A Little Life
By Gordon Kearns
A Little Life
Sorry about that. The title, I mean. Just one of my typical lame stabs at humor. But it's an apt pun, I think. I'm a twenty-four year old woman consigned to spending my life in a twelve year old's body. A very short twelve year old's body. My embryonic development was hit by some kind of short circuit, a time bomb anomaly - a quirk, if you will, which chose not to kick in until I turned twelve. I was always short compared to my peers, but slow as my growth was, until I was twelve I was actually growing like most other normal kids. However, when I was exactly twelve years, one month, sixteen days, and ten hours old (I never bothered to chart the minutes and seconds), my physical development ceased. Ironically, as slow as the rest of my body was growing up to that time, sexually I had been allowed to attain womanhood at a relatively early age. I'd reached menarche early in my eleventh year - another anomaly, I guess. So indeed, I'm a twenty-four year old woman in a twelve year old body. La-de-dah. So what? I'm still a virgin. Because I choose to be.
The genetic causes of my unique status are well-documented in a bunch of medical journals. I'll summarize those aspects that affect my little life. And the effects are all that's important. Physical aging stopped for me on that auspicious date. I was twelve years old then. I'm twelve years old now. Every part of me. My height is that of a short twelve year old kid. My weight is somewhat less than doctors like for that age and size. My face is childish - you know, roundish; not yet taking on the more angular aspect one usually develops with maturity. My hips are still child-narrow, and my bone structure shows no give-away hardening. Even a grade school teacher studying me wouldn't guess me to be older than twelve. My complexion is kid-smooth. Oh, one plus, no zits. All development stopped. I may have my periods, but my breasts are only cute little pointed bumps. At twelve I did have the beginnings of pubic hair. So that's what I still have, the beginnings of pubic hair. I'm still a child in that department, too. And about my periods, as you'd expect, very irregular like many this age. My soft, blond hair is light like a kid's, of course. And my voice, uh huh, teeny tiny and pitched way up there. I suspect my mental development stopped at twelve as well. But I read someplace that at my physical age a kid's brain has already achieved, say, ninety percent or so of it's adult potential. No big deal. I probably use less than thirty percent of what I have. I've lived twelve years beyond when my body was frozen in time, so there's an accumulation of knowledge and experiences that gives me some adult sensibilities. I have to mention, allied to my "defect" is my congenital bad heart. Really bad. Doctors have been honest with me (I guess that's what I wanted), and my future is quite bleak. They don't think I'll ever reach thirty. Okay, being honest, they don't think I'll get anywhere close to thirty. My parents asked about the possibility for a transplant. I'm a terrible candidate, they concluded. My immune system is apparently undependable, and without doubt, would reject any transplant. Long ago the doctors and my parents vetoed the idea of growth hormone therapy. With the threat to my heart and the personality changes such therapy might bring about, everyone agreed it was just as well, better in fact, that I remain a shrimp. So there you have me, just a little old twenty-four year old woman living in a twelve year old's body.
I'm a loner. But I was a loner before the freeze. My heart condition was known from the day I was born, and since then my activities were necessarily curtailed. In school, Physical Education was permissible, as long as the teachers monitored and limited possible stressful activities. I was mostly a bench-flower at recesses. Easy stuff was all right. Swings, jungle gyms - that sort of thing. See what I mean: I was never in the main social currents. There were other bench-flowers, so I wasn't an alone loner. And I wasn't unhappy living my life on the sidelines. I wasn't anti-social; just not very sociable, I guess. I derived pleasure from watching the others have fun. Once I stopped growing and my world rapidly started passing me by, I slipped more and more to the social sidelines. I was never much teased or bullied for my size. It was my fortune that fate left me with a face that people thought was pretty - for a twelve year old. I've heard of others who weren't so lucky with their particular defect and who lived their loner lives in secret despair. For myself, I had a natural affinity for loners, pretty or not. Anyway, I wasn't really treated unkindly by my peers. In fact, through high school, while I was never part of any in-group, kids felt comfortable sitting at my table in the lunchroom if their usual places had already been spoken for; and they'd never hesitate to squeeze together to make a place for me at their table if I were having problems finding an empty spot. On such occasions I was drawn into their small talk. Although truth be known, small talk was never one of my fortes. But acceptance with a group wasn't the same as acceptance in a group. Passing between classes was a challenge for me. I'd be elbowed or banged in the face by books casually carried in kids' arms before they even realized I was in their space. I was always a loner in a crowd.
