Blowing off work the next couple of days is not my intention, but I can’t seem to get my ass to separate from my couch. I feel alone and unfairly punished. Maybe punished is a strong word, but I’m stuck in the most juvenile “not fair” type of mindset. Privileges have been taken away without offense and the big bad in this case is not my parents, not my teachers, but my own damn body. I want comfort. I want to curl up and forget.
I miss my Ripley-boy, the silver tabby I’d rescued just before I moved out for college. Mom insisted I take him with me. Just spit-balling here, but I think it was because she and Dad were in the midst of a crappy divorce, but I could be wrong. He was an amazing cat; chubby, talkative, lazy, loved to take naps with me. His purr-motor in my ear would be the best medicine.
Since I no longer have him to comfort me, I have to talk myself out of several boxes of old-school powdered mac and cheese. It’s “made with real cheese.” In other words, chemical cheese. You know, the good stuff. I only manage to resist two of the four boxes currently stocked in my cabinet. I make the two boxes at once and eat it out of the pan. Hey, I’m a strong woman and all, but I’m not perfect. I have needs. And apparently some serious adult-type decisions to make, or at least consider.
After a binge marathon of some awful nineties show on Netflix, I crawl out of my self-pity hole and call my mom. Telling me how I’m being overdramatic is her favorite thing, and I love to offer her the opportunity. Actually, I’m hoping she can talk me into action. She’s good at that. And reminding me to wear lipstick. Which I sometimes do, but she brings it up like we’re talking about “make sure you wear clean underwear” types of things.
The phone rings a few times. As I listen, I wander out on the balcony of my apartment. It’s the upstairs half of a duplex and spacious, so I don’t feel too collegiate in my homestead. After the budgetary bust of Brett-gate, I lost momentum in the scheme to buy a house like many people my age. The chairs I have on the patio are cheap and sun bleached, but still comfortable and at the very least, not filthy. I plop down and the plastic or wicker—honest to God, I’m not sure—groans. I don’t know why, but I tell it to hush. I haven’t exactly slept too well the past couple of nights, but that’s beside the point. Or not. Whatever.
Pick up the phone, Mother!
“Hi, baby!” Her voice trills as it does when she’s been singing along to something. It makes me smile.
“Mom, my ovaries have dried up,” I say by way of greeting. I mean, let’s just get to the meat of it, right?
“What’s that?” she asks. The music in the background is too loud. As usual. It’s like party central at their house. It’s ridiculous. No wonder my internal baby factory is shutting down—my own mother is younger than I am.
I hold the phone away from me and yell, “I have your reproductive system and I want mine back!”
“No need to shout, honey. I’m not deaf.” The music lowers and I hear static as she readjusts the phone to her ear. “But if Ruben has anything to say about it, I will be in a month. He’s taken up drumming, you know.”
I roll my eyes and smile. Ruben is my stepdad, though they only married about five years ago. Great guy, very sweet. And hot for a fifty-six-year-old. He was born in Cuba, so it’s probably the Latin genes. Mom said she legitimately thought he was Andy Garcia when they met. Ruben countered with, “If that’s what landed me this angel, hallelujah.” They’re the cutest.
“Two questions,” I begin in my most serious tone. “Are they bongos? And does he drum naked?”
She makes a hooting sound almost louder than the music was before. “I’m not telling! That is none of your business.”
“The bongos or the naked?”
Mom titters. “Now what did you say before? Something of mine you have?”
I sigh.
“Uh-oh.” The music in the background turns off completely. She’s ready to get serious. “Tell Mama.”
“I’m going into menopause.” An appropriately chilly breeze sweeps across my balcony. I tuck my feet under my butt.
“You’re going where?” Ruben must be drumming right next to her ears. “To the movies? I’m not sure I heard you right.”
“Menopause!” I snap, pounding a fist on the arm of the chair. “I’m dying from the inside out!”
