Alice is another reason that the baby is not going to be hidden for long. I confided in her because I had to tell someone, but I know the risks in telling her anything. I might as well have posted a flyer at The Planet. I guess it’s easier this way, though. People will know, and I won’t have to tell them.

I won’t have to tell her.

If I’ve decided to move on, why am I so afraid to tell her about the baby? Why is that? Am I worried that she’d find a way to add the baby to her collection without retaining me? What claim could she make on it? She’s not a birth mother. She’s not the father. Technically, she wasn’t involved in the conception this time.

Did Bette want a baby, or was she just indulging me? I waiver on this question. Now that so much of my life felt like a lie, I really don’t know where the lies stop, and what we had was the truth.

I think back about two years ago. I was still working, a lot. Alphaville was making me crazy. Xanax had yet to become one of my closer friends.

Bette’s major exhibit at the time was up and running smoothly, so it was a down cycle for her. She took me out to Santa Monica on a late Saturday morning. A date in the sunshine.

It seemed like that day was a sign to us. Everywhere we turned there were children. Infants. Toddlers. Kids. Teens.

One of my first concerns in my relationship with Bette was that I’d never have children. It sounds silly now, especially now, but I didn’t really think that she would be interested even if it were possible. I always knew that someday, I wanted to be a mother.

From the beginning, Bette backed me on that. One of the cards that she sent after our commitment ceremony was “To the mother of my future children.” We had talked about including that line in our public ceremony, but thought it might give people the wrong idea, the idea that children were in the works back then. But then when knew we weren’t ready yet, but they had been discussed.

But on that day in Santa Monica was when I think my rising baby lust infected us both. We sat for a while, a long while, watching the children. We opened up to each other, and each admitted that we’d each been thinking more and more about children.

That was the start. That was the day the discussions began in earnest about having children, about me being the birth mother and quitting my job.

That night it felt as if Bette was trying to impregnate me. Symbolically, if nothing else. That night we did make love for hours. I felt so close to her then. I wonder how often I’ve felt that closeness since.

We started to define ourselves as mothers then. That was the catalyst. And, for better or for worse, it did happen. Will happen. It has to happen, this time.

Which leaves me, exactly, where? Pregnant. Homeless. Broke.

I had to leave Joyce’s. There’s no way I could remain in her house, let alone with her as a client. I don’t think Alice would turn me away now, since she knows. But I don’t think she wants me back. Hotels cost money.

This leaves the house. At least I know there’s an empty bed there, in the guest room. And, with Bette out of town, I won’t have to worry about her bringing anyone home.

Not while she’s out of town, at least.

As I resign myself to returning to the house that is the center of all of my past joy and present pain I can’t help but ask the question; when did it all become so fucked?

(the end)