“Agreed.”
“So, let’s jump past Abby and jump past the soul-searching and decide on a plan of action, should the answer be yes, we want kids. How would we do that?”
I exhale. “Okay. Well, the problem, according to the doctors, isn’t whether I could get pregnant but whether I could carry to term. I would try, but it’s not like taking endless shots on a basketball net, waiting to sink one. Trying and failing would be…”
“Traumatic.”
When I make a face, he shakes his head and says, “My mom—my birth mother—lost a couple of pregnancies after Jacob, and I might have been young, but I remember it was really hard on them. So that’s an option, but with a limited number of trials.”
I nod.
“And if those trials put you in danger, would I have the right to say stop?” he asks.
“You would.”
“Good. Next option.”
I go quiet for a moment. Then I say, “Adoption is the most obvious. Maybe even the best to start with, but it’s not easy getting a baby. Even if we could…”
“You’d prefer your own. Our biological child.”
I’m about to shake my head. Then I pause to consider it more. “All other things being equal, yes, I suppose I would, as selfish as that is. But I’d take another baby in a heartbeat. Having our biological child isn’t that important. It’s just…”
I squirm, and his arm slides around my waist.
I continue, “I would worry that, given your situation, even if you felt okay with adoption, you might have misgivings later. What if it’s a very young mother who later regretted her decision? What if the child grew up wanting answers, wanting his or her biological family? That’s probably natural at some point, but I think it would be … difficult for you.”
He opens his mouth, and I can tell he’s ready to deny it. Then he pauses, like me, to consider before he says, “I would like to think I’d be fine. I do see your point, though, and it wouldn’t be fair to a kid if I brought my baggage into parenthood. However, if adoption is the best option, I’d be fine. I’d make sure I was.”
“The other is surrogacy,” I say.
He frowns, and I explain.
“So, we rent a womb?” he says.
I sputter a laugh. “It’s a little more complicated, but yes, that’s the basic idea.”
“Okay,” he says, nodding. “So that’s the plan, then, if we ever reach that stage. Try ourselves, and if that doesn’t work or it endangers you, then option two is surrogacy. Option three is adoption.” He looks at me. “Does that help?”
“It feels a little silly, coming up with a course of action for something we may never want, but…”
“It’s never silly if it makes you feel better.”
I lean over to kiss him. “It does. Thank you.”
THIRTY
We set off after a world-class breakfast of instant coffee, protein bars, and venison jerky. Then we walk all morning in snowshoes, carrying provisions on our backs, stopping only to dine on … water, half a protein bar, and a slab of venison jerky. I can grumble about the menu, but by lunch, I’m like a starving cartoon character, spotting shy Arctic hares and seeing only their plump bodies roasting on a spit.
Off again, and it’s midafternoon before Dalton slows to examine landmarks, like reaching the right neighborhood and slowing the car to read street signs. Storm whines, and we go still, listening. When we hear the crunch of snow he calls, “Hello!”
The footsteps stop.
“I’m letting you know we’re here,” Dalton says. “We’re armed, and we have a dog. That’s not a threat—again, just letting you know so we don’t give you a scare. We’re restraining the dog and lowering our weapons. We’d like to speak to you, please.”
Silence.
Dalton grunts, as if to say he hoped it’d be that easy but knew better. Still, he tries again with, “My name is Eric Dalton. I know the Second Settlement is out here, and we found something in the forest that we’re told might belong to you. We only want to return it.”