Daughters for a Time by Jennifer Handford

floor next to Sasha, held out my finger for her to grab, and made silly, googly faces at her. She smiled and clapped and squeaked the cutest sound. When she looked at me, my heart issued a percussive beat, and I felt compelled to look away, as if I knew that looking at her for too long was as dangerous as staring directly into the sun. She was beautiful, and if her start had been a rocky one, I certainly couldn’t tell. Was it possible that she had made it through her beginnings unscathed? Was being adopted a magical tonic that granted these girls a do-over, erasing any trace of hurt?
    Sasha looked at me as if to say, I’m loveable, don’t you think? You can find a space in your heart for a baby like me, couldn’t you?
    Maybe , I thought.

     
    That night, after the Meyers had left, Tim lay against his pillow with his clipboard on his lap, working on the week’s menu. Though I was still furious at him for bombing the Meyers on me unexpectedly, meeting Sasha had been eye-opening, and plus, I needed him tonight. I rolled over toward him, began rubbing his chest, working my way downward.
    “Helen,” he said, putting his hand over mine. “I thought we were done trying.”
    “Almost,” I said, freeing my hand from his, tracing a figure eight over his stomach. “I think we might have a good chance this month. I’m really doped up on drugs.”
    “You say that every month. You’re setting yourself up for pain.”
    “Please, please ,” I begged. “Have sex with me.”
    “Didn’t you think little Sasha was adorable? Didn’t that spark any interest in you?”
    “It did,” I said. “Really, she was a doll and I could totally go in that direction. But we might as well give it one more try, right?”
    That night, my exasperated husband made love to me and, afterward, stuffed pillows under my bottom. Meanwhile, I closed my eyes and did what I always did: visualized Tim’s sperm meeting up with one of my juicy, viable eggs, a Botticelli beauty that had been trapped in a war zone. Now she slid easily from my ovary and down my fallopian tube, ripe for a union with a handsome sperm.
    Then I said a decade of Hail Marys, just for good measure.
    Afterward, Tim got up, went to the bathroom, and brushed his teeth. He slipped into bed, smelling of Irish Spring and Crest, crisp scents that made me think of our first summer together. Only hours after we’d reached Athens, we caught the first ferry out, destined for the white beaches of Paros. Once there, we checked into a quaint beachside villa.
    We swam in the turquoise water and stuffed ourselves with local delicacies. We explored the white stucco Orthodox churches and shopped for sea sponges and souvenirs as we ambled along the cobblestone paths through the marketplace.
    On the eve of our departure, we sat on the patio outside of our villa, staring out at the azure Aegean and sipping chilled white wine. Tim reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny silk pouch. He knelt before me as I pulled open the little strings.
    “Oh my God,” I gasped, staring at the glistening silver ring.
    “I love you,” Tim said, his green eyes watery.
    “I love you, too.”
    “So will you marry me?”
    “I would die if I didn’t.”
    Oh, the romance , I now thought. “I would die if I didn’t.” That’s how our life was then, one romantic adventure after the next, one exotic trip after another, not a worry in the world.

     
    Sixteen days later, for the first time in my life, I stared down at two pink lines on a pregnancy test. For good measure, I repeated the test—twice. Ten minutes later, I had three tests beaming positively at me: two pink lines, a plus sign, and one that spelled out “pregnant.”
    I was speechless, as though if I spoke a word or moved a muscle, everything would change. Even though I was a fair-weather Catholic—only a fraction as faithful as my sister was and my mother once was—I fell to my knees and thanked God. At once, it seemed that true divinity was