“Was it cathartic?” he asks, missing the mark—which is rare for him.
I shake my head. “No,” I say. “The opposite…Meredith and I both expected to see more grief…more longing….I think part of us, on some level, went into the night actually wanting to see a broken woman…wanting to hear that his death destroyed her life….” My voice trails off as I silently finish my sentence: just as it did ours.
Gabe stares at me for a few seconds, then shakes his head. “Nah. You wouldn’t want that,” he says. “You just wanted to hear what he meant to her. That he affected her in some profound and lasting way.”
I nod, thinking that this time he is right—that that really would have been enough. “Yeah. True,” I say, drawing a deep breath as I stand and take the stool next to his. “So it wasn’t cathartic. But I do feel a sense of closure.”
“On the Sophie front?”
“Yeah. And also with Meredith…I hope she comes around…but if she doesn’t…”
“She will. She always does.”
“She might not this time. But either way…I did what I had to do….And I feel that I can now move on with my life. I’m ready to have a baby. Right now.”
Gabe turns ninety degrees on his stool, as I do the same, our shoulders now squared. “Right now, huh?”
“Yeah.” I nod, feeling a rush of adrenaline as I hold his gaze. “Right now. And with you, Gabe. I want to have this baby with you.”
“You do?” he says. His smile is faint, but his eyes are unmistakably happy.
“Yes. I do,” I say, overwhelmed with a sense of calm certainty. “If the offer’s still good?”
“Yeah.” Gabe grins. “I think we’re both a little nuts here…but yeah, the offer’s still good.”
“Can you picture it?” I ask him—because I’m finally really starting to. Not just motherhood, which I’ve been imagining in one way or another since I was a little girl playing with dolls, but a permanent partnership with Gabe—and the dark-haired, brown-eyed, brilliant child his genes will likely give me.
“Yes. I can, actually,” he says without any hesitation.
“Really?” I say, feeling a little choked up.
He nods. “Yes. You’re my best friend, Josie. You’re more than a best friend. I told you—you’re my family.”
“You’re my family, too,” I say. “I just want you to be sure.”
“I’m sure,” he says. “I’m sure that you’re going to drive me crazy. And I’m sure this baby is going to kill my lifestyle….But I’ve given this a lot of thought—really since the first time you brought it up—and I’m also sure—very sure—that this will be the best thing I ever do with my life. That this baby will be everything to me. To both of us.”
I break into a big grin, then give him an even bigger hug. As we separate, I tell him he’s officially on the hook, no take-backs, and that I’ll be calling Dr. Lazarus first thing tomorrow morning.
—
“SO HOW WILL this work, exactly?” Sydney asks me the following afternoon as we sit on our usual bench on the playground, supervising the kids during recess. I’ve just told her about the appointment I booked with Dr. Lazarus for later this week—and my decision to use Gabe’s sperm.
“Do you mean the actual procedure?” I ask her.
“Yeah. Will you have to do IVF?”
“No,” I say. “Not yet. My ovarian reserve is on the low side, but we decided to try one straightforward round of insemination first….”
“So no fertility drugs?”
“No,” I say. “Just an injection of hCG to trigger ovulation beforehand.”
“Then what?”
“That’s pretty much it. Then we just wait and see what happens….” I say, the weight of my decision sinking in more with every passing hour.
“So no lawyers, either? Like you were going to use with Pete?”
“Correct,” I say, getting butterflies hearing Pete’s name and thinking about our dinner plans tonight. I push him out of my mind and continue, “They just take the sample from Gabe…then wash and process it to basically concentrate the sperm and maximize the chances of conception….Then they just shoot it up there. It’s a supereasy procedure.” I pat my stomach and smile. “It’s like a normal pregnancy…minus his penis inside me.”
“Oh, yeah. So normal.” Sydney cracks up just as Edie runs over to our bench, calling my name in deep distress, as she does about twice a week. “Miss Josie! Miss Jo-sieeee!”
“What’s wrong, sweetie?” I ask, pretending to be more alarmed than I am.
“Wesley called me a ‘dumb girl,’?” she sobs, tears streaming down her face. “He’s so mean.”
I put my arm around her and tell her what I believe to be true based on months of observation. “Sweetie, Wesley teases you because he likes you.”
“No, he hates me,” she insists as I catch Wesley over by the monkey bars, eyeing us with a mischievous smile.