“You are his father.”
He looks down the hall, toward the waiting room. “And then you walk in here with Lane.”
“But . . . I thought you called him.”
“I called Sherry. It was the only thing I could think of. But he answered the phone.”
“But what difference does it—” His expression stops me. Suddenly I feel cold all over, like when I first got to the hospital, before I knew that Harrison was going to be okay.
“I know what happened,” Darren says.
“But how—”
“Sherry told me. Lane told her. I’ve known all along.”
There are so many things I should say, but the shock is so great, I can’t even think. I close my eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
When I open my eyes, Darren is gone.
10
Laura
The day before Eric’s donation appointment, I call his cell number to confirm. I don’t know what he’s told his fiancée about his plans. Frankly, it’s none of my business, and I’m fine with that.
He doesn’t answer, so I leave a brief message, with instructions to contact me immediately if he needs to reschedule. Timing is much more flexible this time around. With in vitro fertilization, there’s no statistical difference between using fresh or frozen sperm. As such, I’ve encouraged Eric to make his donation as soon as possible so his sample will be in the bank, so to speak. On top of that—though I wouldn’t say this to him—the sooner he donates, the less time he will have to rethink his decision.
For the rest of the day, I focus on the contested will of a man who left behind one young wife, two older ex-wives, and nine children, one of whom, the second wife’s only child, received nothing: no money, no property, not even a memento.
“If he’d even made a little effort,” the forgotten daughter said when she hired me. “Remembered my birthday when I was growing up or come to see my kids when they were born. Then I wouldn’t be doing this. It’s not about the money. It’s that he just threw me and my mom away like we were trash. And I want to make him pay.”
And so, while we agreed it was not about the money, we were suing the estate for a ninth of the assets—which, as it turned out, was not a lot. Three families require considerably more upkeep than one.
As I put together my brief, it hits me: now that Ian has met Eric Fergus, might he feel abandoned later in life? I put the thought out of my mind (where it is sure to fester until the instant I try to sleep that night).
That evening, Ian and I dine on cheese tortellini (which I overboiled myself) while he tells me about his day at sports camp. He doesn’t like spending the whole day at camp, but until Carmen gets back, we have no choice.
“Did you do those multiplication problems in that workbook I bought you?” I ask.
“I forgot.”
“I’d like to see that workbook completed before you go back to school.”
“Uh-huh.”
“We can work on it together after dinner.”
“’Kay.”
But after dinner, he sits down at the piano instead, playing so beautifully—and so long—that I forget all about the workbook until I’m lying in bed at two o’clock in the morning, agonizing over the potential repercussions of introducing Ian to his donor.
From there, my brain segues to concerns about in vitro fertilization. (Do the low odds justify the high expense? Might the hormone shots do more harm than good?)
When I get to worrying about Ian’s somewhat shaky grasp of the multiplication tables, it comes as a welcome relief. I can work with him after school, and if he still has problems, I will hire a tutor. At last, this is something I can control.
Around two-thirty, I fall into a dream. I’m in a dark tunnel. White bird feathers swirl around. Ian is somewhere ahead of me, but I can’t catch up.
When my alarm goes off at six o’clock, I’m left with a sense of crushing fatigue and general anxiety. At work, my computer greets me with an Outlook reminder:
8:30 a.m.—Eric clinic
. I hit “dismiss” and turn my attention to my in-box, which was empty when I left last night but now has more than twenty messages. I’m not even halfway through them when Marissa buzzes me:
“You have a call? From a place called . . . let me check . . . Orange County Center for Reproductive Health? It’s about a missed appointment ?”
As I dial Eric’s cell number, I tell myself,
He must have forgotten
. Or,
Maybe he got stuck in traffic.
Or,
He couldn’t get the day off work.
But wouldn’t he have called me, then?
He changed his mind.
His phone rings two, three, four times before voice mail kicks in. He doesn’t even have a personalized message, just a robotic voice reciting the number. I take a deep breath and make myself sound as pleasant as I can manage.