I don't drive. Too much hassle arranging for extended floor pedals and piling up seat cushions. For high school graduation my parents bought me a really neat motor scooter. I've enjoyed tooling around on it and its descendants ever since. I keep my license handy in a wrist wallet. I guess I'm stopped by some concerned traffic cop or other two-three times a week. Always the same thing. I look like a twelve year old. And in my crash helmet, I look even more the child. Even with the ID, it sometimes takes a couple phone calls to get satisfactory verification of my real age. But I do love my motor scooter. It's a symbol that I really am grown-up ... so to speak.
I still live at home. My parents won't have me where they can't help if I have a heart episode. I don't even try to argue. There have been a few minor episodes, and their availability was welcome. They understand my need to feel independent. Dad made over our two-car garage into a nice apartment for me. Better than living in the house or basement, he said. I could go and come as I wished. And, er, have guests maybe sleep over. My parents pretend to be modern with-it. Secretly they hate the idea that I might be sexually active. But they also understand that in this child body dwells a twenty-four year old woman. I love them for their appreciation of that fact. But, as I said, I'm still a virgin. While I've been tempted now and again, I've never felt I wanted a lover's intrusion in my personal loner space. Maybe it's that I've never met a man I'd consider for such an intrusion.
I've dated. Gee, I'm twenty-four years old. Even if I look twelve, I do notice guys (twelve year olds notice guys, too, you know). And truthfully, there have been guys who liked me more than for my pretty twelve year old face. Most guys I dated treated me with basic respect. Oh yeah, I'm sure their chivalry wasn't because they thought that sex with me would be like making love with a Girl Scout. Of course, there were a couple clods I had to send packing under the threat of my handy-dandy little mace aerosol. But even in love I'm a loner.
My parents have always pushed me to join one of those little people clubs. For people who are lonely in their physical isolation these clubs are great, offering a social world in which they aren't considered unusual. I've never been interested in being in a social world that even more so confirms my isolation. You see, I don't fit with the small people, either. I'm not just small; I'm a twelve year old kid in any society.
I admit that pride has often driven me into totally unrealistic pursuits. At amusement parks I defiantly go to the dangerous ride booths with my ID ready in hand, knowing full well there's no way they'll let me ride. Stretch as I might, I never come up to that little marker on the window. But I keep daring and losing. Mostly losing. One time when my chin was really in a challenging thrust, I applied for a job as a guard with the firm that handles security for the big floating casino in town. There I was, a four foot runt - with a heart defect to boot - applying for a job as a guard at a big time casino. Oh, I was going to make it hard for them. Weeks earlier I joined an inside shooting range and got to be quite proficient with handguns. They were going to have to work to find a reason to turn me down, boy. But they didn't - turn me down, that is. They hired me, but not because I could shoot the heart out of a man's profile target at seven yards with a .45 automatic. They liked my education credentials (I had a Bachelor's in business administration) ... and that I had the unmitigated gall to apply for a job with them carrying my handgun qualifying certificate in my hot little twelve year old hands. So now I'm officially a guard ... without a gun ... who sits in a locked room monitoring the cameras in every corner of the building, while checking the next week's assignment schedules for the walking guards. Actually, heavy responsibilities. And really nice pay. With them I've attained a small degree of value.
