Halfway There Read online

  It was extensive. I think every nationality, ethnicity, and educational background was listed. I was thankful that there was a way to sort through them using a set of criteria. Now, all we had to do was decide exactly what criteria we wanted to use.

  “Okay, let’s start with ethnicity. Irish, right?” I asked.

  “No, Scottish mostly, with some Irish, English, and Jewish thrown in for good measure.”

  “I have no idea how to look up all that.”

  “You could just go with basic white,” she suggested. After a look from me, she said, “Just type in ‘Scottish’ and see what happens.”

  I typed and hit enter. A list of about two hundred numbers and profiles appeared on the screen. “Now what?”

  “Hair.”

  “Why is hair so important?”

  “You like my hair. Wouldn’t you want our kid to resemble me just a little?”

  “No. One of you is enough already.”

  “You’re not funny.”

  “Hey, here’s one. He’s got brown wavy hair and blue eyes. Sounds like he could be your brother,” I said.

  “Yeah, but look at what he does for a living. He’s a maintenance man.”

  “When did you get so snooty?”

  “I don’t know. I would want more for my kid.”

  “Good Lord, Ellen, genes aren’t destiny, you know.”

  “Fine, but look at what he called his dog. That should tell you what kind of guy he is. For heaven’s sake, he named his dog ‘Jacko.’ What kind of stupid name is that?”

  “Are you seriously suggesting that what he named his dog somehow makes a statement about the quality of his sperm?”

  “Somebody must think it’s important. Why would they list it?”

  Obviously, this wasn’t going to be resolved in one morning. I downloaded the list to consider later. I wasn’t sure what we’d do after we picked one. It wasn’t as if we could really use the turkey baster, could we?

  We let the whole idea die down a bit. Neither of us wanted to push the other into something we weren’t ready for. Besides, I had more questions than I had answers. The issue didn’t come up again until a few months later when I went in for my annual checkup. Nothing special. Go in. Get naked. Put on a stupid paper robe. Weigh-in. Cold stethoscope. Check the blood pressure. Then, the always popular, “Slide down please, and put your feet in the stirrups.” I had been to this doctor several times. I felt pretty comfortable with her, so after I finished counting thirty or so tiles on the ceiling, I asked, “If I wanted to have a baby, how would I go about it?”

  My doctor peered over the sheet draped across my legs. She raised an eyebrow and went back to work.

  “Well, you see the sperm travels up—” she started.

  “Very funny. Really, my partner and I have been talking about it. We think we’ve found a donor. I don’t know where to go from here. Is it something you do?”

  “Everything looks fine. You can get dressed,” she said, getting up from her stool. “You’ll want to talk with someone at a fertilization clinic. I could provide you with a few names.”

  I took her list. It didn’t really help. What would I say to them? How would I start this whole process? Ellen and I talked about it that night. She said I should call and tell them what I wanted. That’s what they were there for, right? After looking over the various names, we decided to go with the clinic associated with my doctor’s hospital. I called the next day.

  “Hi. Um, I would like to talk to someone about artificial insemination.”

  “Yes, we can help with that. You’ll need to set up an appointment. You’re in luck, too. We just had a cancellation. Can you come in on Friday?”

  I scheduled the appointment. The next few days were nerve-wracking. I wasn’t sure how I would explain the situation. It’s not that I’m overly closeted, but I don’t usually announce to total strangers how I live my life. In this situation, however, it looked as if I would have to do just that. Despite the fact that Ellen and I were in this together, I decided to go to the first visit on my own. Ellen dropped me off at the clinic on Friday morning.

  The waiting room was filled with women, a couple of men, and a few kids. It was bright and cheery. I went to the counter. The nurse passed me a clipboard. There were several forms to fill out. Of course, I got stuck on the first line that asked for my spouse’s name. Bravely, I wrote Ellen’s name. I felt a little guilty that I wished her name were more gender-neutral. I finished up the forms and handed them back to the nurse. About thirty minutes later, I was called into the doctor’s office.

