Chapter_5_The_Salt_Ma

How am I going to tell Biz I don’t really want to go to the Boatslip tonight? It will be groups of sweaty men packed together like sardines in tank tops, flirting and drinking while everyone shouts over thumping dance music.

Debauchery is not the vibe I’m after on this trip.

I wasn’t always a parent in training. Biz and I have had our share of messy fun together. We know our way around the famous underwear party in Fire Island. We can feel at home among the leather daddies at the grungy Eagle bar. We’ve spent New Year’s on the beach in Rio. Countless Sunday Fundays on the glitzy rooftop of the Standard Hotel with the best of them? Check. Sing two hours of show tunes with musical theater nerds by the piano at Marie’s Crisis? No problem. (Well, Biz can go two hours or more. I’m good for thirty minutes tops.) Been there, done all of that.

We were the first couple among our friends to move in together in our twenties, so why can’t we be the first responsible parents in our thirties?

Walking through this salt marsh is total Zen. I’m in a kind of trance with my thoughts, and when I reach our bikes, I look behind me to notice Biz has fallen way behind, a slow-moving silhouette making his way back.

I unlock my bike and take a swig from my water bottle. After several minutes of waiting, a sexy shirtless guy appears walking up the short path toward me, backlit by the brilliant sun. “Thanks for waiting,” he says. I blink to realize it’s Biz. I’m not sure which is more gorgeous, the scenery or my boyfriend.

“I was in the zone walking back. Sorry,” I say. “It’s so magical here. I thought maybe you wanted to float.” When the tide in the marsh is this high, a fun thing to do is float on your back and let the water gently transport you.

“Why would I want to float?” Biz asks with a forced little laugh.

“That’s your thing every summer. You float.”

Biz says nothing. He unlocks his bike with a frustrated look on his face. Something feels off. He’s quieter than normal and we feel even more disconnected than before we hit the beach.

He doesn’t seem entirely happy to see me. I hope he doesn’t regret spending the day at the beach instead of the pool. I have to meet him halfway if we’re going to try and enjoy each other’s company on this trip. I’ll go where he wants to go.

“Boatslip tonight?” I ask.

“Nah,” he says, hopping on his bike.

“What do you mean nah? I thought that’s what you wanted to do.” I hop on my bike and follow his lead.

“I’m just not in the mood anymore,” Biz says as he pedals ahead, flying slightly downhill on the desolated street, back toward town. I’m not sure what’s going on with Biz right now but one thing is always certain: his unpredictability keeps me on my toes.

Still in our bathing suits with our legs and feet sandy from the beach, we sit on the park bench outside of Relish and eat sandwiches. There’s not much of a chance to connect because we’re too busy making small talk with the crowd we see every summer, passing inside and out. We finish and take our banana puddings to go, deciding to have our dessert and some downtime at the cottage.

After a quick, glorious outdoor shower, I join Biz sitting on the balcony, where there’s a warm breeze. I notice he hasn’t eaten his pudding. He’s just staring off into the middle distance. I smile uneasily as I sit.

“Trying to be healthy?” I ask, eyeing his cup of sweet banana deliciousness.

“You can have it if you want,” he says, almost vacantly. It’s obvious he didn’t get a chance to talk things out last night and he wants to now. I’m dreading bringing up relationship stuff since this is the perfect time to just unwind and fall into a post-beach nap. “We should talk about some things,” he says. I sigh, knowing he’s right.

“Do you want to wait until dinner?” I ask, uncontrollably pushing it off. Why is this so hard for me? Why can’t I show my vulnerable side like Biz?

“Not what I’m about to say, no,” Biz says, looking at me with sober eyes. My whole body goes tense, wondering what he means.

Then my phone buzzes.

“It’s Flora,” I announce. Biz and I turn to each other. Another surprise call in two days.

“I wonder if she saw the doctor,” Biz says. A swirl of emotions rises between us as we both sit up straight and pat down our sandy, salty beach hair.

I prop the phone up on a blue flower planter with an anchor on it and we all wave hello.

“Hi, Flora!”

“Hey, guys! Did you make it to P-town?” The sight of Flora on my phone temporarily glues us back together. “I’m so sorry—are you guys busy?” Flora asks.

