1
Rina
"Rina Smith?"
I straighten my skirt and shove to my feet, waving at the nurse behind the desk and wondering if she recognizes me by now. After all, it's my third time here at the clinic.
My stomach is a huge ball of nerves. My first two visits were easy—I just had to speak to the doctor about what I want. That much wasn't hard. I want a baby. Then I had to submit my employment history, proof of my capabilities to take care of said baby, not to mention being able to afford the steep price tag attached to this treatment. But again, that wasn't hard. I've had a hugely successful legal career, and I'm due for another promotion next quarter when my boss and mentor retires and names me as her successor. My life is completely on track in every way. By the time I'm forty, just twelve years from now, I should make partner at my firm. I'm living every dream I've ever had.
Except one.
I've been kind of busy, between killing it at work, keeping up with all my close friends, and enjoying my time off in ways I love—vacationing at the shore, going on hikes on the weekends–I haven't had a lot of time to date.
Okay, so I've had zero time for dating, actually. Ever since my first and only long-term relationship fell apart a few years ago. Well, more like blew up in my face. It’s left me hesitant to ever go through anything like that again.
But who needs love anyway? At least the romantic kind. I don't need a partner—I love my friends, I love my family... And I love the baby I'm going to have.
What could possibly go wrong? Me, raising a kid all on my own. After all, my mom had me when she was my age, an oops baby from a one-night stand who was never involved in my life. She raised me on her own, all while maintaining her career as the editor-in-chief of the local newspaper, and we were happy as hell. I never needed another parent in my life, I never felt like I missed out on having a dad. I had Mom, I had my grandparents, I had my aunts and uncles... And my baby will have the same.
Just as soon as I get through this procedure.
As long as I can be as strong as my mom. As independent. As caring and loving and involved enough to take up the space that most people need two parents for.
There go those nerves again, rioting in my stomach.
I take a deep breath as I stride up to the counter at the IVF clinic to begin filling out the last round of paperwork.
"Excited?" the nurse asks me with a polite smile.
"And nervous," I admit, forcing a smile back.
"That's perfectly natural. But you’re ready to go for this?"
"Of course."
"Well, let's just wait for your partner to get here, and then we can get started," she says, still smiling.
I bite my lower lip and hesitate. The swirl in my gut only worsens. "Um..."
"What's the matter? Is he running late?" The nurse frowns.
I wince. Clearly she has me confused with someone else. "No, there's, ah, no partner. I'm single."
"Oh! My goodness, I'm so sorry," the nurse replies, all in a rush that almost makes me wonder if there's something to be sorry for.
I hate the expression on her face. The poor you look.
I want a baby. I haven't met a man I'd want to reproduce with. And thanks to modern medicine, I don't need a man for it, I can just come in here, pick a photo and profile of a guy from a selection of donors, and get on with my life.
So why do I feel like something is missing? Like there’s a hole where half of this equation ought to be?
I ignore the sensation. Push it right down to the bottom of my heart, where I push everything else. Remember what happened last time you got serious with a guy? He dumped me drunkenly at a St. Patrick’s Day party, in front of all our mutual friends because he wanted to stay out playing beer pong longer.
I don’t need that. I don’t need a guy to complicate everything, to mock me or belittle me. I can do this on my own. Just like Mom. I ball up my fists and keep that fake smile plastered on my face.
"It's all right," I'm in the middle of saying to the nurse when the doors to the clinic burst open. A woman hurries through, out of breath, her eyes wild. She brushes in front of me, and I'm about to protest, but when I take one look at her panicked expression, I let her through. It must be some kind of emergency.
"Please, you have to help me," the woman shouts to the nurse at the desk.
The nurse frowns and glances from the woman's face to the stack of papers in front of her. With a shuffle, I see her move my file aside and open the one beneath it. "Mrs. Henry?"
"Yes, yes."
"I'm sorry, I had you down for half an hour later," the nurse is saying. This must be the woman she confused me with. "Can you wait a moment while I—"
"There's a man," the woman, Mrs.