  She was about my age with long hair pulled back from her face by a headband. Her name was embroidered on the white coat. For some reason, this reminded me that I had to take my car in to get its oil changed.

  “Aubrie, what brings you to our clinic?” she inquired.

  I took a deep breath and started to explain my situation to her. She listened well and asked a few questions. She let me know that because the clinic was part of a Catholic hospital, I wouldn’t be able to use their sperm bank, but I could certainly have the sperm sent to the clinic. Because she had been so nice, I decided not to start an argument with her about Catholic morality. She merely worked there. Instead, I asked her to explain the procedure. I figured Ellen and I would work out the details of the sperm transportation later. The procedure sounded relatively simple. I had to determine when I was ovulating, using an over-the-counter ovulation kit. When I was ovulating, all I had to do was call in, and they would have me come to the clinic. Yes, my partner could come. She could be in the room when they slipped the stuff in. There were two different procedures, but I didn’t pay close enough attention to understand which one was which. She wasn’t talking about a turkey baster, so I wasn’t worried.

  “Okay. If you want us to work with you, we’ll need to fill out a few more forms. I have another client scheduled, so if you’ll just go to the next room, I’ll have my interns finish up.”

  I walked to the next room and waited. Pretty soon a young man and a young woman, both all smiles and professionalism, walked in. Neither one could have been older than thirty. They sat down and asked me if I wanted anything to drink. Sure, I thought, but what I want isn’t normally served in a doctor’s office. On the heels of that, I thought ahead about being dry for nine months. If you’ll pardon the pun, I found the idea quite sobering.

  They reviewed my form, then started to take my medical history. It all seemed to be going nicely. I was feeling pretty good. I could do this.

  “Now, Mrs. Elliot, how long have you and your partner been trying to get pregnant?”

  I stared at the young man. His eyes were direct and honest. I looked at him a moment longer, considering. At last I said, “Doctor, my partner and I could try forever, but it just ain’t gonna happen.” I smiled trying to show him I was teasing.

  All the color drained from the poor kid’s face. His olive complexion went ivory. I laughed trying to lighten the moment. “It’s okay,” I soothed. “If we could do it the usual way I wouldn’t be here.” He forced a little grin back at me. It took about fifteen more minutes until we were finally finished. I met Ellen in the lobby.

  “How’d it go?” she asked.

  “Okay, I guess. They were nice. We’ve already got our first assignment.”

  “Really? What’s that?”

  “I’ve got to figure out when I ovulate.”

  “That should be pretty easy. You’re always complaining about PMS.”

  We picked up the ovulation kit at Walgreens. Three months later we picked up another one, and four months after that we were back again. The verdict was in. I didn’t ovulate.

  It didn’t matter what time of the month I peed on that stupid stick, it remained stubbornly unchanged. I counted days. I tried different kits. We even stopped having sex for a couple of months on the outside chance it was throwing off my cycle. That didn’t work, so we tried to have regular sex thinking that might make the little eggs drop. While we h
ad a lot of fun, it didn’t change the test results.

  One morning as I was in the bathroom trying to hold that stupid little stick steady between my legs, Ellen knocked at the door.

  “How’s it going in there? I don’t hear anything.”

  “It’s not easy to pee on command, you know.”

  “Try running some water.”

  “Just give me a minute.” About that time a little trickle ran down my leg and onto my fingers. “Shit.”

  “What? Are you sure you’re holding that thing right?”

  I looked down at the stick as I finished peeing over it and the rest of my hand. Was there a wrong way to pee on it?

  “I think I’m peeing on it just fine. Thank you very much. I peed on it so well, in fact, it’s all over my hands at the moment.”

  “What side did you pee on?”

  “The side with the little window.” I put the stick on the bathtub to wait the requisite number of minutes and washed my hands. Ellen came in and stared down at the stick.

