Set around the end of October and the beginning of November.
Word Count: 2331
Without preamble, Paris announced, “Chris and I are talking about having a baby.”
Marissa choked in the midst of a swig of tea and spilled half of what was left in her cup down her blouse.
Paris watched her without further comment. She sat on one of the high stools at the counter bar in her mother's kitchen, elbows propped on the dark granite countertop as her hand cradled the side of her face. She looked unconcerned, almost bored even, but it was an effort to appear that way. Deep down she was worried what her mother might say. It sounded a bit silly, even to Paris.
Hastily, Marissa set what remained of her tea onto the counter and grabbed a nearby dishtowel to pat at her dampened blouse. She coughed a few times to clear her throat, eyeing Paris with a bewildered expression quickly slipping toward denial and obstinance.
It was about as much as Paris had expected.
“What?” Marissa said.
Paris rolled her eyes and forced herself to emit an annoyed sounding sigh, like she couldn't believe her mother hadn't processed the comment the first time.
“Chris and I are talking about having a baby,” Paris told her again.
Marissa stared at her expectantly, perhaps hoping Paris meant to follow up her statement with an “I'm just kidding” or “It's just a joke, Mom, seriously.” Paris said no such thing. She simply stared back at her mother and waited.
“You're not serious,” Marissa said.
“Do I not look serious?” Paris asked.
“You're twenty years old.”
“You were eighteen.”
“Almost nineteen,” Marissa said, as if that made any difference.
“Okay, whatever, I'm still older than you were,” Paris argued.
“Barely. Paris, do you even hear what you're saying?”
The use of her name rather than the affectionate “Baby” Paris was used to getting earned another roll of her eyes.
“It's not just me,” Paris reminded her. “Chris and I. Both of us. We've been talking about it. Together. Chris isn't entirely opposed to it.”
Marissa's gaze lifted to the ceiling as if to ask God (or whomever) for patience. “And here I was hoping Chris had more sense,” she said.
“What's the big deal?” Paris asked.
“Paris, do you even have any clue about what you're doing? How do you and Chris plan to have a baby? What have you been discussing?”
“I wanted to see what our options would be as far as adopting.”
“So naturally you thought you'd bring it up with me,” Marissa said.
“Well, yeah.”
Paris watched as her mother took a deep breath and let it out in a heavy sigh. Marissa leaned into the counter and dropped her face into her hands. Impatient but conscious of the fact that she was likely going to need her mother's assistance (whatever Marissa's feelings might be on the matter), Paris kept quiet for however long Marissa needed to come to terms with what Paris was asking of her.
Perhaps foolishly, Paris had entered into the conversation without doing much homework. So far, Chris had been the one to do the most research into the subject. Paris at least listened when Chris found something that seemed like it might be pertinent to their situation, but she tended to focus more on the end results than she did on the process itself. It was a show of her youth and proof of her general unpreparedness. Even so, she had no intention of backing down.
When Marissa lowered her hands to look at Paris again she seemed to be more in control of herself, though her expression remained dubious. She had that serious look in her eye that Paris recognized as typically being followed by a lecture.
“U.S. or international?” she asked.
Paris blinked, went over the question again, and responded with, “Huh?”
“Are you looking to adopt within the United States or from another country?”
Paris had not expected to get to this part of the conversation so soon. She was momentarily thrown off by it and had to take a few moments to regroup and arrange her thoughts into the appropriate order.
“Oh... uh... international, maybe?”
“Which country?”
“Um... we haven't really... I mean, we haven't gotten to that part yet, but... I was thinking it might be nice to adopt from, like... France or something. Sort of in honor of my heritage or whatever.”
“No,” Marissa said.
Paris's brow arched in confusion. “No?” she parroted back.
“Adoptions with France as the country of origin are legal but extremely unlikely. There aren't many French children eligible for adoption and there's a long line of French parents waiting to adopt the ones that are.”
“Oh...” Paris said. She shifted in her seat and tried to recover quickly. The more uncertainty and hesitation she showed, the more her mother would have against her to pose a successful argument. “What about Belgium or... Switzerland? Luxembourg?”
“Adoptions from Switzerland and Luxembourg are as rare as they are from France. For Belgium you'd have to be a resident of Belgium and at least twenty-five years old.”
“How do you even know all this stuff?” Paris asked, feeling cornered and defensive.
“Baby, it's my job to know these things. You're not the first person I've had to rein in.”
Paris frowned and removed her hand from the side of her face to cross both arms over her chest and lean against the counter as she asked, “What'd be the most likely places then?”
“China has the most U.S. adoptions, followed by Ethiopia and South Korea. China has a minimum age requirement of thirty. For Ethiopia and Korea the minimum age is twenty-five. Not to mention you have to be found eligible to adopt by the U.S. government. You should also take into consideration whether or not a country is party to the Hague Convention.”
“The what?”
Marissa stopped to stare at Paris again. She wore an expression that showed she was unsurprised, as if she'd expected just that.
“Have you even looked into any of this?” she asked.
“Yeah. I've... I mean, a little. But Chris and I haven't really decided what we want to do yet, so I haven't really gotten too far into it,” Paris said.
“Before you do anything you should have determined whether or not it was even possible.”
“Isn't that what I'm doing now? Pretty much you've just told me adoption is off the table. Okay, fine. There's always surrogacy.”
“Gestational or traditional?”
Paris dropped her head onto her arms, which remained folded on top of the counter. “Mooooooooooooom,” she groaned. “Come on, I'm not asking for a critique of my abilities to do research. I'm asking for you to help.”
