I pull out my phone.
“I’ll turn up the volume, but only a little,” she says. “I don’t want Lily to hear it yet. I think it might make it harder on her if something were to happen.” Her hand protectively covers her stomach. “The doctor warned me there’s a high chance of miscarriage in the first trimester.”
I nod. “Jessica had one.”
“Oh, no.” She sits very still. Her brow creases. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“It was the second IVF try. We’d only known she was pregnant for six days.”
Her eyes are full, as if she’s about to cry. “That must have been devastating.”
“That’s the word for it. I was so excited, I bought a fetal Doppler so we could listen to the heartbeat, but... well, we never got that far. I never even told Jessica I’d bought it. I buried it in the back of the closet.”
“I’m so sorry.” A tear tracks down her cheek. She quickly brushes it away.
I’m moved by her empathy. I think you can tell a lot about a person by what makes them cry.
Quinn turns up the volume. I aim my phone at the screen and press record. We sit in silence for a full two minutes, watching the blurry image on the screen and listening to our baby’s heart.
Our baby. My emotions and thoughts are skipping all over the place. I feel a tenderness and a connection to Quinn that I have no business feeling.
I think about the sweet child upstairs, and the way Quinn has unhesitatingly embraced her as her own. I think about how Quinn has rearranged her life to care for Margaret. I wonder if our paths ever crossed during all the years we were both in New Orleans. Surely I would have noticed such a beautiful, warm, generous-hearted woman. I wonder what would have happened if I’d met her before I met Jessica. I can’t help but wonder if...
No. I refuse to let my thoughts go there. I’m a married man.
The thought of Jessica leaves me feeling vaguely ashamed and guilty. This is all so unfair to her; I hate how this hurts her. And yet...
I click off my phone’s camera, check that the video and sound have recorded, and then stand and put my phone in my pocket. “Well, I guess I’d better go.”
“Thanks for coming by. And thanks for checking in on Margaret.” Quinn unfolds her legs and walks me to the door. She smiles as she opens it. There’s a moment when I could have hugged her good-bye, but the moment passes, and the whole concept of physical contact seems too fraught with peril anyway.
I inhale Quinn’s soft scent as I step past her on my way out the door. The night air is thick and warm and humid, and I feel oddly like I’m swimming through it.
This evening was one of the most moving, magical nights of my life. I tucked my sweet daughter into bed, heard her prayers, and told her that I loved her. I heard—and saw—the heartbeat of my baby. Tonight was miraculous and loving and right.
And yet, it’s not something I can tell my wife without wounding her.
So what am I supposed to do—basically ignore the two lives I helped create, the lives that are a part of me? Can I really just go off to Seattle, send a few cards and letters, occasionally video chat with them, and maybe see them a few times a year?
I climb into my car and try to picture what my father would do. He would never have given his children anything less than one hundred percent. On the other hand, he would never have hurt my mother.
I sit in silence, trying to imagine how my father would have handled this situation. I can’t. My father never would have gotten himself into such a dilemma.
What’s the right thing to do here? I blow out a sigh and hit the ignition.
A thought fires along with the engine: I need to have a serious talk with Jessica.
CHAPTER FORTY
Jessica
I’VE BEEN GRILLEDmore than the salmon Dad smoked outside, so I’m relieved when this excruciating family dinner nears its end. My mother is pale and her eyes are red. My father is quiet and stalwart, but Erin’s kids and my brother have peppered me with questions throughout the meal.
“So, Aunt Jess, I still don’t get it,” my fourteen-year-old niece says as she spoons the last of the chocolate chip ice cream into her mouth. “Why, exactly, did you go on that donor site?”
I must have already explained this a dozen times. Isn’t it punishment enough that my husband’s donor spawn are ruining my life? Do I really need to admit, over and over and over again, to a colossal act of foolishness driven by jealousy and insecurity? “I was curious. It was a bad mistake.” I rise from my chair and start clearing the plates. My phone blares out the sixties tune “My Guy.” “It’s Zack,” I say.
“I hope he isn’t calling to tell you he’s discovered another kid,” my brother says.