My parents' most fervent wish is that I be happy. Happiness. Now there's a commodity I've found in short supply in my twenty-four years. But then how much happiness do most of us human-kinds find in our short lives? My first truly happy time was when I was in my first year as a twelve year old, which by coincidence was twelve years ago.
*****
It was the summer I finished sixth grade. I'd be attending junior high school that fall. My beautiful parents thought it would be a good time for me to go to a summer camp. It was a hard-wrought decision for them, this letting their little fledgling with the dumb heart out of the security of their loving and doting nest. But I was a growing girl (we wouldn't know until months later that my growth had already been frozen in time), and they thought I should have at least a taste of life as an independent soul. Besides, there was the fresh air and all that to consider, which might be good for me. And a chance to make new friends. The fresh air was a plus. However, the "make new friends" didn't matter; I knew I'd be as much a loner at camp as anyplace else - you know, my physical limitations; and my natural loner personality. Getting away from the security of my loving and doting nest was a definite negative for me, though. Still, on balance, I wasn't against the idea. I was a loner, but I wasn't afraid of people; in fact, I enjoyed watching them enjoy the fun of life. And while I was very uncomfortable with leaving my parents' protecting arms, the challenge of something new always has intrigued me. So I agreed to go.
It was a church-sponsored camp especially for sixth graders. You can bet my parents' research was way over-adequate. They had to know without any doubts at all that they were entrusting me to people who had as much concern for their little girl's welfare as they (the folder they supplied to the camp officials detailed my physical restrictions, and contained a stack of signed physician notes). The camp was nestled in the Ozark Mountains in Arkansas on Bull Shoals Lake. It was a two day drive for my parents, but they weren't about to trust this precious package to bus, train, or plane. I had mixed feelings as I watched them drive away. Mostly, I tingled with excitement.
That was the summer I met Sean. By the way, I'm Olivia - Olivia Fitzpatrick - Libby, to my ... to people who know me. In a group of boys and girls numbering about 120, Sean and I were the only ones on "Limited Participation" status. That's quite low for a group this size. Sean was an asthmatic. Get him out of breath and he'd wheeze his lungs out. So I had a companion loner to join me in watching the others have fun. I knew there were other kids who were every bit the loners we were; maybe more so. But their hearts and lungs worked ... and they didn't have a folder filled with doctor notes. But you could see the loneliness in their eyes, as well as their secret envy of us for not having to be part of the crowd. One kid did actually say to me, "You guys are so lucky. I wish I were like you." I just said, "No, you don't." But then, maybe I did understand how she felt. Sean and I were able to achieve a happiness with just the two of us that some of those kids wouldn't come close to experiencing in their group of 120 - and which many of them were not likely to find their entire lives.
Of course, we weren't excluded from all camp activities. Fact is, we spent much more time with the larger group than off to the side. Swimming was okay for me (we didn't swim in the untreated lake. There was a good-sized modern pool on the grounds watched over by competent certified lifeguards). No races or water polo roughhousing for me, naturally. It was pretty much the same for Sean, except often the chlorine in the water made it so hard for him to breath, the counselors had to take him to the TLC Room to relax. But usually he was able to enjoy the pool as much as me. At those times when the pool was taken over for scheduled activities like races and roughhouse water polo, Sean and I would have to stay off to the side and watch. We must have made a fun picture as we lay side by side, me in my cute little string bikini, and Sean in his low-hanging, knee-length boxer trunks.
You know, I don't even remember what we talked about in all the time we spent side by side watching the rest of our little world at play in one activity or the other. I'm sure we talked about what the others were doing, and maybe rooted for one or the other of kids we generally liked - mostly our tent mates, or those kids who smiled at us from time to time, or the ones we knew were loners (but they were usually on the losing side), or the ones who seemed to be getting the most real pleasure from the game. I always thought that was important; you know, to get pleasure from the excitement you're involved in - like Sean and I got pleasure from watching the excitement. And I suppose we did our share of gossip. And compared "infirmities." And told each other dumb jokes and riddles. And talked about home and our parents. And maybe the shapes of the clouds in the sky. And I think we played hangman using a stick to etch the gallows and wrongly guessed letters in the dirt. And sometimes we closed our eyes and listened to the sound of fun. And sometimes, if no one was watching close, we'd sit holding hands, paying attention to nothing special at all; and saying nothing special at all.
