Chapter 11
Eleven
In a white coat, pink blouse, and perfect blond hair, Dr. Laura Cantor looks more like a Barbie doll than a fertility specialist. If I didn’t see her take the seat behind the large wooden desk, I’d swear she was photoshopped in.
Her desk is tidy. Aside from the computer and files she carried in with her, there’s only a single cup of pens and a Newton’s cradle that I doubt anyone plays with.
Dotting the walls around us are certificates, accolades, and numerous family photos.
Her children and husband are as equally perfect looking as she is.
They probably attend a lot of dinner parties.
To look less like I’m between meetings as a funeral director, as my mom so eloquently put it, and more like an excited mother to be, I wore blue jeans, a pair of strappy flat sandals, and a slouchy tee.
Today, I am Reese Conway: Domestic Baby Maker.
“Tell me about yourself, Reese,” Dr. Cantor says through her glossed, smiling lips.
“I . . .” Hate that question. “Live in Chicago and work at a private equity firm. I’m here helping my mom recover from brain surgery and thought it would be a good time to get pregnant.”
Dr. Cantor nods. “And why’s that?”
Because my boss backed me into a corner.
“Because I’m forty.” At her pinched brows, I add, “And I’ve been busy . . . too busy, some might say.”
“And you’ve always wanted to be a mother?”
“Yes,” I say with a nod. This, at least, is not a lie, as proven by teenage to-do list pinned to a corkboard.
Dr. Cantor shifts in her seat and opens the file of my medical history. She flicks her gaze to me. “No medication or health history noted. Is that correct?”
“Healthy as a horse.”
She continues to riffle papers, and I pull one of the balls back on the Newton’s cradle then release it. It sets off a chain reaction of metallic clicks that makes her look.
I stop it with my palm.
“Sorry,” I murmur. “And I’ve never had an irregular Pap test or bloodwork.
I was on birth control in my twenties but got off a few years ago.
” She looks at me, and my mouth fills with too many words that have no place to go but out.
“I don’t have a particularly active dating life.
Or sex life. I mean I have sex, just not a lot of sex.
We use condoms when I do.” She keeps looking at me.
“It’s been a while though.” I sputter out a Morse code-like breath, trying to think of how long it’s been.
Definitely months. There was that one guy after the Zickerman deal .
. . “I’m healthy as a horse, just not a horse with a lot of riders.
Not a whorse, if you catch my drift.” I wink.
Either Gavin the idiotic neighbor is contagious, or sperm banks make me stupid.
She’s seemingly satisfied because she closes the file.
“We see a lot of the single women in a similar position. Strong professional lives who haven’t found the right partner.
While women are having children later in life, there’s definitely age to consider.
Some risks come along with being forty. Higher occurrences of babies with Down syndrome, higher miscarriage rates, possible egg quantity or quality issues. ”
What?
My insides twist. I knew there were risks, I read about them in the book I bought, but having her say them out loud reduces time and adds pressure to do this now. Even if I wasn’t on a work deadline, I’m on a biological one.
Breathe, Reese.
I am healthy, and even if I don’t have a lot of time left, I do have time.
She sees my worry, adding, “You’re here now. There’s no need to be nervous or ashamed of wanting to be a mother, Reese. It’s biology. It’s part of being a woman.”
Right.
“Yes. Biology . . .”
For a second I wonder if something is wrong with me because I haven’t prioritized having a baby until the moment I told Trish I was.
I’ve always wanted kids—I think of it every morning when I see women leaving the elevator for the twelfth-floor sperm bank—but I haven’t wanted them enough to make an effort.
I’ve shoved it aside. Repeatedly. I don’t ever want my child to know that.
“. . . is hard to ignore,” I continue. “I can’t wait.
I’ve been feeling so—” I sigh, not sure I know the word to explain how I feel about this situation.
“Restless about it. Desperate even.” My thoughts are all over the place, but if I know anything about myself it’s that when I have this baby, I’ll be the best mom ever.
The bonus will be the Fizz Co onesie in the designer diaper bag slung over my shoulder.
“You’ve come to the right place.” Dr. Cantor smiles brightly and I mirror it.
