her unwashed hair hung heavily from her scalp.

  Jessie did not mind these things for herself. Indeed, she relished in them, the same way she relished in her sweat-soaked clothes after a hard run, the satisfying grime that clung to her after a morning digging in the garden. They were the tangible imprint of two days spent the best way she knew how, the shower that awaited her at home the exclamation point to her weekend. And yet, Jessie had to force herself to hold out her thumb as she hiked along the highway. After all, she could not walk the fifty miles home. It was not the risks of hitchhiking, even alone, that gave her pause; long ago she had resolved not to be afraid. But she did not welcome the self-consciousness that she knew would come unbidden once she was in another’s presence. By herself, she felt wild, burly, free. But enter another human being and she knew the high would end. She would immediately be transformed from glorious wood sprite to smelly hitchhiker. However inevitable, it was not a prospect that she relished.

  Jessie walked along the shoulder of the road with her back to oncoming traffic, her hitching hand almost at her hip. She hoped a p
ickup might stop, so that she could ride in the back, the wind in her greasy hair, alone. When a motorcycle stopped instead, she felt a rush of anxiety. She was, at once, embarrassingly aware of her body odor, her unwashed hair.

  The motorcycle rider flipped up the visor on his helmet. Brown eyes took her in. “Hey. Where you headed?”

  Jessie felt another stab of discomfort. He was young—her own age, more or less. She looked down the highway ahead of them.

  “Albuquerque. But it’s okay. I’ve got my backpack, so . . . Thanks anyway.”

  At that moment a truck appeared on the highway, approaching them. Jessie stuck out her thumb deliberately, hoping the gesture would underscore her point: he could be on his way.

  “I’m headed there, too,” he said instead. “And we can strap your pack to the back, no problem.”

  Reluctantly, she agreed to the ride. She shrugged the pack off her back and stepped away as the air circulated under her arms where the straps had clung. She blanched when he pulled a leather motorcycle jacket and spare helmet from the motorcycle’s small storage compartment, holding them out to her.

  “Maybe this isn’t the best idea,” she wavered. “I’m filthy.” She put her hand to her hair self-consciously.

  “Oh, don’t worry. They’ve seen worse, I assure you. I’m Mike.” He held out his hand.

  “Jessie.” She was surprised by how heavy his gloved hand felt in hers.

  She put the jacket and helmet on reluctantly, but once they were on, she felt better. The leather of the jacket emitted a pleasant, animal smell, and she felt contained inside it, safe and separate. The helmet, she realized with increasing relief, would make conversation virtually impossible. This would not be so different from riding in the bed of a pickup after all, she thought. She felt her body begin to relax, and when Mike finished fastening on her pack and motioned for her to get up behind him, a thrill of anticipation ran through her.