Chapter 10
CHAPTER
TEN
AVA
If you want a baby, I can give you one.
Those are the first words I think when I wake the next morning, a ghost of the headache that started last night still scratching at my brain.
I had stared at him open mouthed, waiting for him to start laughing hysterically. Instead his eyes had clouded as he took in my shocked expression, and he’d become uncharacteristically nervous, shifting his feet on the stoop of my townhouse.
“I mean, I can donate the sperm,” he’d added. “So you don’t have to go through any procedures or choose the right donor.”
Still I’d said nothing. Because, seriously, what do you say to something like that?
Oh yes, please, I’d love your sperm. Give it to me now…
“Just think about it, okay?” he’d finally said when I remained silent, backing down the steps.
His eyes darted to my face, as though he wasn’t sure what else to say.
And it was strange, but he somehow looked more appealing than when he was big bad Myles who never felt an ounce of contrition about anything.
Like instructed, I’m still thinking about his words as I pull weeds out of the hydrangea beds I planted when I first bought this place. The front yard is small, but I love having a riot of color in the summer, and in this climate they take some maintenance.
I stop digging and take a long cleansing breath. Is it really such an awful idea to use sperm donated by somebody I know?
Even if the two of us butt heads at every turn?
I’d have to carry Myles’ baby for nine months. He’d see my bump swell and grow and know that the child inside of me belonged half to him, even if only genetically. Because you can be damn sure I’ll make him sign away any rights.
Shaking my head, I lay my trowel down. I can’t believe I’m even thinking about this. He was joking, right? Or drunk.
Except he hadn’t been drinking. And from my experience I can say for certain that Myles Salinger doesn’t joke. Which only leaves one conclusion…
“Ava!” My mother’s voice carries across the front yard. To be fair, it carries across everywhere. She can probably be heard in Virginia. “You need to put a hat on, sweetie. Haven’t you heard of global warming? The hole in the ozone layer? Skin cancer?”
I stand and stretch my arms. My mom is in her car – a convertible VW Bug painted pink with flowers daubed all across the chassis. She’s had this car ever since I can remember. It’s like her third limb or something.
“I put sunscreen on,” I tell her dryly. “Would you like a drink? I have a jug of lemonade in the refrigerator.”
“I can’t stay,” she tells me. “I’m off to Washington. We’re doing a march against fossil fuels in the morning so Raeanne is putting us all up overnight.”
“Are you driving there?” I ask, because it’s a five hour drive to Washington and I honestly don’t think her car will make it. I also don’t bother to point out that her car probably burns through more fossil fuels than anything else in this city. But she has an answer for everything.
“Don’t be silly. We’re taking the train. I just needed to pick up some supplies for my banners. We’re painting them tonight around the camp fire.”
“You’re camping?” I ask.
She looks at me as though I’m stupid. “Yes, in Raeanne’s backyard.”
My mother is seventy-two and has had two hip replacements. Yet she thinks nothing of bunkering down in a tent without any bathrooms nearby. I once asked her what she did when she had to go, and I’ve been trying to forget her answer ever since.
Never ask my mom a question unless you want a brutal, descriptive answer.
“… So if that happens, you’ll need to be ready with your credit card, okay?”
“What?” I ask. “I missed that.”
“Raeanne and I are going to march naked. We think it’ll get more publicity. But it’s against the law, so we could end up being arrested.” She looks ridiculously giddy at the thought. “She doesn’t think the bail will be high, so your credit limit should cover it.”
“Isn’t it…” I try to find the words. “A little cold to be doing that?”
“We’ll march fast. Send all the blood to the right places.” She frowns as her eyes scan my face. “Are you all right? You look pale?”
“I’m fine.”
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “There’s something wrong. I can tell. Is it work?” she asks. “Has that man who took your job upset you?”
“He didn’t take my job,” I point out. “I still have my job. He’s just standing in until they replace Richard.”
“They should replace him with you. You always did all the work there. Richard just took the credit. Can you believe we live in the twenty-first century and the patriarchy still rules?”
Somehow she’s moved to a more comfortable ground, railing against the unjustness of the world.
I truly love my mom. Growing up, she was so much fun to be around. I can’t really remember my dad ever being there. I only hear from him once in a blue moon.
But Mom always made sure I was happy and secure. And most of all we had fun. I used to love painting banners with her, and marching through the streets yelling slogans out of my lungs. We bonded over acid rain and the hole in the ozone layer and social injustices wherever they happened to be.
And then I reached puberty and I’m ashamed to say I got embarrassed of her. Sure, all teenagers find their parents embarrassing, but I can still remember the first time I told her I didn’t want to march for her stupid cause and she looked so upset.
I hate that I did that.
I hate that I allowed my embarrassment to come between us. Even now there’s a shadow of my behavior still there.
“If the police call I’ll bail you out,” I tell her, my throat thick. She really does believe in these causes, and somebody needs to.
Somebody needs to fight for the little guys. And I’m proud of her. Or at least I’m getting there.
“Thank you, sweetie.” She leans out of the car and pats my cheek. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I am.” I offer her a smile. “Honestly.”
“Hmmm.” She narrows her eyes. “Come to my place next Saturday. We can go out for lunch.”
“Okay.” I nod. “Sounds good. Now go before they leave without you. And try to not get arrested.”
She blows me a kiss. “I’ll do my best. You’ll know if I fail.” She starts the engine back up and toots the horn so loud the whole neighborhood can hear it, before pulling away with a squeal of her tires.