“I know you have all the paperwork and seem to have done your research, but the process usually goes like this: We’ll do a few exams—bloodwork, pelvic ultrasound, hormone tests, things like that—and you’ll select a donor from the list. We are an open-ID facility, meaning our donors aren’t anonymous a—”
“I saw that online.” I sit up a little straighter. “I was hoping to interview them.”
“Not that open,” she says with a chuckle. “It means when the child turns eighteen, they have the option to meet the donor.”
My stomach drops; I didn’t do deep-dive research on that because why the hell would that be what open identification means?
She continues. “Before then, you’ll get full profiles—photos, more information than most people know about their spouses, really. You won’t get their name or address—nothing allowing you to directly contact them.”
“What?” That won’t work. People lie on paper.
Tests lie. I don’t trust anything other than my own two eyes, and I can’t get eyes on people through profiles.
I’ve had company execs lie to my face about how good business is only for the ugly truth to be revealed the second I see the numbers.
“Maybe if I choose one, you could contact them and see if they’d be open to a pre-impregnation meeting? ”
She shakes her head. “I’m afraid that’s not how it works.
” At my frown, she adds, “And you have plenty of time to look over the donor catalog. It’s all online, but this is the physical copy.
” She slides a binder toward me. The pages are covered with snapshots of men with lists of education, hobbies, genetic testing results, and health histories.
“We cap our donor age at thirty-nine to ensure the best quality.”
Thirty-nine? That’s younger than me. The men I’ve dated have always been older.
For a split second, I think of Gavin. Not that I want to date him or have him father my child, but at how surprised I was at him being thirty and asking me out.
It wasn’t his age per se, but more that the younger men are, the less they know themselves.
The less they’ve accomplished or know where they’re going.
“How much do they get paid to jack off into a cup?” I ask, flipping the page.
Dr. Cantor’s expression falters. “I’m sorry?”
I pause mid-turn of a page. “It would be a telling piece of information.” I point to a photo of a thirty-two-year-old man. “Does this guy need the cash? If so, that’s a red flag.”
Her gaze bounces from the photo to me, brows pinched. “How so?”
I almost laugh. “At thirty-two, I’d expect the father of my child to be on a solid career path.
Not at the top of his field, of course, but climbing.
If donors get paid a lot, maybe that explains why this man”—I tap the photo—“would do it. Maybe it’s enough money to finally get his start-up going. Give him a leg up.”
Lines crease Dr. Cantor’s otherwise perfectly smooth forehead: My money’s on Botox. My eyes drop to her perky chest: Those are probably fake too. Good for her. She wants to look perfect, and she’s taken action to make it happen.
Or her husband had an affair and she’s overcompensating.
“But if it’s not a lot of money,” I continue, “that begs the question of why is this man spreading his seed? Is it because he wants to help someone who needs it? That would be altruistic and appreciated. But if he’s not—if he’s going into a room and beating off to porn for chump change because he needs beer money?
” I scoff. “That’s not at all the kind of man I want fathering my child.
” I have no idea why she seems confused. “Does that make sense?”
“Um.” She eyes the binder like maybe she gave me the wrong one. “I’m sorry, Reese. That’s not information I’m able to share . . .”
Fucking privacy laws.
I sigh. “Well, you can see how much easier it would be if I were able to meet the donors, right? We could clear the motives up and make this process so much easier.” I snap the binder shut. “You should pass that on to whoever you know at the ASRM.”
“ASRM?”
“American Society for Reproductive Medicine,” I fill in. “That’s who sets donor anonymity guidelines, right?”
She clears her throat. “Yeah . . . that’s just not possible.”
My nostrils flare. I bet it would be possible if she’d bother to make a few phone calls. “Do you even know the donors?” I ask. “Have you personally met them?”
“Some of them,” she admits. “At least one staff member has met every one of them though. We have all personal information—” She taps her computer screen.
“And I can assure you they are real and decent men.” She scrolls on her screen and smiles.
“Aha. Here we go. I can’t give you his personal information, but I can tell you that the man you were looking at has a reputable company listed for employment. ”
“So you have all the legal names and addresses?” My gaze lingers on the computer.
“I do.” She folds her hands on her desk and squares up to me. “Listen, Reese, I know this process comes with a lot of feelings and decisions and relinquishing control.” Not happening. “It’s good practice for motherhood—control goes out the window once baby shows up.”
