Maybe Baby (5 page)

"
Are you sure you want to have a family with him?" Ida's hand was on my shoulder, and it was a gentle, comforting touch. How could she have such empathy? I didn't think I had it when I was her age, but perhaps that was inherently part of who I was. I had such difficulties being empathetic. I could fake it, but I didn't always feel it.

"
I don't know," I finally admitted. "Maybe I want to have a baby on my own."

I had never even considered this. I'd always said I would not be one of those women who would get pre
gnant and become a Baby Mama. My parents had been pretty adamant in their lectures about not being the Single Black Mom, especially not the single black woman who had no intention of having a father figure for her child. I didn't want to be one of those women constantly moaning about how my man didn't help me with my kids, how I had to be the mom and the dad. But that's what I would be if I had a baby on my own. Maybe not so angry and resentful as the women I saw on TV, or as the women I often saw on the subway, but I would join their ranks. And in a way, instead of being frightened or disillusioned, it felt okay.

How long did I sit there with Ida, rambling on about my life while she nodded and took notes? I knew she wasn't my therapist, but it was easier to tell her what was wrong with my life than the woman I saw in Stoc
kholm twice a month.

"
I'm sorry I am going on like this," I said. "It's being here, away from Stockholm and from my step-kids and Niklas... do you get a lot of women like this?"

"
Occasionally. Some women come here looking for something completely different. They come to the mingles to meet the men, and they want relationships. It happens sometimes."

"
I don't want a relationship. I already have one."

"
Good, good. Well, let's focus on finding you a good donor."

I shouldn't have stayed.

Ida let me use one of the more comfortable rooms, where there was a touchscreen monitor set up for virtual viewing of donors and the staff impression reports of them. I probably spent an hour browsing and seeing no one who clicked for me, and then I stopped. The man in the cafe was donor DK-101 52 7315, Mads Rasmussen. Mads. His video revealed that he lived in Copenhagen, and worked as a carpenter and furniture maker. He was single. And his voice was delicious.

I couldn't understand everything he said—my Danish wasn't very good—but he was sexy in that hipster way I'd always thought I hated. He had the most interesting face; not quite symmetrical, with gorgeous, sensual lips and a slow sexy smile. If this were a dating site, I would have sent him an email immediately and requested a date. But I wasn't single. I had Niklas. And I wasn't here for a new partner. I was here looking for someone to be the father of my children. And, if I was honest, I wanted Mads to be that man.

I watched his video three more times, then made myself stop. I was behaving like a love-struck teenager. No, no, no. I stood up a little too quickly, and nearly knocked over my chair. I needed to walk out of here. Staying didn't really feel like an option anymore. I'd screened his video four times. I'd let myself imagine him being the father of my children without even having Niklas anywhere in the picture.

No...

I looked out the window, expecting to see outside but it overlooked the mezzanine and, below, the area set up for the mingle. A few people had already arrived and were being handed drinks by the wait staff. The icy receptionist was there, too. Was she also a Client Services Specialist? I stepped away from the window and tried to figure out what to do. Stay or go?

Staying meant opening myself to something more than I'd bargained for. Or was I jumping the gun? I'd only seen the man's picture and watched his video. There was no guarantee he would even show up tonight, and maybe I would feel the opposite of attraction once I spoke to him. I didn't need to feel attracted to him to think he could be a good donor for me. All that mattered was that he was healthy and his sperm quality was good. According to the reports in his file, he was stellar mat
erial. That was all I needed to think about. I was not going into this like I was approaching a long-term relationship. I mean, even the website said the only time donors met the recipients was at the mingle, and possibly one or two more occasions in between to sign paperwork.

I was safe. Niklas and I were safe. I just had to make sure it stayed that way.

*      *      *

Downstairs, the atmosphere was more like a party than a meet-and-greet. They'd hired a DJ and the music he was playing had the right of amount of swing and groove to make you want to dance. Instead of the twenty-odd pe
ople I'd assumed would show up, the bar was jam-packed. I eased my way through the crowd and put on the nametag Ida insisted I wear. I could see her at the bar, ordering a drink. She and the Ice Blonde were keeping an eye on the crowd, which included a few of the donors I recognized from the files I'd seen earlier. Some looked uncomfortable—this was a strange set-up, wasn't it? I supposed it never occurred to them that Copenhagen Cryo would seriously expect them to follow through and meet the people who'd purchase their donations.

I was still thinking about it—and wondering why they called it donations when the men were getting paid—when I saw him. He'd just walked in, and was scanning the room like he was searching for someone. I wondered if the donors hung out sometimes. Maybe they were like a fraternity, or like brothers in arms. One of the wait staff offered him a glass of wine, but he shook his head. Hmm. Either he was a teetotaler, or he preferred beer, or he was driving.

Ida waved at him and he nodded. I stayed where I was, leaning against the sliding glass door that led to a terrace. My glass of white wine was empty now. Either I braved the crush to the bar again, or I waited for someone to come over and offer me a drink. Neither prospect seemed appealing. But I didn't want to leave, not just yet. I probably should have returned to my hotel and had a drink with my colleagues—who were probably wondering where I'd gone. I should have been in my room, calling Niklas and checking in with him. I should have been ordering dinner from room service and staying away from temptation. I didn't even want to be tempted.

