chapter eleven

JOSIE

The following Tuesday night, I drive back over to school for our annual Open House, the night when parents meet their child’s teacher, visit the classroom, and hear an overview of the curriculum. Afterward, everyone convenes in the auditorium, where the headmaster and a few other administrators give a spiel about how amazing our school is in order to inspire parents, already paying thousands in tuition, to open their checkbooks and donate a few dollars more.

I always dread the parental interaction the night entails—without a doubt, it is my least favorite part of teaching. This year is worse than usual, for obvious reasons, and as I pull into the faculty parking lot, I have the distinct feeling that I might actually pass out from nervousness over seeing Will again. It doesn’t help that it’s god-awful hot and humid out—or that I’ve been juicing for forty-eight hours straight in an attempt to fit into an ambitious size-six dress purchased specifically with this evening in mind.

I park my car, unfasten my seatbelt, and blast myself with AC before calling Gabe for a final dose of moral support. When he doesn’t answer, I fight the temptation to call Meredith. We haven’t communicated at all since she left my house in a huff, and for once I’m determined not to cave first.

Glancing up into the rearview mirror, I carefully apply a fresh layer of lip gloss and mascara as Sydney Swanson, my fellow first-grade teacher and closest colleague, pulls into the spot beside me, making a fish face through her window. Sydney is one of the sunniest, most upbeat women I know, which is especially impressive given that she’s thirty-nine and in my dismal relationship boat. She also happens to be six feet in flats, further narrowing her dating pool thanks to her nonnegotiable he-must-be-taller-than-I-am-even-in-heels criterion.

We both step out of our matching Jettas (purchased at the same dealership on the same day for a better deal) as she surveys my outfit, then whistles.

“Whoa! Eat your heart out, Will!” she says a little too loudly, exaggerating her Texas twang for effect. Everything about Sydney is big—her eyes and lips, her hot-rolled hair, her saline-filled breasts, her brash personality—and although I normally embrace her larger-than-life attributes, there are times, like now, that I wish she could be a little more discreet.

I shush her, nervously glancing around the parking lot.

“Re-lax, sister,” she says. “You got this.”

I tell her I think I might faint.

“You do look a little…ill.”

“Ill?” I say, feeling queasier by the second. “Oh, great.”

Sydney grabs my hand, stops in her tracks, and forces me to look at her as the new choral director, whom we haven’t quite determined whether we like, passes us with a terse hello.

“Okay. Listen to me,” she says, her voice finally lowered. “You look absolutely fantastic. And skinny.”

I thank her, even though I know she doesn’t mean skinny—just skinny for me. I’ll still take it.

She continues, “How many pounds have you dropped since Friday?”

“Six. But they’ll all be back tomorrow,” I say, putting on my Ray-Bans even though we’re steps away from the entrance and already in the shade of the building. “Plus one or two, knowing me.”

“Well, we’ll worry about tomorrow tomorrow,” she says, summing up her philosophy of life as we enter the building and wave hello to a half dozen colleagues. “And seriously, Josie, that dress is killer.”

Promptly worrying that “killer” isn’t really the look you want on Open House Night, I furtively ask if it’s too short.

“Maybe too short to play hopscotch in,” Sydney says with a laugh. “But it will certainly make Will’s wife jealous.”

“Um. That’s actually not my goal here, Sydney,” I say, knowing that such a thing is impossible anyway. Not only does Andrea have Will and his two children, but she also happens to be prettier, younger, and thinner. The damn trifecta. I tell myself there’s a decent chance that I’m funnier or smarter or nicer.

“And remind me?” Sydney says. “What is your goal, again?”

“I don’t know….I guess I’d like to make him a little…wistful. Maybe give him a small, nostalgic pang,” I whisper as we round the corner, then glance down the corridor at a sea of smartly dressed parents, some making effusive small talk while others diligently fill out their name tags at the check-in table.

“Do you see him?” she asks, scanning the crowd along with me.

I shake my head.