Henry, interrupts, "in the parking lot. My husband is still out there arguing with him. He tried to grab me, I..."
The nurse is back on her feet in an instant. "Please, Mrs. Henry, have a seat, I'll call our security team."
My eyes go wide as the nurse reaches for the phone. Just moments later, a full team of security guards burst through the clinic doors and out into the parking lot. Through the exterior door, when it swings open, I spy two men standing outside. One is restraining the other, with both of his arms pulled behind his back. The man being held back looks wild, his hair a mess, clothes askew, as he screams toward the open door.
"That's my child! I don't want her to have my child!"
The doors slam shut after him, but not before Mrs. Henry and I both get an earful of what he just yelled. She collapses in tears, and I stand aside as the nurse rushes to embrace her.
"It's all right," the nurse coos, rubbing Mrs. Henry's back as she continues to sob. "It's going to be okay. We'll take care of this."
"It's the donor, isn't it?" Mrs. Henry wails. "I recognize him. From the brochure."
"It's just a misunderstanding. We'll sort everything out."
Mrs. Henry hiccups. "We... we just picked the sample that seemed best. He..." She hiccups again. "He reminded me of my husband. And John can't have children, so we thought... This seemed best..."
"And it will be, Mrs. Henry, I promise you. Everything will work out."
"But that man." She glances over her shoulder at the now firmly-shut clinic door. "He said he didn't want me to carry his child. He said he changed his mind. He doesn't want his son or daughter out in the world without him knowing them, without him having any contact at all..."
My stomach churns. I clutch the counter beside me to steady myself. But my mind is already racing back to last night, when I sat at home with a stack of donor files and carefully selected my candidate. A handsome blond man with piercing green eyes and an excellent school record. He donated his sperm to help pay his way through grad school. He's smart, seems funny, at least from the way he worded his answers on the clinic questionnaire. I don't mind having kids out in the world, he wrote on the paper, as long as I'm not on the hook for child support, someone might as well take advantage of these good genes!
He wrote that when he agreed to be a donor, but what if he changes his mind? What if years later he comes looking for me, tries to get custody, or something worse? What if he goes mad like that man outside in the parking lot screaming his head off right now?
The doors swing open again and Mrs. Henry gasps and startles. But it's just her husband now, the man who was holding the other one's arms. John I guess. He rushes to her side and cradles her in his arms, taking over from the nurse. "It's okay, sweetie, the security team have him now. They're taking him to the hospital, to get him help."
Watching him hold her, comfort her, makes my heart constrict. Maybe, if I were with a guy like that, then this whole thing wouldn’t seem so difficult or frightening…
Then I shake myself out of it. John Henry seems nice right now, but I’m sure eventually he’ll turn out just like my ex did. I’ll stick with the safe bet. No Mr. Husband for me, thank you very much.
"That's our child's father," Mrs. Henry is wailing, meanwhile. "What if our child turns out like him, what if he comes back looking for me, what if..." She trails off into another mess of hiccups.
Just then, the doors to the back of the clinic swing open again. My doctor, Dr. Morgan, pokes her head through, completely oblivious to the disaster that's taking place in her waiting room. "Rina?" she calls. Her eyes dart to me immediately, her usual calm, reassuring smile on her face. "Are you ready? We've been waiting for you."
I glance from her broad smile to the nurse, who's offering me an apologetic grimace as she stands, on her way back to the desk. Then I look to Mr. and Mrs. Henry, tightly embracing, both of their faces a mask of fear and concern.
"Rina?" Dr. Morgan prompts.
I look back up at her, the waves of nausea in my stomach turning into a full-blown ocean of worry. "Actually, I'm going to have to come back," I say.
Dr. Morgan steps fully into the waiting room now, letting the doors to the clinic swing shut behind her. "But Rina, we've timed your cycle exactly. If you don't come in today, we'll have to wait a whole month, restart the cycle all over again."
