One Good Egg: An Illustrated Memoir (5 page)

Sunday morning, I woke up and called Lorene while I was still in bed. She was happy for me, but she wasn’t available to celebrate. She was getting ready to go away for three weeks.

I am going to be a
single
mother.

If I’m lucky.

I Can, He Can, We Will

The receptionist at the sperm bank
was initially sympathetic, generically speaking, on a par with pet-cremation or funeral-home personnel. But once she got the picture—there was no terminal illness involved, Steve had
not
been called up to war, and, in fact, we weren’t even married—she went cold. “We have criteria for ‘selected donors.’ They must be between the ages of eighteen and thirty-eight.”

“Thirty-eight?” I had lost track of Steve’s age, but I knew it was older than mine.

“Six months quarantine—”

“My friend is older than thirty-eight.”

A moment’s silence. “A complete physical, semen analysis, and blood work, all subject to review by our doctor.”

“Excuse me,” I interrupted a third time. “Are you saying you don’t bank sperm for people who are older than thirty-eight?”
You are a fucking STORAGE facility! No pun intended.

She did not respond. “Ruth”—I had written her name down on the top of my page—“can you pretend like you are trying to
help
me?”

“Would you like to speak with our director?”

“I would, please. Thank you.”

“He’s not available. I will let him know.”

Would you like a million dollars? How ’bout a pony?
I was replaying the conversation for Lorene over dinner, a bon voyage dinner at my house, that night.

“Why didn’t you just say he was your husband?”

“I don’t know.” I
did
know, but I find my own earnestness so unbecoming.

“I don’t want to bring my baby into the world with a lie. The kid is going to have to answer so many questions—a lie just complicates things.”

“It
is
complicated.”

“A lot of things are . . . I don’t have a simpler way.” I felt like I might start to cry.

Lorene tapped my knee. “It doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do it. You are going to do it. And you’re going to be great at it.”

I was going to miss Lorene. I hugged her dog, Vita, as we watched her get into her car. Three weeks with no dinners, no morning calls.

The phone rang at six o’clock two mornings later. I’d already fed Vita and Mister and gone back to bed. I could hear church bells ringing in the background. Lorene was just calling to get my shoe size. I fell back to sleep.

Lorene was sitting on my bed. She had presents for me: little pastel-colored tissue paper party favors that became animals and a metal letter holder with animal cutouts. I hugged her and she said, “I was looking for love in your eyes. I must have masticated this.” I knew she meant “fabricated.”

The dream was as unsettling as it was pleasant. I couldn’t be falling in love again—not with the best friend I’d made in a very long time. Besides, it was much too soon.

M
y Day 3 blood work was normal; I got the news on Day 4. My fertility was in question for less than twenty-four hours. Meanwhile, on the other side of the world, Steve waited weeks for his results.

Hi Suzy, Well, it’s done. I was escorted into a white room with a coffee table and a magazine called Home Girls, offering “50 Top Titties.” I was given a curiously small container, not that I was going to fill it—it’s just the mechanics of getting the stuff in there. The nurse said, “Are you sure that’s the whole deposit?” I’ve been staying up until 2 a.m. watching the French Open. Now she’s got me worried. I’ll let you know when I hear. Probably a week. I want Capriati to win the tittle, oops, title.

Love, Steve

Eleven days later:

My GP has a mystery illness, no one knows when she’ll be back and the results must come through her. The secretary assures me the results are not in; it could take another seven days. (The lab typist is slow.) I’m half-convinced I’m not fertile. Friends tell me the sperm pool is drying up due to pollution, preservatives, and pay TV. The way I see it, if I’m fertile, that’s great. Fine adventures ahead. If not, that’s also okay— other adventures ahead, but I’m hoping, a bit afraid.

Love, Steve

Another nine days later:

Hey Suzy, Guess what—I’m fertile! All the results came up okay.

More later, xxx, Steve

L
orene brought me shoes from Italy. And a baby board book in Italian. And my baby’s first toy. I was looking into his bead eyes, imagining that baby, when Lorene said, “I shouldn’t have. Here,” she reached for him. “I’ll keep him. I’m sorry. You’re afraid I’ve jinxed you.”

“No,” the thought hadn’t occurred to me. “I’m afraid.” I hesitated. “I’m falling in love.”

“Oh.” She laughed for a few uncomfortable seconds. “Me, too. But we know better.”

I agreed. Neither one of us was about to trade a lifelong best-friendship for another short-lived love affair.

And for a full fourteen days we didn’t. Then the night before I was leaving for Milwaukee, we kissed good-bye.