Mom ended with, “So, I ovulate on Tuesday. You know how regular I am. We’ll be as fully clothed as possible and get it done as quickly and efficiently as we can. It’ll almost be like it was a sperm donation in a doctor’s office. You can go down the club and not even be in the house. It’ll be all over and it’ll seem like it never happened. Except if it works and then we’ll have a new baby to love.”
We waited. Dad’s mouth never not gaped. Not the whole time.
Finally, Dad got up and said, “The part about going down the club sounded good. That’s where I’m going now.”
He left. And left mother and son to look at each other. We had taken a big step, a big risk, and now knew less than we had before.
“What do you think?” Mom asked.
“Went better than I thought,” I joked. Neither of us laughed.
An hour and a half later, the door slammed. I was in my room.
“I’m home!” Dad’s voice sang. “Living room. Now!”
I was kind of shaking inside when I took a seat on the couch. Mom didn’t look in any better state of mind than I did.
Dad smelled of beer.
“Okay,” he began. “I heard some stuff tonight that I never would have thought possible. You two cooked something up that’s illegal, by the way. And may I add, frowned upon by … everybody. And, to top it off, you both believe in some way out theory that this will make everything great about the loss we both had eighteen years ago. To me that’s all mumbo-jumbo. I don’t buy a word of it.”
“Gavin—”
“You had your talk, now let me have mine, Zoey. Now, I’m going to tell you what I think. And these are facts, not wild theories. Zoey, I know for a fact you’ve been a great mother and love Mike. And Mike, you’ve been a great son and I’ve been proud of you every single day of your life; and I know you lover your mother and would never want to hurt her.”
He paced back an forth in front of us on the couch before continuing, like he was lining up his thoughts.
“Zoey, nobody knows more than me how much you want another child. There’s a solid fact for you. I want another child—another fact.”
Dad sat down in his chair. He took some breaths.
“You said you’re regular in your schedule; there’s a fact I know, with all the times we tried—and failed. And, I don’t know anything about the fated sperm and the destined egg or anything, but I do know this fact: an eighteen-year-old boy is a the height of his sexual power.”
He got up and paced again. “So, you take your atomic-clock fertility timing and you collide it with some teenaged-potent sperm—and I’d say the chances are real good you’d get pregnant on …?” he looked at Mom.
“Tuesday,” she whispered.
“Tuesday,” he echoed. “So I say … do it. Mike, do your best to get your mother pregnant.” He sat down again and didn’t look at us.
“Dad …” That’s all I could think of to say.
“Gavin, I—”
“I just have two conditions,” Dad said, cutting Mom off.
We waited, but Dad sat there, maybe thinking? maybe reconsidering? He got up:
“Condition number one: you’re both not going to crawl into this—something that will affect us all for the rest of our lives—crawl up to that act of procreation like you’re regretful, guilty, and ashamed. That baby deserves some more honor and respect than that. When you make that baby, you’re not going to be hiding behind your clothes—you’re going to be naked. Like a man and a woman.”