An Imperfect Librarian - Elizabeth Murphy [21]
“My colleague Edith invites me for meals occasionally. She’s only my colleague. There’s nothing between us or anything.”
“You know it’s so important to eat well, especially as we grow older, especially for women when they reach a certain age. Like me. It’s a worry sometimes, growing old and wondering who’ll care for us. Do you ever think about that, Carl?”
“Yes. I do.”
“My parents are so lucky. They have me to take care of them. I’m not surprised that they’re asking when I will have children. I am not too old yet but in a few years...”
We had talked about being a mor and far with datter, sønn or both. I couldn’t see myself as a far but if that’s what Elsa wanted, I was only too willing to make her happy.
“...I don’t want to adopt, not when I could have the baby myself, not when I still have a healthy husband and I’m a healthy woman who...”
Elsa was proud of me when we first married. I’d won a scholarship to go to graduate school. Elsa hadn’t gone to university. In school she excelled in the gym and slept in the classroom.
“...and I want to have the experience of giving birth. Do you understand me?”
“Of course, you want to have the baby yourself.”
“You always said you’d do anything for me and I knew you were sincere. I remember when you said...”
I had tried to be the way she wanted me: more talkative, more affectionate, more outgoing, more assertive, more athletic. I could be agile with a database. I was a power-lifter for numbers, flexible with scientific concepts. I could manoeuvre my way through the most complex electronic library systems, yet I’d trip over my own feet if I jogged or played ball sports.
“This is what I’m calling you about. You did say you’d do anything for me, right?”
“Yes, Elsa.”
“Oh, Carl. You are such a sweetheart. Marlene said you were like a puppy. Do you remember Marlene? She has two girls now. They’re adorable. By the time the first one was five months old...”
Elsa had plenty of friends. I didn’t have much time for socializing while I was studying.
“...but I wouldn’t want to have two girls. A boy and a girl would be nice. What do you think?”
“I haven’t really thought about it.”
“A son with a father like you and a mother like me would be tall, intelligent, athletic. What colour hair do you think he’d have?”
“What colour would you like?”
“Can we do it?”
“Do what?”
“Make a child like this?”
“You mean hypothetically?”
“I’m forty, Carl. You can’t imagine how much I want to do this. I think of nothing else–”
“Don’t cry, Elsa. I didn’t know this was so important to you. I’m sorry.”
“Can we make a child?”
“You mean you want to have a baby with me as the father?”
“Please, Carl. Don’t say no to me. Do it as my husband. Do it for me, please!”
“Yes, Elsa. We can talk about it–”
“Thank you. I knew I could count on you. I hope you won’t mind if Sophie shares in our happiness. She’s like you in many ways. She’d do anything for me. She wants a family as much as I do. We could arrange it for July. That means the baby would be born near Easter next year. What do you think?”
I think, What will Henry say when he learns that after so much hoping, wanting, longing, wishing, all I have to show is an opportunity to share paternity with Brutus? Instead of responding with anger, I opt for reason. “I think what you’re asking me to do is screw myself. I decline the offer.” End of call.
My computer screensaver alternates through an Elsa slideshow. A photo of the two of us on a ferry fades onto the screen. It was the day we moved from England to Norway. There’s a photo of Elsa’s athletic body sprawled the length of our divan. That was earlier in our marriage, before she stopped spending time at home.
Segments of the conversation replay themselves like a refrain: impregnate me, family, baby. I activate the screen-saver controls, locate a folder named Elsa, then press delete. The message box responds with: Are you sure you want to delete Elsa? Yes or no? I press Y, wait three seconds, find the recycle