Chapter 9
C
arla flips through a parenting magazine as she waits for her doctor in the examining room. Advertisements for pregnancy tests, prepacked applesauces and diapers: Her life will forever change when or if she has children. How she wants to be part of the mom conversations at work and be able to relate to three A.M. feedings and how little Johnny scored his first goal in soccer. The list goes on, and Carla has never felt more ready to have a baby than now.
The doorknob turns; Carla puts down the magazine on the chair beside her and sits up straighter, her hands resting on her lap.
“Why, hello there, Carla. How are you today?”
“I'm great.” Her mouth stretches into a bigger smile.
“What can I help you with? You look well.” Her family doctor takes a seat on the swivel stool and wheels himself over to get closer for the conversation.
“Thanks. Actually, I wanted to talk to you again about my plans for conceiving.”
“Are you sure you're ready for this?” He places his hands on his knees, sitting in a V-shape position. “Parenthood is a big decision, never mind being a single parent,” Dr. Rogers advises. “It's a big step.”
“I know. It's just that I want a baby so bad.” She drops her head. “I thought I'd be a mom by now and it hasn't happened.”
“You can't put a date on kids,” he says, skimming Carla's medical records. “What did Dr. Fossett say? Did she run tests? I haven't received anything.”
“No, she said it might be me. She won't know unless I'm trying, but I want to know if I can or can't. She wants me to be with someone before crossing that bridge. And I'm not with anyone,” Carla says, her lips wrinkling as she makes a face. “I want to know what my options are. What happens if I don't meet anyone for ten years? Then I'm done! I won't be able to have any kids, even if there is a chance.” If only Timothy had wanted it as much as she did.
The doctor stands and opens a drawer. “Do you want to adopt?”
She shakes her head. “No.”
“Are you thinking about artificial insemination?” he asks as he thumbs through the drawer.
“I haven't decided yet. I'm considering it,” she admits. “I'd like to have my own child if I can.”
“If you're worried about your ageâ”
“I'm only thirty-one,” she says, straightening her back. “I just had a birthday.”
He hands her a pamphlet and a freshly printed paper with more information.
“You have plenty of time to find a mate and procreate.” His voice is gentle. “These things do take time.” He eyes the papers in her hands. “And there's no guarantee, even if you do artificial insemination.”
“Maybe I should adopt. People do it all the time. It's not a big deal, right? There are thousands of children who need to be loved. I could be that parent.”
“Carla?” Dr. Rogers's eyes narrow. “There's a process for that too.”
She exhales and pouts. What can she do? Would Timothy consider being a dad now? Maybe it would work this time. Friends have children together....
“You need to relax about the whole thing. Give yourself a few months to think about it. Consider your options. You never know; by then you could meet someone and be relieved you didn't jump at your idea.”
“You don't think it's a good idea?” Her voice is filled with worry.
He shakes his head. “Not right now, no. You're not in a relationship, so you would be starting a family alone.”
She stares at the papers.
“It's probably not the answer you were hoping for. It's a big step. Trust me on this.”
Carla can't get the thought of pregnancy out of her mind. She knows it will be hard, but her mom will help her. Could she have her mom around every day? And would she want to be? They don't get along on the best of days. Would it be different with a child?
Carla drives to an outdoor mall and decides to check out a baby store.
“Hi. How are you today?” the salesclerk asks the moment Carla walks into the store.
“Fine, thanks.”
“Anything I can help you find?”
“No, just looking,” Carla says softly, and wanders off to the baby section, where bassinets and crib bedding are displayed. She takes in the cute patterns and bright nursery colors. How would she decorate her child's room? She loves pale yellow with either a splash of blue or pink. Would she have a boy or a girl? Trying hard to envision the sex of her child, she knows she'd be happy with either. To be a mom would be the best experience, no matter what her child was.
Carla goes over to the clothes. The tiny sleepers remind her of her childhood dolls. The hats, the onesies and socks make her squeal with hope. She takes the items in her hands, all neutral colors, fit for a girl or boy. It's not a waste buying now, she decides; it's either now or later.
She places the items on the counter to pay.
“Is this a gift?” the salesclerk asks. “Or for yourself?”
“Ah . . .” What does it matter?
It's like the clerk can read her mind. “I can give you a gift receipt.”
Why not ask that in the first place? “No, that's okay.” Carla sweeps hair away from her face and leans her hand on the counter, watching the woman scan each piece. Her fingers are jittery as she reaches into her purse to pull out her wallet and takes out her bank card to complete the transaction.
Carla's phone rings as she exits the store.
Mom.
She sighs and answers in a trying voice.
“Care Bear! Where are you?”
“Shopping.”
“Oh! Great. I'm leaving Nana's.”
“How is she?”
“Her arthritis is bothering her. She has a lot of pain when she walks.”
“Oh, no.”
“And her memory is going. She forgets the day of the week and what medicines she's taking. I think she has the beginning of Alzheimer's.”
“How can anyone remember what pills they take when they're getting them shoved down their throats?”
“The nurses don't shove them down Nana's throat. They tell her what she's taking.”
Carla puts her phone between her ear and shoulder to unlock her door. “It's not important. She's taken care of.”
“Are you coming for dinner?”
“When?” Carla asks, throwing her bag in the passenger seat and slamming the door.
“Tonight. It's Dad's birthday!”
“I know,” Carla says, bringing her hand to her forehead. She forgot. Nana probably has a better memory. It's easy to forget something when you're trying to remember it the hardest.
She slides into her seat. It's even written on her calendar. “I don't remember you telling me about dinner. I thought we were celebrating it on Monday, the actual date.”
“Tonight works for everyone. I told you about it last week when you were over.”
