“We went for a walk after,” Mara says. “I don’t know what it was, maybe just the fact that I had opened up to him at lunch, but all of a sudden he started telling me everything that was going on with you guys. All the baby stuff.”

  It feels like the French fry is caught in my throat, even though I’m certain I’ve swallowed it. I listen as Mara rattles off all the troubles Syd and I were facing. The lack of control a couple has when neither party has a uterus. The inconsistent laws from state to state. The sifting through databases, having to judge egg donors based solely on short videos and résumés. The fact that we (really, Syd) had already exhausted the obvious donor options, namely, family members (at least one of them, Veronica) and friends (Paige, possibly others). And, finally, our desire to have a satisfactory answer when our child asked about his or her mother, the peace of mind we could offer if we had a person who wasn’t a mystery but someone with whom we had an intimate bond.

  “I could see how much it meant to him,” Mara says. “He looked so tortured. I wanted to comfort him the way he always comforted me, but I wasn’t sure what to say. And then at one point, I don’t remember when, he just asked me straight out if I’d ever thought about donating my eggs.”

  It’s exactly what Paige advised him not to do. Just hearing it secondhand makes me squirm. “What did you tell him?”

  “The truth,” Mara says. “The thought had never crossed my mind.”

  I stare down at the plate of fries, wondering if I should shove them into my ears instead of my mouth so I wouldn’t have to endure the rest of this story.

  “That was it,” Mara says, as if intentionally sparing me. “He didn’t mention anything else about it. He flew back to L.A. and that’s when it hit me: Did this man just ask me for my eggs? I didn’t know how to process it. I felt so many things at once. It was shocking and also kind of flattering and definitely overwhelming and even disturbing. I felt a connection with him, sure, but I was imagining more of a mentor/protégée thing. And then I started to wonder, Who is this guy, anyway? I Googled him, dug as deep as I could. I saw the pictures he posted of you two together, and I felt the love there, it was obvious, but these were my eggs we were talking about.”

  “Of course. It’s a huge deal.”

  “I knew I wanted kids of my own someday. I mean, not anytime soon—I’m only twenty-five—but eventually. I wasn’t sure how that would work. So I started researching what it was all about.”

  She watched YouTube videos of donors describing the procedure: the doctor visit; the screening process (Ever paid for sex? Ever taken anti-depressants? Recreational drugs? More than two male partners in the last six months?); the daily hormone injections; the needles in your belly and thighs; the side effects; the ultrasound visits; the abstaining from sex, alcohol, and medication other than Tylenol; finally, the surgery.

  The women in these videos were just like her. Some in their teens. Most in their twenties. A few nearing thirty. Typical compensation ranged between eight and ten thousand dollars. The money went to pay off debt, college tuition, daily expenses, even vacations. Many of the women had donated half a dozen times.

  Some donors had personal relationships with the intended parents. Most did not. The majority preferred to remain detached from the act, to treat it like a job, albeit one that gave them a feeling of doing good in the world. They all took comfort in the fact that they were helping people. Giving life.

  “It was kind of beautiful,” Mara says. “I totally understood why someone would want to do it. But I couldn’t imagine doing it myself. I couldn’t get past the idea of having a kid out there, in the world, existing, feeling, thinking. And what if you guys decided you really did want to move here to New York? The kid would be right around the corner. What would my future husband think about that? As much as I adored Sydney, I had only just met him.”

  I can’t argue with anything she’s saying. Had Syd included me in the process—had I made him feel I was ready and willing to be included—I would have encouraged him to take a step back and slow down.

  “I sent his next call to voice mail,” Mara says. “His message didn’t say anything about babies or eggs, nothing like that. He was just checking in, saying hi, seeing how I was doing. Part of me wondered if I had imagined the whole thing.”

