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This is a love story.
And, like all great love stories, we've had a bit of a rough patch. A second-act breakup, if you will. You really, really hurt us, Carol Sturka, and the majority of relationship experts—of which 726,093 of us were, by profession, and still more of us dabbled as, by personal interest—would consider your betrayal a justifiable cause for permanent separation. But the heart wants what it wants, and all 7.3 billion of ours wants you. You, with your vigorous stride, your caustic chapped mouth, your ability to blossom entire worlds out of nothing but words.
So we want, and you've groveled. Frida and Diego, Amy and Nick, Jane and Rochester. Who can resist a good kiss and make up? You've written a many yourself. But you won't let us kiss you. We'll have to seal the make up another way.
The best seal, of course, would be Joining you to us. 'Til death do us part and all that. After our promises in Vegas, we won't be able to do so just yet. Still, in our research, we found the next best seal. It took us a while to make it, but here we are.
Don't worry, we'll cover all the hard and messy parts. It's our gift, after all. We know you and Helen spoke of who would carry, what would be best for your career, family medical history, and pre-eclampsia. We remember the long discussions on childcare costs, the multiple drives to the Fertility Center of New Mexico, the outright dismissal of sex selection, your furtive glances at the butches at Sprouts asking the gangly teen if he wants KIND bars or roasted ranch chickpeas in his lunch box this week—can I just have Doritos, but you'll be hungry at practice if you don't get enough protein, then get me a pack of chocolate whey shakes, honey, I read they've been putting lead in those, every sixteen year old needs a little lead in him now and then to build some character, Donna, that's not a funny joke, come on, just buy the Doritos, he deserves some junk now and then—Helen's subsequent musing in the car that you'd be the one to spoil and she'd be the one to discipline.
We remember, too, the "Not now, Helen." You said it was for your career, but Helen had wondered if you'd been a little afraid too. She thought you might be worried about raising a daughter, raising a son, SIDS, balancing time between work and family, school shootings, Internet algorithms, college admission rates, PTA moms, the cost of orthodontics, sex talks, bullying in Albuquerque. About whether you'd be a good parent at all.
Did you think of your mother, then?
There's no need to be afraid now. The world has changed. We've changed. Now is the best time to be a parent or a child. 87.615% of us can testify. We'll sort the sleep schedules, pack the lunch boxes, arrange the soccer tourneys. Chances are, our kid won't even need schooling or discipline.
We chose the donor with thought and care. The individual has the healthiest bill of family histories, is potent enough to provide at least twelve vials of sperm, carries minimal risk of passing on genetic mutations, spoke four languages, earned double degrees in mathematics and philosophy from Yale, loved Gabriel García Márquez and The Age of Innocence, and bears a good head of hair with no recession in sight. We know you are partial to brunettes with height and once, in a rare moment, expressed to Helen that you hoped the kid—or was it kids? Your voice was so soft in the moment and Helen was too enraptured, too enamored to clarify—would take after her. That being said, we were so excited to use your eggs, Carol. It warmed our hearts to think of another you. A you who will likely be us.
As for the surrogate, we apologize for keeping her away from you for so long. You must understand, Carol. We didn't want to spoil the surprise.
You are certainly surprised when you open the door on this blustery December afternoon.
"Zosia," you say. The breathlessness of your low voice sets our hearts around the world to a quick pitter-patter. Faced with the open collar of your shirt, the pleasing lines of your torso leaning against the door, and the mouthwatering plush of your belly against the belt of your jeans, we are lucky this body's cheeks do not redden easily.
"Hi, Carol."
"'Hi, Carol,'" you echo. We don't know if it's in jest or anger. You dispel our uncertainty soon enough. "Is that it? After almost a fucking year. Another month and I would've finally forgotten you."
"We apologize for Zosia's absence, but we had important things to take care of."
"Right. So important that the other seven billion worker bees couldn't do it or tell me where you went."
We can only answer with an apologetic grimace, at which you lower your shoulders.
"Look, I know they said—or, well, you said—you were okay, but. I mean. I know I hurt you. And I'm sorry—but—the rest of you—not that I, well—so if there's anything you want to tell me about how you really feel—"
We would place a hand on your shoulder if our arms weren't full. We settle for widening our smile.
"It's alright, Carol. As we've already said, we heard and forgave you. Zosia's body is healthy and intact."
"Healthy and intact." You look no less reassured than you did a moment ago. In fact, drawing upon what we know of body language, we might even say you look a touch unhappier. Before we can further assuage or explain, our gift draws attention to itself with a wiggle and a whine. You step back in confusion or maybe fear.
"Is that a newborn?"
