Authors: Alan Conway
I turn off the lamp and crawl in next to him. His hair is fragrantly strong with the smell of sweet apples. I kiss him on the ear, his body contorted in such a way that only he is capable of doing while in the throws of slumber. I close my eyes, imagining the child – the face, the eyes, the smile – hoping for a boy, although Damon secretly wants a girl. I feel my chest rise into the warmth of his back as darkness overtakes me.
C H A P T E R S I X
W
AITING FOR A
M
IRACLE
Brian
We take advantage of the continental breakfast downstairs – a Tex-Mex smorgasbord fit for an oil tycoon. Damon inhales a couple bowls of cereal while I read the local paper. Among the fine journalistic efforts in the Arts and Music section, I look over the local ads aimed at Austin's tourism. The Alamo is within driving distance, but our funds are limited after a sizable down payment at the clinic. There are underground caves, pub crawls, and a few choice theme parks. A music festival in Katy catches my attention, but none of the acts sound familiar.
“Are you nervous?” he asks.
I lower the paper. “Aren't you?”
“Well, yeah, but it sounds like they know what their doing, so–”
“I'm just not sure if we know what
we're
doing.”
“Brian,” he says, patting my knee under the table, “it'll be all right.” It's a moment of strong eye contact we rarely share anymore. I find comfort in those eyes and hush my doubts. He slurps milk from the Styrofoam bowl. “Talked to Lauren?”
“Yeah, briefly.”
“How is she?”
“Eh, hard to tell.” I feel like lying. “I almost talked her out of it.”
“So did I, but then she said something that hit me right in the gut. She said if it works, it will be the most beautiful thing she'll ever do for herself or for anybody else.”
A smile grows on my lips, but doubt shuffles back. “Do you think it will work?”
Damon shakes a long finger at me. “Remember what you say about the impossible?”
“Certain things are improbable, but never impossible.”
He winks at me and looks out at the Texas sun rising beyond the city skyline. “A third of me.”
“What?”
He looks back at me almost in a dream. “The baby. It'll be a third of me.”
“And a third of me,” I hear myself say as the words root themselves deep within the core of my being, electrifying my nerves. Adrenaline floods through me like a golden tidal wave.
Thursday comes quickly after a few days kicking around Austin. We eat at IHOP – all-you-can-eat strawberry-banana pancakes, oh my goodness – then we stop by IKEA where I buy silverware, bed sheets, and a curious bottle of mulled wine with a Swedish name I can't pronounce. Damon drags me into a used video game store where we bask in the nostalgia of our childhoods, digging through crates of beat-up cartridges from obsolete consoles. While Damon's checking out, Lauren texts me. She's out of the clinic and going to her hotel to rest. It's downtown near the convention center, which isn't too far from our own hotel. We make arrangements to have an early dinner before we're expected at the clinic to watch the miracle-workers in action. She insists on IHOP after I tell her about the strawberry-banana pancakes.
We arrive at the clinic a little before six o'clock. I'm feeling a bit ill. While Damon and Lauren check-in, I slip off to the bathroom and splash some water on my face.
I'm getting use to waiting rooms. They all look pretty much the same with their faded art prints, outdated magazines that no one really reads, and especially those few dozen uncomfortable chairs that look sicker than the handful of ill people slouched in them. We do a lot of waiting, and in these rooms designed for waiting, it only reminds me of what we're all truly waiting for:
Death.
We're called back almost immediately. Dr. Carter shakes my hand gently and puts his arm around my shoulders.
He whispers, “Brian, do you believe in God?”
“I don't know,” I say. “Sometimes.”
“Do you believe in miracles?”
I shrug. “I must.”
He smiles reassuringly. “Take a seat in here. All of you.”
We sit in front of a video monitor fed by input from the microscope in the lab next door. Classical music plays out of the tiny screens imbedded in the ceiling tiles. I begin to shake. My knees knock and my legs spasm, which makes my chair creak viciously. I reach for Damon's hand at my left and for Lauren's at my right.