“Maybe he got fat and bald,” Sydney says. “Look for a fat, bald version of him.”

“No. I’ve seen a recent photo in The Atlantan. He’s definitely not fat or bald.”

“Damn. Too bad.”

“God, Sydney. I really don’t know if I can do this,” I say, my voice as weak as my knees.

She looks at me with genuine worry, which only heightens my fear. “C’mon, honey,” she says, grabbing my hand. “Follow me and try not to make eye contact with anyone.”

I nod, letting her whisk me past the parents, then down a flight of stairs to the first-grade wing. When we reach the safety of my classroom, which is diagonally across the hall from hers, she closes the door, then bolts it shut for added protection. “Sit down,” she says, striding over to me. “Right there. On the floor.”

I follow her orders, plopping down onto the braided rug, then lowering my forehead to touch my knees.

“I see London, I see France,” she’s unable to resist.

I reply with a faint groan.

“What have you eaten today?” she asks, sitting beside me and reaching over to rub my back in small, soothing circles.

“Just kale juice and a little black coffee,” I confess.

“That’s it?” Sydney says, aghast. She pulls a PowerBar out of her bottomless bag. “Here. Eat this. At least take a few bites.”

“I can’t,” I say, refusing it. “I’d rather pass out than puke.”

“Good point. Puking would be mortifying.” She lets out a laugh. “Can you imagine?”

“Sydney! That’s not helping,” I say, feeling kale rise in my throat.

“Sorry, sorry. You’re right….” she says. “Just breathe, honey….In through your nose…Out through your mouth.”

She demonstrates, and I follow her lead, the oxygen expanding my lungs and lowering my heart rate. “What time is it?” I ask, after a few minutes of silence.

“Almost six-thirty. They’ll be coming down soon.” She’s referring to all the parents, but I only picture Will and Andrea—who right now might as well be the royal Will and Kate. “You gonna be okay?”

I peer up at her and nod. “I think so.”

“Just remember,” Sydney says, “she doesn’t know you’re single. And neither does he.”

I nod again, thinking of how often I’m told that men can, in fact, sense when you’re desperate. But maybe that doesn’t apply to the married ones who have already dumped you. Besides, I’m no longer desperate, I remind myself. I have a game plan, finally, which I’ve already confided in Sydney, too.

“And remember—you only have to get through the next hour or so,” she says, grabbing my hands and pulling me to my feet.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I have to get through the next nine months.”

Sydney’s eyes widen, her thick fake lashes at attention. “What? Wait! Are you already pregnant? Is that why you’re sick?”

“No, dummy. I meant I have to get through the school year,” I say.

“Oh. You will. No problem,” she says. “Just stand up straight and smile. And wipe the lipstick off your front tooth.”

I rub my teeth with my finger and thank her, wishing she were my sister. Hell, if that were the case, I’d actually be the responsible one in the family.

On her way to the door, she glances over her shoulder, gives me a thumbs-up, and says, “No matter what happens, that dress was a great fucking call.”

OVER THE NEXT ten minutes, my classroom quickly fills with parents, filing in two by two. Meanwhile, I focus on breathing and smiling, scanning name tags and shaking hands. Once I have that down, I graduate to autopilot small talk, working the room like it’s a cocktail party minus the flattering lighting, music, and cocktails. Hello! Welcome! It’s so nice to meet you! You’re Lucy’s mother? My goodness, I see the resemblance! The summer sure did fly by! I’m so excited for the school year!

As the last few stragglers enter, and the slightly slow wall clock over the dry-erase board clicks to six-forty-five, Will and Andrea have yet to arrive, and I start to become hopeful that they won’t be coming at all. It could happen. Maybe they had a previous engagement. Maybe one or both had a non-life-threatening but contagious and unsightly illness like, say, hand, foot, and mouth disease or pinkeye. Maybe, just maybe, they got into a huge fight over me. One could hope, I thought, as I tried to imagine the accusatory eruption on their way out the door. You still have feelings for her, don’t you?!…No, I swear I don’t!…Then why are you wearing cologne?