  “I don’t think you peed on it right.”

  I gritted my teeth and flicked the soapy water at her. “If you’re such an expert, you try it next time.”

  All of this was to no avail. The damned indicator never did change color, not that day and not for the several months following, so back to the doctor I went. There were tests they could run, but it all seemed too much. What had been a great idea in the middle of the previous winter was now just a pain in the ass. To make matters worse, the donor we’d settled on had disappeared from the list. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back—or in our case, cut the proverbial umbilical cord. I’d had enough.

  “So what do you think about getting another dog?” I asked Ellen one afternoon, as the summer sun hung low on the horizon.

  She looked at me over her margarita glass. “All right, if you really want one.” She paused and took a drink. “Could we name it ‘Jacko’?”

  3

  Macbeth, Renée, and the In-laws

  I am not a morning person. Weekday mornings can only be managed by a carefully coordinated ritual which consists first and foremost of coffee, then treats for the pets, a bath, and finally, a search for something passable to wear. I hate work clothes, so this part of the morning usually doesn’t go well. Generally, mornings are not very memorable. In fact, I try to forget them because if they are memorable, it means something in my ritual went awry. However, there was a morning, many years ago now, that I remember with great clarity. I remember because it was the start of what can only be called an obsession.

  That morning, I turned on the television as a distraction before having another look at the Dockers and polo shirts which hung in my closet stubbornly refusing to magically transform themselves into anything close to what I wanted to wear. I didn’t want to watch anything. I only wanted background noise. I had just turned back to look at my miserable excuse for a wardrobe when this terrific shriek came from the television. I whirled around to see what in the hell could have made such a bizarre sound.

  Standing in the middle of a wide battlefield was a tall, dark-haired woman in a leather gladiator outfit. She whipped out a round disk and flung it at a rather silly group of villains, her black hair circling her face like a demonic halo. Woof, I thought and took a long drink from my coffee mug. I watched as a shorter but nicely built blonde chick saddled up beside her and said something. That was the day. That was the day I was hooked. That was the day Xena: Warrior Princess came into my life. It hasn’t been the same since.

  What followed was an ever-escalating cycle of addiction. It started with watching Xena in the morning before work; then it had to be recorded so Ellen and I could watch it together. That Christmas, Ellen bought me the first season on video. We watched Xena ululate morning and evening for nearly a year, but all too quickly the series was over. I had fallen in love just as this stupid show was coming to an end. I responded by buying the entire series and promotional programs on CD. If I had had a coke addiction, it wouldn’t have cost me as much, and I’m not even counting what I spent on the fan club products. Those folks at the Xena Production headquarters seemed to know exactly when I needed a fix.

  “What in the world do you like about that show?” my friends asked.

  I tried to explain that my interest was purely intellectual. I was evaluating the show for its cultural impact and how it presented a new model for feminism—how the strength of a woman could be shown physically, not only emotionally. Because my friends know me so well, I didn’t get very far with this line of discussion, so I tried a different approach. Once, at a party, I took a poll: Which one, Gabrielle or Xena, was the hottest? Gabrielle won by a clear three-to-one margin which immediately and inexplicably prompted a lively discussion about Buffy the Vampire Slayer, a show for which I have not even the remotest regard. It was obvious that I needed a new group of friends.

  Thank God for the Internet. Some wonderful woman had a blog devoted to the scholarly consideration of Xena. At last, I had found my people. I read all the postings. I searched the latest gossip. I was enthralled.

  “Are you still on that stupid website?” Ellen asked one night over the phone. She was out of town again at some stopover during one of her week-long flying jaunts.

  “Yeah.” I wasn’t paying any attention to what she was saying. I was reading something very, very interesting.

  “Hey, do you want to go to L.A.?” I asked.

  “Why?” she yawned.

