It was late Friday afternoon. Marc Garman left work with a heaviness he’d never felt before. “What makes people think so differently?” he said to himself as he drove in the direction of Red Wing Circle. He didn’t have much desire to head that way tonight.
Every evening for the past two weeks Patrice had been practically fawning in her effort to please him. Yet there was something not quite right, he felt certain. She looked disarmingly pretty in her loose-fitting outfits, and Marc loved to feel the baby move when Patrice let him put his hand on her belly. The baby was an active little one; that was for sure. When they were alone in their apartment, Patrice dropped the disguise of her pregnancy and wore stretch clothes, and sometimes from across the room, Marc could detect the baby’s movement when one side of Patrice’s stomach went flat and a hill rose on the other side. At times she would even wince when the baby kicked. Marc wondered what their child would be like. They now knew it was a boy, but would he have a noisy personality or a quiet one? Would he have Patrice’s brown eyes or would they be blue like his own?
Patrice didn’t seem to share his curiosity. In fact, her comments about the baby were summed up in her repeated response now so familiar to Marc: “It’s healthy, and that’s the important thing.”
Marc had considered a plethora of names and, after first narrowing it down to three, had chosen the name Trent Patrick. The choice had been totally his own, because Patrice had never come up with any names at all or even offered her opinion regarding the three names he had suggested. In fact, whenever he had wanted to talk about names, she’d found some way to dismiss the subject. This bothered Marc, because Patrice was a fairly opinionated person. It wasn’t like her to leave such an important decision to him.
Marc reasoned that Patrice had been so busy with school and her job that she had never had time to get excited about this pregnancy, and her nurturing instinct just hadn’t kicked in yet. But its prevailing absence was becoming more and more disturbing to Marc. Why couldn’t the mother of his child share his anticipation? He had to admit that she certainly did not seem to. She hadn’t even signed up for the childbirth preparation classes. He himself had taken the trouble to find out the particulars of time and place.
He sighed to himself. Something wasn’t right. Marc had actually considered the possibility of there being another man involved. Still, he couldn’t really believe such a thing; Patrice did seem to care a lot for him. It was just the baby…
Marc was surprised to find Patrice’s car gone and the back door locked when he arrived at his apartment. Usually she was waiting for him in the living room on Fridays when he came home from work. It had become their routine, a time in which they would sit and talk for about an hour. Together they would make plans for the weekend as to how they could enjoy some time together and still achieve personal goals. Neither Marc nor Patrice had ever forfeited this ritual. In fact, it seemed the cornerstone of their relationship. Marc fixed two iced teas and took them to the living room. Patrice usually put lemon twists in them, but he didn’t feel like going to any extra trouble, not sure that she’d be around to appreciate his effort.
Sprawling in his easy chair, Marc indulged in reverie. He grinned to himself briefly. It was just as well he enjoy this quiet solo moment now; there would be a demanding little toddler in this very room a year from now, and few moments to just sit and unwind. Not that he would mind, he thought, a smile surfacing again as he pictured in his mind’s eye a little boy trying to climb up his leg onto his lap.
Lately he had purposely been watching new parents whenever he had the opportunity—mostly in restaurants. Those little curtain climbers could really be a handful. He had noticed in his observations that parents seemed most gratified when the toddler—or baby—was sound asleep in their arms. Now, as he sat in his chair, Marc imagined holding his own little Trent. He knew it would take a lot of energy to keep him happy and occupied. But he was sure he would enjoy it, because being with this little person would be investing in himself—entertaining and encouraging someone of his own flesh and blood.
Marc had thought about it and was pretty sure that the more he could and would invest in child-raising—love, time, patience—the more he’d get out of it. He was ready to give of himself whatever it took to be that wonderful father he wanted to be. But it was not just for the little child; it was also for Patrice. He couldn’t wait to show her how much he cared for her by doing his best in taking care of this little body that was flesh of her flesh, too. His involvement in the caring of their newborn would bring to bear a new dimension of his love for her. Theirs would be a happy little family, and frankly, he couldn’t wait—despite the inevitable lack of sleep and the countless diaper changes ahead for them both.
……….
Marc awakened from his unintentional nap to the sound of the door opening. Patrice hurried into the room before he could get out of his chair.
“Sorry I’m late, hon. I stopped by the doctor’s office.”
“Are you OK?”
