The Continuity Girl (39 page)

Back in the vacuum of her condo, she found she had reached the bottom of her list. There was only one more thing to do. She
picked up the phone and made an appointment to see Dr. Stein. All she needed now was official confirmation. Nature would take
care of the rest.

She slept fitfully that night, and in the morning she felt sick. Not throwing-up sick, but greenish, as though she’d drunk
a great deal the night before, when in fact all she’d done was eat half a roast chicken in front of the television. She was
heavier too, but not in a fat way. It was more like an added density, as if her body was hoarding its resources, concentrating
its efforts, in preparation for some monumental event, which she supposed it was.

During the months she’d been away Meredith had fallen uncharacteristically behind in her bill payments. Before her doctor’s
appointment, she went to the bank and settled all her accounts. She paid bills in full, with interest, not questioning the
amounts, using the money Ozzie had paid her for editing
Avalon.
She knew she ought to consider what she was going to do for
money once her current funds ran out, but she found the future impossible to think about. Should she look for a new agent?
Return to script supervising? Strike out on her own and make something new as Ozzie had encouraged? Maybe try another line
of work altogether? And if so, what? Whenever these questions popped into her mind she felt her brain close tight. A boulder
across the entrance of a cave.

Meredith wondered why she hadn’t made an appointment with another gynecologist, at a different office, in a more anonymous
part of the city, or just gone straight to an ob-gyn. But something pulled her back to that uptown office—the place where
it had all started. Besides, Dr. Stein had long since returned from her stress leave, so Meredith had no reason to worry about
running into Joe. And why shouldn’t she go to her own doctor? Surely now more than ever was a time to consult someone she
knew and trusted.

Nothing in the clinic had changed. The plastic flowers were still in their vase, and Hyacinth was still jotting down notes
to the same rotation of soft-rock hits. The magazines were the same bedraggled issues that had been in the wire standing rack
for months, even years. Meredith selected an ancient
Maclean’s
magazine and pretended to read.

Within minutes she had fallen asleep—something that had been happening to her with alarming regularity lately; she would just
drift off in the middle of the day. She awoke to the sound of her name being called.

Once inside the small windowless room with the stainless steel desk and the reclining examination table, she realized she
had not rehearsed what she was going to say to Dr. Stein. What if she asks me who the father is? Meredith wondered. But the
doctor wouldn’t dare, would she? Doctors weren’t supposed to ask such things, and besides, even if she did there was no reason
for shock. Having children out of wedlock was practically as common as divorce these days, and certainly better for kids than
enduring some horrible drawn-out custody battle. Right? Meredith realized she was going to have to become very comfortable
very quickly with the social aspects of being a solitary pregnant woman—something she had hardly considered before. All she’d
thought about was babies. Having one inside her. And then the outside stuff: the feedings, the gurgles, the teeny-weeny shoes.
Shopping for things called “singlets.” She didn’t care if it was uncool—her heart warmed at the thought. But now that the
fantasy was finally coming into focus she saw that there was far more to it than she had first imagined.

Dr. Stein stepped into the room and smiled, closing the door behind her.

Twenty minutes later Meredith sat two floors down in the lab, waiting for the results of an on-site blood test that would
determine the course of the rest of her life. She tried hard not to think about this, which was, of course, nearly impossible.

The waiting room was full of anxious, nauseated-looking people like herself, so she stepped out into the hall for some air.
It was there, while pacing the barren corridor, that she saw him get off the elevator. Street clothes. No white coat. His
features sharper than before. She realized he must have lost weight. He was searching through a courier bag as he stepped
off the elevator and didn’t see her right away.

“Joe,” she said.

He looked up, and a series of expressions passed over his face. Delight followed by relief, then a downshift into dismay and
anger, which was replaced, finally, with a cool distance.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.”

“I was just here picking up some things. I didn’t think...”

“Me neither,” she said.

They stood around for a moment looking at the floor.

“You didn’t call,” he said. “To say good night, the night I dropped you off. You said you would.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“You wanted to, but you stopped yourself.”

