Turn of Mind - Alice LaPlante [86]
When are you due? she asked.
May 15. Just nine more weeks, you said.
You must be ready by now. How do you feel? Excited, I’d imagine.
No. My husband is. He’s the one that wants children.
You waited to see what effect your words would have on this woman. She was tall, with impressive posture. Her back was straight, her gold hair curved in a shiny helmet that just reached her shoulders—you knew it was her real color. There were faint streaks of white—not gray—at her temples. Her tailored clothes were crisply ironed. You were conscious of your baggy cotton pants, your extralarge T-shirt billowing over your round belly, your worn sneakers.
Amanda laughed. You’re what, thirty-five?
Thirty-five. It was time.
She smiled a little wryly. We’re still trying.
You didn’t even try to hide your surprise.
I don’t give up easily. She reached out and patted your stomach—a gesture that too many people felt free to make. You found that you didn’t mind. It wasn’t presumptuous, but something else: There was yearning in it and a bit of awe. This made you speak more gently than you otherwise would.
Sometimes it’s time to move on, you told her.
Not yet, she said. We haven’t given up yet.
What about adopting? you asked, then wished you could take back your words. Of course she must have considered it. How facile. And you actually found yourself blushing. But she didn’t seem to mind or notice.
No. I need more control than that, she said.
That’s an odd way of thinking about it, you said. You were becoming interested in this woman.
Nevertheless, control is what I want, said Amanda.
But if you could get a newborn, wouldn’t that be control enough? you asked. You were genuinely curious about what she would say. You shifted a little on your feet. The baby was moving, thrusting its limbs so that your stomach got distended into strange, angular shapes.
After all, you continued, you’d have the child right away. You can even be in the delivery room in some cases, so the first person the infant sees is you.
Still not enough, Amanda said.
Enough what? you asked.
Control. That would take care of the nurture part. But what about the nature? That would be an unknown.
But you’re a teacher, you protested. Surely you see how different children from the same households, raised the same way with the same food and the same experiences, can turn out differently?
Yes, Amanda said. You need to know that you’re the source of whatever comes out. Otherwise you leave open the door for other emotions, other attitudes toward your child to creep in.
Emotions like what?
Contempt. Disdain. Or just plain dislike.
Let me get this straight. You can love a child who displays, let’s say, unattractive traits or behaviors if you know he or she came from your genetic makeup. But if you don’t know . . .
. . . then who knows what you might feel toward them? Amanda finished your question.
Like a body rejecting a donated kidney, you said slowly.
Exactly. And because you don’t know until you transplant it, why take the risk?
Because people need kidneys. And you say you need a child.
I do, she said. And the way she said it convinced you of her resolve.
But it didn’t add up. You protested, But you’ve left half the chromosomes out of the equation. What about the genetic makeup of the father? That’s certainly out of your control.
I can deal with Peter’s genes, with any peculiarities that arise from them, she said. You wondered about that. You didn’t believe at that point that you would ever consider James as something you’d have to deal with. You changed your mind later, of course.
The woman stopped. My turn to ask some questions, she said. Why did you resist having children? Is it your career?
No. I suppose it comes down to control as well, you said. I like making my own choices. I always have. But with a child you have no choice. When it is hungry, you must feed it. When it has soiled itself, you must clean and change it.
But as a doctor, aren’t you constantly responding to patients’ needs? When something happens during a surgery, you have no choice. You