Whatever the explanation, though, it is time to get started. Tugging nervously at the hem of my dress, I clear my throat and say hello, my smile feeling frozen. The room instantly quiets, everyone on their best behavior, the Pavlovian response to being back in a classroom, no matter what your age.

“Welcome! Welcome, everyone!” My voice sounds unnaturally high, like that of a sorority rush chair who has just downed a Red Bull. I swallow, making a concerted effort to lower my voice an octave, along with my eyebrows, which feel maniacally raised.

“Thank you so much for being here tonight,” I continue, sounding a bit more normal. I glance at the door, praying that it doesn’t open, and move on with my script. It’s only been a couple of weeks, and already I can tell what a wonderful group this is. It’s been such a pleasure getting to know your children—and I’m thrilled to meet you all. This evening, I’m going to briefly go through the curriculum for the school year—some of the fun things we’re going to cover in reading and math, as well as our specials, which include science and social studies. Please take this opportunity to explore the classroom, visit your child’s cubby, perhaps leave him or her a little note for tomorrow. And of course, feel free to ask any questions you may have. Remember, as I tell your children, there are no stupid questions—and my door is always, always open!

Then, as my Charlie Brown teacher voice drones on, it happens. The door swings open, and in walk Andrea and Will. As everyone turns to look at the latecomers, I make the shocking observation that the perfect couple is not only late but also flustered and slightly out of breath. At least she is—I won’t let myself look directly at him. Andrea still qualifies as beautiful, but to my relief, she isn’t quite as perfect as I remember from my Whole Foods sighting. She has gained a few pounds and her hair is overdue for color, a dull brown stripe streaked with gray at the crown of her otherwise golden head. More satisfying are the sweat-soaked armholes of her marigold-yellow silk blouse. Rookie move wearing silk on a day as hot as this one, I think, as she makes furtive eye contact with me and whispers, “Sorry we’re late.”

I wave off her apology with the same magnanimous smile I’d give to a child who has just wet his pants (which still occasionally happens in the first grade). “You’re totally fine,” I say, my heart fluttering in my chest, my role as scorned ex-girlfriend suddenly supplanted by my position as poised, punctual, and most forgiving educator.

AN HOUR LATER, the exhausting dog-and-pony show is finally over, and I make an announcement that everyone can head toward the auditorium unless they have any remaining questions. After a mass exodus, only two pairs of parents remain: (1) the Eddelmans, who have asked roughly sixty percent of all questions tonight, most of which are completely specific to their child, Jared, who, we have all learned, has a nut allergy, a latex allergy, a phobia of birds, and a propensity for nosebleeds; and (2) Will and Andrea.

I take a deep breath and address the Eddelmans, who give me a three-minute monologue about Jared’s EpiPen, while, from the corner of my eye, I watch Andrea and Will inspect Edie’s cubby. I nod earnestly, reassuring the Eddelmans that I am very well versed in life-threatening allergies but also fully confident that parents will respect the strict no-nut policy.

“We are very, very careful,” I say, acknowledging their concern. “Please rest assured that Jared will be safe at school.”

Finally appeased, the Eddelmans thank me and move along, leaving only Will and Andrea. My heart is in my throat as I turn to them.

“Hello,” I say, my fake smile back in full force. I focus solely on Andrea, glancing at her gray roots, feeling grateful that I’ve yet to find one on my own head. A small victory.

“Hi, Josie. I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m Andrea,” she says. She gives me a genuine smile as she starts to shake my hand, then stops, perhaps because her hands are as clammy as mine.

I take a deep breath and tell Andrea that it’s very nice to meet her, too. At this point, I decide that I can no longer delay making eye contact with Will, so I force myself to meet his gaze. I feel a stab of pain in my chest. He is as perfect as I remember. Even more so. “Hi, Will,” I say. “It’s nice to see you.”

“Hi, Josie,” he says.