“Oh, yeah…well, no, actually, I’m not.” She sighed, picking up the glass of iced tea, and sitting down on the end of the couch closest to his chair. Looking at him directly, she raised both eyebrows and said deliberately, “Marc, I don’t want this baby.” She waited, as if bracing for his reaction.
Totally caught off guard, Marc just looked at her, finally fixing his gaze on her protruding stomach for a moment before he spoke. His words were more deliberately enunciated than hers, and his eyes, at first reflecting surprise and astonishment, now steeled.
“What exactly do you mean?”
Patrice’s eyebrows assumed a pleading position. She was unable to lean forward, given the size of her stomach, so she put a foot out and leaned her whole body forward a little closer to him.
“Remember when we were in Mazatlan and I told you it wasn’t very good timing?”
“Yes, but I thought… ” He started to speak, but Patrice interrupted him.
“I know what you thought, and I let you think it, because I hadn’t decided myself. But I know now that I don’t want to throw away all I’ve worked for, just to be a mother at this particular time. Maybe a few years from now…” She looked at Marc to check how he was taking her words, partly in concern for him, and partly to determine how to proceed. She had known this would be difficult, and she was trying to remember the advice of Dr. Lennox . He had told her the less said the better.
In her hesitation, Marc replied in a level tone. “This is my baby, too, Patrice. I think I should have some say as to what happens to him.” Patrice didn’t respond immediately, and Marc continued. “Frankly, I think it takes a lot of nerve to wait until now to tell me you don’t want it. Why don’t you want it?” Disbelief was all over his face.
Patrice’s voice was almost icy. “Marc, I already told you why. And I did want you to have some say in it, but really the decision is mine. This baby has lived off me—not you—for many months. I’m the one who’s had to change my wardrobe to accommodate a bigger and bigger stomach, and I’m the one who’s had to carry around the extra pounds the past few months. It really is ultimately my decision, don’t you think?”
She asked the question with a certain haughtiness that Marc had never encountered in her before. This took him by surprise, and the prospect of losing his baby left him with a sudden sense of desperation that felt strange to him as well. He was used to being in control of his life. How could it be that he was having to entertain the possibility that his baby would climb up the knee of some other man—a total stranger—and cling to him instead? How could it possibly happen when Marc wanted so much to be the father himself? It was a nightmare actually happening.
“Patrice,” he responded, “if I had nothing to do with this baby’s existence, there would be no baby. And for every trial you’ve been through these eight months, I’ve done everything in my power to help you and take care of you and the baby. For you to say it’s your baby is ridiculous. It’s arrogant.” He turned his head away in disgust, his mind drowning in disbelief. He took a deep breath of air and let it out in an angry sigh.
Patrice edged her way back into the couch and sat very straight despite her distended belly. “I do not want this to become an issue between us, Marc, but I really cannot—I mean cannot—handle a baby right now. I have planned my life since the time I was a kid in junior high, and motherhood”—she lifted her eyebrows in a mockingly angelic way—“doesn’t happen until I’m thirty-four.”
Marc’s mouth was agape not only from her words, but from her audacious attitude. “Thirty-four? Why in the world did you let yourself get pregnant? And why didn’t you clue me in on how adamantly you felt about this? I thought we communicated better than that.” He jumped out of his chair, his jaw set. Taking a few steps away from Patrice as if to cool off, he stopped, turned around, and looked at her, saying nothing for a moment. Finally he spoke, evenly and coldly. “This is deceit.”
“Not really.” Patrice’s tone suggested she still hadn’t laid all her cards on the table. “From the beginning, I figured if I got pregnant, I could just abort the baby. Then, after Mazatlan when I realized you really wanted to be a dad, I didn’t know what to think.” She paused to take a deep breath, raising her eyebrows in a look of helplessness. “So I just didn’t do anything at all. I’m sure the doctor figured I’d decided not to abort. Well, the baby—the fetus—got bigger and bigger.” She leaned back on the couch and inhaled slowly, resting the back of her head upon her hands while she rolled her head to look across the ceiling from one end to the other. Then she exhaled loudly, as though she carried the world on her shoulders. “I guess I waited too long, and I’m sorry, but I can’t have this baby sack my life, Marc.”
She got up from the couch with difficulty, Marc not helping her, and walked over to the window. “I know how much you want it, but even if we separated and you hired a full-time nanny, there’s no way I could escape a draining emotional attachment. What’s more, I’m not sure you wouldn’t encourage it—my emotional attachment, I mean. I can’t handle that right now. So it’s not plausible for you to have the baby either. As for adoption, I’m very certain I couldn’t walk away free and clear from that scenario, and I just can’t afford to have a huge distraction in my life right now.”
