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1
Wyatt
ONE AND A HALF Years Later
I'm starting to wonder if my boyfriend and I are going to make it. Not like will our crappy little car with our adorable but anxious mini-Airedale terrier in the back seat drive us from Brooklyn cross-country to California in time for the arrival of our baby. I mean I'm worried we aren't going to make it as a couple.
This morning as we suffer through early summer traffic just outside of New York, much later than the schedule I'd planned, I glance in the rearview mirror to see Matilda looking back at me with literal puppy dog eyes as she lets out a single piercing yelp.
"This is exactly what I did not want to happen," I say, flipping on my turn signal.
"Didn't want what to happen?" Biz asks, raising his bushy eyebrows and aiming his soulful green eyes at me.
"She looks like she's about to be sick," I say, gripping the wheel tightly.
"We just left Brooklyn. There's no way she's going to be sick," Biz says.
"We've been starting and stopping for an hour. Even I'm feeling a little barfy. If we'd left at the time I wanted, we would've avoided all this traffic."
"I'm sorry I made us five minutes late."
"Twenty minutes," I correct him.
"You're cute when you're stressed but . . ." Biz turns to look at Matilda moving in circles around her bed. "Don't freak out yet. She's just trying to get comfortable."
The cars in front of us finally start to crawl so I weave us toward an exit ramp.
"Where are we going?" Biz asks. The same question I've been asking myself lately.
"I just want to be safe," I say as I exit the highway, turning onto a gravel road.
We both climb out of the car. Biz grabs the leash. "I'll take her for a walk," he offers, leading Matilda out of the back seat toward a nearby forest. "She probably just has to pee."
"She can do whatever business she needs to do right here," I say, holding the other end of the leash. "She doesn't need to go in a forest. There are ticks in there."
"I'm not taking her in the forest. We'll go forest adjacent," Biz insists.
As we stand there, both competitively pulling the leash in opposite directions, Matilda throws up at our feet.
We look down and then back up at each other.
"Why do you do that?" I ask Biz, pulling doggie wipes from Matilda's bag and crouching down to gently wipe our dog's mouth. "You're okay, girl," I whisper in Matilda's ear.
"Do what?" Biz asks, massaging Matilda's chin. She shuts her eyes and lets out a sigh, comforted by her two dads.
"Always say the opposite of what I say."
"I do not say the opposite of what you say. You say the opposite of what I say." Biz sighs, getting frustrated.
"You just proved my point."
"Sometimes Matilda has to pee, other times she's carsick," Biz says, standing up. "How did I know which one she would choose this morning?"
"This isn't about our dog being sick, Biz. This is about me saying one thing and you saying another lately. I can't tell if you're being contrarian on purpose or not." I take control of the leash and Matilda once and for all.
"You were right. She was carsick, okay?" Biz says. "And don't say contrarian."
"Again, it's not about being carsick."
"Then what is it?" Biz asks.
I look at Biz and can't decide if I want to start our road trip by telling him what I think has been happening to us while standing in the middle of Westchester.
Biz has been trying to have as much fun as possible before the baby comes like it's his job. This road trip wasn't my idea. Biz wants a vacation, a chance to blow off some steam before our lives change forever. He keeps calling it a "babymoon."
Biz's determination to let loose is concerning me. It feels like he doesn't want the responsibility, or worse, like he's changing his mind entirely about being a father.
I would've preferred to fly to California for the birth like we had planned, but I compromised. I decided I could turn this trip into a chance for us to reconnect and see eye to eye.
"I'll take her for a quick walk for some fresh air," I say.
"Fine," Biz barks out. "See? We agree!" he says, as I turn to lead Matilda along the edge of the forest.
We weren't always this out of sync. Walking our dog through a patch of untamed grass while cars whiz by on the overpass, I think about the trips we've taken every summer along this same highway to our beloved Provincetown, the crown jewel of Cape Cod, when Biz and I were more relaxed with each other.