“I'm only making sure you realize the seriousness of what you're wanting to do,” Marissa told her. “This isn't something to undertake on a whim, Paris. You have to know and understand the facts on top of being absolutely certain you're ready for the responsibility that comes with having a child. You're only twenty years old and you've not graduated from college yet. People older and more established than you find it difficult to adjust.”
“I know, Mom,” Paris said. “I get it. But I'm serious, okay?”
Again, Marissa stared for a long, silent moment. Paris met her eyes and held her gaze and hoped she was projecting the appropriate amount of seriousness to satisfy her mother. She may not have done her research, but Paris was at least confident in her readiness.
It probably seemed as if Paris took this lightly. She didn't. It was becoming as important to her as her resolution to go back to school, as her determination to graduate with honors, as her decision to marry Chris, as the certainty and relief that came with her transition, because it was progress in a life she feared would stagnate under the weight of war. She had few (if any) second thoughts on the matter. She might not know every last detail of what she was getting herself into, but she knew what she wanted out of the endeavor.
She wanted life—and hope. She wanted something to nurture, a small bit of light in the darkness of the world.
If Marissa saw any of that on Paris's face, she gave no indication that they'd come to any sort of understanding. If anything, Marissa looked uncomfortable. Paris had long suspected Marissa still thought of her as a child. Moments like these seemed to make that thought more apparent.
“Please, Mom?” Paris said. She widened her eyes, entreating.
Marissa sighed, shook her head, and leaned against the counter—defeated.
“Traditional surrogacy involves inseminating the surrogate either with the intended parent's sperm or with donor sperm. The baby would be genetically related to the surrogate,” she said.
Paris frowned in consternation. “Wouldn't that make things complicated?” she asked.
“It could. In either case you'd want to make sure you were matched with the right surrogate. Not to mention a lawyer who specializes in these things, which I'd recommend regardless of how you go about it.”
“And what was the other option?”
“Gestational surrogacy includes a few different options. It could involve an embryo created from the egg and sperm of the intended parents, which wouldn't apply here,” Marissa said, and was at least able to muster up some sympathy, to which Paris responded with a small but accepting frown. “An embryo could also be created from a donor egg and the intended parent's sperm, the intended parent's egg and donor sperm, or both a donated egg and donated sperm. In the last three of those cases, the child would be genetically related to one or neither of the intended parents.”
“But it wouldn't be genetically related to the surrogate?” Paris asked.
“No. The surrogate's egg wouldn't be used in that case.”
Paris considered the options carefully before coming to a decision. “I think I'd rather it be gestational,” she said. She then looked up at Marissa with growing concern. “Is this something Chris and I would be able to do? I mean, are we old enough? And... you know... with how I was...”
“Yes,” Marissa said. She sighed resignedly. “It's possible.”
“How long would it take?”
“It varies. I'd say average is probably fifteen to eighteen months from the start of the process to the birth, provided things go smoothly and you're matched with a surrogate relatively quickly. Unless you already know someone who's willing.”
“Oh,” Paris said. She hadn't even thought of that. “No, I... I don't know if anyone would. I'd feel a little awkward asking. 'Hey, Christa, want to have my baby for me?' Because that would go over well.”
“Whose Christa?” Marissa asked.
Paris winced and shook her head. “No one. Just... someone I know from DCU. Decent enough, but kind of creepy.”
Her mother didn't look entirely convinced, but she didn't ask any further questions about it either. She simply said, “Well, unless she's successfully had one kid already she wouldn't be eligible to become a surrogate.”
“Figures,” Paris mumbled.
She didn't press the issue and kept the rest of her thoughts on the matter to herself. Paris was impatient and trying not to let it show. She didn't want to wait long, but she didn't expect she'd have much luck coming to an agreement with anyone she knew. How was she even supposed to broach that subject with them? She wasn't even close to anyone who'd had a baby Except her mother, but that was awkward and just... wrong. And Chris's mother, but the same applied there. That avenue provided few options, which left no other alternative but to hope they could find a suitable match with a stranger in a timely fashion.
Of course, she was probably getting ahead of herself. Chris had only agreed to consider the idea. He wasn't yet completely on board. Paris had her doubts as to whether or not he'd ultimately concede. Chris was, after all, the more practical sort. No doubt he'd take his time mulling things over and lean toward what he thought was the more responsible decision.
And she wondered why everyone else made this seem like such a big deal. Yes, having a baby brought a whole knew realm of responsibilities, and yes, it required a lot of thought and commitment, but it wasn't abnormal. People had kids every day. Kids would have been in their future at some point provided the war didn't get in the way (as Paris feared it would). What was wrong with moving up the timetable a bit? What difference did a few more years make?
Perhaps it was ignorant of her to think that way. Maybe she was just too young and bullheaded to understand. Maybe she wasn't doing this for the right reasons, or going about it the right way.
But she was genuine in her earnestness. She wouldn't have brought the subject up with either Chris or her mother if she weren't completely certain. Paris knew herself well. She knew what she could handle, and this would be a breath of fresh air compared to the war.
“Do you think I'd be making a mistake?” Paris asked. Her expression was heartfelt. She wanted her mother's honest opinion.
Marissa shook her head, but it wasn't a denial so much as it was a show of continued disbelief. “I think I'm too young to be a grandmother,” she concluded.
Paris laughed lightly. Her mouth twitched into a small smile.
“Ultimately it's not my decision,” Marissa said. “It's something you and Chris have to decide for yourselves.”
Indeed it was. Paris had already made her decision. All that was left was to wait for whatever Chris's would be.