But I do remember that we communicated. But not words or thoughts. We found a way of telling each other what we were feeling. There are no words adequate to communicate feelings. But we understood what was in each other's soul. We loved each other. But not in the way most people think of love. This was no teenie-bopper crush. Boy-girl, male-female had nothing to do with it. That summer two loner people communicated - met soul to soul - in a magical secret language even they couldn't have described. Camp would end after six weeks. And two loner people who brought each other the happiest days of their life would have to go their separate ways. We were both intelligent enough to realize there would be no "later" for us ever. And we were intelligent enough to know our parting was just another of those childhood events that had to be expected and accepted. We decided not to write. We'd had our happiness together; we'd just keep that memory in its original pure state. Letters couldn't match the unwritten, unspoken person-to-person love we'd found side by side in those forty-two days. I haven't heard from Sean since, and he hasn't heard from me. I never even knew his last name. But I'll never forget ...
*****
Two months later the hammer fell. After a whole slew of tests, the doctors gave us the awful news: I'd stopped growing. Major trauma. More for my parents than me. For them it was almost as if their little girl died. It took months for their smiles in my presence to relax out of their forced, quivery, tearful set. For me, just one more damn thing to dig me even deeper into my solitary universe. I don't think I cried at all. Maybe just one tiny sob spasm I doubt anyone noticed - the next day in school, in my home-room the first thing in the morning, as I looked around at my classmates: they were passing me by - forever. But what's a guy to do? I quick-checked my notebook to make sure my homework was in order; and when the bell rang, I headed out to my first class.
In January my parents started making noises about summer camp again. Sure, it was months ahead, but "Good camps fill up fast. We have to get our reservations in early." They'd already amassed a pile of brochures and started their checking-out processes. They were trying to hold my life within the framework of normal childhood. I'd be thirteen by then, so they limited their search to seventh grade camps. They weren't interested in mixed-age venues. They wanted me to be comfortable in my own age group. I knew it wouldn't work. By January most of my peers were growth-spurting like crazy. I was already starting to stand out like a baby in a world of grown-ups. But I remembered my joy the previous summer. If I was to be trapped in my twelve year old body, why not go to a sixth grade camp again? I'd stand out less with kids that age than my own. Of course, the heart problem would still be there. I'd always be a loner. I didn't expect to find anyone like Sean again, but there would be loners to sit with on the sidelines; and, like the last time, most of the activities wouldn't be so stressful as to keep me out of the main stream of fun. My parents were doubtful, but would go along with anything that might give my sad little life a modicum of pleasure. It would have to be a different camp - where they wouldn't remember me from last year. And a minor bit of deception was called for (besides the little white lie that I was a twelve year old kid). Just in case, we designed an official-looking birth certificate from internet sources. It would never pass muster for big-time purposes, like passports and stuff; but we figured harried camp leaders wouldn't attend to little details ... like the lack of an official stamp. As it turned out the bc wasn't needed.
*****
It worked. I did have fun in the world of twelve year olds again. And I did find friendship with the other "Limited Participation" guys. The jokes and skits in campfire programs were the same. I wondered why they didn't strike me as hilarious as the last time.
*****
The third time I went to a sixth grade camp I came to a fateful realization. My body might still be twelve years old, but I wasn't any more. I often found myself viewing my fellow "Limited Participation" guys from a more sisterly slant. I don't mean disrespectful sibling rivalry "sisterly." I mean more the idea that I'd slipped into a protective mode when I was with them. I found the support I was offering came less as one buddy for another, and more from my two years more experience with life. When I hugged them I was offering as much the security of more mature arms as the love and acceptance of a dear friend. And I was more cognizant of the loners in the regular group, and sometimes I'd move to their sides during recreation periods and put my big-sister arms about their sad shoulders.