“Eric! Hello. This is Laura Cahill, calling in regards to your appointment at the clinic this morning. Sorry you couldn’t make it—something must have come up. I hope everything’s okay. In any event, there’s no problem with rescheduling. You can still go today—or switch to later in the week. Whatever’s best for you. Anyway. Call me. Thanks.”
When I haven’t heard from him by the end of the day, I call the clinic to see if, by any chance, he turned up later in the day or called to make another appointment. No on both counts.
On the drive home, I try his cell phone again, only to hear four rings followed by that robotic voice.
“Eric, hi. Laura Cahill again. I hope you received the message I left this morning . . .”
I keep my cell phone on during our dinner (leftover overcooked cheese tortellini); while I help Ian with his math workbook; and for the pre-bedtime half hour we spend in companionable silence, reading in the living room.
After Ian goes to bed, I try Eric’s cell number once more. And then I call him at home. I have no intention of getting into any awkward or hostile exchange with the girlfriend. If she answers, I will ask for Eric. If she insists on voicing her opinion of our agreement, I will reiterate my request.
The girlfriend does not answer. Neither does Eric.
Time and insomnia only serve to stoke my anger. When I call his cell number from work the next morning, I expect the four rings, the robotic voice. I clear my throat and prepare myself to say, once again, that he has missed his appointment. That we can still reschedule. That I would appreciate the courtesy of a phone call.
“Laura. Hey.”
At the sound of his voice, my throat seizes up.
“I. You. Hi.”
“Hey,” he says again. “You at work?”
“Yes.”
“Awesome.”
There is nothing awesome about my work—unless you consider the stability, the respect, the pay . . . yes, okay. My work is awesome.
“So.” I clear my throat again. My allergies have been awful this summer. “You missed your appointment yesterday.”
“The . . . oh . . . yeah . . .” The way he says it, you’d think I was asking him to recall some decades-old event.
“Would you like me to reschedule?” I ask.
“Thanks,” he says. “But—yeah. I don’t think so.”
“You don’t want me to make the call? Or you’ve changed your mind about donating?”
“Yeah. That.”
“Which one?”
I can’t believe this guy got into medical school.
“The, um. The second. The thing is—I think you and your son are awesome. And I’d really like to help you out. But I—can’t.”
“Actually, you can. We’ve already seen that.”
“Well, yeah.” He forces a laugh. “That Hooters lunch actually helped with the, um, mechanics. But, ah—right. The whole thing is causing a lot of problems on the home front. But it was nice to meet you.”
“It was
nice to meet me
?”
“Yeah. And your son. Ian’s awesome.”
Stunned, I am silent—but not for long.
“Why did you show up at my house last week?” I ask.
“’Cause of that picture that you sent me. I told you.”
“I don’t think that’s the real reason.”
“Well—yeah. It was. I mean . . . it was just kind of shocking, you know? To see how much Ian looked like my dad when he was little. And like me too, I guess. And I just kinda . . . I wanted to see him again.”
“You can’t do that,” I say. “Just show up unannounced. Play with the chickens. Eat pizza with us. Play video games with my son. You can’t promise to do something and then not do it. You can’t do that to my son!”
“I didn’t actually eat any of the pizza,” he says.
“That’s not the point.”
“Yeah, I know. I was just . . . I was making a joke.”
“It wasn’t funny,” I say.
“You seemed okay with it,” he says. “When I came to the door.”
“I’d called you the week before,” I say. “To tell you that I hadn’t gotten pregnant. To ask if you’d help me out again. But your girlfriend got so upset that I let it drop. When you came to our house, I thought it was because you were coming to say you’d do it. That she’d said it was okay.”
“It wasn’t okay.”
“Yeah. I get that. But what I don’t get is why you didn’t confer with her before making the decision or why you didn’t at least call me to say you’d changed your mind.”
He sighs. “Plans change.”
“Plans change?
Plans change?
That’s the best you can do?”