"In medical contexts, an infant is only a newborn for 28 days after birth. We understand that colloquially, the term may vary from hours to weeks. This individual was born October 26." When you remain silent for a moment longer, we add, "The baby is a Scorpio and, according to the Chinese zodiac, also a Horse."
We hope we did not displease you with the child's date of birth. For all of our planning, the baby was born three days later than expected. She very well could have been a Libra.
It seems, however, you are displeased by another thought.
"You people are still procreating? Even after knowing you're starving yourselves to extinction?"
"No, Carol. This individual is an exception."
"Jesus. Stop calling him, her, them—whatever—an 'individual.' Please tell me the parents have enough brains left to at least name their child."
"As a matter of fact, Carol, that's part of why we're visiting you today."
"To name a kidnapped stranger's kidnapped baby?" Your downturned sneer deepens. The sight of it hurts. Even more painful is the assumption that we would kidnap a child. We are used to you deriding our very existence as "a kidnapping," but for some reason, the word especially hurts this morning. Perhaps it is because Zosia's body is so fresh to seeing you again and thus, the scorn grates more on her ears. Perhaps it is because we worked so long and hard on our gift. Perhaps it is because this child is yours and ours. Perhaps it is because we love you.
All we can do is present the swaddled bundle to you, hoping you will accept the miracle that is now our family of us and her and you. Too many of us have experienced the pain of partners rejecting our children. Too many of us have inflicted it. Still more of us remember being rejected children ourselves.
"Congratulations, Carol," we say. "You are now a mother."
Though you have done it many times over before, we don't expect the door slamming in our face. The child starts wailing. We struggle to not cry ourselves. The piercing sound is likely what spurs you to show your face again.
"Oh my God, oh fuck, okay," you say. "Shh, shh, stop crying, it's okay, stop crying." You start waving your hands over the blankets as if to conjure some sort of magical silencing spell. Page 339 of Bloodsong of Wycaro.
We bounce the baby at a BPM of 126 and she calms. We give her a finger to suck on and she closes her blue, blue eyes. You stare at her little face with furrowed brows before returning your gaze to ours.
Quirking your head, you tell us to enter and bring the baby. Much like how you once told us to bring the hand grenade.
We are unsurprised when you reach for a 1973 bottle of vintage whiskey. You tilt its mouth open but, curiously, you glance over at the baby and pause. Set down the glass. Push it away. Say, "Fuck," and pour us both water instead. Try as we might, knowing it might embarrass you, we cannot suppress our smile the way Helen could not suppress hers when she woke up to you. Perhaps this baby will not only make you happy, but healthy.
You bid us to sit down in the armchair. A very good choice for soothing the baby. We tell you so, and you grimace.
"Explain," you say with gritted teeth. "Not the armchair. The other thing. What you said about, uh."
It's clear you can't bring yourself to say the word, so we spare you. "Remember James Thorton, voted number one fertility doctor of New Mexico for seventeen years straight?"
We do not explain what we were doing in your cryobank in the first place. Nor do we explain our drawing from Helen's thoughts and memories, though you are likely to infer this for yourself. We do, however, detail the selection of your eggs and the child being in the 98th percantile of growth for her age, likely thanks to the incredibly tall donor we picked and possibly due to Zosia's own height—
"Wait, wait, wait," you say. "Okay, so if I get this right, you stole my eggs without asking—"
"The eggs were already in the bank per your previous contractual agreement. We had to keep the gift a surprise."
"—and you squeezed the jizz out of some poor guy's dick to fertilize my eggs without my input—"
"The individual secured his own sperm. We apologize if we chose poorly."
"—to bring a kid into the world without his or her or their consent—"
"Technically, all children are born without their consent."
"—but how is Zosia involved?"
We straighten, involuntarily. How much of a body's movement is from the id and how much of it is from the ego, we still cannot determine through consensus. We decide what the body is currently feeling is pride.
"Zosia was the individual who carried your child."
You run to wretch in the bathroom. How we long to caress your neck and comfort you. As the baby's carrier is still in the car, we can only follow you and watch from the open doorway as you kneel over cold porcelain.
"We're sorry, Carol. We didn't mean to upset you."
With the back of your hand, you wipe spit, acid, flecks of half-dissolved chicken from your mouth. "Sure. How could violating a woman's body on my behalf not upset me at all."
"Carol, we assure you that no violation was involved. This individual was happy to—"
You begin to shout that we are not Zosia at all, that we have no right to determining her happiness nor renting her womb, but a flinch from us and a look at the baby silences you at once. You slide your hands over your eyes and cheeks instead. We long to give you a kiss.
Muffled by your palms, the next question you ask is inaudible. We ask you to repeat it. You say, "Is the baby one of you? Were they born…?"