“That’s right.”

“Because you figured...what? That things wouldn’t work out in the end anyway, so you might as well cut it off now, before
we got in any deeper?”

“I guess.” Meredith exhaled heavily. “It’s more complicated than that.”

“I agree,” said Joe. He set down his bag and composed himself. “It is a lot more complicated than that. I know you have a
picture in your head of how your life is supposed to work out, but take it from me, that picture doesn’t always match up.
I’m not trying to convince you to be with me forever. I’m not saying I’m perfect for you. I know you’d rather be with someone
who could make you pregnant. I’m just saying, you could have given it a chance.”

“But you did make me pregnant,” Meredith said quietly.

“And just because you grew up without stability,” he continued, “doesn’t mean you have to overcompensate by controlling everything
around you as an adult. I know you don’t want to end up like your mother, but don’t you see that by trying to keep a grip
on everything she let go, you’re in danger of accidentally repeating all the same mistakes?”

“Joe?” Meredith said. “You did make me pregnant.”

He shook his head. “That’s impossible. I have a condition...”

“I don’t think you understand.” She looked right at him. “I. Am. Pregnant.”

“You are?” He staggered back.

“Yes.”

“For sure?”

“Yes. I mean, according to those pee stick things. I’m just waiting for the results of my real test, but...”

“The pee sticks are pretty reliable.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“You’re sure...it was me?”

“Oh fuck off.” Meredith glared at him. “I can’t believe—”

“No, Mere, I’m asking you for a reason. I have a condition. I tried to tell you that day in the car, but it came out all screwed
up.”

“I thought you didn’t want to,” she said. Her eyes burned. They still hadn’t touched.

“No,” he said. “I was trying to tell you, I can’t. The chances of me...it’s like one in ten thousand.”

“Well, this is the one in ten thousand,” she said.

They stood there in stunned silence.

A woman in pink scrubs opened the waiting-room door and stuck her head into the hall.

“Meredith Moore? Your test results are ready.”

They looked at each other—Meredith, Joe and the woman in pink scrubs—waiting for the next part to begin.

Sperm Bandits: The New Battle for Motherhood

A Documentary Written and Directed by Meredith Moore

Produced by Meredith Moore and Osmond Crouch

Act 1, Scene 1

The picture opens with a microscopic close-up shot of a human sperm swimming fast along a Fallopian tube, selecting an egg
and then struggling to fertilize it. The fifties song “Baby Love” plays overtop.

VOICE-OVER (A WOMAN’S VOICE)

Every year in North America millions of women become pregnant outside of wedlock or long-term, stable heterosexual relationships.
For many, the situation is accidental, an inopportune failing or absence of birth control coinciding with ovulation. For others,
the conception is intended, even planned, a consensual act between two well-intentioned adults. But for a growing minority
of unencumbered single women, the hope of pregnancy is a private quest—an independent goal that they are more than willing
to lie, cheat and, yes—even steal—in order to achieve.

Close-up on the sperm successfully wiggling its way into the egg and coming to rest as the fertilized ovum begins to travel
in quick-time down the Fallopian tube toward the uterus.

V.O.

One in five single mothers who are without a partner at the birth of their child say that their pregnancy was planned—the
question is, planned by whom? As the bearers of children, women have for centuries carried the bulk of the reproductive responsibility for the human race.
While a man may father dozens of children and never even know it, a woman’s existence is forever altered by the decision to
produce offspring. Does this justify a woman’s decision to help herself to male sperm for the purposes of pregnancy without
the explicit permission of her sexual partner? What if a woman wants nothing more from a man than his DNA? Is she obligated
to reveal her intentions to the male, or does nature oblige her to do what she can to satisfy an urge that many women describe
as a biological hunger as strong as the need for food or water?

Cut to Marissa, a financial analyst, age forty-two, breast-feeding her infant son, Connor, on her living room sofa in a Madonna-and-child-style
pose.