Usually, at this point in our drive, we'd start to feel the city melt away as we motored toward our special place, singing at the top of our lungs to Adele's "Rolling in the Deep" and whatever summer playlist that Biz made.
The first time we drove to Provincetown together as a couple, we stopped at our favorite coffee shop before leaving the city. They screwed up our order so the generous barista threw in two free slices of lemon-blueberry pound cake. Every trip after that, we made that pound cake our annual summer tradition, always laughing at how surprisingly delicious it tasted. This time though, we didn't stop at our coffee shop and our favorite pastry is a distant memory.
Ever since we officially chose our egg donor, the stress of building a family via surrogacy has taken ahold of us. To keep up with the finances, I've had to squirrel away as many directing gigs as possible.
In the past two months there was the Mucinex commercial I directed in LA, the Home Depot commercial in Atlanta and three commercials I shot back-to-back in Toronto for a bank. Or maybe it was a credit union? It's honestly all a blur.
I'm a storyteller. I tell stories. Sure, the stories I tell are dopey commercials no one pays attention to anymore, so you can continue watching the thing you want to watch in the first place, but they're still stories. They have a beginning, middle and end. There's always some kind of hero and a villain. Sometimes the stories are funny. Or clever. Or emotional, designed to pull at your heartstrings.
If I could tell longer stories, I would. I'd love to direct a James Bond-type movie with a gay twist, or maybe a prestige TV thriller about a detective investigating a murder while trying to pick up the pieces of her own messy life, but I'm not at that point in my career yet.
A couple days ago I directed another thirty-second story, this one about a dad who playfully steals his ten-year-old son's bagel and cream cheese. The son was our hero. The dad was kind of the villain, but in the end, he redeems himself.
To get the most out of the kid's performance, I channeled what little memories I have of my relationship with my own father when I was a kid, before he left us.
The best Christmas I ever had was when I was about six years old, and my parents woke up my brother and me, led us downstairs to the tree, and my father put his hands the size of dinner plates over my eyes. When I opened them, I saw a mountain of presents. I'd never been so excited in my life. It was the last Christmas I'd celebrated with my parents together.
So I told the kid actor to pretend the bagel was the best Christmas present his parents ever gave him. The kid nailed his performance. That probably seems like a lot of emotion just for a Philadelphia Cream Cheese commercial but I like to tell these mini stories with everything I have in my toolbox.
Truth be told, if I never hear "It's cheesy AND creamy!" ever again, I would be a happy man. That tagline the kid had to say over and over, until the client thought his energy was just right, reverberates in my brain like a bad one-hit wonder.
The story of Biz and I began when we met twelve years ago. We haven't been apart since.
But now I'm not sure which one of us is the hero and which one is the villain. I wish our relationship at this moment was something I could direct. Do another take. Have us go back to one. But this is real life and not a rehearsal. And despite having a baby on the way, right now I'm not totally confident our story is going to have a plot twist into a happy ending.
Matilda and I return from our walk to see Biz stretching his legs next to Virginia Woolf. We nicknamed our car, a tangerine-orange 1992 convertible Volkswagen Cabriolet, Virginia Woolf after buying it from Biz’s coworker a few years ago still with its Virginia license plates. It also kind of looks like the famed author in profile if you squint really hard.
"Everything good?!" Biz asks, trying to smooth things over.
"She just sniffed everything in sight and peed like two drops. Nothing special," I say.
"Great," Biz says, staying neutral. Both of us are keeping an emotional distance.
As the three of us climb back into the car, the silent void between us is ripped open by my phone buzzing.
"It's Flora," I say, seeing her name pop up. "She's FaceTiming us."
"Now?" Biz asks.
Unlike our egg donor, we matched with Flora, our amazing surrogate, very quickly. We usually talk to Flora over video conference for a milestone that we'd like to share with her. Our first doctor's appointment. Hearing the baby's heartbeat. The baby kicking and fluttering. Lately, we've been talking to her once a week. We just spoke yesterday, so it's unusual for her to call again without messaging us first.