"I know, I know," I babble. What's my problem? I know what I want. I've been planning for this for months. I've scheduled everything down to a T—I took time off work for the next couple of days to rest, I've planned out when I'll tell my mom if the cycle works, I've got a list of new apartments that I'm looking at so I move once there's a baby on the way. I've even spoken to my mentor about my maternity leave options at work, and they're pretty decent.
I have everything planned, covered all my bases. It's now or never. This is what I want—a baby. This is what I need to do to get what I want.
Yet now, staring down at my fate—and at Mrs. Henry's fate—I feel my feet moving of their own volition. Not toward the clinic doors, but away, toward the exit, one slow step at a time.
"Rina, what's wrong? If you have any concerns, please, let's discuss them."
"I'm just..." I glance from Dr. Morgan to Mrs. Henry and back again. Mrs. Henry seems to finally notice that there's someone else in the room. She lifts her tear-stained face to mine and frowns at me.
"I'm just not sure I've pursued all my options," I hear myself saying to the doctor.
"Don't do this yet then," Mrs. Henry speaks up, shaking.
"Sweetie, shh," her husband whispers.
She shakes him off and pushes to her feet. "I mean it. If you have no other options, I understand, but if there's another way for you..." Mrs. Henry gazes into my eyes, desperate, suddenly, as though to save me from her own fate. "Don't do this unless it's your last resort."
That does it.
"Rina, let's discuss this in private," Dr. Morgan is saying.
"That's all right. I'm sorry, Dr. Morgan. I have to go." I'm babbling, but I don't care. I need to get out of here, now.
I bolt through the doors, my mind at war with itself. What am I doing? I thought I wanted this.
In the parking lot, I nearly run straight into the mess that Mrs. Henry left behind. The man, her donor, is still shouting and screaming, even as the security guards wrestle him toward the ambulance that's pulled up. "Please!" he shouts. "Please, I just want to talk to her. She's carrying my child! My child!"
The last thing I see are his wild eyes as a uniformed ambulance driver slams the doors to the back of the ambulance in his face, while another tries to wrestle him onto a stretcher inside.
I hurry across the parking lot to my car. Once inside, I suck in a few deep breaths, trying to steady myself. Still, my hands are shaking so hard that it takes me several fumbling tries to start the ignition and put the car into gear. I pull out of there in a rush and make a beeline for home, my heart heavy and my stomach a riot of nerves.
I speed through the drive home, probably faster than recommended. Once at my apartment complex, I leave my keys with the valet downstairs and head straight up to the penthouse loft I share with Cannon—my roommate, my coworker, my close friend since law school. Yes, on our salaries we could have both afforded our own places years ago. But not one quite as lux as this apartment, right downtown, a five minute walk to our office, central to all the restaurants and bars that we love —and the penthouse suite in a luxury building, complete with valets, maids, butlers, the whole nine yards.
Yes, we're spoiled. But we also just like having roommates. At least this way, we joke, if one of us chokes while we’re eating, we have a chance at getting rescued. Or if we slip and fall in the bathtub, someone may find us before our bodies get too gross.
We might have a slightly morbid sense of humor about our roommate situation.
But today I'm not in the mood for Cannon's usual jokes. By the time the elevator dings open straight onto our floor, I'm barely keeping it together. My ey
es burn and my throat is tight, and all I want to do is retreat to my bedroom and cry my eyes out, preferably with an enormous container of Ben and Jerry's. But when I step out of the elevator onto our floor, I see Cannon has taken the pint I bought out of the fridge and helped himself to it on the couch. He's more than halfway through the container already, and he's watching that stupid cowboy show I hate.
It's the lightweight straw that broke the camel's back.
Without explanation, without being able to say why I'm so emotional (because as close as we are, I didn't tell Cannon about any of these fertility plans I've been pursuing) I burst into tears then and there.
Cannon spins around, his expression comically surprised. He's handsome as hell, but right now he looks like a goof with the Ben and Jerry's spoon hanging out of his mouth, and his dark eyes wide as saucers beneath his artfully messy black shock of hair.
"Are you all right?" he asks through his mouthful of ice cream, so it sounds more like "Ah oo awright?"