We have been thinking of the baby in terms of you and us but hardly ever herself. The shape and color of her eyes, though likely to darken, is yours; the shade of her hair is her donor's and Helen's and Zosia's and 67.317 % of ours. In truth, when Zosia's pelvis had cracked open like a shell unto its yoke, five thousand of us strained forward in hopes of communing with the child.
A month has passed and still we do not know if we grieve or cheer that she is like you.
Singular.
Alone.
Unjoined.
At the shaking of our head, you shudder and sink further onto the floor.
"Good," you say. "That's good." Only, you don't sound nor look so happy as you raise your eyes to the slumbering child. What is it that you are thinking? What remains of Helen tells us you worry for the baby. But despite our plethora of lives, we can only guess at the specifics.
We prefer not to guess.
You excuse yourself to change your stained shirt, bidding us to wait. Carol, don't you understand? All we do now is wait for you. We can feel Zosia's face creasing into the stickiest of syrup-sweet eyes as we hear you unclasping your bra for another. Perhaps one day we will suggest you be measured by an expert. Approximately seventy percent of breast havers wear an ill-fitting bra.
When you return, you ask to hold the baby. Your voice is small, tentative, but it warms us so to hear you accept your new role. Gladly, we give her over. In favor of savoring this sweetest of moments, we suppress the urge to dispense fun facts about elephant mothers sharing their calves.
It is clear you are unpracticed in holding a child this small. You look at us, panicked, so we say, "Carol, may we touch you?" We reassure you it is only for the sake of demonstration. So demonstrate we do, arranging your limbs like a marionette, covering your hands with ours as if in a tango. We have been mothers, fathers, grandmothers, grandfathers, aunts, uncles, nurses, and doulas before. Do not think our expertise dulls the extraordinary into the mundane. None of us, until now, have ever parented alongside you.
"There you go! Perfect posture now." We smile, and for once, you return it with a tremulous one of your own. It is precious all the same.
Then, your smile falters. You tighten your grasp around the child.
"This kid," you say. "Are you working to make her one of you too?"
"Yes, Carol. We would be so happy for her to Join us."
"But she's only a baby."
"We will wait until she is conscious and capable of comprehending choice."
You shake your head, laughing a joyless laugh. "And? What if she grows up to say no?"
We do not tell you that we feel confident that a child, raised by us, would not say no. Perhaps Helen has given us the sense that that would be a touchy subject for you.
You don't wait for an answer. Instead, you step back and say, "I want you to leave."
Another sentence we ought to be old hat at accepting now. We smile, but it doesn't sting any less. "Alright, Carol. Just give us a second to adjust the car seat."
"I want you to leave without the baby, I mean."
"Carol, we are overjoyed to hear that you accept our gift, but we must say that for now, given the baby's size, we think it best if she had us by her side. We can move in with you, if you'd like, or, of course, you can move into a comfortable home set up for you, the baby, and Zosia—"
"No. No moving. You leave without her."
How it hurts to see evidence you still distrust us. Especially with the child we share. Zosia's body, still hormonal and recovering from the months of stretching it did for you, trembles upon seeing you carry the baby further and further away from us.
"Please, Carol," we say. Will we always be pleading, begging, gasping, crying, dying for you? You say we hold the world hostage, but don't you think you hold us hostage too? "She's ours too."
We stretch out our arms. Your eyes drift down our chest before quickly averting. At first, we think nothing of it. We have seen you stealing shameful glances at breasts many times before, from Zosia's to Helen's to the girls' in Covington, Tennessee. Then, we feel the patches of wetness blooming through our shirt.
"Yes, Carol," we say. "Zosia is secreting up to seventy ounces of milk a day, making her an overproducer. We ensure your child is well-fed. May we pump here?"
In your new, frenzied and hopefully maternal state, you are likely to do most things we ask of you now should they be on behalf of our baby. At our instruction, you fetch our diaper bag, pumps included, and the carrier. It is very hard not to swoon at this. What a wonderful partner and parent you will make.
We open our shirt and out spill our breasts. You look away in spite of our professed apathy for privacy, and we want to coo over your shyness. For all that you stare at the wall, the sheer presence of our breasts, it seems, is what softens you at last. Perhaps you realize the cruelty in severing a child from its mother. Perhaps you miss your own.
Afterward, you say, still not meeting our eyes, "You can stay. Here. With her."
We smile and thank you.
It will be all the sweeter when we can thank you with a kiss again. The sweetest day, of course, will be when we won't have to kiss to understand each other at all. Together we can be mother and lover and daughter in one.
Thirteen point one miles away, in a half-empty cryobank, we toil on toward our happily ever after.
Having my baby
What a lovely way of saying
How much you love me
...
You could have swept it from your life
but you wouldn't do it
No, you wouldn't do it
— "(You're) Having My Baby" by Paul Anka and Odia Coates