returned to her spot on the couch. “And Noah, of course.”
“In another time and place,” said Frank, “you’d be hailed as a matriarch.” He held out his hand for the whisky, poured some for everyone, then raised his glass and clinked it to Gretchen’s.
“You know, there’s not enough blood there, between fathers and children,” said Gretchen. She watched as Dory and Julia carried their drowsy baby into a bedroom, along with a portable crib. “Men—all the men I know—are unbound.”
“What do you mean?” said Frank. Elliot said nothing. He already knew that whatever his mother was going to say would annoy him.
“Just look at our own kids,” she said, proving him right. “Elliot scattering his seed far and wide, with no involvement whatsoever with those children, and Sarah, binding herself forever, all alone, to a child almost entirely of her own making.”
“I think our kids are special cases.”
“Maybe.” Gretchen leaned her head on her hand, then turned her attention to her son. “So what are you going to do, honey?”
Elliot thought he saw something tender in her eyes, an unusual openness that didn’t assume she already had the right answer. Somehow he was sure she knew he’d decided not to return to the city: that she was feeling grateful, maternal, even indulgent. He got up from the table and returned to the armchair.
“Let’s not talk about it right now, okay?”
His parents nodded.
Dory came back into the living room. “Has it sunk in yet?”
Elliot could tell she wanted to tell a joke but was somehow restraining herself. He refrained from answering but grabbed the bottle and took another slug. From the bedroom, he could hear the hushed melody of a lullaby winding down.
Gretchen said, “He doesn’t want to talk right now.”
Julia returned after putting the baby to sleep. “I wonder what my father would think of us all being here.”
“He’d probably try to take credit for it,” said Gretchen, smiling. “Claim it was all his idea.”
“Poor old Dad.” Elliot saw that there were tears on Julia’s face.
“I wish he were here,” said Gretchen, and Frank agreed. The rest of them began exchanging stories about Keelan in low voices, sparing a glance in Elliot’s direction every once in a while. But he was happy to be out of the conversation.
He took one shot then another, then cracked open and chugged beer after beer until his panic began to subside. The cabin seemed to breathe with him, responsive and alive, as the wind whistled in and out of hairline cracks in the walls. He sensed his parents’ need and the history he shared with Dory and Julia—and beyond that, whatever connection lay between him and the forty-odd donor children spread all over the world. He noticed his eyes closing.
“You should go to bed, Ell,” said his mother. He was aware of her hand on his arm, tugging him up. Then her arms were on him in an embrace, as his father patted his back. He felt a strange dislocation in time, as though he were a child again. He let her lead him to the bedroom he used to share with his sister, where he collapsed into his bunk.
* * *
—
A baby was crying in his dream, and when he awoke, it was still crying—but quickly shushed. Elliot sat up, disoriented until he remembered his ex-wife and her new wife and child were in the other room. He had an aching bladder and a spinning headache after the whisky and four beers. He had an urge to piss and throw up, and also to speak to Sarah. He needed to tell her about the letters. Using his phone as a flashlight, he tiptoed past his parents, asleep in the main room, to creep outside and take a leak in the bushes. The cool air was refreshing.
Afterwards, Elliot leaned against the front door of the cabin and withdrew the letters from his pocket. Even crumpled, they remained shocking. Then he checked his email. Sarah still hadn’t written. He started typing to her on his phone, snapping photos of the letters and attaching them to the message.
Sarah,
See attached. I commit myself to your infinite wisdom. What do I do?
In this case, cause and effect seem too thin on the ground to be able to make sense of anything. Do you know what I mean? Trying to connect that time in my life to anything as important as forty-six human beings and their families seems impossible. I feel stupid and guilty and cheated. And embarrassed.
Do