I hate it when he doesn’t start the car. Either turn on the AC or open the freaking window. Either way, turn on the freaking car.
But I don’t say anything about that.
Instead I say, “I thought this would be easier.”
He doesn’t look up. In the driver’s seat, he’s leafing through the printouts, “What do you mean?” he says, “The nurse said everything’s been perfect so far.”
“I know. That’s not what I mean, Mich–”
“Look,” he points at the page, “They got seventeen…seventeen…healthy eggs from you! The top end that they talked about was 15.”
I reach across him and press the ignition button. The dash lights but nothing happens. He doesn’t have his foot on the brake.
“What the hell, Jeanie?” Michael throws up his hands.
I pull my hair up away from my neck. I’m sweating. It’s sticking–I feel it trying to wrap around my throat– and it’s driving me insane. I notice that I’m pulling it hard and tight. If someone else had been doing it, it would have hurt a lot. I move the elastic off my wrist to bind my hair. I feel a little better when I draw in a deep breath of hot stale air. On the exhale, I say, as calmly as I can muster, “Michael, I’m hot. Will you please at least start the car so we can get some air.”
He looks at me like I’m crazy, but starts the BMW. I bottom out the temperature on the passenger side climate control. In my head, I count out the 4 seconds it takes for the air to blast. Hot at first, but at least it’s moving.
Before the cold air comes, Michael is talking again, flipping to a new page.
“And see here? My sperm?” he’s grinning, “260 million per milliliter! And 80% are great swimmers. Just like me!”
He nudges my arm with an elbow, all jokey, “See? Those years of Speedo in the pool didn’t do any harm at all. Told ya.”
I deadpan, “That’s great, Michael. You have super semen. I’m happy for you.”
He finally – finally – asks, “What’s wrong, Meanie Jeanie?”
“I fucking hate it when you call me that, Michael.”
I see him sit up, head backing away from me, a flash of anger finds his eyes. Then it’s gone, but tension isn’t. He cranes his neck a little to try to see my face. I turn mine away a little more. With my thumb, I flick one tear out of my right eye before it can finish forming or streak my face.
He takes his own deep breath this time and asks, haltingly, like each word could step on a landmine, “Love, do you want to tell me what is bothering you?”
I glare at him, “I was trying to, dear. You kept showing me the fucking pages. Which I’ve already seen, by the way. They emailed them ahead of the appointment.”
“Is that it, Love? You’re mad because I wasn’t prepped for the appointment? Work has been nuts–”
“No. No, no, NO!”
My eyes are pressed shut. Seeing red. I feel my fingernails digging into my palms where my hands have become fists.
“It’s not about you, Michael!”
I’m looking out the passenger window and see the young man again. I think he’s maybe in his twenties? It’s hard for me to tell with people with…I guess…disabilities? There just aren’t all the same signs of development and aging that I’m used to. But, for all his limitations – he has super limited use of his arms and legs, definitely needs the chair to get around, his water bottle has a super long straw – for all of that – he was at the hospital on his own. He even charmed the nurses who knew him on the way out.
“Jeanie, are you listening?!”
I turn back to Michael and ask, “What is it, Michael?”
“Jeanie – you said it wasn’t about me! Now I feel like you are effing gaslighting me! I’m asking you,” then, smacking the transmission shifter to punctuate each word, “What…is…it…about?”
I look at him, less mad this time. Disappointed? Maybe. He’s just so…obtuse sometimes. I sigh.
“I hate that we’re picking, Michael.”
He looks at me, squinting, “Picking?”
“Yes, picking!”
“Embryos?!”
“Yes, Michael. I hate that we are picking embryos!”
“But you’re the one who want–”
“I know, Michael! I know I’m the one who wanted this.” I hear myself grow quieter, “And I know it’s the right thing. It’s what I want for my child. It’s what I want for me.”
“For us…” Michael fills in.
“Yes, Michael, for us. Geez. Gotta make sure you’re in the considerations, too, right?”
Before he answers his indignance, I place a gentle hand on his wrist. Tension bleeds out of him.
More calmly this time, I say, “Yes. Genuinely. For us. I want our child to survive and thrive.”
“So, what’s the problem, love?” Michael asks.
The first time in the conversation I hear a real question.
“The problem is we wouldn’t pick me.”
He combs his fingers through his wiry hair and says, “Jean, I’d pick you every moment of every day until the end of time.”
I look at him, believing him, and say, “But I wouldn’t.”
Michael freezes. I’m not sure for how long. I’m not really paying attention.
Then he says, “So let’s not pick!”
I shake my head, “No, Michael. That’s not wh–”
But he’s excited like he gets when he thinks he can solve a problem. He says, “We pick without picking! It’s X-linked. So we only pick girl embryos! No disease, but we don’t have to exclude an embryo that would have been like y–”
“Michael!”
He stops, excited eyes searching me. Mouth hanging open. Waiting.
“Michael. Picking is the right thing. It’s what I want. I’m just saying that I thought it would be easier.”
His eyes drop. Then they find mine again and, with a short nod, he says, “Okay.”
“Thank you. Now, let’s go.”
Wow, really good, well done again!