“What are you saying, Patrice?” A horrible realization was dawning on Marc. “If you don’t want the baby, and you don’t want me to have him, adoption’s the only alternative.”
“No, Marc.” Patrice turned away, and now it was her jaw that tightened. “I can have an abortion.”
“What!” Marc lurched toward Patrice and grabbed her by the arm, glowering at her. “Abort the baby? He’s ready to be born! Are you insane?”
“No, I’m thinking very clearly,” Patrice responded, calmly and determinedly removing Marc’s grip. “Try to be open-minded, Marc. This fetus could potentially help a lot of people with serious diseases—incurable up to this point. We’re gaining so much ground in fetal research. But as of now, we trash so many aborted fetuses in this country every day, and all the while people are crying out for donors.” She walked to the kitchen to put more ice in her tea, while Marc stood, without moving, speechless, in shock, his head spinning from the barrage of thoughts and images crowding their way to the forefront of his mind—thoughts of anger, of hope stolen away, of helplessness, but especially of compassion for his unborn son. Incredulous, he stood silent. Patrice came back into the room and walked over to where Marc was standing.
“Please, darling, you have to understand. For a long time I’ve had this wonderful vision of women, who have already chosen abortion, waiting long enough to allow their fetuses to develop fully before aborting them. That way, other people struggling with infirmities can get the organs and tissue they need—healthy tissue, Marc. But somebody has to forge the way and set a precedent. We could do that, Marc—you and I. It could capture the attention of the whole world, honey, and it would usher in a new direction in medical care. There’s no better example of unselfishness that I can imagine than carrying a fetus for nine months and then giving it up to help dying, hurting people.”
She gingerly reached to put her arms around his waist, but stopped when he turned to her with an angry glare, pushing her arms away from him.
“You make me want to vomit,” he said, slowly emphasizing each word. “When did you turn into a…a…a fiend?”
“Marc, please.” Patrice took a step backwards in surprise.
“That baby you’re carrying is a human being, Patrice. You don’t own him: he’s his own person. How would you like to donate your heart? Or liver? Or brain?
“That’s not the same,” she protested.
“Yes, it is, except you’ve had a chance to use yours for twenty-seven years. You see more value in the death of our baby than in his life. Well, I don’t. I see plenty of value in his life. He’s my child, Patrice—he’s our child! If you don’t feel like you can raise him, I’ll raise him. I’ll find a nanny to love him and care for him while I’m at work.”
“No, Marc,” Patrice interrupted, her voice adamant. “I’ve already told you. I would end up caring for him, because I’d be too emotionally attached, unless you and I broke off our relationship totally and you moved far away.” She grabbed his open shirt collar in each of her hands and pleaded, “I love you, Marc. Do you want this baby more than you want me?”
Marc looked at Patrice and blew out a long sigh. He reluctantly took Patrice in his arms.
“Then let’s get an adoption arranged. Some couple’s in for a wonderful life, even if it’s not us. I’ll find an adoption agency.”
Patrice’s exasperation showed. “Marc, I told you already. I can’t handle the adoption thing. What if our baby ends up with some creeps who molest him? Or maybe they seem like really good people at first, and really want our baby, until they have one or two of their own naturally. Then our child takes second place to the natural siblings.” She kept talking even as she saw the look of protest growing on Marc’s face. “If he never knew he was adopted, it would be one thing, but that just never happens. Adopted kids always find out, and then they have to live with the nagging question of ‘Why did my mother give me up?’”
“A valid question in our case.”
“Yes, it’s valid,” Patrice answered, smoothly. She walked over to the side table and unconsciously rearranged the bouquet of roses Marc had brought home to her two days earlier. “It would be different if I were alone and destitute, but I’m neither. I just want to pursue the career I’ve dreamed of, and a baby doesn’t fit in with the plan.” She turned back toward him and cocked her head, adding, “Abortion does.”
When Marc said nothing, Patrice lifted her hands, palms up. “I know I’m being selfish. I admit it.”
“Yes,” Marc agreed. “You’ve got that right. Totally selfish.”
“And…” Patrice was not through, and she obviously didn’t appreciate Marc’s interjection. “And that’s why I want to donate the baby for medical research to help somebody else—to make it not so selfish.”
Marc stood shaking his head, aghast. “Patrice!”
