“What about her?” I said. “She could work, I think.” My husband somewhat agreed, but not wholeheartedly. “Maybe,” was his response. He didn’t think a blonde fit the bill. I retorted, “Oh honey, come on. She’s clearly a brunette who went a little crazy with the highlights.” He remained unconvinced. So, we tabled the conversation and turned, instead, to the topic of afternoon plans. Here we were, in downtown Boise, Idaho, with nothing but crispy cool June nights and 80-degree days dropping at our feet like diamonds. Should we see a movie at the Egyptian Theater? Go shopping? Grab a picnic and head back toward Boise River? Just then, as we crossed the street from the Rose Garden and strode past the Black History Museum we’d toured earlier, it popped up like a pepperoni oasis in the Sahara. “The Wylder!” I exclaimed! My husband, who rarely pays complete attention to what I’m saying (can’t blame him with the amount of excess talking I tend to do) was confused. “What’s that?” I explained that it was the uber popular, fancy pizza restaurant everyone had told us to try. Beeline made. One tiny table, the best pizza in the history of time, & 2 glasses of very dry rosé later, he spotted the candidate. “Found her. 3 o’clock. Act like you have a crick in your neck.” He was right, as usual. He always wins at this odd little game we play. A new hostess was in place for the afternoon into evening crowd. She was perfect: round face, dimple, long dark hair, brown eyes, rather tall. Don’t worry. We aren’t kidnappers or talent scouts. We’re just two people who like to pick out who could’ve been our daughter, had things gone very differently all those years ago.
We were married on a Saturday in June of 2003. I’m sure we seemed like a motley crew, with kids that ranged in age from 17 to 3. I was 36, quite capable of having another child if you work around the whole tubal ligation situation. I can’t be the only person who’s found themselves thinking how nice it would be to have a child with the person you love, moreover a child who doesn’t spend every other weekend away from you. Don’t misunderstand, I am not advocating for divorce. In fact, it’s awful for children. Sometimes, though, we find ourselves in a boat we never meant to sail. It became a topic of conversation in those first few years of marriage. What if we had a child together? I recall being the one who applied brakes first. It was hard to make ends meet with both of us working non-stop. I had been a stayat- home mom until all three of my babes were in school. The thought of entrusting a 6-week-old baby to any other person, be they a relative or be they a stranger, seemed like a heartbreaker of a situation. Yet, every so often we would decide that yes was the answer. We just never took any other steps. I am thankful, as Garth says, for that unanswered prayer. A little more than 4 years after we were married, I was diagnosed with breast cancer that my oncologist says I’d had for 7-10 years. Hormone positive breast cancer and pregnancy don’t generally mix well. I’m not a doctor, nor do I play one on TV. But, my mind tells me percolating babies and cancer treatment don’t always coordinate. A mom or a baby’s life hanging in the balance isn’t what you hope for in a pregnancy. So, here we sit. I am alive and thriving. There was never a baby of our own. Surely, it would have been a girl, we surmise. Surely she would have been tall like my husband. Obviously, she would have my leaning toward olive complexion. Clearly, she would bear an uncanny resemblance to the daughter I lost, dimple and all. So, from time to time, we find ourselves talking about a restaurant hostess, an actress in a movie, or a passerby on the street. We estimate that she would be around 3 years younger than the baby boy, who’s now in graduate school. We have an entire made up past for Joey or Story or Salem, or whatever name of the moment our heads conjure up. She’s probably in college on a pole-vaulting scholarship. She loves it, but she loves training therapy horses more. Maybe she’s an artist in Greenwich Village, a director for a cruise line, or studying to be a nurse. Maybe she calls her mom 5 times a day but has hours long conversations with her dad on Sunday afternoons. Maybe she wears her long hair in double French braids and shuns makeup. Maybe she has his freckles. Maybe she wakes up each morning with swollen little bug eyes like me. I think, after much concentration, that what I am really nostalgic for is that noisy house from 2003, with kids running and wrestling and screeching. The one where my actual daughter was still here to warm the cockles of my heart. But, the daughter game is fun. I reckon we’ll continue playing that one.
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