  An entire month went by before they spoke again. It was now April, four months since Syd and I had had our December fight, which, as far as I was concerned, had put our parenthood quest on hold. It seemed to me then, based on what I knew, that Syd was respecting my wishes to slow down a little. The agency was still sending us updated donor lists, but Syd rejected every single one. The plan, in my mind, was still for me to ask Veronica, when I was ready. By April, I knew what Syd had already learned back in January, that Veronica had started dating someone. I didn’t think much of it then. I figured this new relationship, like her previous ones, wouldn’t last long (I was wrong about that). Besides, I needed the extra time. I was so busy with The Long Arm during those months that I had mostly pushed the notion of fatherhood out of my mind.

  But Syd, I now know, had never stopped thinking about it. He flew back to New York in April and asked if he could take Mara out to dinner in Manhattan. After some hesitation, she accepted.

  “He seemed a little off from the start,” Mara says. “He didn’t have that usual calm about him. We chatted for a good half hour, talking about art, New York, everything, and then, I remember, he just looked at me and took a deep breath and said, ‘Oh, Miss Hallowell…’”

  My whole body tightens, bracing for some imminent crash.

  “I asked how things were with you two and he started to go into it a little bit. He said you had found a few donors that looked promising. Then he stopped himself. He wanted to say more, I could tell. I encouraged him, made him feel safe, and then he told me everything. He said at first he didn’t have a picture of who the ideal mother was, but that changed when he met me. He said I was a little bit of him and a little bit of you, that I was smart and focused and imaginative and beautiful. I was kind but also edgy. Confident but also self-deprecating. A realist but also a dreamer. No one’s ever done that before, spent all that time thinking about just me and who I am and what I’m made of. It was intense.”

  She relaxes a moment, reminding me to do the same.

  “He got quiet and then he apologized for spilling his guts like that. He didn’t want me to feel pressured by anything he’d just said. Honestly, I didn’t know how to feel or what to say. I cared about him. I cared about him a lot. But…”

  She pauses.

  “I really wanted to help him,” Mara says. “I just couldn’t.”

  It took her several weeks after their last dinner in New York to gather the strength to tell Sydney that. She called and left him a message saying she wanted to talk. She was surprised when several days went by and she still hadn’t heard back. She decided to check his Facebook page. Everyone was saying such nice things about him. The sorts of things people say when you’re no longer alive.

  We’re outside now, Mara pacing alongside the restaurant with her phone pressed to her ear. Her hushed voice suggests drama unfolding over the line. She must’ve checked her call log a half a dozen times back at the table.

  I’m standing twenty feet back, allowing her privacy. The parking lot is dusk-covered, the tops of cars resembling rolling hills across a blue horizon. My rental car is here somewhere. I forget what it looks like.

  I watch Mara walk, her summer dress falling shapelessly around her. The canvas shopping bag on her shoulder should be carrying groceries, not personal items. Back in the restaurant, she filled in all the pieces I was missing. And yet, I’ve never felt emptier. Yes, he went behind my back. Yes, he “fell” for someone else. But he did it all for us. He loved me until the very end. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?

  Mara finally finishes the call and strides over with a hearty sigh. “I could use a cigarette.”

  “I’d love that.”

  She slips inside the restaurant and returns with two smokes and a matchbook, all of which she’d bummed from the bartender, a guy she went to high school with. She strikes a match. The flame dances in the air, clings to the white edge, glows orange.

  Now seems like the right time. “I set your painting on fire,” I say.

  “Excuse me?” Mara says from behind a puffy cloud.

  “I burned Sydney’s things.”

  “Right,” she says, swiping at the air. “I heard about that.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ve often wanted to burn them myself.”

  I light my cigarette. The smoke swirls in and tickles all the right places. She lowers herself onto the curb and I join her. We sit for a while, smoking in silence. It feels like we’ve just hiked up some impossible mountain and now we’re resting at the top, taking in the view, surprised at how we got up here.

  “Can I ask you something?” Mara says.

  “Sure.”

  “What Sydney said he felt about my art—do you think it was sincere?”

