Now that it’s crept into every part of her, irrevocably entwined around her heart and soul, there’s no doubt about her destiny. She, Peyton Somerset, is going to have a baby.
A baby!
She can’t wait to tell . . .
Somebody.
Anybody.
If only there were somebody to tell.
So.
This is it.
All the months of hoping and planning to conceive; the weeks of worrying and wondering why she hadn’t yet; the days of waiting and praying for test results . . .
It’s all come down to this.
No more planning, wondering, praying.
Now she
knows.
Feeling numb, Derry struggles to maintain eye contact with Dr. Lombardo. She nods slightly, feigning interest in whatever it is that he’s saying when in reality, her brain shut down a few minutes ago.
Right after he informed her and Linden that they are incapable of having children.
Rather,
Derry
is incapable of conceiving and carrying a child.
Impaired fecundity,
he called it.
Impaired fecundity? What the hell does that mean?
“I know this is difficult for you, Mr. and Mrs. Cordell,” Dr. Lombardo is saying gently, wearing a suitably somber expression.
Difficult? All her life, Derry assumed she would be a wife and mother.
It isn’t the
only
thing she ever wanted to be, not like her oldest sister, Peggy, who never even wanted to go to college or have a career.
But Derry wanted motherhood, just as she wanted college and a career. She wanted to have it all.
Now . . . she’ll have nothing.
“You’ll need to investigate other options at this point,” the doctor goes on.
Sure. Options. Options mean she’ll have to settle, just as she settled once before, after graduating from high school back home in California. She was accepted to several private colleges on the East Coast, but couldn’t swing it even with tuition aid. And her parents couldn’t—or perhaps wouldn’t—help her. They had her late in life; they had raised two other daughters; they were depleted.
So she went to community college in San Diego for a few semesters, thinking she might be able to at least transfer to a state university if she kept her grades up.
Her grades were fine; her finances were not.
She dropped out of school to waitress full time, telling herself it was only temporary.
Yeah. Right.
Some career. Her parents and sisters treated her as though she were an embarrassing disappointment; her old friends were busy with college life. She was consumed by loneliness and depression.
But that fell away when she found Linden. All she wanted then was to shed her pervasive loneliness and move across the country to be with him in New York, to become a wife and mother, to fill the gaping void in her life with a family of her own.
She made it to New York, although not Manhattan, as she pictured. She and Linden live in Co-op City, in a one-bedroom apartment they can barely afford on their salaries as a welder and a waitress.
Three years have passed since she fled the West Coast, her family, and all her old friends to wed the man she swore she would marry before she ever laid eyes on him.
Derry and Linden may have met over the Internet in a Classic Rock chat room, but everything else about their courtship, their lifestyle, their plans for the future, has been old-fashioned.
It never occurred to her that she—that
they
—would be denied something so basic.
Something so many people take for granted.
It isn’t fair.
Derry swallows hard over the monstrous lump in her throat.
So many women who don’t plan it, who don’t deserve it, are walking around pregnant. Some of them have abortions, some of them toss their babies into Dumpsters. It makes me sick.
Clutching her middle as though she can somehow curb the hollow ache of loss, Derry knows she would do anything to have a baby.
Anything.
At eight o’clock that evening, Peyton emerges from her office building onto East Twenty-first Street to find that this afternoon’s pleasant weather has given way to wind-driven sleet. Oh, ugh. Who knew this was coming?
Probably anyone who wasn’t too distracted by baby thoughts to check the weather forecast, that’s who.
With a sigh, Peyton reaches into her bag for the emergency umbrella she keeps there, hoping she didn’t remove it in her recent scatterbrained pregnancy preoccupation. As she feels around inside the bag, she gazes out into the raw darkness. There are plenty of cabs sailing up Third Avenue—all of them occupied, just as one would expect on a foul-weathered night like this.
Her apartment is in Chelsea, a ten-to-fifteen-minute walk she covers round-trip most days. Taking the subway or a bus would mean transferring a few times, as there’s no direct crosstown route from here. Anyway, in bad weather it’s much too crowded and slow.
