You're What?!. Anne Eames
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down the river. Michelle watched it, wishing it was warmer and she was on it, feeling the sun and wind on her face.
That was it! That was what she’d do! Not a freighter but a cruise. She’d thought about it last January and even gone as far as picking up a few brochures.
Michelle raced for her computer workstation, nestled neatly in the corner of her bedroom. Opening a bottom drawer, she riffled through a stack of magazines and brochures until she found what she was looking for: Norwegian Cruise Line-ninety-three full-color pages. with countless choices. She closed her eyes and pressed the glossy pages to her chest. She thought about the last year’s worth of charts and temperatures. She’d been blessed with a fairly regular schedule. Only twice had she been late ovulating, and then merely by one or two days.
She grabbed her calendar and returned to the kitchen table. She did a quick calculation, then flipped through the pages looking at departure dates. There it was. The Norway departed Miami at 4:30 p.m., Saturday, April 15, which should be the third day of her fertile cycle. If she was late by two days she would still be fertile Saturday morning. Perfect.
Excited, she refilled her mug and returned her attention to the glossy pages in front of her. Tomorrow she’d call the travel agent and book passage. She’d heard there was usually lastminute space, sometimes at bargain prices. And she’d call Donna at the clinic and let her know she’d be back April 13th, 14th or 15th, depending on her temperature.
Michelle closed the brochure, a vague uneasiness creeping up her spine as she thought about Donna. After months of working with the young woman on the clinic’s computer system, she’d thought she’d allayed all her concerns about using a sperm bank. But surprisingly, one small detail still bothered her—the unknown face of the donor, should her lucky day ever come. She sipped her coffee and tried shrugging off the thought, but the idea of a faceless father niggled away at her otherwise perfect plan. According to Donna, this was a common problem. She’d said some women found handsome men’s photos—either in magazines or catalogs or the ones that came in frames—and pretended they were the daddies.
She leaned back and thought about it for a moment until a devilish idea tugged at the corners of her mouth. What if she found someone on the ship? Not a relationship. Just an affair of the heart with some perfect stranger…a face to remember if—no, when the time came she needed one.
Yesiree. A great plan. Later tonight, a little mood music and a glass of chardonnay, and she’d imagine the perfect face…and maybe the perfect body, too. Suddenly the cruise was taking on a whole new dimension, and the thought of it sent shivers of excitement down her spine. Next month everything would work out and today’s disappointment would be history. She could almost smell the salty night air, feel the wind whipping her hair away from her moist neck, music drifting from a dance floor…
At six o’clock Saturday morning, April 15, Michelle opened one eye and drew a bead on the waiting thermometer on the nightstand, hoping to instill a conscience into the unrelenting object. Both Thursday and Friday it had been a cold, heartless fiend. If it didn’t cooperate today, she’d be faced with the choice of canceling her cruise or missing a fertile month. Somehow she doubted a letter from Dr. Adam would qualify as a medical emergency. She could kiss the cost of her airfare and the cruise goodbye. She reached for the thermometer, hoping it would save the day.
It did. Sort of. It read higher, but not as high as she’d expected. She stared at it a moment, wondering if it was high enough, then kissed its hard, pointy little head and logged the number on the chart. She should have purchased one of those ovulation indicator kits months ago, but it was too late now. Trying to remain calm and confident, she called the clinic and said she was on the way. Once she was there, they would test her and tell her everything was okay. Today was the big day.
* * *
At eight-forty-five Michelle eyed the clock on the dashboard. Her flight for Miami didn’t leave until ten-fifty. Plenty of time. She eased up on the accelerator as she headed west on 1-94 for Metro Airport.
She’d missed last night’s stay at the Marriott in Miami that came with the trip, which meant she’d have to catch a cab directly to the ship. Then she’d have a couple of hours to rest in her cabin before departure. Michelle forced down the anxiety she felt pushing at her rib cage, willing herself to remain calm.
It had barely been an hour since the procedure and the doctor’s words still hung over her like a dark cloud. You’re not ovulating yet…Probably tomorrow…It would be better to wait… But in the end he’d agreed that sperm could live a couple of days with a high count such as her donor’s, and that as long as she ovulated soon, she still had a fairly good chance.
She turned the car radio to an easy-listening station and breathed deeply. Tomorrow at this time she’d be on the Norway, halfway to St. Martin and other ports of call. A weeklong cruise full of sunshine, fresh air and, best of all, no phones. All those odd-hour emergencies would somehow be handled by her clients. If all else failed, maybe they’d open their software manuals and figure things out for themselves. She frowned. If too many customers did that, would they need her when she got home? Finally she laughed and relaxed her grip on the steering wheel. Sometimes she worried about the silliest things.
She’d been free-lancing now for three years and had more referrals than she could handle. In fact, one of the changes she’d have to make before any baby arrived was to cut down on the sixty-hour workweeks. She exited the freeway at Merriman Road and headed for the terminal. The income was nice. It enabled her to take this cruise and pay for all the tests and trips to the clinic. But she didn’t have to put in so much time anymore. Years of hard work and no frills, plus her parents’ life insurance proceeds, had netted her a healthy nest egg.
“Humph!” She pulled up to the curb and flagged a skycap. Nest egg. Even her analogies were hormonal lately. Tick, tick, tick. It was so annoying. Thirty-six wasn’t the end.
The skycap tagged her luggage and stapled receipts to her ticket. A couple of laps around the long-term parking lot and she found a spot. She grabbed her purse off the passenger seat and locked the car, annoyed with herself for growing harried. If she let the possibility of motherhood monopolize her thoughts for the next month, she’d go crazy. And if she wanted those little swimmers to live until tomorrow and have a chance at reaching their destination, she’d better forget about them and relax. With a new resolve, she exhaled loudly and strolled toward the terminal.
Shortly after two o’clock, Michelle followed the porter and her bags up the gangplank, a humid head wind slowing their pace. At seventy-six degrees, it was already twenty degrees warmer than home and the ship hadn’t even left dock.
Michelle smiled. This had been the right decision. She had a good feeling about this trip. With any luck, a new life was already beginning inside her. And with the throngs of passengers leaning over railings and still boarding, certainly there had to be at least one handsome fantasy man among them.
They made their way up to the Viking Deck and aft to her stateroom, where the porter deposited her bags and promptly departed. A pair of portholes drew her to the far wall. She peered out and saw another ship making its way out of the harbor, waving arms visible from her many decks. On a satisfied sigh, Michelle turned and scanned the space around her. The room was small, but tastefully decorated. Actually, all she needed was clean and private. She didn’t plan on spending much time in here, anyway. She placed her hands on her hips and wondered what to do next. What she usually did first when she traveled was unpack. What she probably should do was lie down and rest.
Neither seemed appealing.
Her stomach growled and she looked at her watch. She’d chosen late meal settings, which meant dinner wasn’t until eight-thirty, more than six hours away. Sandwiches were supposed to be available near the pool, wherever that was.
She found a diagram of the ship and studied it a moment, getting