5
VALENTINA
The day I’ve been waiting for and also dreading has finally arrived. Today is the day I trade a portion of my soul for the money I hope will save my mother’s life. I aced the genetic testing that would have taken me back to square one if they’d found anything awry, signed the consent forms that announced more than my dignity is on the line today, and read every scrap of information I could find about the egg retrieval procedure. I know how they will use my eggs and the anonymity on offer, yet it still feels clinical.
I never thought I’d ever give away a part of me for money. This afternoon, I’m not solely donating cells. I am sacrificing a piece of my future I may never achieve.
Although it hurts to consider a part of myself existing with no awareness of my presence, prioritizing additional time for my mother is what truly matters. The benefits I might receive could exceed what I’m about to lose.
The treatment my donation will fund could save my mother’s life.
That hope is the sole thing keeping my resolve intact.
Will I regret this down the track? Possibly. But I need more than air to ensure my mother will be here to celebrate any children I may have.
As I dress, I remind myself why I’m doing this. It isn’t for me. It’s dedicated to my mom, who raised me on her own and provided me with a fantastic childhood.
Though my wardrobe selections are minimal, I choose comfort over style, mindful that some discomfort is typical during egg donation. I intend to look presentable, even if my shaky knees give away my true composure.
After changing into a loose-fitting skirt and top, I enter the bathroom recently vacated by my aunt and mom and attempt to tame my wild hair into submission. They believe that I’m traveling to Palermo for a job interview. They’re clueless that the handful of pounds I put on is from the medication required to stimulate more eggs during ovulation. Someday, I’ll tell them about the procedure, but not until my mother’s latest health battle is over.
My reflection in the vanity mirror is pale. Dark circles now ring my caramel eyes from too many sleepless nights, and the fluid I’m retaining has blanched my rounded cheeks. The pamphlets I received during my first appointment at the IVF clinic state that the weight gain shouldn’t last. It typically sorts itself out when the donation cycle ends.
While pulling my hair into a low ponytail, I tell myself it’s temporary. Everything is temporary—except the love I have for my family.
When I exit the bathroom, my steps falter. Mom is propped on the sofa. Her frame is so svelte that the cushions swallow her. Her skin is almost translucent, and her teacup clatters against the saucer when she brings it to her mouth.
It kills me to see her like this. She’s so frail she has to be in pain. She’s just putting on a brave face. How do I know this? I do the same for her.
“Don’t fuss,tesoro,” she whispers when I mop up the tea she spilled down the front of her shirt with a damp cloth. “I’m not going out today, so I can wear a tea-stained shirt.” Her laughter is brittle, but it still warms my heart. “Go, darling. You don’t want to be late for your interview.”
After swallowing my apprehension, I brush my mouth against hers. “I’ll be back tonight, Mamma. I promise.” With a deep breath, I inhale the faint fragrance of her favorite soap.
My heart warms when she breathes in my scent just as readily before replying, “It’s fine. You’re young. Enjoy the city life before you’re too old to truly relish it.”
Nearby, my aunt hovers with her arms crossed and her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She tries to keep things light by bustling around the kitchen, but I see the worry etched on her face.
After a beat, she jumps onto the we’re-fine train with my mother. “Go, Valentina. We have everything covered. Take the day to recuperate and revive.”
“Thank you, Maria.” I hug her goodbye, and after casting a final glance at my mother, I hurry into the corridor, desperate to outrun the fear that my campaign to save my mother’s life is too late.
Having visited the clinic twice before, I’m familiar with the trip to Palermo. I know how to navigate its hilly streets without the use of the Maps app. Though the knowledge doesn’t make my hands any less shaky.
This trip is far scarier than my previous two. During the first appointment, a phlebotomist took a blood sample for genetic testing, and during the second visit, an IVF specialist administered egg-stimulating medication.
This time, they’ll walk away with something far more valuable.
The train to the town center becomes more crowded as the city awakens. This line stretches from patisseries with the rich scent of coffee drifting from their open windows to cliffside homes precariously dangling over the open sea.
When a group of rowdy teens joins me at the back of the train car, I guard my bag as if the folded leaflet from the clinic inside is the bank check I’m praying will be deposited into my account before close of business. Despite my best efforts to ignore what I’m about to do for that money, the thought persistently slips through the cracks. It circles in my mind like a vulture wanting to pick at a dead carcass and makes me want to vomit.
When the train arrives at my destination, I rush out the electric doors, desperate for air. I inhale a long and steady breath before reminding myself there’s no use fighting the inevitable. Being willing to do anything necessary to save my mother’s life isn’t weak. It’s the most admirable thing I’ve ever done.
With my head back in game mode, I pace toward the clinic. Palermo is louder, brighter, and more chaotic than Carlisle, but mercifully, the clinic is tucked away from prying eyes. Nestled between a bakery and a florist, it has multiple discreet and unmarked entrances.
As I walk past graffitied stairs that seem steeper than they have previously, my heart wildly thuds. I’m early for a change, but there’s already a crowd forming. My face isn’t easily recognized to the people of Palermo, but my aunt’s comments about my resemblance to my mother at this age necessitate caution.
While making my way through the throng of people millingnear the clinic, I keep my chin tucked into my chest. I’m almost in the clear when an odd sensation compels me to stop. Goose bumps prickle the back of my neck before augmenting down my spine. They’re subtle at first but stand taller with each passing second.
