On her way home one evening that spring, Maura turned a corner just as a young mother was exiting a brownstone with her son. The little boy, maybe four or five years old, wearing an impossibly small blue backpack on his shoulders, quickly grabbed hold of his mother’s hand as he bounced down the steps and onto the sidewalk, just ahead of Maura.
He tilted his head up toward his mother. “That was a fun playdate, right?”
His mother agreed.
The boy paused for a moment, before venturing to ask, “Do you think maybe we could have him over to our house sometime?”
Perhaps it was the surprisingly high pitch of the little boy’s voice, or the way he sounded so shy and unsure, like he didn’t know if everyone else had enjoyed themselves as much as he had, or if his mother would ever allow him to have another playdate again. Maura didn’t know what it was. But her feet suddenly stopped moving, and she felt herself starting to cry, right there in the middle of the sidewalk.
The little boy and his mother didn’t notice and kept on walking, while Maura just stood there crying, for no apparent reason other than the innocence of what she had witnessed.
Later that night, while Maura tried to sleep, the pangs were so strong that she turned on her side and nearly tapped Nina’s shoulder to ask if she might change her mind about having kids. With two moms, of two different skin tones, the decision would surely be layered: Would they adopt or use a donor? Would they choose the sex? Choose the race?
But all of those looming questions suddenly felt so small when compared to Maura’s string, to the realization that struck her with a nauseating blow.
Her child would be seven or eight years old, and Maura would already be gone.
She spent a sleepless night wondering why she might want this now. Was it a selfless act, so as not to abandon Nina, leaving her all alone? Did she hope that Nina would remember her whenever she looked at their child? Was it vanity? A legacy? Some piece of herself to live on? Had she fallen victim to the sexist myth that she was supposed to want a baby? Or are we simply doomed to want whatever we can’t have?
The mere presence of all these questions, swimming around in her head, ultimately proved to be the answer. Maura knew that she couldn’t bring a child into this world, under these conditions, without feeling certain. And she wasn’t certain.
But she also knew that the pangs would never fully disappear, and when she stared at the slope of Nina’s back, rising and sinking as she slept, Maura wondered if it was dishonest to hide these thoughts from Nina, whom she swore to share everything with.
But Maura simply couldn’t tell her about the pangs or the boy with the impossibly small backpack.
Try as she would, Nina could never understand.
The next morning, Maura’s emotional somersaults and lack of sleep conspired to form a hellish hangover. Nina was already brushing her teeth when Maura rolled over in bed and squinted against the bright bathroom light.
“Are you okay?” Nina asked.
“I’m just not feeling great this morning,” Maura said.
“Do you need me to get you something? Should I call the doctor?”
“No, no, I’m fine,” Maura assured her. Ever since they had learned about Maura’s short string, any semblance of illness, however minor, could send Nina into a tizzy.
“Are you sure?” Nina asked, her brow furrowed in concern.
“Yeah. I’ll just take a sick day and sleep it off,” Maura said. She glanced around for her phone but couldn’t find it, then eyed Nina’s laptop at the foot of the bed. “Can I use your computer to email work?” she asked.
“Of course,” Nina said, turning back around to rinse in the sink.
Maura pulled the laptop across the duvet and propped herself up on the pillows. After sending a message to her boss, she opened Facebook for a mindless perusal. But she was quickly bombarded with a strange series of ads that she had never seen before.
A travel agency was hawking its “Short-Stringer Bucket List Trips,” whisking you around the world in just a few months, while a pair of sleazy-looking lawyers touted their short-stringer discounts on civil suits. “Were You Wronged in the Past? Make It Right, While You Still Can!”
Why was Nina receiving these dubious ads clearly targeting short-stringers? Had she actually been searching for some cliché short-stringer vacations? For a lawyer?
Normally, Maura tried to espouse a laissez-faire attitude when it came to her partners’ online activities. She didn’t mind if they watched porn when she was away, or occasionally emailed their exes, as long as they were honest when asked. But there was something off about these ads.