  “Renée O’Connor, you know, Gabrielle from Xena, is going to play Lady Macbeth at a Shakespeare festival out there.”

  “Let me see if I understand you. You want to fly all the way to L.A. to see a play?”

  “No, I want to go to L.A. to see Renée.”

  “I thought you liked Lucy Lawless. You know, the one who played Xena, your love goddess.” She was mocking me.

  “Yeah, but she’s not quite available at the moment. Come on, this will be fun. Let’s be a little adventurous.”

  “How much is this little ‘adventure’ going to cost us?”

  She was trying to make her voice sound skeptical, but I knew I had her. She was one of the clan who fancied Gabrielle.

  “Not much. You fly free—” I started.

  “I know that. How much is it to get you on an airplane to L.A.?”

  A few more clicks to find out about fares. I told her the price. Ellen balked.

  “Eight hundred dollars plus the cost of the hotel!? Have you lost your mind?”

  “We’ll need a rental car, too,” I continued, deciding the best strategy was to push the cost to its most ridiculous extreme and come down from there.

  “Sure, then there’s the damned rental car.”

  There was something in Ellen’s voice I couldn’t quite place. I let the phone go silent while considering my next move. It was my money, but we had been trying to be a bit more frugal after buying two cars the previous year.

  “You know,” Ellen broke the silence, “I think if we made plans to visit my mom while we were out there, it would be okay.”

  Ah, there it was. I had forgotten. Sharon and her boyfriend, Al, lived in Palm Springs, a mere “hop” south from L.A. Sharon was not my favorite person, but it looked as if the road to Renée would have to go through Palm Springs. Ellen had played me like a flute. I was stuck.

  The first time I met Sharon was at Ellen’s college graduation. She rode a bus from California to Baltimore. That was my initial clue that this was a woman I would never understand. She got off that bus frazzled, tired, and determined. Yes, I know all these emotions, but what I don’t understand is putting yourself through a four-and-a-half-day bus ride. She said she took the bus because she didn’t like to fly. In my opinion, that’s what the in-flight cocktails are for. Little did I know that drinking wasn’t the only thing we didn’t have in common. In fact, the only thing we had in common was that we both cared about the same person, albeit in completely different ways.

  During Sharon�
�s visit I learned she was a scary mixture of infantile stubbornness and motherly love, and religious conservatism added in for good measure. What she wanted she got, with her uncanny knack of making you feel guilty for not doing it for her in the first place. As far as her being my mother-in-law, I have always been grateful half a continent separated us. Now, here I was, willingly going out to meet her. It was almost too much. I decided it was best if I didn’t think about it too hard.

  I made the arrangements: a one-stop flight (Southwest doesn’t seem to do it any other way) from Saint Louis to L.A., an historic hotel, and the absolutely necessary rental car. We would get in late on Thursday and leave mid-morning on Monday. A quick trip, but then I was only going out there to see Renée no matter what plans Ellen had made.

  The flight out of Saint Louis was uneventful. Ellen made sure strong cocktails flowed my way, and often. She knew good and well that keeping me understimulated and over-lubricated during a flight was the only way for her arm to remain attached to her shoulder. Flying is a crapshoot, a risky venture I rarely willingly sign on for. I’m quite convinced that one of these days the plane is going to drop from the sky, and to be frank, it’s not the dying that scares the shit out of me. What scares me is the thought of the sheer terror I’d endure before going splat. I was thankful that liquor in great quantities, did the trick, so Ellen flirted with the flight attendants and I drank my gin and tonics. About the time we hit Phoenix, I was in a blissful state of semi-intoxication and dozed the rest of the way to L.A. It was the perfect way to fly.

  My head bobbed up off my shoulder as we touched down. Ellen was saying goodbye to her new friends as I surreptitiously wiped a bit of drool from my lips, thankful no one was looking. We got our bags and went to get the car. Everything was going well until, as we were standing in line, I felt an unmistakable wetness between my legs.