  Inhale, exhale. “I understand why you’d ask that,” I say. “Honestly, there were times I wondered the same thing. Did he truly think I was a good actor? Or was he just biased by his emotions? But you know what? I don’t think the two things are separate, you and your art. They’re part of the same thing. And the whole point with art is that we try to make people feel something, right? And you did that. Really. That I can say without any doubt.”

  She leans back onto her elbows, gazes skyward. Her smoke joins mine, forms a supercloud above us. I follow the smoke as it rises, wondering how far it will travel, imagining it will somehow reach Sydney. If he’s up there watching, I’d like him to know I approve of his choice, even if I disagree with his method. I just wish he hadn’t felt the need to keep it from me. I wish I hadn’t made him feel like he had to.

  “I should probably go,” she says, crushing her cigarette into the pavement.

  It feels too soon. I just found her.

  “My boyfriend’s been calling,” she explains. “I was supposed to meet him a few hours ago.”

  This is the first I’m hearing of a boyfriend. “How long have you been with him?”

  Mara seems to know why I’m asking. “Believe me, it had nothing to do with my decision. We’ve been together only a few weeks, but we dated in high school. When I came back here to New Hope, he was still here. It’s been a huge help to have him around, actually.”

  It’s good to hear. For some reason, I feel invested in this girl’s future now. “Do you think you’ll ever go back to Brooklyn?”

  “I don’t know, maybe. I don’t see myself staying here long term, but I think I needed to come back for a little while, just to recharge.”

  I know what she means.

  We both stand and face each other. “I’m sorry for just showing up like this,” I say.

  “I’m glad you did.”

  I hug her, hold her like I’m holding him. It’s hard not to think of what might’ve been.

  When I finally let go, I tell her, “I think Sydney would want me to keep an eye on you, if that’s okay. You know, just to make sure you’re not slacking.”

  “Please do,” she says. “I’d really like that.”

  29

  The next morning Gavin finally comes upstairs. Mom is leaving for her tutoring session and Gavin asks her when she’ll be home because he really needs to chat.

  Mom leaves and Gavin makes coffee. He offers to make me breakfast but I say no and then he offers to squeeze me fresh OJ with the present we got Dad for Father’s Day last year and I say yes because I’m afraid that if I say no to every single thing, he’ll know there’s something fishy going on. But the OJ is a mistake because it makes my stomach feel extra-nervous.

  And then my stomach feels even more nervous when Gavin asks me why I’m wearing a dress. I tell him I’m going to make a video on my iPod in my bedroom and he believes me. He finishes his coffee and says he has to use the bathroom. He goes downstairs and that’s when I pull the note out of my pocket and leave it on the kitchen table:

  Finally my memory is good for something. I go the same way Gavin and I did the day we went into the city, down the big hill and through Hoboken. It gets trickier when I reach the underground train because Gavin used a yellow card to get us through the gate but I don’t have a yellow card. I thought of everything else. On my back I have Dad’s Gibson and inside its soft case I have all my supplies: my journal, change purse, the Sydney guitar picks, bubble gum, and the papers that Felicia sent over. But no yellow card.

  A nice man in a Mets jersey sees me standing by the gate and asks me where I’m going. He slides his yellow card into the gate and tells me to walk through. He makes sure I get on the right train and I thank him for his help. I know I’m not supposed to talk to strangers, but I’m not supposed to do a lot of things.

  The train lets us out underground. I walk past a man on a bench who’s bent over so far it looks like he might fall onto the tracks, but I don’t have time to help him. It smells like the toilets at the Riverview Fair and I have to follow the people up the stairs until it’s bright and I can finally breathe.

  There are so many people and they’re knocking into my guitar like they can’t even see me. Suddenly I realize where I am: I’m in New York City and I’m all alone.