I stood still, trying to figure out what I ought to do, and getting annoyed with myself for not being able to
make up my mind when normally I had no problem doing so. But just then, I felt like an indecisive teenager at a party she wasn't quite cool enough to be at. So I put on my game face—the one that got me through boring dinners with Niklasʼs parents. The one that saved me whenever we bumped into Karolina at parties or on the street. The one that was going to get me through the rest of the evening without making any sort of commitment to this sperm donor idea until I'd had a chance to really discuss it with Niklas.

And that's when Ida found me again and said,
"Laney, I thought you should meet one of our donors." She gently nudged me forward. "This is Mads. Mads, meet Laney. She's thinking about starting the process."

We nodded and smiled at each other. Shaking hands felt too formal, and doing the continental cheek kissing felt inappropriate.

"Have you been a donor for a long time, then?" As soon as I asked the question, I regretted it. I sounded so facetious, so ridiculous. Inside, I cursed and groaned, but I kept a smile that surely made me look idiotic.

He returned my smile and it felt genuine.
"Around two years, give or take."

We had a stilted conversation, with Ida watching over us like a mother hen. She'd probably already decided Mads was the donor for me.

"Laney came from Stockholm to look into insemination," Ida said. "Didn't you live in Stockholm at one time, Mads?"

"
Yeah, that's right." He waved over one of the wait staff and took two glasses of wine from her, one for me and one for Ida. "I studied cabinetmaking and furniture design at the University College of Arts, Crafts and Design."

I nodded though I'd never heard of it.
"Is that part of KTH?"

"
No, no. It’s called Konstfack in Swedish."

"
Ah, okay. I know where you mean. I never heard it called by its English name."

Ida sidled away, leaving us to our own devices. He grinned at me.
"You know, these mingles are always a little weird for me."

"
Why's that?"

"
There's always women who show up who... they don't really want a baby, you know? They're just lonely. And you kind of feel like a gigolo here. You're supposed to look good. Charm the women, make them feel comfortable. You just don't have sex with them."

"
Oh... yeah, that does sound weird." We moved out onto the empty terrace. We could look out over the water from here. It was one of those unseasonably warm nights that you always hear Scandinavians talking about, but you rarely ever experience. In Copenhagen the air was more humid than in Stockholm. It felt warm and damp, like what I remembered from growing up on the east coast in the US. Tiny beads of perspiration were already glistening on my skin and sliding down my back.

He pulled a crushed packet of cigarettes from the pocket of his jeans and offered me one. I accepted it and leaned in so he could light it for me. As I took that first illicit drag, he said,
"I think I saw you earlier. I was in a café and I looked out the window and saw someone who looked a lot like you."

"
I saw you, too," I admitted. We both exhaled smoke and watched the milky tendrils merge and swirl. We kept our backs to the bar and looked out over the water again. "And when I saw you in their... books, I was a little stunned."

"
I wasn't expecting to see you here, either."

His voice trailed down my spine. I stole a glance at him. I was wrong earlier when I said he wasn't han
dsome. There was something so masculine about him. I couldn't really find the words to describe him. He was tall and lean, but there was a strength to him. Underneath his clothing was sure to be the body of someone who did not go to the gym, but who had the natural muscles and leanness of physical labor. He didn't have the perfectly slicked-back hair that most Scandinavian men seemed to favor; they wore it like a badge of their social class and their success. Mads's hair was a messy mop of waves and stray curls that looked coppery in the glow of the spotlights. He swept back the curls that hung in front of his eyes and revealed the most beautiful pair of hazel eyes. I bit my lower lip. He was too good-looking for me, and he was smiling at me with such fierceness that I knew he felt something, too. He was watching me. I could feel the path his eyes took. My body tingled in anticipation.

"
I saw you standing there and I thought, shit, this must be some kind of dream. Or maybe Ida was playing a joke on me."

We both laughed. What were the chances?

"So... why do you need me?"

"
Sorry?" His question caught me off guard. I was expecting him to say something else—like ask me if I was single, or if I wanted another drink or some small talk that would be the ideal segue to this moment we were having.

"
Why do you need me, or any sperm donor? You don't look like you'd have a problem finding a partner."

"
I do have a partner." I took another drag of my cigarette. "But he had a vasectomy just before he got divorced. And he doesn't want to reverse it."

"
Ah, well, that would explain it." Mads gestured at a group of rattan loungers on the far side of the terrace. We moved there, away from the glass door and the loud music spilling out of it. The sun had already set. The white summer nights of June and July seemed a long way off as the velvety blackness of the sky hovered above us. We sat close together, finishing our cigarettes and letting the tips burn down to the very end. "I didn't think someone like you would be single."

"
Someone like me?" I smiled at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"
You're beautiful. I doubt I'm the first guy to tell you that."

His directness made me blush. He was still watching me, and the steadiness of his stare made my breath quicken. I could almost picture him in my bed, could almost imagine how it would good it would feel to fall asleep in his arms. I blinked and looked away, pretending to focus on the glittering lights of the opera house on the other bank of the canal.

"We're not married, if that's what you mean," I said.

"
No, but you've probably been together for a while."

"
Five years."

"
A long time, then. So where is he?" He glanced over his shoulder. "Does he want to meet the potential donors, too? Or maybe he's inside with the others?"

I shook my head.
"He's at home, in Stockholm."

"
Does he know you're here?"

"
He knows I'm in Copenhagen. I had a business meeting."

"
But he doesn't know you're here checking this place out."

"
No. I didn't tell him. I wanted to find out what this was about, and then tell him."

He leaned back in the lounger. We were so close. I could feel the heat rolling off his body. Could smell the sexy mix of sweat and tobacco and cologne on his skin.