I drop my gaze to the two open buttons of his teal checked Vineyard Vines shirt, and remember how soft his chest hair used to feel against me when we were making love.

“It’s been a while,” I say, my eyes shifting to the whale logo on the breast pocket.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “How’s your family?”

“They’re well. My parents…are…still divorced,” I stammer, “but both are pretty happy. Meredith married Nolan and they have a daughter.”

Will nods and says, yes, he heard that—and I give him credit for not pretending that I hadn’t crossed his mind once in all these years and that he knew nothing about my life. He glances at Andrea and quickly explains, “Nolan was Josie’s brother’s best friend.”

She nods, clearly aware of exactly who all the players are, and oddly, I’m both touched and annoyed by this. On the one hand, how dare he talk about my brother to her, especially when he never even met him. And yet, deep down, I know I’d feel worse if Andrea had no clue who Daniel was.

“That’s really cool that they got married,” Will says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, perhaps second-guessing his use of the word cool. Is it really cool when two people connected to a terrible tragedy wind up together? I mean—it’d be cool if Daniel were still alive. But he’s not.

I let Will off the hook and quickly agree, though, because I don’t want to talk more about my sister’s marriage or my brother’s death. In case this isn’t clear, I make my face as blank as possible, a tough thing to do when you’re churning with emotion, but something I’ve become good at over the years. Impassive, I remember Will calling me during our final fight—a charge that led to me shutting down completely.

“So anyway, we just wanted to say hello,” Andrea says. “Because otherwise it might be sort of awkward…given your history with Will.” She chooses her words carefully. “I mean, I guess we just wanted to acknowledge the elephant in the room.”

“Yes. Thank you,” I murmur, surprised by what appears to be her complete lack of an agenda aside from pleasantness, courtesy, perhaps even kindness.

Andrea smiles. “We were so happy when we got the teacher assignments. We heard that you’re the best teacher in the grade.”

“All the first-grade teachers are fantastic,” I say. “But I was happy to see Edie on my list, too.” The statement suddenly doesn’t seem like a lie, if only because she really has been the catalyst for my life-changing plan.

“She really likes you,” Andrea says. “She talks about you all the time.”

I’m not sure I believe this until Will nods in vague agreement. “Yeah. We heard about your doctor boyfriend. In Africa.” He flashes me a fleeting look of skepticism that I can only interpret because I once knew him so well. He clearly doubts my story.

Deciding I no longer need a Jack in my life, I give a little dismissive wave of my hand and say, “Oh, yes. Jack. We actually broke up. Last night…well, it was morning for him.”

“Oh,” Andrea says with genuine concern. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Long distance…It was inevitable….But I think we’ll stay friends,” I babble, trying to make my story more believable.

Andrea nods. “Yes. It’s always nice if you can stay friends,” she says, then glances at Will uneasily.

“Or not,” I say cheerfully, throwing her a lifeline.

“Or not,” Will echoes with a nervous chuckle.

AFTER SEEING WILL, I experience a brief setback, granting myself a few days of self-pity and regret. But I remind myself that motherhood is what matters most to me, and that once I have a baby, I won’t want to change a single thing about my past, including the fact that I lost Will, because all those steps will have been what led me to my child. I just have to get on with things.

So that Friday night, I throw myself back into my research, surfing a reputable sperm-donor site. I’ve yet to submit my credit-card information and pay for full access to the database; I just want to get my feet wet. As I read, I start thinking about other women in my shoes, as well as married couples who are here because the husband’s sperm isn’t good. Somehow, it helps to remember that I’m not the only one in this boat—and I tell myself to just take it one step at a time.

“Do I care about eye color?” I blurt out to Gabe at one point as I go through the menu of genetic options, making selections just for the hell of it.

“I don’t know. Do you?” he asks with a yawn. He is reclined on the sofa, his feet propped up on two pillows.

“Well, I prefer brown-eyed guys,” I say. “But I’m not dating the guy. And I think I’d rather my child have my eye color.”

“Narcissist,” he says.

