Читать книгу Baby Chase - Hannah Bernard - Страница 9

HER palms were sweating. Her heart was racing.

And all she was doing was standing outside the clinic.

Resisting the urge to jump back into Sabrina, her faithful red car, drive home and crawl under something, she forced herself to look objectively at the building. It looked cold. All glass and white bricks, but much smaller than she had imagined. She had thought this place would be huge.

Admittedly, storage space in such a facility would not take up much room.

She sighed, breathing out a mushroom of crystallized air, and looked helplessly around. The shops would open in about half an hour, but the streets were still empty. She felt out of place standing there on the corner.

The appointment was half an hour away. She considered driving around, or taking a walk, but decided to go ahead and enter the building. They had to have a waiting room. It would give her a chance to get used to the place.

Squaring her shoulders, she ordered her heart to behave, and pushed open the glass door.

The lobby was silent. White marbled floor, white marbled walls. Large potted plants were the only decoration. Her heels clicking on the hard surface, she walked resolutely to the desk.

“Erin Avery. I have an appointment at ten.”

The receptionist couldn’t be more than twenty, a black-haired beauty with a wide smile.

“Welcome.” She turned to her computer and tapped on the keys. “You’re here for an orienting session, right?” 43

Erin drew her brows together and shrugged. “I suppose so. I’ve never been here before.”

“OK. Well, would you perhaps wait in there?” She pointed to an open door behind her. “I’ll be with you at ten precisely.”

Erin walked briskly to the waiting room, hoping to hide her anxiety. The chamber was small, but very different from the stark lobby. It was painted in soft blues and pink and children’s drawings decorated the walls. She slid into a pastel chair and took a deep calming breath. Her heart was still racing, and showing no signs of slowing down.

To look on the bright side, the waiting room was unoccupied. In her present state, the sight of other clients, or, God forbid, donors, would send her flying out of the nearest exit.

Small tables dotted the floor between the uncomfortable plastic chairs. She picked at random something to read and stared at the text without seeing it. It was difficult to believe that she was actually here. The appointment had been made weeks ago. She had noted it in her diary as “SB”, and then avoided thinking about it.

Why the anxiety? Why the pounding heart and the sinking feeling? This was what she wanted: this was the way to make her dream come true, her dream of an undivided family. Her dream of happiness. A child that would never be torn between bitterly feuding parents the way she and her brother and sister had been torn apart all their lives.

“Miss Avery?” Her eyes suddenly focused on the colorful pamphlet showing pictures of smiling women and couples holding their babies. “Follow me, please.” It was the young receptionist again. Erin followed her down the long corridor and was finally ushered into an office. To her surprise, the girl followed her inside and shut the door before sitting down at the desk.

Erin noticed she was still holding the pamphlet from the waiting room and stuffed it into a pocket before shrugging off her coat and sitting down. “I thought I would be seeing the doctor?”

The young woman smiled. “This is just preliminary work now. My job is to tell you all the facts and explain how you pick a donor, if that is still what you want. After that, we make a new appointment for you with the doctor. She will be able to answer any remaining questions.”

“I see.”

“OK…” The girl cleared her throat and shuffled some papers around the desk, looking almost as nervous as Erin was. With amusement that almost managed to distract her from her nerves, Erin realized that this was probably a first for both of them.

“Is this the first time you’ve done this?” she asked impulsively.

The girl flushed. “Yes. Our regular interviewer is off sick today.”

“I see.”

“But I’ve watched it many times,” she hastened to reassure Erin. “I really know what I’m doing.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“Oh, and my name is Rachel Bond, by the way.” She pointed to the name tag on her blouse.

Rachel got to work, quickly explaining the procedure, but sounding as though she was reading the information aloud. Judging from her lack of eye contact, she probably was. Erin listened patiently. She had already done thorough research using the Internet and there was nothing new in the information presented to her.

Nevertheless, hearing the girl describe the process, using the word “you” in every other sentence, felt far closer—and far more frightening—than reading about it.

Rachel wrapped up her monologue, then fetched what looked like a questionnaire from a drawer.

“OK, next I will ask you some questions to help you determine what kind of a donor you are looking for.”

Erin nodded. The girl hesitated, flipped through the few pages and then finally began.

“Do you have specific preferences regarding donor characteristics?”

“Preferences?” Erin repeated hesitantly.

“Hair color, eye color, build, personality?”

She shook her head mutely.

“If you have a picture of the social father, we can try to match his looks.”

“Social father,” Erin muttered, testing the unfamiliar phrase. “No, there is no social father.”

“I see.” Rachel kept her voice neutral. “Will there be a second mother?”

“A second moth…?” Erin blinked in confusion, but finally caught on. “Er—no. Just me.”

“In that case, many single women prefer a donor whose looks match their own. That way, there is more of a chance that the child will look like their parent.”

Erin clenched and unclenched her hands. She was in way over her head. She hadn’t thought this far, hadn’t realized she could influence her child’s characteristics by choosing the particular donor.

The child would not be just hers, she realized for the first time. It never could be. Her child would have half of his or her genes from a stranger. Someone neither of them would ever know. If she had a son, he would never be able to look at his father and see himself reflected in some of his features. She would never have a husband whose features would be a mature version of the tiny sleeping face in the cradle.

Well, that is how you want it, isn’t it? she asked herself in annoyance. You want to do this alone.

“Who are these men?” she couldn’t help asking. “And why do they do this?”

“Most of them are students,” the girl replied. “And as to why they do it—there are different reasons. Some like to help infertile couples or single women. Some do it for the token fee they are paid.” She leaned forward, and lowered her voice. “If you ask me, a lot of them simply like the idea of a certain type of immortality—knowing that there may be dozens of their offspring roaming the earth.”

Erin tried to chuckle, but it came out like a groan. That explanation would fit in with man’s supposed innate desire to procreate. However, it was not what a potential mother wanted to hear. It looked as though Rachel had been sent out into the world without the necessary training in tactfulness.