She cackles and chides, “Be serious! What were you really going to tell me?”
“I’m not kidding, Mom! I went to the doctor because I kept missing periods and hadn’t ridden any baloney pony to warrant an errant shark week. We’ve been doing some hormone-y tests over the past few weeks and Dr. B says it looks like premature menopause.”
I hear a forceful exhale. “That doesn’t seem possible,” she scoffs. “Are you going for a second opinion?”
Facepalm. “I guess I should.”
“Do. I want grandbabies.” I love that this is her immediate reaction. Never will I forget where her priorities are. “Lots.”
“Wow. Way to be supportive, Margaret,” I say, my voice flat and blatantly irritated. “You know Cameron could still be the source of a grandkid someday.”
“I am supportive! And I know you want kids, so don’t tell me that’s not a concern,” she says with a huff. “And don’t deflect! Cammy is—dammit, Mona, get down!” Mona is their black Labrador. “Cam’s dealing with enough right now.”
“Dealing with what? You’re not pressuring him about grandkids? Way to be sexist, Ma.” I sound whiny, but honestly, it’s crazy easy to regress when you’re talking to your parents. I am perpetually thirteen in some conversations. It’s embarrassing. Much like being thirteen.
“Goddammit, Sophie Ann, stop deflecting. You have always said you want to have kids someday,” she says, clearly frustrated in that typical mom way—she loves you, but she mostly wants to smack you.
I feel a pinch on my temple and realize I have a long chunk of dark brown hair twirled around my finger so tight I’m afraid I will rip it out at the root. Maybe I should cut it? Stop! Focus.
“Ugh, Mom. I’m not sure… or at least I wasn’t. Now that it could be off the table—in the traditional popping out of the vag sense, anyway—I definitely think I want the option. I’m not ready to give that up yet.”
“What did I just say?”
Wow. That was the mommiest thing she could have said.
“I know, but—”
“Trust your mother. I know you better than anyone in the world,” she reasons. She’s not wrong. “By the way, are you wearing lipstick? You should always wear lipstick. That’s how you land the sperm donor.” I told you.
“Oh my God. Mother!” I push the chair on its back legs and throw my head back.
“Well, are you?” She’s like an Avon lady on steroids. “Lipstick brightens up your face! If you’re not getting enough sun, you look too pale.”
“Yes, Mom,” I lie. “I’m wearing lipstick. That scarlet one I showed you at Easter. And you realize we’re white, right? Pale is what we do well.”
“You tan very nicely and I refuse to accept such a pasty fate.” I imagine her dark blond hair contrasting her well-tanned skin. She’s not leathered yet, but if she doesn’t chill with the sun worshipping, it won’t be long.
“That’s why you’re going to be a handbag sooner or later,” I tell her. I feel the chair legs wobble like they might bend too far. I bring it forward with a thud.
“We all will, babe,” she says, punctuating it with a snort. We are practically the same person. “When I’m dead, you can make me into a backpack or a fancy purse with a wallet.”
“Oh, come on—stop it! That’s horrible,” I say, irritated that it’s both funny and terrifying.
“What? I don’t mind. I’m an organ donor. It’s on my license.” She tells me this like I don’t know these things.
“All right, Coach bag, enough!” I make a gagging dry heave sort of noise. “Can we get back to the topic at hand?”
She guffaws, fully amused at my discomfort. “Fine, fine. Tell me what you’re thinking. A second opinion, and then what?”
I stand and go back inside. In the kitchen, I pour some orange juice as I think aloud. She snags on the egg-freezing option and I explain how expensive it is and why my insurance plan blows. We talk a little more about it and I repeatedly refuse her offers of a little money. Just the mention of taking it makes me wear circles in the kitchen tile as I pace. I know she and Ruben aren’t a cash waterfall. Not to mention Cameron is living at home, which means he’s not paying rent, utilities, or contributing for groceries. Plus, they have a “retire to Spain” plan and I absolutely do not want to get in the way of that. I want that for them much more than I want their money, even though I know she’d take out one of those scammer reverse mortgages to finance a grandkid.
