Jacqueline Diamond - His Baby Dream

A tap sounded on the door. “Ready for me?” Dr. Nora Franco, a blonde who seemed unaware of her movie-star looks, peered in at them.

“Just talking about kids,” Harper told her.

“My favorite subject.” Nora had an eighteen-month-old son with her husband, a police detective.

“Nice talking to you, Una.” Yielding her place to the obstetrician, Harper scooted out.

As she went to summon the next patient from the waiting room, Harper basked in a warm glow, thinking about rescuing those little boys from her dreams. What a miracle if someday they might run and play for real.

* * *

THE FIRST DAY OF SPORTS camp, as Peter had discovered the previous year, brought its share of bumps. Homesick kids, conflicts and acting out, youngsters with a fear of water who resisted swimming, and disorganized parents who arrived late—all were par for the course. It was nearly 7:00 p.m. by the time he collected his car from the faculty parking lot and drove home.

Although this northern part of Safe Harbor, California, lay several miles from the ocean, a sea breeze drifted through his car window. On his left lay a light industrial area, with a shopping plaza on the right. A note clipped to the dashboard reminded Peter to stop for milk and cereal. In his impatience, he ignored it. He had enough supplies to last until tomorrow, anyway.

A few minutes later, he reached a neighborhood of old-fashioned cottages set amid palm trees, firs and jacarandas. Angela had fallen in love with the name of their street, Starbright Lane, even before she saw the fairy-tale cottage with its gingerbread trim, broad front porch and latticed windows.

While Peter might have preferred a modern design, he’d been relieved to discover they could manage the payments on their teachers’ salaries. Room for a home gym, along with a small paved basketball court behind the double-wide garage, had sealed the deal for him. After three years of cramped apartment living, he’d been grateful for the space.

From the garage, Peter carried his laptop case through the connecting door to the green-and-white kitchen. Glass-front cabinets displayed Angela’s flowered dishes and teacups, while the scents of vanilla and orange spice lingered even now, nearly two years after her death. He half expected to see her turn from the stove, greeting him with a smile. Teaching first grade hadn’t dissuaded her from cooking a full meal almost every night, while Peter had handled dishwashing duty.

After setting down the laptop, he cut through the living room to fetch the mail from the front-porch box. Since he did most of his banking and bill paying online, there wasn’t much beyond advertising flyers.

Peter tossed those in the trash and strode down the hallway, past his bedroom and the guest room that they’d planned to convert into a nursery. A knot formed in his chest.

They’d tried to start a family for over a year before consulting a specialist. As one of six children, Angela had expected to conceive easily, and they’d attributed the delay to stress from her busy schedule.

Maybe if they’d gone in earlier, they’d have caught the ovarian cancer soon enough to save her life. The symptoms—bloating, lower back pain, persistent lack of energy—had been so vague that even Angela’s regular doctor hadn’t found them alarming. Only later had they learned that one of her grandmothers had died of ovarian cancer, and an older sister had been diagnosed with breast cancer in her twenties but survived.

Six years of happy marriage had been followed by six months of suffering and pain. Hope would flare at word of an experimental treatment, only to fade. Peter still had trouble believing he’d never again hold his loving wife in his arms.

Only recently had he followed up on another discovery they’d made during their fertility workup: his low sperm count. The doctors he’d originally consulted hadn’t been able to pinpoint the problem. Then, recently, he’d contacted men’s fertility specialist Cole Rattigan, who’d diagnosed Peter with a rare allergy to his own sperm.

According to Dr. Rattigan, his condition shouldn’t stop him from becoming a father. Via a high-tech medical procedure, doctors could inject his sperm directly into an egg.

The chance to cherish a son or daughter from infancy filled him with excitement. He could hardly wait to shower a child with love, and to see the light of understanding dawn as words and concepts became real to that tiny new person.

Peter’s parents, retired teachers who also lived in Orange County, supported his plans. His sister, a lawyer who lived in Maryland, enjoyed her high-power career and didn’t want kids, so when he’d informed his parents of his intention to become a single father, they’d been thrilled. His child or children would grow up with loving grandparents, family holidays and the security of being part of an extended family.

In the den, he opened his laptop and grumbled at the slowness with which it booted up. As soon as it did, he navigated to the fertility program’s website and entered his password.

Despite his eagerness, he went first to the roster of surrogate moms. Dr. Rattigan had suggested that, as a legal precaution, Peter use both an egg donor and a separate surrogate. That way, the woman carrying the baby wasn’t giving birth to her own genetic child and, if she changed her mind about relinquishment, had no legal grounds for claiming custody.

He’d already chosen the woman he would employ, a married homemaker and mother who, during a previous surrogacy, had given birth to a healthy baby girl. Peter reviewed Vanessa’s description and photo, which showed a friendly woman with strawberry-blond hair, above the caption I Love Being Pregnant!

When he’d interviewed her, he’d been impressed by her enthusiasm and good nature. He had no doubt she’d nurture his child, providing a loving start before birth.

The most difficult decision lay ahead. Previously, while studying the profiles of egg donors, he’d been keenly aware that he was choosing a woman to provide half of his child’s genetic makeup. Her personality, her intelligence, her strengths and her weaknesses would strongly influence his future child. While Peter believed in the importance of the home environment, there was no denying the role of heredity.

Unable to make a choice, he’d postponed the decision. Then, today, he’d seen Harper Anthony.

Clicking on the section that listed egg donors, he found her photo at once. The first time he’d viewed it, he’d experienced a vague sense of familiarity, and assumed he must have seen her around town. He hadn’t connected the woman identified only as Mrs. H.A. to his late colleague, nor—given her sweep of long hair—had he been struck by the resemblance to Angela, although he could see it now.

Why was she willing to do this? Peter wondered. Her statement contained the usual remarks about wanting to help others, loving children and treasuring the miracle of life. Perhaps working in the medical profession had influenced her decision.

She offered to meet with prospective recipients. How awkward would that be? Besides, having a woman he knew as the egg donor was asking for trouble, Peter conceded. They would no doubt continue to run into each other after the child was born, and what mom could resist feeling possessive toward her genetic child, even though she hadn’t carried it in her body?

Yet he’d observed what a caring mother Harper was, and he’d taken an immediate liking to her outspoken, bright little girl. This way, his child’s background wouldn’t be such a question mark.

He wouldn’t have to inform her. He’d been assured that he could maintain complete confidentiality if he chose. With the surrogate, that hadn’t seemed important—indeed, Peter wanted to experience the pregnancy with her, to view the ultrasounds and to hear his baby’s heartbeat—but the donor would be out of the picture once the pregnancy became established.