She continues talking, but I’m riding a new train of thought. If I could get access to all this information, I’ll know everything there is to know to make the right choice for my child.
Dr. Cantor’s voice pulls my attention from the computer. “Why don’t we get your appointments scheduled, you can think about it, and we can revisit this after you’ve had time to review the profiles? Everything’s accessible through our online portal. You can take your time.”
“Do I need all the tests?” I want this to go fast as possible, but I also know the donor decision will take me some time.
I’m building a person; it can’t be rushed.
“My last annual exam was a few months ago, I can have my doctor send the records. Maybe cut back on some of the overlap and wasted time?”
“Sorry. It’s clinic policy that we do all exams and tests as close to the procedure as possible. If it’s time you’re worried about, depending on your cycle and barring any issues, we can usually schedule the first IUI in as early as eight to ten weeks after today’s consultation.”
I already knew this, yet my heart gallops. I try to imagine myself with a baby bump but can’t get over it being by a man I haven’t met yet. I can’t do this if I don’t see the people in the flesh, even if I can’t talk to them.
A knock on the door is followed by a nurse’s head popping through a cracked opening. “Dr. Cantor, can I borrow you?”
Dr. Cantor smiles and nods. “Reese, can you excuse me for just a moment? Keep looking through the donors, and I’ll be back to answer any questions before we get those next appointments scheduled.”
As soon as the door closes, I don’t even pretend to debate what I’m about to do.
I’m on my feet and behind her desk in seconds.
My fingers slide across the mouse as names and faces slide across the screen.
This is wrong on so many levels but so is having a baby by a potentially lying con man or Sucker Sucking Matt getting Fizz Co, so I don’t stop.
The screen contains the same donors that were in the binder, only her version has names, phone numbers, addresses, and places of employment.
It’s the mother lode.
Muffled voices penetrate the door, and I freeze.
I can’t get caught, but I refuse to go back to Chicago without at least a lead on getting pregnant, and I can’t get pregnant by any idiot with a load to blow.
I didn’t come this far in life by choosing excellence just to hold back when it comes to having a baby.
When the door doesn’t open, my fingers work fast to adjust the filtering options. I prioritize height, education, and age. I want a tall, smart baby because if this were happening my way, I’d have a tall, smart man knocking me up.
The screen freezes.
I hit refresh.
The clock ticks.
“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” I whisper.
Dr. Cantor’s voice laughs on the other side of the door; I pound random keys to no avail.
“Shit,” I mutter at the computer as I stare at the door.
Finally—finally—the updated results load. I use my phone to snap a picture of the top ten donors on the screen.
The door swings open; I nearly black out.
“Ah,” Dr. Cantor says, stepping next to me. “My favorite spot.”
She studies the same photo hanging on the wall behind her desk as I am. She and her family are in red puffy coats, grouped together in front of a line of snow-capped mountains.
Inside my chest, my heart pounds with a rib-cracking ferocity.
“Switzerland,” she says with a smile. “You ever been?”
“Once,” I tell her through a shaky breath.
“For work.” Tied up in meetings, I didn’t see a damn thing while I was there.
“Anyway, I think we should move forward with your plan.” I round the desk and grab my purse, putting as much space between the computer of my crimes and me.
“I’ll look over the donors on the portal and make my appointments so we can get the ball rolling on this.
I’d like to be pregnant before I go back to Chicago. ”
She walks me to the door. “I appreciate your eagerness, but you should be prepared for it to take longer than you expect. Sometimes it takes a few tries to get one to stick.” Before I can tell her I’m an overachiever in all parts of my life, she adds, “If needed, we can send the sperm to a clinic in Chicago for you to do additional rounds.”
“Perfect.”
In the parking lot, I stuff myself into my mom’s car, pretending it’s something much bigger than a lime-green Volkswagen Beetle, and let what I just did sink in.
I stole medical information so I can make a baby.
If someone else were making these choices, I’d have them committed, but since it’s me, I’ll die on this hill.
At the photo on my phone of the ten donors, I smile a little. They’re successful, good-looking guys. One of them is going to unknowingly father my tall, smart child.
I see it all so clearly. Me and a baby. Toys littering the floor of my condo. Us reading books on the roof then analyzing the market trends.
And there, deep in my belly where this little he or she will soon take root and grow, excitement blooms.