“I want a family, I really do, but when the time is right.”
“Time is not right or wrong. You’re thirty-eight. If we wait much longer, we’ll have no time.”
“I don’t like being forced into anything.”
“I didn’t force you to love me, I’m not forcing you to want children or a family, I’m not forcing you to go to France. I’m asking you to be with me.”
“I know. I love you. But I’m not ready for a vacation in France. And I’m not ready to have children!”
“Are you afraid you can only get pregnant in France? It works the same way here, too, you know.”
She poured herself more wine. “You can be very romantic. I can just imagine you in a bubble bath, where you proposed, convincing me the time is right, and I acquiesce. And then I regret my decision because,” she slammed her glass on the table, “I’m…not…ready!”
“On our first anniversary I asked you why you were afraid of becoming a mother, which I deeply regret because you left the house and didn’t return for two days. I was frantic, so frantic that when you did return, I vowed never to ask you that question again. Until now. Why are you afraid of becoming a mother?”
“I’m sorry I left. I won’t do that again.” She worried her hands. “I don’t know if I fear becoming a mother or if it’s because I don’t know how to be one, but the thought of becoming a mother totally overwhelms me.” She reached out to him, and he backed away. “I’m just not ready. I’m sorry.”
He picked up the tickets and his glass of wine. “I don’t think you will be ready—ever.” He left her and shut himself in his office.
She hadn’t thought she would ever grow tired of sitting opposite the table from him—and she wasn’t tired of him—but she was tired of the same conversation that accompanied every anniversary. She was tired of feeling pressured. Many career women put off having children, and some chose not to. Marti and Stephen didn’t have kids.
She inhaled the aroma of the brandy-peppercorn sauce. It wasn’t fair that he’d cooked this delicious dinner and she’d be the only one to eat it. But she wasn’t about to call a truce or let the steak go to waste.
She filled her plate and cut a double slice of lemon tarte and appreciated it all with Charles Aznavour as he sungLa Bohème, about moments of joy, moments of pain.
The train slowly moved out of the station. She jolted at a realization: that night was the last time David had asked her to join him—thirteen years ago. She remembered being relieved he hadn’t brought up the family discussion again…and now she wished he had. She wondered if David gave up and decided to have a child without her. If he made a conscious decision to have a child, if he’d thought about it for a while, or maybe he’d been trying with someone else for a few years. Luca was seven or eight years old. Did David even know about Luca when the child was born?
She swallowed back guilt that was more bitter than the coffee. She’d not been honest with her husband. But she’d also not been honest with herself. Marti helped her uncover her fear of becoming a mother. She certainly didn’t want to be the cold, critical woman her mother had been. But Claire wasn’t cold or critical. Did having a child change her mother?
She wished the coffee had brandy in it, to help wash away the guilt for her procrastination and never giving David children. Which, for the first time in her life, she deeply regretted.
She forced herself to be honest now: her marriage wasn’t as perfect as she’d thought. They’d both harbored secrets that prevented a deep intimacy between them. Was getting to know her husband better a part of the reason she flew five thousand miles? And maybe get to know herself, better?
The train stopped in Paris, and hordes of children of all ages, parents, retired couples, backpacking students filled the car. A businessman dressed in a trench coat and plaid scarf sat next to her, placed his briefcase on his lap, and whipped out his phone, keeping it two inches from his face. She took his action as a warning that he was not available for polite conversation. Just as the door dinged a young couple, vibrating with lust, hopped up the steps and into the row opposite Claire.
They laughed heartily as the man tossed their backpacks up on the rack and collapsed into his seat. The train jolted forward. The woman giggled and snuggled into him. He caressed her hair, kissing her forehead.
Their intimacy made Claire turn to look out the window, but the station was dark, and the glass reflected her face, lined with anxiety, staring back at her. She and David had been exactly like that couple, full of love and nonsense. She closed her eyes and saw David sitting in a bubble-filled bathtub opposite her, placing a ring on her finger, asking her to marry him. Three days later, they’d stood amongst a brace of candles at a ceremony on the altar of a tiny chapel surrounded by snow-laden fir trees on Christmas Eve.
With a whoosh and the blare of the train’s horn, the train sped through a railyard and beyond the city limits, passing suburban villages. The memories of David’s explanations of the village customs, architecture, and crops lulled her into believing he was there, next to her, whispering his love and devotion. She jolted awake, took a gulp of coffee.
Feelings gnawed at her stomach, and she didn’t think the sensation had anything to do with food. Was it anger at David if he’d knowingly kept his son a secret from her? Regret for not having been honest with each other? Guilt over not giving David kids. Grief over his death—coated with her sense of betrayal, for no matter how David had a son, he’d not told her, unless he had learned about it the day he died, and he’d not had time to tell her.
A University loomed in the distance. University of Strasbourg was David’s alma mater, where he’d earned a sommelier degree. He’d put himself through college, and it was possible Marti could be right, that he’d donated sperm for the money. A torrent of rain splattered the window. Good grief, if he had, she would have to notify all the recipients.
The couple across from her burst into laughter. The woman mock-punched the young man and threw herself back into her seat with a pout.
Claire longed to hide behind a newspaper. Did they print them anymore? She sighed and dug out her phone and searched IVF, Strasbourg. Pages of fertility clinics appeared. She typed,How long can frozen sperm remain viable for IVF?The answer, decades, surprised her. She requested,Is there a limit to the number of children a sperm donor can give rise to,and learned that every country had their own restrictions. France allowed six families to be recipients, but there was no limitation on the number of siblings. Could David have donated to more than one family? Could Luca have siblings? Her searching was not helping. The information was fueling the gnawing in her stomach.
She would only have to find the service where David donated, if he donated, God, she hoped he’d donated. They could inform the recipients of the hereditary risk. Maybe Sophie would know the name of the service. She should have brought more copies of his medical records.
The woman across from her giggled and spread her quilted coat across her and her lover and kissed him passionately. He reached his hand under the coat and smiled wickedly. The woman let out a groan.
Good God they were going to enjoy heavy petting, if not more, not a foot away from Claire. Really, did they not comprehend privacy? This was an over-the-top public display of affection. If she wanted to watch an X-rated movie, she’d watch TV.
She opened her ticket to check how much longer she had to endure their taunting. Ten minutes. She picked up her cup andaccidentallyspilled its contents on the couple’s feet. They bolted out of their seats, sputtering French, no doubt cussing, both glaring at her.
Claire lifted her shoulders, pressed her hand to her cheek, and giggled. “So sorry. Désolée.” She shrugged on her coat, grabbed her purse, smiled at the young man, and mimed getting her bag down. He was only too happy to comply. She thanked him and pulled her bag toward the door. At least the couple was a distraction, if not an irritation.