She ponders and dismisses the mass transit option after locating her compact spare umbrella. Since moving to the city, she’s discovered that walking is not only the quickest means of transport, it’s also conducive to clearheaded thinking.
Even better, there’s a maternity clothing boutique in the next block, with a display of darling spring dresses in the window.
Nasty weather aside, on the heels of this afternoon’s exciting news and a typically hectic day at the office, she’ll welcome the chance to window-shop a little—and to be alone with her thoughts.
Having found her compact Burberry umbrella, Peyton raises it and splashes out onto the sidewalk, wishing she were equally prepared with boots, or at least sneakers, to wear home. Her stocking-encased lower legs and designer-pump-clad feet are soaked in seconds.
Terrific. What if she gets a cold?
Normally, the possibility wouldn’t faze her, but she no longer has just her own health to consider.
If she gets sick, her baby might be harmed.
Isn’t that a little dramatic?
an inner voice scoffs.
A cold never killed anyone.
Has it?
Riddled with uncertainty, she wonders if she’s about to become the kind of woman who worries about everything—every sniffle, every hangnail, every bowel movement or lack thereof. A phobic-ridden woman like her own mother, who raised her only child alone, every maternal decision permeated by uncertainty. It’s a wonder Peyton didn’t turn out to be a fretful, frightened person as well.
No, she’s just the opposite.
Her mother hated being alone, hated not having anyone to lean on. It’s why she clung so desperately to Douglas when she met him—and why she clung to her daughter after he died. Even decades after she was widowed, Beth Somerset was profoundly distressed over Peyton’s plans to move halfway across the country.
“What if you need me?” she kept asking, and Peyton knew that what she really meant was
What if I need you?
“I’ll be fine, Mom,” Peyton said.
And you’ll be fine, too.
She is, now. Most of the time. But it’s taken her a long time to get used to taking care of herself.
I will never become my mother,
Peyton vows grimly, skirting around a deep puddle.
Not even when I
am
a mother
.
Which reminds her . . . she’ll call Mom when she gets home, to tell her about the baby. She wasn’t thrilled when Peyton told her she was going through artificial insemination with plans to be a single mother, but she’ll be excited to hear the news. Any child-loving, prospective grandmother would be.
Pausing to gaze longingly at the garland-bedecked display in the maternity shop’s window, she pictures herself wearing that adorable blue empire-waist dress at Kaplan and Kline’s annual spring outing.
If there weren’t a
CLOSED
sign on the door, she’d be tempted to go in and try it on. Maybe tomorrow, during her lunch hour.
But then she might be tempted to buy it, and she probably shouldn’t tote maternity boutique shopping bags back to the office until she’s made an official announcement.
Despite her giddiness over the pregnancy confirmation today, she couldn’t have spilled her news to Tara or her coworkers even if she were prepared to. They were simply too busy preparing a client presentation—and so, of course, was she. Too busy to chat, or answer the phones, or even grab coffee or a snack.
But that has to change,
Peyton tells herself sternly, suddenly conscious of her empty stomach. She’ll have to start eating regular meals, something she hasn’t done in years. She’ll have to take better care of herself.
Don’t worry, little one,
she silently croons to the child in her womb.
From here on in, it’s all about you.
As she turns away from the store window and heads west past Madison Square Park, deserted in this icy deluge, her thoughts are consumed by all the things she will do differently from her mother as she raises her own child.
She barely notices the raw, wet weather.
Nor does she notice the figure that slips out of the shadows and falls into step behind her, trailing her all the way home.
Compared to the last one, years ago, and the donor just selected last month, this new one is going to be a piece of cake.
She lives alone; doesn’t even live in one of those fancy doorman buildings you’d expect.
No, she disappeared into a four-story brownstone, and if the lights that came on moments later are any indication, she resides on the ground floor.
The ground floor. In this neighborhood.
