Josh and Gemma Make a Baby(5)

That’s the moment when Josh Lewenthal came into the picture, even though I didn’t know it yet.

All because I really, really needed to pee.

Minutes later, I felt sweet, sweet relief as I peed into a cup. Then I gave some blood so the lab could run their tests. Finally, I went to the front desk to make my next appointment. And when the scheduling person asked the name of my partner in a bored, couldn’t-care-less tone, I started to explain that I didn’t really have a partner, that I would have to use a donor.

She pointed to a flyer on the desk called Anonymous Donor Sperm and You.

And it’s like Ian says, sometimes you can feel fate steering you, because when I saw the flier and the smiling stranger with little illustrated sperm floating around him, I said, “I mean, actually, I do have a partner. Probably. Have one. Yup.”

The scheduler rolled her eyes. “What’s your partner’s name?”

At her prompting, a name popped into my head. My mom had just mentioned him, he was living in his dad’s basement, writing web comics, thirty-three years old, no marriage, no girlfriend, no kids, not much of a future really. Probably he’d be happy to help. He was my brother’s best friend, sort of like family, at least the kind of family that sleeps on your couch and eats all the food in your fridge. It’s almost like I’d be doing him a favor.

The scheduler sighed as I took long, long seconds to consider what I was about to do. Would I? Could I? Should I?

Yes.

I did it.

I lied.

“His name is Josh Lewenthal.”





3





Here I am again. Standing in front of my parents’ house for their thirty-fifth annual Wieners and Wine New Year’s Resolution party. The cold wind bites my cheeks and blows snowflakes past. I pull my wool coat tight and look up at the white colonial still trimmed in Christmas lights and pine-scented garland.

Josh will be here, just like he has been for the past ten years. My mom likes to invite him to all our family events since “the poor dear comes from a broken home.” She’s long forgotten that she warned me to stay away from him.

I swing open the door and take in the familiar smell of the New Year’s buffet and the happy noises of family and friends congregating.

“Auntie Gemma!” My nieces and nephew, Sasha, Maemie, Mary and Colin, or “the four horsemen of the apocalypse,” as I affectionately call them, race up to me as soon as I step inside. The girls shriek and dance around me.

“Auntie Gemma. What’d you bring us? What’d you bring?” asks Sasha. She’s eight and a half years old, the oldest, and the ring leader of their little sibling gang.

“What makes you think I brought you anything?” I ask. I try to hold back a smile. Sasha has bright red curly hair like her dad and gray eyes like my sister. I was there when Sasha was born. She came out with a whole lot of spunk and she hasn’t settled down one bit.

“Because you always bring us something,” Colin says. He’s quiet and serious and the voice of reason among the siblings even though he’s only four.

Maemie and Mary, six-year-old twins and troublemakers extraordinaire hold hands and jump up and down. The picture frames on the wall vibrate in time to their thumps.

“Hmmm.” I put a finger to my mouth and pretend to contemplate what Colin said. “You think so? Funny thing. I happened to be in Chinatown yesterday and I saw this…”

With a flourish I pull a clear plastic sack from my coat pocket. It’s fancy imported candy, the pretty pastel gummy kind in shapes like unicorns, kittens, and sharks. The girls start squealing. Colin’s eyes light up.

I hold out the bag. “There are twenty pieces of candy. You each get five. Share, right?”

The kids all nod, promising prettily to share and share alike.

I drop the bag into Sasha’s hand.

“Alright. Give me my hug and get out of here,” I say.

The girls rush me and nearly knock me over with their enthusiasm. Colin hangs back until I gesture for him and he joins the pileup. I love these little hellions. I was there for all their births, their christenings, and I get to babysit them a night a week. I’m a lucky aunt.

I drop a kiss on each of their heads.

“Love you, Auntie Gemma,” they chorus.

“Love you too, kiddos.”

They rush back down the hallway into the house. As I’m hanging my coat I hear my sister, Leah, yell from the kitchen. “Candy before dinner? Gemma, I will kill you!”

I grin and unwrap my cashmere scarf. Leah’s all bark and no bite.

The sounds of the party drift from the interior of the house, and the smell of barbecue wieners and processed cheese wafts to me. My mom is one of those people who thinks that hosting a fancy party means putting miniature foods on toothpicks and adding chopped vegetables to lime Jell-O. No amount of cooking shows or gourmet food magazines will convince her otherwise.

“Gemma! I thought I heard you. What in the world are you wearing?” I turn from the coat closet and smile at my mom.

“It’s a work outfit, Mom.”

But she’s not listening. She holds up the edge of my knee-length olive green sweater and grimaces. I have on black leggings and chunky shoes.

“Sweetie. You’ll never attract a man if you dress like this. Honestly. You look like a lumpy cucumber.” She drops the edge of my sweater and gestures at the stairs. “Luckily, I bought you a new outfit. I laid it out on your bed.” She shoos me with her hands. “Go on. Hurry up.”