“What time's dinner?”
“Between five-thirty and six. Keep it early since you have to work tomorrow.”
Carla scans the shops, looking for a sports store. Her dad is always happy with a new Warriors shirt or hat. Tickets are hard to come by for the game, especially at the end of the season when they're heading into the play-offs.
She hangs up the phone and looks at the clock on the screen. Three o'clock. She bites her bottom lip, looking for a store to buy her dad's gift. There's a Sports Junkies at the corner. They'll have something. She stuffs her baby clothes bag under the passenger seat and trots off down the sidewalk with a bounce in her step. A last-minute gift idea may just work out perfectly. Too bad she didn't know Devin better; her dad would love a signed jersey.
She walks up to the door and stops. Devin. Could she call him and ask if he'll sign it? Or would he laugh at her? Would he think she was just another fan? But then, what's wrong with that? She's Carla Sinclair, the sports reporter.
Carla pulls her phone from her purse and scrolls her contacts list for Devin's number. What happens if he doesn't answer? How will she get him to sign it before dinner tonight? She could buy it now and have Devin sign it later. She taps his name to make the call, stopping between the entrance and the window. Her feet can't stay still, but she can't walk around; there are too many people around. She lowers her head and faces the wall to keep her voice low. She has to be cool. Why is she nervous?
“Hello,” his voice answers, smooth and friendly. She closes her eyes as she collects her thoughts.
“Devin!” she says with new excitement. “It's Carla Sinclair. How are you?”
“Hi, Carla. This is a surprise.”
She rubs her lips together. “I knew you would be surprised.”
“What's up?”
His abrupt question stings. Was she taking him away from something important? “I hope I didn't catch you at a bad time,” she says.
“I'm on my way home from a workout.”
“That's great, ah, perfect.” There's a pause. She's not sure how to ask him. Does he get these requests all the time? “I have a favor to ask you.”
“I don't know if I can do another interview.”
“Oh no, it's not that. It's a personal request. You can say no, I'm just putting it out there, if it's a possibility.”
“What is it?”
“Well, it's my dad's birthday, and I'm wondering if you wouldn't mind signing his jersey.”
“Bring it to practice Tuesday and I'll sign it. No problem.”
“Okay . . . great . . . thanks. I don't want to seem unprofessional, I mean, coming to practice with merchandise and wanting you to sign.”
“I can meet you before. Call me Tuesday morning and we'll meet up,” he says simply.
He's done this before.
“Um, okay.”
“When's your dad's birthday?”
“The party's today.”
“I'll be around. Where do your parents live?”
“In Richmond.”
“Is that where the airport is?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. I'm sure I can get there.”
“To my parents' house?” she asks, holding in her excitement. Wouldn't her dad be shocked?
“I can make it.”
“Tonight?” she asks, making sure he hears her right.
“Sure. I'm not doing much.”
“That's very nice of you, but I don't expect you toâ”
“What's the address?”
She rambles off the address and gives him directions.
“What time do you want me there?”
“Well,” she thinks, “I'll be there at around five-thirty.”
“I'll see you then.”
The thought of Devin showing up to her parents' house is not quite sinking in, even after she buys a jersey with his number nineteen on it and drives home to shower and change into a new pair of jeans and a top. She puts hoops in her ears and slips on a pair of ankle boots.
Jittery and unable to calm her nerves, she fingers some strands, trying to fix her hair just right. It looks the same, but it's not perfect. After a last look in the mirror, she grabs the gift bag with the jersey in it and heads off to see her parents.
Did she give Devin good directions? Will he find their house? It's not easy to navigate; most of the streets are names, not numbers. Thankfully, the house is close to the hospital, a landmark he can identify.
Carla parks on the street and wanders up the driveway. Thinking about Devin on his way over makes her knees want to give out. Her sister and brother are already there and it's not even five-thirty. She turns the door handle and walks right in. The house is loud with conversation and laughter. She can't remember the last time the house was filled with such joy.
“Aunt Marie!” Carla says, scurrying over with open arms. “I didn't know you were going to be here.”
“I couldn't miss your dad's sixtieth.” Marie gives her a once-over. “You look fantastic! What's your secret for keeping trim and polished? You carry yourself well.” She squints tightly, like she's about to explode with a question, and all Carla can see is her silver eye shadow and ruby, high cheekbones that she too inherited. “Sooo . . . who's the guy?”
“There's no guy,” Carla answers happily. “I'm single.”
“You've got to be kidding! You? Single?” She laughs. “You have to be seeing someone.” Marie stops, holds Carla's arms and stares into her eyes. “Unless you don't want your mother to know,” she whispers. “We all know how she gets with other people's relationships.”
Carla giggles because she knows her aunt is impressed and doesn't mean any harm; they both love gossip.
“What's this?” Carla's mom asks, walking into the living room. “Hi, Care Bear!”
“I was just asking Carla if she's dating anyone.”
Mom huffs, carrying a tray of hot wings and setting them down on the coffee table. “I keep asking, but I get the same answer.”
Marie flashes Carla a smile. “Don't worry, you'll find someone. You're probably more cautious after the divorce.”
“Oh, I don't know. . . .”
“It can't be easy,” Marie says.
“Come eat!” her mom shouts, standing at the table. “It's getting cold.” She picks up a wing and bites into it.
“Happy birthday, Dad!” Carla says, walking over to the couch, interrupting his conversation. She bends down to give him a squeeze, says hi to her uncle and backs up to find a seat near the circle that's been created around the television.
“Mia, hi!” Carla says, dragging a chair from the dining room over to the adjoining living room where her brother, his girlfriend and uncle have a seat. “It's been a while.”