Doesn’t she realize that a single woman with enough money to afford a designer coat, shoes, and bag shouldn’t leave herself so vulnerable?
There are bars on the street-level windows, of course—but they’re an obstacle that can easily be skirted when the time comes. Far more easily than an uptown doorman.
Not that there isn’t a way around any obstacle, if one is resourceful enough. Resourceful, and patient.
Patience will certainly be necessary in this case. Seven or eight months’ worth of patience.
But that will allow enough time to set the wheels in motion so that the rest of the plan can fall into place. There’s so much to do, with everything up and running again at last.
It’s been a while, but not so long that one might forget the painstaking steps that must be taken.
Now that a second future donor has been designated, the next order of business is to select another worthy recipient.
Somebody who longs for what this woman is so undeservedly about to obtain.
Somebody with a loving heart, empty arms . . . and a husband.
CHAPTER TWO
Brooklyn is the last place Peyton wants to be on this snowy evening. In fact, the only place she really wants to be is at home, preferably in bed.
But Dr. Lombardo’s helpful nurse, Nancy, strongly recommended that she join the office’s brand-new pregnant singles support group. She even e-mailed her at work to let her know about tonight’s meeting, which caught Peyton off guard. She still hasn’t told anybody at Kaplan and Kline that she’s pregnant. But she probably should do it soon, before someone figures it out.
Anyway, here she is, straight from a grueling day at the office, standing in the vestibule of a rectangular brick apartment building in Carroll Gardens.
Stifling a yawn, she presses the buzzer for apartment 3F, beside a nameplate that reads
J. Cooke.
The door buzzes back within seconds, releasing the lock. She steps into the hall and glances in dismay at the steep flight of stairs before realizing there’s an elevator. Good thing. The steps up from the subway and the three-block walk over here just about did her in.
Peyton presses the Up button and fights back another deep yawn, longing for her bed. She’s never been so utterly exhausted in her life. These days, she sleeps for ten hours a night and still never feels well rested; it’s all she can do not to shut her office door and nap on the floor in the afternoons.
Then there are the dreams—the most vivid and bizarre dreams she’s ever had in her life. There was one in which she delivered a salamander instead of a baby. And a shockingly erotic one that involved Dr. Lombardo. . . .
The mere thought of that dream still makes her blush and wonder how her subconscious mind managed to conjure such titillating images about a married man, her ob-gyn at that.
Well, technically, he’s the one who got her pregnant.
Apparently, her subconscious mind wishes he’d done it in the conventional way.
A year of involuntary chastity will do strange things to a person. Unfortunately, that state isn’t about to change any time soon, given Peyton’s physical condition. She isn’t exactly a candidate for casual dating these days.
So. Indefinite celibacy, sheer exhaustion, aching breasts, increasingly tight waistbands, morning sickness that lasts around the clock . . . can any of this be worth it?
Peyton keeps telling herself that it will be. Yes, when she’s holding her own baby in her arms, she’ll look back and wonder how she ever had a doubt.
At least, she hopes she will.
Somewhere high in the shaft above, the elevator groans and begins its descent as the door buzzes once again in the vestibule. Peyton turns to see a woman stepping into the corridor.
An enormously pregnant woman, walking in a back-tilted, wide-legged waddle that’s as pronounced as the watermelon-shaped bulge beneath the buttons of her red dress coat. She has a head full of inky black curls and horn-rimmed glasses, and she’s loudly munching a chocolate bar.
A week ago, in the throes of craving anything chocolate, Peyton would have been inappropriately tempted to ask her for a bite. But overnight, she seems to have developed an aversion to the candy bars she devoured by the handful.
Chocolate, coffee, seafood, spaghetti . . .
Her list of aversions is as endless as her list of current cravings. There are sleepless nights when she willingly ventures out into the cold for butter pecan ice cream, canned peaches, bologna and Wonder Bread and yellow mustard.
Watermelon,
Peyton decides now, stealing another glance at the stranger.
I could really go for some watermelon.
