I’d like to tell you the Pearl Clutch Brigade listened to the scientists. They didn’t. But theydidrealize they would never have grandbabies if they didn’t let go of their pearls and shut their screechy cakeholes. They could see their family lines die and never rock a grandchild to sleep in their arms – or they could enable Adam and Steve to pony up the babies.
Obstacles against genetics laws fell like dominoes wearing “World’s Best Grandma” onesies. Consumer laboratories rushed to open their doors and educate the populace on how, with a little science razzle-dazzle, any man could contribute the maternal half of the DNA required to make a child. Adam and Steve could create offspring related by blood to both of them, and legions of grandparents could swing into action.
Not too far in the future, we won’t have to designate between “maternal” and “paternal” donors. We’ll build our offspring from the ground up, with chromosomal pairs donated from multiple people and combined to create a child wholesale. We’ll have technological wombs for rent instead of surrogates. Biomedicine is an incredible frontier full of creative, determined souls.
Thus the Kelson Genetics slogan. XY reallyisA-OK, no XX chromosomes needed. The human race will continue, genetic diversity scores a win, and the makers of “When Daddy Says No, Grandma Says Yes!” bibs hold onto their job security with teeth and toenails.
* * *
The Kelson Genetics commercial finished on the radio and drifted into advertising for the biggest selection of RVs on one lot in the state of Wyoming. Jackson rolled his eyes. “If we have kids, we arenevergoing to that place,” he said. “Not unless I get to punch the bastard who wrote that song as part of the deal.”
“I’ll hold him for you,” I said. This begged a question. “Your introductory materials said you want to have babies. It also mentioned you’d prefer to be the paternal donor. Is that still right?”
He nodded. “I’d like to be. Not that I think any less of the maternal donors!” He tacked that on right at the end as he realized how the statement might sound without it. “If my husband – I mean, if you, I’m not used to saying that yet – had big objections to being the maternal half, I’d do it in a heartbeat. Fuck. This isn’t coming out right at all.”
I chuckled to reassure him. “I’m not used to it either. But I like calling you my husband. I like it when you call me your husband, too. We’ll get there.”
The most adorable smile spread his lips wide. A little shy, a little dopey, the kind of smile you see on high schoolers who’ve just realized their crush likes them back. “Yeah. We’ll get there.”
That potential faux pas handled, I continued with where he’d pointed the conversation to start with. “For the record, since we’re forced to listen to Kelson ads, no. I have no objection to supplying the maternal half of a child. It doesn’t matter to me either way. It does to you, though.”
“It does.” He sighed and looked sheepish. “When I was growing up, I spent every moment I could with my dad. Or I’d watch him spend time with my sisters and brother. He was everything I wanted to be, you know? Strong. Kind. Smart. I’d go to bed thinking, ‘Someday, I’m gonna be a daddy, too, and I’m gonna be just like him.’ Guess I want to pay homage to that old dream. Is that dumb?”
“I don’t think it’s dumb.” I spread my hands, careful not to tip the remains of the trail mix onto the truck seat. “You admire your dad. You want to be like him. It’s who you want to be to your own kids. I think that’s kind of sweet.”
Even if I didn’t understand it. Not on a lizard-brain level. My memories of my father included the scent of expensive aftershave as a trigger for anxiety and an increasing contempt for each other on both our parts. The only time I looked up to my dad was if he stood on a stepladder.
“And I’m so lucky for that,” he said, and tossed me a smile as he glanced away from the road. “Thanks, Bastian. I mean it. For making all this so easy. Maybe… You know, maybe we’ll want more than one kid. If we do, we could swap off who’s the maternal donor and who’s the paternal donor.”
The last thing I wanted to do, in the storied history of ever, was honor my feelings for my father. That bothered Jackson, though, so I said instead, “We could do that. Let’s get through the first one and see how we feel.”
“That sounds great.” And just like that, we had navigated a potential relationship minefield, found compromises, and used our words like grown-ass adults. Maybe we were getting better at this.
11FAMILY TIES MADE OF DUCT TAPE
We hitthe long driveway to the ranch at about four-thirty in the afternoon. If I were about to die to a disapproving family, I would do so on a parcel of truly beautiful land. I sort of hoped they’d bury me there if they decided to off me. At least I’d have a hell of a view.
Rolling pastureland rolled right up to the foothills of an impressive range of mountains. Cows milled around on it, eating and mooing and doing cow things with apparent contentment. Horses kept them company from a stable nearby. As we drove closer, I could also see what I thought was a chicken coop, a workshop, and a large livestock trailer hooked up to a huge work truck.
A sprawling ranch house sat at the heart of the property. Old trees towered into the cloud-dotted sky, shading the house against the worst of the afternoon sun. One of the family had put a lot of time and effort into the landscaping closest to the house, with flower beds and potted plants and what looked like several rows of sunflowers. They’d turn into a wall of happy yellow blooms come the start of autumn.
Jackson honked the truck’s horn three times. The door to the ranch house flew open moments later. An Australian shepherd barreled out at top doggy speed, barking and bouncing and ready to play. Teton, I presumed. A woman who fit the “defense contractor turned farm wife” theme to a T followed, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel she’d slung over her floral-shirted shoulder.
Behind her came a hawk-faced man who looked like he used rebar as chewing gum and might take a prize for “Best Grizzled Rancher” someday. He probably wore flannel year round and owned stock in boot-cut jeans. In his shadow followed a younger copy of Jackson, or probably of their father, who seemed bitter that his own ascent to the throne of Grizzled Rancher still waited decades away. I needed but a single glance at him to see that he and I would not be friends. Hell, if I were lucky, we’d stop atenemiesand not slide all the way tonemeses determined to bring about the other’s downfall.
The engine hadn’t finished its final shudder upon shutoff before Jackson had launched himself out the truck’s door. “Mom! Dad!” he shouted, his face about to split with the grin he wore.
Both parents lit up when they saw him. Teary-eyed and awash with relief, they ran to him to engulf him in a bear hug for the ages. I got a little misty myself, for a lot of reasons.
Because I knew they had been scared for him. Deployments are dangerous. Deployments to Mars have stopped being suicide, but they’re brutal and just as likely to send home a bag full of dehydrated soldier as they are living kin. These people had lived through months of fear as their son shipped out, flew to Mars, fought there, and shipped home again. This moment, this embrace, provided the final proof that their son had come back to them in one piece. For a few days, they could breathe without worry for their loved one so far away.
Because my husband was so happy to see his family. He’d missed them. He’d wanted to spend time with them. He’d worried, on the darkest nights, that he would never again set foot on this ranch, would never feel his mother’s hug or the kiss his father put on his forehead. He had returned to the roots he’d longed for, and now, he could truly feel like he’d come back home. A new husband you have never met is no substitute for the family you’ve known all your life.
And, just a little, because I had never seen my parents cry, let alone at my return. I had never known this acceptance, this wild joy at my presence. They wanted me back on their own terms or none at all, and if those were my choices? They, and I, would have none.
I hopped out of the truck without fanfare to stretch and brush the odd stray sunflower seed off my jeans. Long car rides did not get along with my back and hip, so I used my cane to steady myself while my nerves decided to play nice. The fiery complaints of nerve endings and stabs of pain would ease soon. Movement would help.
As I rounded the front of the truck, I caught the glare of the youngest Sadler. Laramie, I assumed, though I’d thought he would be on base somewhere, finishing his Mars deployment training. He might have gotten a weekend liberty to see his brother. They might have given him a special dispensation to glower in the general direction of the outsider who had interloped into their family.Terrific.Then the dog wanted pets and I didn’t care anymore.