Biz and I shut our car doors in unison. This little act feels like the only thing that we've done together as a team lately. Besides that, Matilda and Flora feel like the only glue between us.
We turn to look at each other.
"Just pretend everything's normal," I say to Biz.
"No, I'm going to tell her we're arguing," Biz jokes.
"Put on your best perky face so we don't stress her out with any of our crap."
"Wyatt, just answer the phone."
I prop the phone on the dashboard, slide to answer and we wave hello.
"Hi, Flora," I say through a bright smile.
"Hey, Flora!" Biz shouts a little too loudly, leaning into the phone's frame, our shoulders clumsily bumping each other like everything is fine and dandy. The rare touch of our bodies is a reminder that we haven't been intimate in a couple months.
"Hi, guys! How's your journey going?" Flora asks with a smirk.
"It's been extremely journey-y," I reply.
"Yeah, we're totally journeying hard," Biz says.
Throughout this whole process, the three of us are always ready to joke about how many times people in the fertility industry use the word "journey." Where are you in the process of your journey? We're so happy to assist you on your journey. Has your journey been a journey, Journey McJourney?
Flora has the best sense of humor and she's been a dream surrogate. She and Gabrielle, her partner of nine years, live in Baker, California, and have two beautiful, fun daughters we've met a couple times in person but mostly over various modes of technology.
A nurse who dabbles in self-portrait photography, Flora impressed us with her go-getter attitude, healthy lifestyle and love for her family. Over the months, I've shared some of the commercials I've directed, and Biz showed her clips of the old TV show he starred in, while Flora has shared her portfolio of Cindy Sherman-like photographs.
Also, Flora is a dog person like us. She has five rescue dogs, each named after a different Batman actor: Kilmer, Affleck, Keaton, Bale and Pattinson. We loved that we were signing up with an entire family who was on board with Flora's decision and were not only supportive, but also inspiring humans.
"Where are you guys?" Flora asks.
"We're still on our way to P-town," Biz explains. "Matilda had a pit stop."
"That's our little girl!" I say, trying to keep the mood light and definitely not thinking about any tension between me and Biz. Flora laughs at our familiar back and forth. So far it seems like she's buying our perfect couple act.
"So . . . I just wanted to tell you guys I'm seeing the doctor again this week."
"Didn't you just see her two days ago?" Biz asks, always quick to overreact.
"Yeah, but she wants to see me again in a few days just to make sure."
I swallow but adjust my voice to remain calm. "Just to make sure of what exactly?"
"You know, that everything is okay," Flora says. "I mean, everything's okay! Don't worry. We're just nearing the finish line and she's keeping a close watch."
"So everything's okay," Biz repeats like it has to be true.
"Everything's great. Don't worry, guys. Just wanted you to be aware."
Trying to have a baby via surrogacy has given us so many unbelievable ups and downs during our very complicated journey. We're always prepared for any little surprise.
But this whole process has brought the differences between me and Biz more into focus. We're trying to achieve the same goal through two different approaches. I'm more of the organized one, planning every detail from the baby's name to the best schools.
Biz is more loosey-goosey, wanting to determine everything according to the baby's eventual personality. It's been challenging for us to find common ground.
"Sounds like it's just routine then?" Biz asks, looking for reassurance.
"Totally. Don't freak. Your baby is going to be amazing," Flora says.
I notice Biz biting his fingernail.
"We're not worried," I say, gently swatting Biz's hand from his mouth.
"Yeah, the baby'll be great. We'll all be great!" Biz tries to stay upbeat.
"You two go have fun and stay relaxed on your trip. I'll call you after the doctor's appointment, okay?" she says. Her soothing voice and maternal instincts are always a comfort.
"Thanks, Flora," Biz says.
Biz and I tilt our heads together and we wave goodbye with big, happy smiles on our faces, which disappear the second Flora ends the call. Worry sets in.
"Oh my god," Biz says, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
"Relax. Everything's fine," I say.
"Are you sure?" Biz asks.
"I'm sure," I say, trying to guide us through the unknown.
