That vacation cemented our friendship so much that even when our lives veered in dramatically different directions, we still met up for coffee or dinner or a glass of wine. I was Martha’s maid of honor, even though she had three gorgeous, accomplished friends from Yale who could have easily stepped into those shoes. She told me she asked me because she was going to be tense enough dealing with her mother, and she needed someone to help her relax.
And even though I’ve rolled my eyes at her controlling and OCD tendencies, I’m glad to have someone like her in my life. I’ve needed someone like her in my life, because if I didn’t I’d just flake out completely. And I know, I absolutely know, she’d make a wonderful mom. A little strict maybe, and probably totally by the book, but still, a good mother.
But to my baby?
Martha is still staring at me, waiting for what? An answer, already? “Sorry,” I finally mutter. “I’m still processing all this.”
“Of course you are. I am too. I’m sorry to spring the idea on you like that. It just popped into my mind.” She bites her lip, and for a second she looks more uncertain, more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen her. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.”
And I don’t answer, because I’m still reeling, and part of me is thinking, Yeah, maybe you shouldn’’t have.
Martha returns to work a little while later; I don’t remember what the rest of our conversation was like. She talked about some ad account for women’s running shoes she was working on and I just blanked out. I still feel blank as I take the 6 train down to Union Square and then walk across to the Sunflower Café on Third Avenue.
I’ve been working at the Sunflower for ten years; it’s a funky little place with a relaxed atmosphere and a laid-back owner, Julia, who actually cares about her employees, all three of us. It’s me, Jasmine, and Eduardo, and I get along with both of them.
As I walk in I see it’s me and Eduardo on duty today, and I put my bag in the back and slide on my apron without really meeting his eyes. I still feel weirdly blank, and I’m not sure I can manage a normal conversation.
Eduardo is cool about it though; he just moves over to give me room at the cash register while he’s on the espresso machine, since he’s better at it than I am.
“You okay?” he finally asks when there is a lull in business and the café’s four tables are empty. It’s a beautiful day in early August, warm but not too hot, sunlight gilding everything in gold. Everyone wants to be outside.
I nod, although I feel a little dizzy and definitely nauseous; I’m still reeling from Martha’s suggestion. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I say and Eduardo doesn’t reply, just raises his eyebrows. I know I’m not fooling him. And then, maybe because he’s a pretty nice guy or maybe just because I’m still so dazed from my conversation with Martha, I blurt, “I’m pregnant.”
Eduardo doesn’t say anything; he seems totally unruffled. And why shouldn’t he be? He’s not pregnant. He’s about ten years younger than me, gorgeous, Latino, a dancer. He’s in a modern dance troupe and I’ve seen some of his shows. I kept my eyes on him the whole time; he moved with a sensuous, sinuous grace I didn’t notice when he was working the espresso machine.
I let out a shuddery breath and stare at the cash register. “I don’t know what to do.”
“What are you thinking about doing?” Eduardo asks, and I can’t tell what he thinks about anything from his tone.
“Well,” I say slowly, “termination seems the obvious choice.”
“But?”
“But I don’t think I’m going to do that,” I say, and with a jolt I know I mean it. I really don’t want to go down that road this time, although my feelings about why not are too difficult to untangle right now. Maybe I want to try to be different, but I’m not sure how different I can be. “I can’t have a baby, though,” I say and Eduardo just waits. “I mean, my life is totally not—I live in a walk-up. On the sixth floor. I have no health insurance. I have no money.”
I shake my head at the sheer impossibility of it all and then Eduardo says softly, “But?”
“But?” I repeat blankly, even though I know what he means. Do I want this baby? I can’t think past the impracticalities, the impossibilities. It’s as if a brick wall has been built in my mind, and I can’t see past it. I certainly can’t go around it.
But I know I don’t want to get rid of this baby.
Do I want to give it to Martha?
I think of her and Rob at dinner the other night, the strength and sorrow I felt from both of them. I imagine how happy this baby could make them. I know they’d be good parents. Rob would make up for her OCD tendencies, her need to micromanage. They’d balance each other out in parenthood just as they do in marriage. They’d be perfect, a perfect team. At least they’d be a lot better than I would. I know this, and yet weirdly it hurts. In this moment I wish, bizarrely, that I were different. I almost wish I were more like Martha.
“You have time,” Eduardo says quietly. “Even if it feels like you don’t, you do. Don’t rush into anything.”
After work I head home, because I’m too tired even to think of doing anything else. I’m working at the community center tomorrow, teaching basic drawing to twenty-two nine-year-olds, and I need to go over my lesson plan. Not that my job is really about lesson plans; it’s more about just being there for the kids, offering them a different outlet. I love it, and for a second I think that if I can be a good teacher, maybe I could be a good mom.
But even I’m not that optimistic. I know being a teacher and being a mother are two totally different things.
Back in my apartment I collapse onto my futon, exhausted, nauseous, heartsick. My mind is churning with Martha’s words and my thoughts. I imagine her holding a baby, the baby I gave birth to, and it seems so impossible and yet there is something so right about it too. Martha might be tense, unemotional, even cold, but she’s also been one of my closest friends.
She’s given me brisk talking-tos when I needed them, when I’d broken up with yet another low-life commitment-phobe. She wrote a personal reference for my job at the community center. I’ve drunk more wine at her kitchen table—she doesn’t allow it on the sofa—than at anyone else’s.
But now? This? It feels so much bigger. Scarier. And even though I don’t know what of, I know I’m afraid.
Lying there watching the evening sunlight streak slanted patterns onto the floor, the room hot and airless, I realize I need to get in touch with Matt. I haven’t even thought about him since that night, that oh-so fateful night that started this all. But if I’m not terminating this pregnancy, which I think I have now accepted that I’m not, I need to tell him I’m pregnant.
Don’t I?
I don’t really know the ethics of this kind of situation. If I give the baby up for adoption, does Matt need to know? Does he have legal rights? What if, God forbid, he wants the baby?
I roll over onto my side and reach for my laptop. The Internet is slow this time of day, whenever everyone is returning home from work and going online. It used to exasperate me, the thought of all those nine-to-fivers scurrying back to their bolt holes and plugging into cyberspace. Sitting there impatiently waiting for a search engine to load, I sympathize a bit more.
I type biological father rights adoption into the search box, and find a site about New York State adoptions laws. I read that biological