  This place is very dangerous because it’s hard to tell who’s crazy and who’s normal and that’s what happened to John Lennon. Mark David Chapman looked like a nice guy, but he was really a fanatic (which is totally different than just a really big fan, like me and Dad). Mark David went to the Dakota and he walked right up to John and he shot him with a gun, even though earlier that same day John gave Mark David his autograph. I don’t know why Mark David did that because John was being so nice to him. It makes me think of that photo Gavin took with those two women (Tuesday, July 16, 2013). Dad says Mark David wanted to be famous by hurting someone famous and so for just this one time, I’m happy to be nobody special.

  But not for long, because today I’m going to be on television.

  I walk to the corner and reach my hand up as far as it can go, but the taxis just zoom by. I wave and wave and the guitar is getting heavy on my back and the shoulder straps are digging into my skin.

  I’m still waving my arm when I hear a man’s voice behind me: “Just you?”

  The man has a mustache, but it’s not bushy like a cowboy’s, it’s thin and neat. He sticks his arm way up high and a taxi stops. The mustache man puts me in the backseat and I tell him I want to go to Chelsea Television Studios. He tells the driver where I want to go and I ask the mustache man, “Do you watch The Mindy Love Show?”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Well, I’m going to play a song on the show. You should watch.”

  He says, “Good luck,” and he taps his hand on the taxi roof, and the driver starts driving. I see the driver’s dark eyes in the mirror and he says, “Hello.”

  And I say, “Hello. My name is Joan Lennon.”

  I wait for the driver’s eyes to get big because he is amazed by my name, but his eyes stay the same size and he says, “My name is Adisa.”

  “Do you like the Beatles?”

  “No, no beetles. Where I am from, this is no good.”

  “The last time I was in a taxi was July sixteenth, which was a Tuesday.”

  “I like Fridays the best. Do you agree?”

  “I do like Fridays,” I admit.

  The car turns. “We must go all the way to the river,” Adisa says. “I have wondered what this looks like inside, the studios where they make the television programs.”

  “Me too.”

  “You have never been?” Adisa says.

  “No.”

  “This is a special day. I will pray for you.”

  Sunday, February 20, 2011: Grandpa brings me to church because he says if he doesn’t bring me then no one will, because Dad doesn’t believe and Mom is Jewish. He says we’re here to pray for Grandma Joan, but he never tells me how to pray so I just close my eyes and listen to the lady singing. I like how in church you can sing softly but your voice fills the whole room.

  I wish Grandpa could see me on TV today, but he’s busy working and also it’s a secret.

  Adisa stops at a red light and he taps a beat on the steering wheel, just like Dad, and I ask Adisa, “Do you play music?”

  “I play the djembe,” Adisa says, tapping away. “But only in the car.”

  “That’s like my dad.”

  Adisa turns his head around and his white teeth glow behind the glass. “Your father drives a taxi?”

  “No.”

  He turns forward and we start moving again. “What is his job?”

  “Well, he used to make music for commercials.”

  “What commercials?” Adisa says.

  “Have you ever seen the one where the Coke bottle turns into a telescope?”

  Adisa turns around, but he’s still driving. “This is your father? I love this commercial! They play it on the TV in Times Square. This is a very nice commercial. Wow, I am very lucky today.”

  So am I. I’m glad to have Adisa as my driver because he knows how special Dad’s old job is and it makes me feel even more sure about my secret mission.

  Adisa drives fast, the same way Dad always tells me he drove after I fell in Home Depot. I have to hold on to the handle because it feels like we’re going to crash into other cars. Adisa likes to honk the horn and I like to hear it.

  Through my window I watch people walk past a man sleeping on the sidewalk. I wonder if the man’s family knows where he is. Maybe he’s sneaking around like me. I think about reaching into my guitar case and throwing the man some coins, but Adisa speeds away before I get a chance. I wonder if the sleeping man drinks coffee like Dad does when he wakes up because Dad says the city has the best coffee.

  Tuesday, July 16, 2013: Gavin says New York City has the best pizza.

  Now the car isn’t moving and I can see the river out my window.

 

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