It just seems ridiculous to pay all this money to jack myself up on hormones to harvest the eggs—I don’t even want to know how that smash-and-grab job works—and then stick ’em in an ice cube tray for an indefinite period. I’m simplifying, of course, but then there’s all the cost of defrosting and fertilizing and then planting it all up in there. It seems like I’d have to win the lotto.
“Have you called your insurance company and checked?” she asks me.
I stop pacing and sit at the breakfast bar. “Mom, I know women with awesome insurance, and most would still leave me on the hook for at least twenty percent. Given all the factors, I’m not sure that wouldn’t be several if not tens of thousands.”
I suppose I could just buy some frozen baby batter for a bargain—ha ha, cough—and turkey baste that shit. But then I’d have to do that pretty damn quick. Or quickish. Do I have time to date? “So how do you feel about becoming a father? As in, right now?” Not the best strategy for speed dating night.
“That doesn’t mean you don’t call, Sophie.” Mom’s voice is stern yet still casual. Which means she’s hiding her concern. I detect a bit, but the woman’s a master at covering her tracks. Usually. There are the occasional slipups.
“Fine, Mom, I’ll call.”
“Right now?”
“Seriously?” I hear the teenage brat in my voice and cringe for all of us involved. That is, me, myself, I, and my poor mother.
“Are your ovaries going to wait? If yes, wait until tomorrow,” she says. “For crying out loud, you’d think you were twelve years old and talking about chores—which kids these days don’t even seem to have to do anymore. Please tell me you won’t be that kind of parent? Then I’ll have to be the mean grandma who nobody likes. Don’t do that to me, baby. Okay?”
Ladies and gentlemen, my mother.
“I would never, Mom. Listen, I gotta go,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “My ovaries just set up a picket line. Time to negotiate.”
After I hang up, I sit back and look out the window at a mirrored building in the distance, refracting and splitting the warm afternoon light. If I unfocus my eyes, it reminds me of the ocean as the sun sets. It’s one of my favorite things to watch. Incredibly relaxing. I grab my phone and check the time. I have an hour until sunset starts. Plenty of time to get over to the beach and enjoy it. It feels imperative with my current mood.
My mind set, I grab my keys, ID, and a water bottle on my way out the door. My Mustang waits in the driveway as if to say, “I’m already halfway there.” A tiny smile grows, pulling my cheeks tight as I peel out.
When I get there, stalled only by a minor traffic backup, that gorgeous glowing source of life is minutes away from touching the water. I throw the car into park and vault myself across to the sand, getting as close to the water as I can without landing in a wet spot when I sit. And sit, I do. I set myself down with purpose and force my water bottle into the sand next to me. Tears prick my eyes as the sun and the Pacific finally touch.
The glow settles seamlessly, melting harmlessly into the surface of the water. The dissolve is silent, the feeling innocent like a fruity lollipop in the summer heat that liquefies and sticks to your hands. My mind darts around my childhood memories—things like sharing sucker flavors with my friends. We’d talk about how we would be a million different things—point guard in the NBA, subterranean explorer, surf-and-scuba ballerina, librarian at the library of Alexandria, queen of Atlantis—before we’d decide we were done taking over the world. Then maybe we’d all have kids at the same time and raise them together… while living on Venus. The dreams were wonderful and impossible—or at the very least, unlikely, but they were unlimited.
Having a child alone has never been my dream. I doubt anyone dreams of being a single parent. It could happen, I suppose, but if that person exists, I’d love to talk to them. Maybe borrow some of the balls they possess, because they are clearly fearless. Still, the closer my chances of bearing my own child get to hopeless, the more I feel compelled to make it happen.
Shit. At twenty-eight years old, I feel like all I have are limits.
I want my impossible dreams back.