“Hi,” the newcomer says, coming to a breathless stop before the elevator.
“Hi.”
The woman clenches the chocolate bar between her teeth as she removes her gloves. A glance at the bare fourth finger of her left hand is all the encouragement Peyton needs to inquire, “Are you going up to the pregnant singles meeting?”
“How’d you guess?” the woman asks with an easy laugh as the elevator reaches the ground floor at last. She finishes her chocolate bar in a single bite. “You’re going, too?”
“Yes.”
“First trimester?”
“Yes,” Peyton says again, as they step into the elevator together.
“I’m Allison Garcia.”
“Peyton Somerset.”
“Nice to meet you. I’d shake your hand but I’ve got melted chocolate on my fingers.” She pops them into her mouth and licks them.
Peyton turns queasily away. Even the smell is getting to her.
The elevator lurches and starts to climb.
“When are you due, Peyton?”
“October.” She adds politely, though the answer is obvious, “How about you?”
“June.”
“
June?
” Peyton echoes in disbelief, her jaw falling open. Realizing how rude that is, she forces it closed and averts her gaze from the woman’s giant belly. Judging by that, she’d have guessed labor was imminent.
Allison laughs, saying in a Latina-tinged New York accent that’s thicker than her waistline, “It’s my third. I swear, I was showing before the sperm made contact.”
Full of questions, Peyton is too polite to voice any of them. At least, not yet. Maybe when she gets to know Allison better. . .
If
she gets to know her better. She isn’t entirely convinced this support group thing is up her alley. Sharing the details of her private life with a bunch of strangers is about as appealing as . . .
Well, as going through pregnancy and childbirth all alone.
But Nancy was pretty adamant about her joining this group. The nurse has a no-nonsense attitude that’s part maternal, part drill sergeant, as Dr. Lombardo laughingly likes to say. She takes a vested interest in all his patients, but especially the single ones.
Peyton is grateful for the support, but—
“So how’d you get pregnant?” Allison asks abruptly.
Aware that her eyebrows have collided with her bangs, Peyton fumbles for an answer that’s less direct than the bold question itself. Realizing there isn’t one, she shrugs and admits, “Artificial insemination.”
“Donor sperm?”
“Yes.”
“Same here. My mother thinks I’m crazy to get pregnant by a total stranger, but I told her that if I knew a decent guy well enough to ask him for his sperm, I’d be sleeping with him in the first place, know what I mean? Of course, she nearly had a heart attack when I said that, and she told me to go to confession.”
Peyton can’t help laughing. There’s something appealing about Allison’s direct approach.
Maybe if she knew her better, she’d tell her what Beth Somerset said when Peyton called to announce her pregnancy.
Now that you’re ready to settle down and raise a family, you’ll be able to find a nice man and get married.
Yeah. Sure. As if the streets of Manhattan are just teeming with nice men seeking pregnant single women.
On the third floor, Allison leads the way down the hall to the last door, which is ajar, held open by a white New Balance cross-trainer.
“Hello, hello,” Allison calls, stepping into the apartment without knocking.
Peyton hesitates only a moment before following her.
A trio of women in various stages of pregnancy are seated in a tiny living room. Norah Jones is playing on the stereo, candles are flickering, and a large platter of nachos is on the coffee table.
“Guys, this is Peyton,” Allison announces, her coat already draped over a chair and her hand reaching for a chip.
Introductions are made. It turns out this is only the group’s second meeting, but Peyton can’t help feeling like an outsider. The others seem so comfortable with each other already.
Julie Bernard is the hostess. Long, kinky blond hair, wire-rimmed John Lennon glasses, no makeup, seven months pregnant.
Wanda Jones is a stunning, statuesque African-American woman, well into her first trimester but still barely showing.
The slightly aloof, redheaded Kate Dunham is in the throes of Braxton Hix contractions but says the midwife claims she’s still a week away from delivery.
All three women are single, although Kate has a live-in boyfriend and a diamond engagement ring. Only Allison has been through this before, with two teenagers at home, the products of a disastrous early marriage.