“Please don’t interrupt me. I’ve thought this through and I’ll tell you how I’ve come to this decision. Just don’t interrupt me.”
Marc grabbed Patrice by the arm a second time, but this time in a grip so tight that she winced and looked up at him in surprise. “This is my baby you’re talking about—not just yours,” he exclaimed, incredulous. I won’t let you ‘donate the baby for medical research!’ I can’t believe we’re even talking about this. This is a child—my child!”
“It’s not like I’m selling him. That’s the whole point. I’m going to donate him—it. This baby—this fetus, I mean—will be the source of life and health for several people. It will not have been conceived in vain, and it’ll be the first fully developed fetus to be donated, which might even preserve a place for it in history.”
Marc stared at Patrice, his mouth hanging open in disbelief.
“Oh, Marc, close your mouth! You look like you just met the devil.”
“I think I have. What’s wrong with you, Patrice? Have you flipped? You’re not rational,” Marc responded.
“I couldn’t be more rational. I’m thinking logically instead of emotionally. I’m letting my mind, not my heart, run the show right now. Don’t you think it’s tempting to go the way of a normal girl and have the baby? I could alter my plans to accommodate a child we’d both be crazy about, just like the rest of the world. But somebody’s got to be courageous and blaze the trail for a changing society that has evolving needs. It’s time women carried their babies to term before aborting them. It’s a sacrifice to stretch out your body and go through nine months of pregnancy. But if the baby’s going to die anyway, why not let it develop as much as possible and then let it be an aid in medical research? It would be such a benefit to society.”
“I can’t believe you’re serious,” Marc exclaimed. “You are, aren’t you? This is nauseating, Patrice. When did you start thinking like this? It’s inhuman.”
“Well, as a matter of fact, Dr. Lennox was surprised when I first explained my idea of a ‘pioneer case’ to him, but now he thinks it’s brilliant.” Patrice looked defiantly proud, and Marc’s mouth opened again in an expression of revulsion. At the same time, his face was a pathetic mixture of shock and desperation.
“I can’t handle this.” He headed for the door, retrieving his keys from his pocket.
“Are you leaving—without saying goodbye?” Patrice’s voice was chiding, but there was no response from Marc as he strode out the door.
……….
Marc jumped into his car and pulled almost violently out of the garage and away from the curb. He gunned the engine only to slam on the brakes at the stoplight two blocks down. When the light changed, he turned left, heading down a wide thoroughfare towards the open country west of town. His jaw was set and his mind was in shock. It was as if all his emotion had been turned to stone in his body’s effort to deal with the information it was being forced to process. The speedometer soared to eighty, then eighty-five and almost ninety before he woke up, as it were, from the stony trance. Suddenly, acknowledging the danger he was putting himself and others in, he let up on the gas pedal, looking for a place to pull over and collect his wits.
Six or seven miles down the road he slowed and stopped on the side of the road, climbed out of the car, and went around to the other side of it so he could keep his face turned away from the eyes of passing motorists. He felt overwhelmed with a dreadful foreboding.
“Warner! I’ll call Warner.” He pulled out his phone and looked up the number of a lawyer friend of his. He started dialing, but canceled the call, suddenly remembering he’d promised Patrice not to tell anyone of her pregnancy.
An eerie light dawned in his mind. “That… witch,” he thought bitterly. “No wonder she didn’t want anyone to know she was pregnant. She never intended to keep this baby, even if her ‘plan’ failed and she had to resort to adoption.” Marc’s head was swimming. He had come to love this unborn child he’d never seen. How he had enjoyed feeling him move in Patrice’s womb! The little stretches and kicks were oftentimes so strong that Marc had been concerned for Patrice. His words had always been gentle at those times, toward his child as well as Patrice—the two most important people in his life: “Hey, buddy, let up! You’re hurting your mom.” Patrice had always seemed responsive to the attention. How could she possibly think of having this baby killed and his heart and brain cut out and given to someone else?
He suddenly lurched toward the field in front of him and gave way to overwhelming nausea. When he had retched and then spit out as much of the vile taste as he could, tears of anger escaped. He brushed them off with the back of his hand, flaying the air angrily as he did so. He felt a compulsion to pound or hit or kick something or someone as hard as he could, as he thought about how unfair it was. A helpless little baby—a perfectly healthy little baby—his baby—was going to be killed, if Patrice had her way. And he himself—the father—had never even been consulted.