Frameshift

Pierre was a lapsed Catholic; the whole idea of such a procedure still left him uncomfortable — tossing out viable embryos because they didn’t pass genetic muster. But that wasn’t his main objection. “I was serious about what I said before. I think a child should have both a mother and a father — and I probably won’t live long enough to see a child grow up.” He paused. “I can’t in good conscience begin a new life that I know I’m not going to be around to see through its childhood,” he said. “Adoption is a special case — we’d still be improving the child’s life, even if it wouldn’t always have a father.”

“I’m going to do it anyway,” said Molly firmly. “I’m going to have a baby. I’m going to have in vitro fertilization.”

Pierre felt it all slipping away. “I can’t be the sperm donor. I — I’m sorry.

I just can’t.”

Molly sat without saying anything. Pierre felt angry with himself. This was supposed to be a reunion, dammit. How did it get so off track?

Finally, Molly spoke. “Could you come to love a child that wasn’t biologically yours?”

Pierre had already considered this when contemplating adoption. “Oui.”

“I was going to have a child without a husband anyway,” said Molly.

“Millions of children have grown up without fathers; for most of my childhood, I didn’t have one myself.”

Pierre nodded. “I know.”

Molly frowned. “And you still want to marry me, even if I go ahead and have a child using donated sperm?”

Pierre nodded again, not trusting his voice just then.

“And you could come to love such a child?”

He’d been all prepared to love an adopted child. Why did this seem so different? And yet — and yet—$

“Yes,” said Pierre at last. “After all, the child would still be partly you.”

He locked onto her blue eyes. “And I love you completely.” He waited while his heart beat a few more times. “So,” he said, at last, “will you consent to be Mrs. Tardivel?”

She looked at her lap and shook her head. “No, I can’t do that.” But when she lifted her face, she was smiling. “But I do want to be Ms. Bond, who happens to be married to Mr. Tardivel.”

“Then you will marry me?”

Molly got up and walked toward him. She put her arms around his neck. “Oui,”she said.

They kissed for several seconds, but when they pulled apart, Pierre said, “There is one condition. At any time — any time — if you feel my disease is too much for you, or you see an opportunity for happiness that will last the rest of your life, rather than the rest of mine, then I want you to leave me.”

Molly was silent, her mouth hanging slightly open.

“Promise,” said Pierre.

“I promise,” she said at last.

That night, Pierre and Molly did what they had often done before they’d broken up: they went for a long walk. They’d stopped at a cafe on Telegraph Avenue for a light snack, and now were just ambling along, occasionally looking in shop windows. Like many young couples, they were still trying to get to know every facet of each other’s personalities and pasts. On one long walk, they had talked about earlier sexual experiences; on another, relations with their parents; on others still, debates about gun control and environmental issues. Nights of probing, of stimulating conversations, of each refining his or her mental image of the other.

And tonight, the biggest question of all came up as they strolled, enjoying the early evening warmth. “Do you believe in God?” asked Molly.

Pierre looked down at the sidewalk. “I don’t know.”

“Oh?” said Molly, clearly intrigued.

Pierre sounded a bit uncomfortable. “Well, I mean it’s hard continuing to believe in God when something like this happens. You know: my Huntington’s. I don’t mean I started questioning my faith last month, when we finally did the test. I started doing that back when I first met my real father.” Pierre had explained all about his discovered paternity on another long walk.

Molly nodded. “But you did believe in God before you found out you might have Huntington’s?”

Pierre nodded as they continued along. “I guess. Like most French Canadians, I was raised Roman Catholic. These days I only go to Mass on Easter and Christmas, but when I was living in Montreal, I went every Sunday. I even sang in the church choir.”

Molly winced; she had heard Pierre sing. “But it’s hard for you to believe now,” she said, “because a beneficent God couldn’t do that sort of thing to you.”

They’d come to a park bench. Molly gestured for them to sit down, and they did so, Pierre draping his arm over her shoulders. “Something like that,” he said.