Despite her reservations, Peyton finds herself drawn into the conversation as it bounces from nursing pads to epidurals to home delivery.
“No way,” Wanda declares, munching a tortilla. “I want to be in the hospital and as medicated as legally possible.”
Julie’s mouth tightens. “You should at least consider other options, Wanda.”
“Uh-uh. I’m not good with pain.”
“Oh, come on, who is?” Allison asks. “At this point, I say, bring it on.”
“Where are you going to deliver?” Julie asks, turning to Peyton.
“The hospital, definitely.”
“Which one?”
“I’m not sure. I guess whichever one Dr. Lombardo sends me to.”
“You really need to be more proactive,” Allison tells her. “Take charge of your pregnancy from the beginning.”
Peyton protests defensively, “I am in charge. I just . . . I haven’t had a chance to ask all of my questions yet. That’s all.”
“Too bad Rita couldn’t make it to our meeting tonight. She was going to talk to us about cardinal movement and delivery empowerment.”
“Rita?”
Cardinal movement? Delivery empowerment?
Peyton feels like she did as a high school freshman who boldly joined the Spanish club despite barely knowing what
hola
meant. That tiny detail couldn’t hold her back. She had made up her mind to be in the Spanish Club the moment she found out about the biennial trip to Acapulco.
Mexico was wonderful, but it can’t hold a candle to motherhood, she thinks now, smiling inwardly at the preposterous comparison.
Then again, maybe not so preposterous. For the second time in her life, she’s learning to speak a whole new language, one that she’ll carry to a foreign destination.
Cardinal movement. Delivery empowerment.
And now . . .
doula?
That’s the term Allison just used to define the Rita she mentioned.
“Actually, Rita isn’t a doula. She’s technically a midwife,” Julie contradicts. “We met her last month, at our first meeting.”
“Doula, midwife . . . same thing,” is Allison’s laid-back response, but Julie begs to differ. According to her, a midwife is certified to do everything a doctor does, but in the comfort of the patient’s own home.
“
Anyway,
” Allison says pointedly, making it abundantly clear that she isn’t someone who enjoys nit-picking over technical details, “none of that really matters because what Rita
really
is, is a guardian angel. That’s what I call her, anyway. She’s been so sweet about taking all my calls and answering all my crazy questions that I just gave her a guardian angel pin with my baby’s birthstone in it.”
“How do you know what the birthstone will be?” asks Julie, who is quickly establishing herself as a nitpicker, in Peyton’s opinion.
“I’m due in the beginning of June. It’s a pearl.”
“June is moonstone.”
“It’s actually pearl.”
“I don’t think so, but whatever. Anyway, the baby might be born in May. That’s an emerald.”
“It won’t be. Both my other kids were two weeks late and induced.”
Julie persists, “Yes, but that doesn’t mean this one will be.”
“Trust me. It does.”
“So Rita’s going to deliver your baby?” Peyton asks Allison, to steer the irksome conversation away from birthstones and back to the midwife.
“Yes, and Kate’s and Julie’s, too. And maybe Wanda’s.”
“Maybe not,” Wanda pipes up.
“Oh, you’ll be convinced the second you meet her. She’s great. Hopefully she can make the next meeting.” To Peyton, Allison says, “Rita had to cancel tonight because she has a patient in labor.”
Peyton can’t think of anything to say other than a lame “Oh.”
As the conversation drifts on, she can’t help wondering if she’s out of her element, and not just amidst these know-it-all New Yorkers. Maybe she should have given single motherhood more thought before jumping headlong into artificial insemination.
But Dr. Lombardo encouraged her not to delay. Her fertility was diminishing with every month that brought her closer to her fortieth birthday . . . or so he said.
She got pregnant on the second attempt.
“Yes, but what happens if you do meet somebody now?” Kate is asking, wincing as another contraction subsides. “It’s hard enough when you’re on your own. But now you’ve got to find somebody who’s going to love you
and
your baby.”