*****
By the time I was eighteen I found I'd regressed. After more years living isolated in the big world, I offered myself no apologies. While I continued to provide my vulnerable friends with mature security, I came to the realization that my continued revisits to the world of twelve year olds were still primarily for my own need to belong. Big sister or not, these kids were my people; it was in their world that I myself found unqualified acceptance ... and peace. The kiddie humor and the electric exuberance tempted exasperation, but never achieved it. When not sharing souls with hurting kids, I dove into the electrically charged life of twelve year olds like a native. I let myself be a child and enjoy the being. Fact is, on skit nights I was usually a big hit with the kids. Why not: over the years I'd built up a vast collection of outrageous dumb kid jokes ... and I loved the sound of pre-teen squeals and giggles as I ran through my gross patter.
At eighteen I wondered about the cute little string bikinis I still wore for pool times. There's no way most young adult women could get away with such revealing outfits. But then I decided what the heck, if I have to have a twelve year old body, why not flaunt it. Some twelve year old bucks eye me with confused speculation, but then easily find themselves joining their more childish friends in disdaining all things girl.
Year after year for six weeks each summer I enjoyed life in my twelve year old universe, however overwhelming its electric exuberance and corny humor. As I said, these were my people. On the other hand I found comfort - satisfaction in the fact that the love I was offering my loner pals bore a balance of both fellowship and mature security hard to come by in their non-camp worlds.
*****
This year was my twelfth excursion into the world of twelve. An anniversary year, if you will. Against my parents' advice I decided to return to the same camp I attended that first time. I figured few original counselors or leaders would still be around after all those years. And if there were, it's doubtful they'd remember one loner out of all that must have come and gone over the years. I was sure my name wouldn't mean anything to them. And who would imagine it would be the same twelve year old kid, anyway. If I could just manage to eke out one iota of the happiness I attained that year, I'd be more than satisfied.
Just one other "Limited Participation" kid in camp that summer. A boy, Kenneth - an asthmatic; wouldn't you know? And we found each other. It was funny, I just couldn't click into my big sister mode. It seemed almost as if twelve years had dissolved away. I found myself blending with him child to child. We had exciting, electric, exuberant twelve year old fun. Both of us. And, again, that summer two loner people communicated - met soul to soul - in a magical secret language even they couldn't have described. Happiness radiated from us as we spoke our secret language and watched the others at play. Real life deja vu.
Kenneth was a camera nut. He must have taken a hundred of pictures of me. He especially loved capturing me for posterity in my cute little string bikini. And a flock of pictures of us together was taken by other campers drafted by Kenneth as they passed by.
As the end of our 42 days approached I suggested the same no-write agreement that seemed so sensible when Sean and I sadly had to part. Kenneth would have none of that idea. Kenneth wasn't Sean. And this wasn't twelve years ago. Besides, he was dying to mail me a set of the photos he took. He would savor reliving his summer of happiness through those shots. And twelve year old kids have a natural drive to share their joy. So we traded addresses. Truth to say, deep inside, I think I actually did want to hold onto some evidence that our magic summer really happened. I don't know. Maybe it's an adult thing, that feeling we need proof that we truly experienced happiness.
*****
Back home I dove into my grown-up life again. Twelve is where I visit each year. Twenty-four is where I live. My bosses are quite generous with time off whenever I ask. They understand my health situation. And they also understand how rare pleasure is for me to come by, so my extended summer vacation is never questioned (although company policy only allows for two weeks to be with pay). It's not charity. They do see my work as that valuable to them.
