Confidential(44)

It could be that he wasn’t worried about losing me at all; he was worried only about losing his true love, his work. His other clients. His other women.

Maybe they weren’t his mistresses; I was.





CHAPTER 36





GREER


Dr. Michael and I started seeing each other twice a week because my eggs weren’t getting any younger. And after three weeks and six sessions, I was convinced that motherhood was for me. I wasn’t even scared of it anymore; I was euphoric. Someone would put their tiny hand in mine and look up at me and say, “Mommy, is it going to be okay?” and I’d have the honor of saying, “Yes, it will; Mommy’s right here.” The dependency wasn’t the price I’d have to pay to be loved; it was love itself.

Motherhood was my calling. It was strange that it had taken so many years for the phone to ring, but my focus had been on professional success because it was the only thing my parents really cared about. But I wasn’t them, and the recognition freed me. Michael’s instinct had been right; we needed to go there—back into my childhood—to get me to where I needed to be.

Yes, it shouldn’t have taken me until nearly forty years old to have such an obvious epiphany, but better late than never. Because there was still time. All I needed was the guy.

Three weeks and six sessions, and I was sure that I had him. I just had to get him.

I’d come to like so much about Dr. Michael: his caring nature, his compassion, his intelligence, his erudition (he had way more books than I did), his wit, his smell, his looks, his mannerisms. Today was the day. I was going to propose.

I couldn’t concentrate on anything he was asking me. I was too busy looking for an opening, that perfect moment to ask about his sperm, though I knew logically that there was no such moment. Sperm donation was an acceptable topic in therapy only when the desired donor was someone other than the therapist himself.

“What’s up, Greer?” he finally said.

“I’ve been telling you what’s up.”

“I don’t think you have. You’re holding back. Is it me?”

I stared at him. How could he know?

No, he didn’t know. He meant professionally; he meant was there more that he could be doing as the man whose job was to abet my mental health. It was a reasonable question, given that he’d had to woo me back into therapy not long ago. In two months, I’d gone from running away from him to wanting to have his child.

All the evidence suggested I had lost my marbles. Yet I felt so sane. I was going to be a mother, whatever it took, and hopefully, Michael would sign on. If not, it would be Donor #3731 for the win.

I opened my mouth. Then I closed it.

“How can I make you more comfortable?” he said.

Was that a come-on?

“I meant, how can I make it feel safer for you to say what it is you need to say?”

“I don’t think there’s anything you can do. I just need to bite the bullet and tell you. Or rather, ask you.”

He waited, his hands clasped.

I pushed my hair back from my face, composing myself. It was strange to be so nervous around him, when his job—as he’d just reminded me—was to decrease my nerves.

No, that wasn’t how he did his job. He pressed me all the time into uncomfortable positions (psychologically speaking). But usually, it felt more like sparring. Maybe a little like flirtation, like we were one of those classic sitcom couples who start out hating each other and then they’re ultimately unable to resist the pull. They’re arguing, and one says, “Are you as turned on as I am right now?” and the other says, “More!” Then they’re consummating wildly.

I’d gone nuts. Truly.

But it wasn’t simple baby fever anymore. Sometimes I still couldn’t believe the extent of my current attraction to him. He wasn’t the kind of man I ever saw myself with, after all. He was successful for a therapist, but I had a lot more money, not even counting my inheritance. He was an alpha, though. His dominance was subtle. It snuck up on you, sinewy, like a snake.

“What’s your question?” he said.

“You know I’ve been looking for a sperm donor. When you told me that you’d been one in the past, a light bulb went on for me. I think you could be the one.”

“Your question is about my sperm?” He was speaking slowly, but he didn’t look nearly as surprised as I would have expected. Perhaps I wasn’t the first client who’d wanted to reproduce with him.

Not with him. It wasn’t like he’d be raising the baby with me. “You’ve done it before. Why not do it again?”

“That was many years ago, and I didn’t know the recipient. She certainly wasn’t my client.”

“I’d stop being your client.”

“I think that’s a bad idea.”

“It’d be easier to find a new therapist than the right sperm donor.”

To my surprise, he moved over to the couch and sat opposite me, as if he were trying on this change in roles, what it would be like for us to just be a man and a woman rather than therapist and client. “What does it say about you that you’d decide your therapist is the right sperm donor?”

Was that a yes or a no? An insult or a compliment?

“You might think I don’t know you,” I said, “but I do.”