V.O. (MARISSA)

The year I turned forty I decided I was going to do everything in my power—financially, socially, medically and otherwise—to
get pregnant. I’d always wanted to have children but the right relationship just hadn’t come along in time, or at the right
time anyway, and now here I was, staring the possibility of infertility straight in the face. It was terrifying and to be
honest, in many ways I couldn’t believe it. How could I end up not accomplishing the thing I wanted most in the world simply
because the timing was off? I was determined not to become one of those women who just “forgets,” you know?

Cut to a shot of Marissa tenderly bathing her gurgling son.

V.O.

My son was conceived while I was on holiday at a five-star resort on a Caribbean island. I had arranged to arrive the week
I was ovulating, and I’d been taking large doses of folic acid for months before. His father was a handsome guy, a successful
lawyer from Paris. We hung out for a few days so I had a chance to ask him all about his family background and his own medical
history. I didn’t do it in an overt way, but just kind of made sure those topics came up. I doubt he ever suspected a thing.
We never kept in touch and I’m sure he has no idea I became pregnant. He didn’t ask about birth control and I never brought
it up, so there was no lying involved. Still, I’m sure he had no idea of my plan. I guess you could call me a sperm bandit
(she laughs). It sounds pretty awful, but I don’t regret a thing. Having Connor is the best thing I’ve ever done in my life....

Meredith felt her handbag vibrate beside her foot in the dark. She stepped out of the editing suite into the dazzling winter-afternoon
glare. She blinked, letting her eyes adjust after several hours of tunnel vision in the small dark room. It was one of those
cloudless winter days when the snow is so bright and dry the whole world seems like a frozen desert landscape. She walked
toward the sandwich shop in a pair of Kodiaks, choosing each step with care. Pulling open the door, she nearly lost her balance,
but managed to right herself as the door chimes tinkled.

“Afternoon,” said the shopkeeper, a weedy little fellow in a white paper hat like the kind people in nineteen-fifties fast-food
restaurants used to wear. “The usual?”

Meredith nodded enthusiastically. “Please.” As the man sliced off four pieces of sharp cheddar, she began the surprisingly
arduous task of unwrapping the scarf from around her neck and getting her coat unbuttoned. She settled down on the wooden
chair and watched the man melt butter for her grilled cheese with bacon. She’d had the same lunch every day for the past forty-four
working days and amazingly, she still wasn’t remotely sick of it.

Meredith pressed some buttons on her phone. Mish’s voice came crackling over the line in a stern eastern European accent.

“Hallo, Ms. Moore. Zis eez your new doula, Olga. Vee are certain you haf been steeking to your streect diet of ze organic
mung beans and doing your Kegel exercises regularly. Ozerwise ze bebbe vill be born visout a moral core. Understood? Yes?
Zat is good.” This was followed by some unexplained bumps that may have been Mish dropping the phone and retrieving it from
the floor. Then her normal voice. “Hey, Mama. You dropped the brat yet or what? I’m hopping on a plane as soon as you do,
so call me the minute your water breaks. Unless of course it happens in public, in which case you might want to take a minute
to clean up first. Ha ha. Just kidding. Actually, no, I’m not kidding at all. I’m being extremely serious. Anyway call me.
Things are nuts around here. It’s rained for the past eight hundred days straight. I swear to God. Barnaby and Shane say hi
and”—muffled background noises—“what was that? Oh, they want me to say you might consider the name Barnaby-Shane if it’s a
boy. How’s that for asshole narcissism? Anyway, later.”

Beep.
Next.

“Moo, it’s your mother. Would you be a dear and call me as soon as you get a chance? These North American toasters are quite
beyond me.” A screeching smoke alarm in the background. An irritated guttural sound, then Irma raised her voice above it as
though nothing remotely out of the ordinary was happening. “Ucchh. As I was saying, they don’t make any sense
at all.
Could
you call me? It’s your mother. I can’t believe you’re
still
working. Could you please call me? Thank you, dear. Goodbye.”

Meredith was about to call back when an automated voice informed her that an extra message had been added to her mailbox.
She pressed one, and a smile crept across her face as Joe’s voice filled the receiver.