It wasn't long after I'd returned from camp (my great tan hadn't even begun to fade). After work one day. I'd just secured my motor scooter in its pretty shed by my garage apartment. I took note of the unfamiliar mini-van parked in the driveway, but it didn't really concern me. My folks have lots of friends. Inside, tired from my long day at the casino, I'd just crashed in my lounge chair when my mother knocked on the door connecting my apartment to the house. The mini-van in the driveway. The knock before I had time to settle in. I had a visitor, of course. A rare enough occurrence that a quick chill of anticipation coursed through me. And the computer in my 90% adult brain began spinning through the possibilities. So I wasn't totally shocked when my mother showed the young man in.
My mother slipped away diplomatically as we stared at each other.
Talk about twelve years dissolving away. We stood there looking at each other for the longest time. Words came in their own due time. "Hi, Libby," he said.
"Hi, Sean."
He reached out his hand. I accepted the invitation as if camp had never ended. Hands now joined, our silent communication of feelings lingered on.
Finally, the automatic, "How are you doing?" he asked. Our small talk never claimed to be inspirational.
"Fine, I guess."
More silent communication.
"You here alone?" I asked. I knew he wouldn't be, but I had to bring time back to its proper place.
He sighed, and then smiled. "My wife Clara. And the twins. And Kenneth, of course. He'd never forgive me if I'd have visited you without bringing him along. Twin girls," he continued. "Three years old. By now they're probably swarming all over your mother."
I chuckled. "She'll be in heaven, then." A pause. "I guess mom already gave you all that needs telling about me."
He nodded.
"Clara?" I asked.
"Right. Clara's a nurse. Part-time now, because of the kids. I'm a nurse, too. That's how we met. We were assigned to the same hospital after we graduated. She was dying to meet you. 'Thy people shall be my people,' you know?"
"Kenneth can't be your ..."
"He's my brother. Our father had this opportunity for an extended tour of Europe. A good-will ambassador for his company. They wanted him to take his wife along to help their image. We're in charge of Kenneth while they're gone. For some unknown reason Kenneth idolizes me. And I think he looks on Clara as more his mother than mom. Clara helps him a lot when his asthma acts up. His asthma is worse than mine was at his age. He relaxes quick to her comforting touches. She has a way with kids."
I'd liked to have taken a walk with him down to the subdivision swimming pool. Sit on the grass, maybe, watching the kids splashing around the shallow water. For old times. But I couldn't desert Kenneth, who at that moment probably had his ear plastered to the door. And I couldn't desert Sean's Clara ... who has a way with kids.
Once Kenneth and the twins were brought in, silent communication ceased to be the order of the day.
It was a congenial group. We moved into my parents' family room to gab and wait for dinner. My mother was sooo in heaven. In spite of myself, I liked Clara. And in spite of herself, I think she liked me. But our conversation never progressed beyond routine stuff. Dad came home in time to join the group for dinner. His eyes also lit up in the presence of the three youngsters. Even before I'd arrived home, mom had made it clear to our guests that they were to sleep here tonight.
After eating, with the table only cleared of spoilable leftovers, we all pushed back our chairs and talked and talked and talked. About summer camps. About researching summer camps. About surrendering a precious only child to strangers for six weeks at a time - twelve years in a row. About asthma and bad hearts. And as the conversation bounced here to there, with Kenneth's constant cheerleading often calling the direction, I caught myself watching Clara. She smiled or laughed when smiles or laughs were called for, and even tried to look aghast at the terrible little secrets we were all revealing about one another. She even said, "I bet that was fun" or some such at all the right times. But as I watched her, I came to the realization that in this exclusive little society, Clara was a loner.
So when mom and dad started making cleaning-up moves, and before everybody started retiring to their assigned quarters, I suggested, "You know what I think would be a lot of fun? How about Clara sleeping with me in my little bed in my little apartment tonight? My twelve year old genes yearn for a good old-fashioned girlie slumber party. The two guys can sleep in my old room, and I bet mom and dad would love to take the babies in with them. They'd be in their element. How about it, Clara?"
