“Oh,” Andrea says with genuine concern. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Long distance…It was inevitable….But I think we’ll stay friends,” I babble, trying to make my story more believable.
Andrea nods. “Yes. It’s always nice if you can stay friends,” she says, then glances at Will uneasily.
“Or not,” I say cheerfully, throwing her a lifeline.
“Or not,” Will echoes with a nervous chuckle.
—
AFTER SEEING WILL, I experience a brief setback, granting myself a few days of self-pity and regret. But I remind myself that motherhood is what matters most to me, and that once I have a baby, I won’t want to change a single thing about my past, including the fact that I lost Will, because all those steps will have been what led me to my child. I just have to get on with things.
So that Friday night, I throw myself back into my research, surfing a reputable sperm-donor site. I’ve yet to submit my credit-card information and pay for full access to the database; I just want to get my feet wet. As I read, I start thinking about other women in my shoes, as well as married couples who are here because the husband’s sperm isn’t good. Somehow, it helps to remember that I’m not the only one in this boat—and I tell myself to just take it one step at a time.
“Do I care about eye color?” I blurt out to Gabe at one point as I go through the menu of genetic options, making selections just for the hell of it.
“I don’t know. Do you?” he asks with a yawn. He is reclined on the sofa, his feet propped up on two pillows.
“Well, I prefer brown-eyed guys,” I say. “But I’m not dating the guy. And I think I’d rather my child have my eye color.”
“Narcissist,” he says.
“I’m not a narcissist,” I say. “It’s just—all things being equal—it might be nice if she looked like me.”
“She?”
“Or he. For some reason, I picture a girl,” I say, standing to refill my mug of coffee from the stale pot left over from this morning, then making a mental note to cut back on caffeine, starting tomorrow. I sit back down at the kitchen table, click the blue-eye box, summarizing aloud for Gabe. “Okay. So this is what I have so far….Caucasian, brown hair, blue eyes, medium or medium-dark skin tone—”
“Why not fair-skinned?” he asks.
“Because she’ll be less likely to burn—and therefore less likely to get skin cancer.”
“All right,” Gabe says, sitting up and stretching. “I buy that.”
“Okay. Next: ethnic background,” I continue, scanning the continents and choices, as I check all the Eastern and Western European boxes, from Austrian and Belgian, to Finnish and French, to Scottish and Slovak, with a running commentary to Gabe as I move my mouse and click.
“What about that Brazilian guy you dated for a while? You contemplated getting accidentally knocked up by him, didn’t you?”
“That was a joke. But he was pretty hot,” I say as I click the Brazilian box. “And…let’s see…I’m also going to throw in Native American, Lebanese, and Israeli.”
“Why’s that?” Gabe asks, appearing amused.
“Because you’ve got some Lebanese blood,” I say. “And I’ve always liked your face.”
“Gee, thanks.” He stands, stretches, then makes his way to the kitchen table, looking over my shoulder.
“And Israelis are badass,” I continue.
“I think that comes from living in a war zone rather than genes….Buckhead might not have that same effect,” Gabe says, sitting across from me.
“Maybe,” I say. “But I’m still keeping that box checked….And I think it would be cool to have Native American blood….Don’t you?”
“I guess,” he says, now scrolling through his texts. “But FYI, there aren’t a lot of blue-eyed Native Americans out there.”
“True,” I say. “But it could happen. Recessive genes and all that…Now. What about astrological sign? You think that’s important?”
“To idiots it might be,” Gabe says, knowing I read my horoscope on a regular basis.
“C’mon, Gabe,” I say. “You promised you’d be my adviser here.”
“What do you think I’m doing?” He leans toward me, his elbows on the table. “I’m advising you not to be an idiot.”
I shake my head and say, “Well, I’m sorry…but I just can’t do an Aquarius. They’re notoriously cold. Detached,” I say, thinking of Will.
“You’d rather have an attached sperm donor? Isn’t that sort of the point of using an anonymous donor instead of someone you know?”
“Yes, but I don’t want an emotionally detached child,” I say.
“Okay. But zodiac signs aren’t genetic,” he says. “Assuming you believe in that crap, the sign of your child is determined by when your child is born, right?”
I laugh and say, “Oh, yeah! Good point! See? This is why I need you!…Religion…? Hmm…I guess Christian, right?”