He sighs again, longer this time. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“It’s not about what you say that matters, Eric. It’s about what you do. You seem to believe that if you don’t commit to anything, you won’t get older. You’ll stay twenty-three forever. But you know what? While you’re pissing your life away, time is passing, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. You’ve had every advantage, every opportunity. You could have done anything with your life, Eric. Anything at all. And instead you’ve just grown up to be this, this—macaroni-and-cheese-eating man-boy!”
He is so quiet that at first I think he’d hung up in the middle of my outburst.
“I guess that’s all, then,” he says at last.
“I guess it is.”
11
Vanessa
If Eric really loved me, he wouldn’t show up at my office on Pizza Day, asking if I wanted to grab something to eat. He would know that I already had plans. He would know that the last Thursday of every month was a big deal because before Dr. Sanchez’s wife got sick, she used to take the orders, buy the pizza, pour the soda, and make everyone laugh. And that it’s really cool and sweet and sad that Dr. Sanchez has kept Pizza Day going because it’s a way he can feel connected to her.
If Eric really loved me, he would know all this because I’ve told him every last Thursday of every month for as long as I’ve worked here.
At a quarter after twelve, Melva, Pammy, and I are sprawled on the waiting room couches, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Domino’s delivery guy that Melva calls Hottie Van Hotness. Hottie V. hasn’t shown since the spring, and we’re starting to think that he got a new route or a new job. Which might be good for him but would suck for all of us.
When the door opens, we all sit up straight and smile . . . only to have Eric walk in. Weird. Back when I worked at Sears, I used to get all hot and happy whenever Eric popped in and asked me if I wanted to grab some coffee or whatever. But now it feels awkward. Like, he’s not here because he couldn’t stop thinking about me but because we almost broke up a few days ago. It’s also awkward because Melva and Pammy—but especially Melva—think he’s a total douche.
“What are you doing here?” I say. Which is so not the right thing to say but it’s what pops into my mind.
“Uh, hi.” He laughs. Kind of. “Good to see you too.”
“I didn’t mean . . . it’s just, you know. The last Thursday of the month.”
He gets this look on his face like he’s trying to remember a name. Then he goes, “Oh, yeah. I guess it is.”
Melva stands up, sighs really loudly, and heads down the hall, toward the bathroom. I told Melva and Pammy all about our latest fight and how Eric was going to donate again. And even though he chose me over that woman, they still agreed that it was total crap that he even wanted to do it.
“Do you think he might do it and not tell you?” Pammy asked.
At first I was like, no way, Eric never lies. But then I remembered that he never told me about donating in the first place, which was kind of like lying. So now I wonder how well I really know him.
It’s too bad that Melva is in the john, because Hottie Van Hotness is on duty.
“We haven’t seen you in a while!” Pammy says, springing off the couch and reaching for the cardboard boxes.
Hottie V. has dimples, cut cheekbones, tan skin, shiny black hair, and a body that looks like it’s never seen a pizza, at least from the inside.
“Guess you need to order more pizza,” he says.
“Sounds good to me.” Pammy manages to put the boxes on the receptionist counter without taking her eyes off him.
Dr. Sanchez comes out of his office and hands Hottie a credit card. When he sees Eric, he goes, “Oh.”
“Hey.” Eric shoves his hands in his pockets.
Hottie gives Dr. Sanchez back his card and also a slip to sign. He says bye and leaves and I’m thinking,
I didn’t get to flirt with him, and Melva didn’t even get to see him, and Eric ruined everything.
It is so weird to feel this way about Eric. I guess I am still mad.
Pammy and I go to the storage room to get the paper plates and soda cans.
“It’s not a big deal,” she says, her voice low. “If you want to take off and have lunch with Eric.”
“It is a big deal. And anyway, I don’t know that I even want to.”
She raises her eyebrows.
“Yeah. I know.”
Melva comes out of the john.
“You missed him,” I say.
“Eric? Good.”
“Uh-uh. Hottie.”
Her eyes bulge. “Shit!”
“Shhhh!” Pammy and I both giggle.