“I’m not a narcissist,” I say. “It’s just—all things being equal—it might be nice if she looked like me.”

“She?”

“Or he. For some reason, I picture a girl,” I say, standing to refill my mug of coffee from the stale pot left over from this morning, then making a mental note to cut back on caffeine, starting tomorrow. I sit back down at the kitchen table, click the blue-eye box, summarizing aloud for Gabe. “Okay. So this is what I have so far….Caucasian, brown hair, blue eyes, medium or medium-dark skin tone—”

“Why not fair-skinned?” he asks.

“Because she’ll be less likely to burn—and therefore less likely to get skin cancer.”

“All right,” Gabe says, sitting up and stretching. “I buy that.”

“Okay. Next: ethnic background,” I continue, scanning the continents and choices, as I check all the Eastern and Western European boxes, from Austrian and Belgian, to Finnish and French, to Scottish and Slovak, with a running commentary to Gabe as I move my mouse and click.

“What about that Brazilian guy you dated for a while? You contemplated getting accidentally knocked up by him, didn’t you?”

“That was a joke. But he was pretty hot,” I say as I click the Brazilian box. “And…let’s see…I’m also going to throw in Native American, Lebanese, and Israeli.”

“Why’s that?” Gabe asks, appearing amused.

“Because you’ve got some Lebanese blood,” I say. “And I’ve always liked your face.”

“Gee, thanks.” He stands, stretches, then makes his way to the kitchen table, looking over my shoulder.

“And Israelis are badass,” I continue.

“I think that comes from living in a war zone rather than genes….Buckhead might not have that same effect,” Gabe says, sitting across from me.

“Maybe,” I say. “But I’m still keeping that box checked….And I think it would be cool to have Native American blood….Don’t you?”

“I guess,” he says, now scrolling through his texts. “But FYI, there aren’t a lot of blue-eyed Native Americans out there.”

“True,” I say. “But it could happen. Recessive genes and all that…Now. What about astrological sign? You think that’s important?”

“To idiots it might be,” Gabe says, knowing I read my horoscope on a regular basis.

“C’mon, Gabe,” I say. “You promised you’d be my adviser here.”

“What do you think I’m doing?” He leans toward me, his elbows on the table. “I’m advising you not to be an idiot.”

I shake my head and say, “Well, I’m sorry…but I just can’t do an Aquarius. They’re notoriously cold. Detached,” I say, thinking of Will.

“You’d rather have an attached sperm donor? Isn’t that sort of the point of using an anonymous donor instead of someone you know?”

“Yes, but I don’t want an emotionally detached child,” I say.

“Okay. But zodiac signs aren’t genetic,” he says. “Assuming you believe in that crap, the sign of your child is determined by when your child is born, right?”

I laugh and say, “Oh, yeah! Good point! See? This is why I need you!…Religion…? Hmm…I guess Christian, right?”

Gabe raises his eyebrows and says, “What about your Israeli tough guys?”

“Good point,” I say, clicking the Jewish box, then deciding religion doesn’t really matter to me at all and clicking the “all” box. “How about this one? Favorite pet.”

“Favorite pet? Is that really on there?”

“Yes,” I say, reading off the choices: dog, cat, bird, fish, reptile.

“That’s ridiculous,” he says. “Who cares?…But if you’re picking one, you gotta go dog.”

I nod, then think of Pete the PT and his cat, Fudge, and check the cat box, too.

Gabe says, “What if he’s allergic to dogs and cats? And can only have a fish?”

“All the more reason not to pick him,” I say. “I don’t want my kids to have allergies.”

Gabe nods, then says, “Okay…but have you ever noticed that smart people seem to have more allergies?”

I laugh and say, “You only say that because you have allergies….Although Adam Epstein had bad hay fever, and he was probably the smartest guy I dated.”

“Well, there you go,” Gabe says.

“Okay,” I say, looking back at the computer. “Next up is education….I want a college graduate, right?”

“As opposed to a dropout?”