There was the hint of a smile at the corners of her lips; and as our eyes met, there was communication.
"I'd like that," she said.
*****
The apartment my dad shaped out of our old two-car garage may be small, but it has most modern conveniences you'd find in good pads these days. Small but fancy bathroom with shower stall; pink bedroom with a smallish double bed, vanity, chests of drawers, and plenty enough closet space; and a small livingroom with couch, two comfy little chairs, coffee table, entertainment center, PC corner, and tiny kitchen nook (cabinet sink, hot plate, little fridge, and microwave) with a small table and two chairs. Dad wouldn't have settled for anything less for his little girl.
Clara had her bag on the vanity chair and was in the process of fishing through it for her gown. I'd already shed to my panties and pretend bra. I stood there watching her. After a few moments I stripped off those two items of underwear and, standing there naked, I interrupted her concentration. "Clara," I said.
She looked up. She studied me a few seconds. Without clothes I was absolute, unadulterated child. She understood.
"Forget your gown, Clara. Let's sleep bare-ass tonight. Nobody'll come in ... without knocking, anyway. After all, it's our own girlie slumber party.
A slight pause, then, "Why not," she said with a chuckle.
Not an erotic venture at all. This night would be without artificial barriers separating two people who desperately wanted to understand each other.
We sat with legs crossed Indian fashion facing each other on the bed. As with most slumber parties, there promised to be little sleep that night.
"Ever thought about marriage?" she asked.
"Some. But I get along fine alone."
"Do you?"
I thought more on the question. "I do. It's part of the drill. Alone is what I am."
"How about children?"
"Sure. I've thought about what it would feel like to be a mother. I've got the tools - inside, but ..." I patted my bare narrow hips. "it can never be. Just one of those things."
"Adoption?"
"It'd never pass. Unmarried. Bad heart. Child body. I can't live independently myself."
"Your parents would help."
"Sure. They'd be great candidates. But me?"
"But if you could ..."
I patted my hips again. "If I could? There are so many things I'd do - if I could." A little gulp. "Having a baby would ..." I sighed, "be great, but it just can't be."
Now she paused. She obviously knew what she wanted to say, but needed to decide if she should say it. Then, "It might be possible."
I waited.
"In vitro," she said simply.
I knew what "in vitro" meant, but never applied it to my own situation.
"I worked a few months at a fertility clinic during my training. It's not a hundred percent successful. A lot of if's."
I couldn't believe I was actually discussing the actual possibility of my actually having a baby. But I decided to go along with it. There was something, I don't know, exciting in the very discussion of the possibility. But I've never found optimism especially helpful, so I stalled. "I don't know, Clara. I'm still what I am. That damn time-clock with my heart, you know. It seems on schedule: I'm not as strong today as I was six months ago. And the genetics. Would the baby inherit my heart? My frozen childhood?" Would it be better if she isn't born? Would it be better if I hadn't been born?
"Serious questions, Libby. And they have to be faced. But one at a time. Your time clock, yeah, that's a worry all right. But you wouldn't be alone in this. We'd all be with you ... to the end." We? "There are a bunch of other important tests, too. Like how the estrogens and other necessary therapies would affect your condition. Specialists - experts - your doctors: their advice would be crucial. But I'm willing to bet the possibilities of passing on your frozen childhood are pretty slim. And probably your heart problems. The conception of any baby is a genetic crap shoot, isn't it? But we'd have to hear what they say." We?
Standard answers. I was expecting them. I could have said them myself. But no less true for all that. Still, you have to know those weren't my real questions. I couldn't speak my real questions. I've always denied myself the luxury of crying. Hard work sometimes. But in holding back outward shows of emotions, the pressure inside sometimes builds up so much I don't dare speak. The effort would crack my resolve. At that moment, the pressure disallowed my real questions. So all I could do was sit there and stare at Clara. And I discovered she knew something of eye communication, too.