Damon whispers, “Don't be a baby.”
“I'm not being a–”
Lauren gives my hand a squeeze. “It's okay, hon.”
And for the next hour, we watch this little bubble – Lauren's egg – as it's drained of its nucleic material and replaced with my DNA. Then we see hundreds of Damon's sperm swimming around the egg until one is aided with safe passage through the membranous wall.
I'm thinking
that's it?
Not quite.
Lauren
The whole thing was really amazing to watch. After the egg was fertilized – on the first attempt, which was rare according to Dr. Carter – it's implanted into my uterus. I'm put on all kinds of mediation to make sure it attaches itself properly and survives. Carter says it could take a few days and he recommends that I stay in town a while longer in case there's a problem. I agree. He even gives me an official excuse for my employer. Score!
We do very little over the next few days. We eat, sleep, and rent movies on pay-per-view. We do go over to this huge outdoor outlet mall and window shop. We look at all the wonderful little baby toys, clothes, bottles, play pens, carriers, car seats, and stuffed animals. We buy nothing there. We don't even know what to buy. It hits me that I don't know what to expect or how to prepare. We walk over to the book store and buy twenty-four books – eight different titles, three copies each. It's no longer a day for dreaming but a day for preparation.
Might as well start now.
Brian
Most people assume gratitude is simply understood, but it is not. If you are grateful for someone or something, let it be known. The rewards are plentiful, and deservedly so.
I cannot express the joy – and fear – I felt when Lauren burst into the room screaming that she was pregnant. The moment was surreal and beyond my ability to grasp, but knowing she was carrying a child that bore our genes was exceptionally humbling. We feasted and talked for hours, planning our future together. We all knew this would be an arduous journey, but we were grateful for this opportunity. It's so hard to believe that was six months ago.
Damon and I take turns visiting her when Adam is working. He and Lauren have become an unbelievably happy couple, and Adam is proud to harbor this unconventional relationship that evolves with each passing day. Lauren's cousin has since moved out and left an empty room that now possesses all the innocent charm ready for a child to thrive and grow.
Just the other day, Damon and I were on our way to Lauren's apartment and I just watched him as he drove, getting lost in that smile so warm it could melt the ice cap and flood the earth. I thought about a conversation we had a long time ago. He had asked me if I could chose anyone to be with, who would it be. I don't believe I answered, but I silently said
you
. And while I was looking at him, I thought to myself this was still true. I'm living my dream of spending time with someone whose company I truly enjoy. He's the one I want to talk to when I wake up, the one whose hand I want to hold and spend my life with.
I wouldn't have it any other way.
Lauren's on her second bowl of ice cream. Adam is here trying to give her a handful of prenatal vitamins, but she's a handful herself today. He looks frustrated when I come in the door and hang up my jacket. Adam says Dr. Carter will be flying into town in a few days to check her out. He leaves for work and I begin my shift.
“I'm craving something salty,” Lauren says, wiping her lips. “Can you see what I have in the pantry, Brian? Peanuts! See if I have any peanuts, please.”
I give her a small bow and retrieve a can of roasted nuts from the cupboard. She shoves handfuls in her mouth while trying to tell me something I can't understand.
“Has anyone ever told you not to talk with your mouth full?” I ask.
She gives me a dirty look, swallows, and repeats her sentence. “I
said
I've got some names picked out and I want your input.”
“Boys’
and
girls’ names?”
“Yes, both,” she says.
“What are you hoping for?”
She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “I just hope it's healthy whether it's a boy or a girl. What about you?”
“I want a boy, you know that.”
“Damon wants a girl,” she says with a smile that tells me she wants a girl, too.
“Well, let's hear these names.”
Before she can speak, my phone rings. It's my doctor. He asks me if I'm coming in tomorrow for my first round of chemo. I tell him I'll be there. He seems surprised and somewhat relieved since I've been avoiding him the past few months. At least now I don't have to worry about my treatment affecting my healthy sperm count.