“Yes.”

“But Bill Gates and Ted Turner both dropped out of college,” Gabe says. “Can you get their sperm? Ted’s right here in town….”

“C’mon, Gabe. Focus,” I say, trying not to smile. “This is serious….How about grad school?”

“If you can exclude lawyers.”

“Right,” I say, thinking of Meredith and pretty much any colleague of hers I’ve ever met. “What about hobbies?” I read off the categories: musical, athletic, culinary, craftsman, creative/artistic, technology, and outdoor recreation.

“Go craftsman,” he says.

I can’t tell whether he’s kidding. “Why?”

“Why not?”

I smile, skipping this section for now, suddenly thinking that this entire exercise feels bizarre, borderline preposterous.

“Let’s see,” I say, scrolling down to the final question. “This one’s called ‘personal goals.’…They ask the donors what matters most to them….We have ‘fame’—”

“Hell, no,” Gabe says, cutting me off.

I nod in agreement. “Financial security?”

“Nah. Too risk averse…You don’t want dweeby sperm.”

“Religious slash spiritual?”

“Maybe. But is that one box?”

I nod.

“Well, I like spiritual, but not religious. You don’t want to get a rigid, judgmental extremist.”

I give him a look and say, “Not all religious people are rigid, judgmental, or extreme.”

“True. But you avoid those types if you don’t click that box.”

I nod, grateful that he’s finally being serious. “Okay. How about ‘community service’? Or ‘improve environment’? Or just a nice general ‘help others’?”

“Yeah. I like all those. Check them, for sure.”

“How about ‘travel’?”

“I like that, too,” Gabe says. “Adventurous spirit.”

“Marriage and family?”

“Hmm. Nah.”

“Why not?”

“Because if marriage is his goal—and he’s donating sperm? Doesn’t that seem to indicate that he’s not very successful in achieving his goals?”

I laugh. This is Gabe at his absolute best—funny and insightful. “How about this one—‘to be happy’?”

Gabe pauses, deep in thought. “Hmm. It’s a little simplistic…verges on hedonistic.”

“It says happy,” I say. “Not pleasure seeking.”

“Yeah, I know. But is the point of life to be happy—or to make other people happy?”

“Well, doesn’t making other people happy make you happy?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Gabe says with a smirk.

I laugh.

“But I like it,” he continues. “If I were you, I’d check that one, the travel box, and all the ones about helping others.”

“Okay,” I say, nodding in agreement.

“But, Josie?” he says, putting his hand lightly on my arm. It’s not unheard of for him to touch me, but it is unusual, always catching me slightly off guard.

I look up from my computer. “Yeah?”

“All of this is sort of bullshit, isn’t it?”

“Why do you say that?” I ask. Although I have the same general feeling, I want him to put it in words for me.

“I don’t know. It’s just—whatever the donor dad is doesn’t necessarily mean the kid will turn out that way, especially when you remove nurture from the equation.”

I nod and murmur my agreement.

He continues, “And you’re going to love your kid whether it’s a boy or a girl. Or a fair-skinned, reptile-loving woodworker—or a brown-eyed, sporty…aloof Aquarius.”

I smile and say, “I know….It feels a little ridiculous, checking the boxes for a baby. Maybe I should pay up and just get to the essays and photos.” I scroll down the site, clicking on the price menu.

“Definitely. Let’s do that,” Gabe says, as I pull my credit card from my wallet and begin typing in the numbers. It feels a bit hasty, especially when I’m not even sure this is the sperm bank I will ultimately use, but I’m afraid of losing momentum, as well as Gabe’s attention. Before I click the final button making payment, I say, “You really think I should pull the trigger here? This isn’t cheap.”

“Yeah. I do,” Gabe says, nodding. “I think this will give us a good gut feeling.”

I look up at him and say, “But you’re always saying I have bad instincts when it comes to guys….”

“You do,” Gabe says, smiling. “That’s why I said give us a gut feeling. Now. Move over, and let’s read these essays.”