“Not at all,” I say, still unsure if we should be concerned about her call.

“Wyatt was busy stealing my banana pudding,” Biz jokes.

“I was not. That’s your banana pudding fair and square,” I say.

“You were eyeing it,” Biz says.

Flora laughs at our back and forth, thinking everything’s fine between us.

“Are you still traveling to all the gay resort towns?” she asks.

“Yep. We’re hitting all our favorite spots: P-town now, Saugatuck, then our friends’ wedding in Colorado, then Palm Springs and then it’s baby time,” Biz says.

“Oh, that’s so fun.” Flora smiles.

“You guys look wrecked.” Gabrielle, Flora’s wife and always the blunt one, pops her head in to wave hi and pops right out.

“Beach fatigue,” Biz says.

“We’re just about to take a post-lunch nap,” I say.

“I’m jealous,” Flora adds, trying to get comfortable with her large stomach.

“Did you have news from the doctor?” Biz asks.

“Mommy, gimme that,” Roxy interrupts. Flora’s youngest appears on screen and wants her phone immediately.

“Someone’s ready for their close-up,” I say.

“Sweetie, this isn’t your toy right now. Mommy’s talking to Wyatt and Biz.”

Roxy’s giant mouth darkens the screen as if she’s trying to eat the phone. “Hellooooooo!” she greets us then quickly disappears.

We both let out big laughs. “Such a cutie,” I chime in.

“Sorry... I haven’t seen the doctor yet. I’m scheduled to see her in a week. I just wanted to show you guys something,” Flora says without giving anything away. Biz and I exchange curious looks. We never know if Flora’s news is going to be good or bad. Everything is so out of our control, which is not my favorite way of operating.

The phone makes scratchy noises as the screen shakes and gets shoved around. Is that a blanket covering the screen? Are they experiencing an earthquake? Did Roxy eat us?

A ray of sunlight hits something round, like we’re looking at a flesh-colored balloon. “Whoa,” Biz says, in complete awe.

I’m staring intensely, trying to figure it out, like it’s an optical illusion drawing.

“Can you see?” Flora asks.

“Beautiful,” Biz says, smiling uncontrollably with tears in his eyes.

I tilt my head and my pulse quickens as I finally realize what we’re looking at. “Awww, our baby,” I say.

“Say hi!” Flora says, waving her hand in front of her stomach.

We coo to our glorious baby growing inside the belly of this woman we’ve met in person twice. For a split second I stare mournfully into all the moments we’ll never have.

Because of our physical distance and nature of the surrogacy relationship, there will never be continuous bonding with Flora’s belly. No feeling a spontaneous kick while watching movies on the couch. Or maybe a tiny karate chop. Our baby growing in someone else’s stomach won’t really know our voices until we meet in person.

Sure, all of this could, and some of it has happened over the phone. But there’s an ache in my stomach that it just isn’t the same. In all the surrogate materials we’ve read, none of it says: first and foremost, you’ll painfully miss the actual baby bump.

“Your baby’s feeling extra saucy today. All of their limbs are making themselves known. Elbows. Feet. Lots of jabbing happening,” Flora informs us off-screen.

Biz watches with the same forlorn expression on his face. After a few minutes of letting us ogle over her belly, Flora quietly reappears on the phone.

“That’s it. Just thought I’d share your fiery little one,” Flora says.

Before we say our thank-you and goodbyes, Flora makes a point to tell us how excited she is to see us. We end the call saying something corny but true. That her generosity knows no bounds.

Biz and I stare at the phone with Flora and our baby no longer on screen.

“Do you ever regret that we’ll never really get to experience the bump?” I ask Biz.

“All the time,” Biz says, confirming something I’ve felt for a while too.

“We never did a professional photo shoot with Flora,” I say.

“No playing Mozart in person,” Biz says.

“No singing the same lullabies our moms sang to us.”

“There’s no bath time with her belly,” Biz adds.

“No sitting behind her with our arms around her stomach in the style of Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore in Ghost,” I say as we both laugh. “Maybe we’re romanticizing the bump. Maybe it’s just a small part of our journey that ultimately won’t matter in the grand scheme of our kid’s life.”

“You know what wasn’t romantic?” Biz reminds us. “Masturbating into a cup.”