After I get off the phone with him, Lauren asks me if I'd like her to come with me since Damon has to work. I say that's fine. It scares me because I'm not sure what to expect, although Mom has had numerous chemo treatments. She didn't lose her hair or anything, but she was always tired and very sick. I remember the fading lines drawn on her neck by the doctors so they could target the cancerous tumor beside her adam's apple.
I shudder.
Lauren takes my mind off it by telling me some of the names she's picked out. Most of them are very common and the unique ones are far beyond my ability to appreciate. I remind her that the name should flow well with the last name, but then again, we haven't decided whose last name the child will have.
Damon calls on his lunch break and I run the choices by him. He shoots them all down, and I'm glad. I pat the book of baby names and tell Lauren to come up with some more and to be creative this time. She doesn't like that, but we have a laugh just the same.
Lauren
Adam's asked me to move in with him. I know it's a big deal, but I hate living here by myself. The boys have already fixed up the baby's room and I'd hate to have it redone elsewhere. Then again, Adam has a three bedroom house in the suburbs with a garage and a fenced-in backyard. I've never lived with a man before, and although I've dreamed about being with Brian for so long, that's starting to fade.
What is a single mother-to-be to do?
That's unfair to say, I suppose. I have three wonderful guys in my life and all the support I'll ever need, plus some. I've got it made.
Brian
Lauren finally has the chance to wear maternity clothes. If she and I were walking through a department store and saw a mannequin in a large, loose-fitting top, she'd say
oh that's so cute!
Pregnancy – children – babies – diapers – toys – clothes – diapers – babies – crying – pregnant. It's enough to drive you mad.
I sold a new book to Caplan & Hammond called
Wilderness Drive
. My advance was almost twelve thousand dollars – three of which went straight into a secret bank account Damon doesn't know about. It's a vacation fund I've been working on for the past year, should we ever get the chance to take a vacation. I talked it over with Lauren and she agreed it would be best for Damon and I to make a temporary escape before the baby comes. Adam will be around to keep an eye on Lauren, so I hope Damon won't be too upset when I surprise him with reservations tonight.
My parents have a condo in Orange Beach, Alabama. It's right on the water and has a hell of a view from the balcony. Although we both have a fear of the ocean, there's nothing more relaxing than walking a soft white beach with someone you love.
Or so they say. Sounds romantic, actually.
"Hey, Brian, come check this out!" Damon says before I even have the chance to put my keys on the counter. I walk over past the TV and see this protest going on outside the Centurion Care Clinic in Austin. Some religious fanatics march back and forth along the sidewalk, jerking their hand-doodled signs for all the cameras to see. It's what I expected, really. I guess the word is out.
“What are we going to do?” Damon asks.
“We're not going to do anything. So far, there's no camera pointed at us. Let's try to keep it that way.”
“How did it get out?”
I tell him it was probably a nurse or janitor who got slipped a few greenbacks to spill inside information.
Vacation, Brian. Tell him.
I bend down, drape my arms around his neck, kiss his ear. He hasn't shaved in a few days and I'm not sure I like it. The scruffy look suits him in a rugged, sexy sort of way.
Maybe I can get use to it after all.
“We're going to the beach for the weekend.”
“The beach? Why?”
“Because we need a break from all this,” I say. “And we might not get the chance to travel much once the baby arrives.”
“True,” Damon says, thinking it over. “The beach, huh? Which one? That place you and your parents go to every year?”
I nod and tell him more about the place. I'm really trying to sell him the idea because it's hard to get him out of the house these days. We talk a lot and dream a lot, but we never actually do anything. I'm not the kind of guy to light fires under people, but someone has to do it.
Might as well be yours truly.
“I don't want to fly, though.”
“Oh no, we're driving down there. Shouldn't be more than nine hours.”
“Can I sleep?”
“Until it's your turn to drive.”
“That'll work. I don't mind driving.”