"You know what I think," she went on. My slumber party counselor's voice was quavering. She tried to hide it, which made it more apparent. "Unless you have someone else in mind, what about Sean as the sperm donor?"
I didn't dare speak.
"I bet he'd love the idea." Still quavering. "It's not as if you'd be sleeping with him." A nervous chuckle. "Or even be in the same room as us when he ..." More nervous chuckles. "Of course, his family is a breeding ground for childhood asthma; but, you know, Sean and Kenneth are ..." A heavy sigh, and then decisively: "That's it then. Sean will be the sperm donor."
I didn't dare speak. I didn't dare speak. I didn't dare speak. Because there was still ...
Another sigh. "Libby, when I decided to come here with Sean, I was determined to love you - for him - and for Kenneth. But then, at the table, in that crowd, you found me. Me. And then you stripped naked and stood before me, exposed, vulnerable, giving me your soul. It's no longer for Sean or Kenneth that I love you ..." She reached over and took my hand the same way Sean and Kenneth would. Her hand was visibly shaking. "Pregnancy wasn't fun for me. And the delivery, well ..." Another sigh. "But Libby, please let me do this for you."
In the morning, I prevailed upon our guests to stay through lunch. I needed time with my Kenneth. I donned my cute little string bikini and he his low-hanging, baggy, knee-length boxer trunks and together we walked to the subdivision pool and had the greatest fun splashing around the shallow water with the rest of the kids.
*****
All systems are "Go." Clara is three months pregnant with my baby, and bearing up like a trouper. Looks like she'll arrive about summer vacation time. For the first time in thirteen years I might miss a sixth grade camp. That's all right. Grown-up priorities are taking precedence. I said, "She'll arrive," didn't I? That's correct. The sonogram said so. Her name is Jill. That was Kenneth's decision; he was in charge of naming her. It seemed everybody else had a hand in my daughter's arrival on this Earth, and since he felt he should have some influence on her life, we gave him the responsibility of finding a name. It took him a week of pouring over baby-name books until finally deciding on Jill; he thought it was a perfect name. So Jill it will be.
The machinery is in the works that as soon as Jill is born my parents will officially adopt her. The doctors' predictions seem more and more likely to come about. I find it necessary to spend a lot of my time in a wheelchair now. Endurance has gotten to be a major problem. This way her official parents will be a consistent factor in her life. I couldn't think of anybody better than them to raise my child. Oh, I'll be her mother in day-to-day life as long as I'm ... here. But with mom always just beyond the door she'll be an integral part of Jill's life. And I still have my job, though I've had to cut down a lot on my hours. So in practice, my mom will also be her mom. Including mom and dad, Jill will have a total of two mothers, two fathers, and an uncle (and a pair of twin older sisters who have some growing of their own still to do), all ready and able to jump in when needed. There'll be a lot of commuting and mutual visiting between our house and Clara/Sean/Kenneth's place. She'll know love in her life. And if in the future she's ever asked about her real mother, Jill will be able to say (with some pride, I hope), "My mom was a twelve year old virgin." Not many kids in all the history of the world can make that statement.
So far, the doctors can't detect any problem in my little Jill's heart. Who knows what genetic time bomb is ticking inside her. Who knows what genetic time bomb is ticking inside of any of us. Age-freeze, asthma, whatever - she'll manage. That's all the choice a person has. But if or when, she won't have to face it alone.
About that question, "Would it be better if I hadn't been born?" I never did have an answer for it. I know what my life was because I was born. No bed of roses. I don't know about the alternative. But in my life I had two wonderful doting parents. And a job where I was respected. And the unique magical experience of returning to exuberant, electrically charged childhood every year for twelve years. And loving friends who were willing to give of themselves so a twelve year old loner might have a shot at being grown-up.
And I'm still able to wear a cute little string bikini.