The first act of trying to conceive our baby. There was nothing sexy about the way the fertility nurse—the one with the cold, overly clinical disposition—asked if we wanted to share a room to deposit our dual specimen.

“She feels like she’s imitating Sarah Paulson imitating Nurse Ratched,” I said at the time.

The other option was to be in separate rooms. When we opted for one room, we couldn’t believe this five-foot-by-five-foot cell that housed a single vinyl chair, where hundreds of would-be fathers sat, was the first step in making a baby.

“I am not sitting in that chair,” Biz had said. We both wanted it to happen quickly. But first, our sexual appetite had to be stimulated by an outdated television connected to a weird motel-like cable box that offered a variety of adult films to choose from.

“Do people watch like full-length porn movies?” I asked.

Would we like twinks on twinks, twinks on daddies, daddies on daddies, cowboys on mechanics or mechanics on Army men? Or maybe we were interested in some hetero porn involving an “Adonis” with long flowing hair who looked like Fabio and his identical female partner.

We threw on some scene involving a shirtless, sweaty gardener working in the backyard with the beefy homeowner who was caught spying on him.

It became background white noise when we started kissing each other until we undid our pants, which slowly found their way down to our ankles.

A kaleidoscope of thoughts swirled through my mind: the night we were intimate in Biz’s first studio apartment... making out once during a hike at the top of Runyon Canyon... will the baby kind of look like both of us, hopefully?

Our collective DNA released a second apart and we both almost missed our individual cups, making us laugh hysterically. “That was actually probably more romantic than what most people do,” Biz said as we kissed on the lips one more time to mark the weight of the occasion.

“But,” I reminded him, “most people don’t have to hand Nurse Ratched a cup with stuff in it and send it off to be frozen after.” We doubled over in giggles.

After our call with Flora, we nap, shower, change and walk Matilda. Later, as Biz and I saunter past the Boatslip, we see crowds of people pile in and hear some song of the summer I don’t yet know spill out.

“Last chance,” I say, letting Biz know we can still make the nightly ritual. I’m half hoping he won’t want to go, half wanting him to stick to doing what he loves.

“I’m good,” he says. He barely turns his head to look at the party. This seems especially off brand for Biz. He would go to the Boatslip every night if he had his way. The vacant expression on his face starts to worry me.

I’d made a reservation at our favorite Mediterranean spot on the east side of town called Strangers Saints. “Loot, Plunder, Pillage Play” reads the sign out front of the restored sea captain’s house.

Cozied up on the candlelit front porch, we dig into our ricotta dumplings and Moroccan carrots as we sip our rosé-sake sangria. I decide to let Biz take the wheel on the conversation.

“It’s not so much that I want to tell you. It’s something I have to tell you,” Biz says, after I asked him what he wanted to tell me earlier.

“I’m all ears,” I say. I can see whatever Biz has to tell me isn’t coming easily. He sips his drink and tries to power through.

“Just promise me again you’re not going to get upset,” he says. Now he’s scaring me but I guess we have to examine our relationship issues if we want to move forward.

“I won’t get upset,” I reassure him. I must look distracted because Biz tilts his head and squints at me. My phone has been buzzing in my shorts since we sat down, and I don’t want to check it but it could be Flora with something urgent.

“Something wrong?” Biz asks, detecting I’m half listening.

“Sorry. My phone’s been blowing up since we got here. Is yours?”

We both check our phones. It’s my mom. I see she’s called a bunch of times so I pick up.

“Hi, Mom. We’re just at dinner. Can I call you back?” I ask. Biz leans back in his chair, slightly annoyed I’m taking the call.

“Something happened,” she says on the other end of the phone, ignoring me.

“Can you be more specific?” I ask, putting down my fork. There’s a drawn-out pause.

“It’s your brother,” she says cryptically.

“And...?” I urge her to continue.

“He had an accident,” Mom says, followed by another complicated pause. “I’m at the hospital now.”

I feel a significant shift in my world, trying to process the news.

“What happened? Is he okay?” I ask, worried.

“Not exactly,” my mom says, her voice quivering. “It might be a good idea if you come home, Wyatt.”

I hold on to the phone, almost shaking. Biz stares at me, starting to freak out, waiting to hear his own fate.