What a Kiss Can Do

by Kathy Johncox

  “I’d say they should advertise some training for how to eat these,” he said. “By the way, that’s a great coat.”

  “The sleeves are always too short for me,” I said. “Shop people always say bracelet length sleeves are in, when I try anything on, because I have monkey arms.”

  “Your arms are very nice, proportioned well to the rest of you.”

  “Nice of you to say, but you don’t have to see your wrist bump peeking out from your sleeve all the time.”

  “Rarely,” he said, laughing. “I always have to find my wrist when I take jackets, shirts, sweaters, and all else with sleeves to the tailor, with whom I’m on a first-name basis. However, I go to an Iranian tailor and, adding insult to injury, he thinks my name is Darren, so he always calls me that.”

  “And you stand for that?” I said, chuckling as more ice cream pellets fell out of my mouth and Derek handed me a napkin.

  “You’re right. Normally I wouldn’t. One of the few times I’ve taken the path of least resistance. And why, you might ask?”

  “I was about to.”

  “He’s an older man, does a good job and has a teen-age dwarf son who occasionally helps him in the shop.”

  “Did you know that when you went there?” I asked.

  “No, but there aren’t that many tailors in Bridgefield and I didn’t want to drive miles every time I needed something hemmed, which is often, as you might imagine.” Derek smiled. “Then when I saw his son, I felt it was meant to be.”

  “Now if you need something lengthened…” he added.

  I punched him in the arm.

  That’s just one example of how I never had to sit and think what to talk about with Derek. I never had a person, a friend like that before, a male friend. There was always something in the way.

  I was still thinking about that day when I dragged myself out of bed, dialed work, left Boss a voice mail and got in the shower. The idea of breakfast didn’t sit well so I stopped at the coffee shop and got tea, which I hardly ever drink. When I walked into the office, Boss was in a mood.

  “I don’t think advertisers should be allowed to pull out of an issue if they’ve taken a full page ad.” Boss was ranting about some advertising thing or other and Felicia was taking copious notes on her tablet computer. She did everything on it, her calendar, her assignments, her work instructions, everything. She was so high tech that she could use the screen on her phone to connect with her boyfriend in Ohio and watch him eat dinner. Great.

  Boss acknowledged my entrance and continued barking orders at Felicia.

  “And then, come back here for the staff meeting,” she finished. “Now you. By the way, those bags under your eyes don’t become you.”

  “If this job didn’t require working all hours of the day and night, I wouldn’t have them,” I said.

  “Maybe you have allergies. Do you? Some people get those when it’s allergy season,” Felicia said as she turned off the tablet and packed up to get a start on the day.

  “Make sure you take your extra battery there, sport,” I said.

  I must’ve upset her. Otherwise I’m not sure why she dropped this bomb right then. As she walked by my window-on-the-world desk, she bent over and said so that only I could hear, “My sister got black circles just like those under her eyes when she was pregnant.”

  The pencil I had just begun to tap fell out of my hand. Now that hadn’t even occurred to me. I was always very careful about birth control, doubly so because my period had always been, well, periodic and unpredictable, and I didn’t like things to happen that I could not control. Maybe Felicia was just getting back at me for casting aspersions on her technology. But then, there was the serial oversleeping and the buying of the tea instead of coffee this morning.

  “Got to run out,” I called to Boss as I grabbed my car keys. I needed some air.

  I stopped right outside the door, breathed deeply and stood thinking in the warm sun in front of the newspaper’s storefront. My heart was racing.

  Hmmmm. I was using a new birth control patch. There should be no errors or slip-ups. The patch should be secreting whatever it is that will make pregnancy not happen. If you can’t rely on your birth control choice, what can you rely on?

  Okay, first I needed to calm down. Then I needed data.

  In line at the crowded coffee shop, standing there in a sunbeam, I sniffed the roasting coffee beans and got an instant craving for a low-fat, decaf cappuccino. This all contributed to make me warm and I started to sweat. Then, stunned by the possibilities of the future, I felt soft. Oh, I had contemplated sometimes in the past, the possibility of pregnancy with some degree of hardness, if you can understand that. Not me. Not now. Possibly not ever. But just Felicia’s suggestion, however ill-conceived it was, opened the possibility of maybe. And I had been extra tired, and off my feed. I paid for my coffee and went outside.

  “Huh,” I said aloud to the birds and bees and other various spring insects that hovered nearby, just awakened from their winter sleep. I took a swig of coffee and it didn’t taste good; in fact, I didn’t even want it. I glared at the paper cup, tossed it in the trash and headed to the drugstore to buy a pregnancy test.

  Standing in the pregnancy test aisle, with growing panic, I realized that buying a test kit requires about as many decisions as buying coffee at Gracie’s. Do I want the test that is immediate or takes a few minutes? Do I get the one that has two testers and why would I? In case I didn’t like the result of the first one? Do I want to interpret + (pregnant) and – (not pregnant) to get my results or do I want to see the actual words pregnant or not pregnant? Do I want digital? Who knew? Plus the words false positive kept popping up on the backs of the boxes. Okay, I thought I wanted the words, not the lines and I wanted the most reliable test in the shortest time. But there were none with words and I was stuck with the one that required waiting a few minutes for the plus or minus signs.

  I waited self-consciously at the check-out in the drugstore and thought about the classic soap opera formulas, evident to me when I had time to watch them. Girl meets boy. Girl pines after boy. Girl gets boy. Girl becomes unhappy with the boy she got. Girl looks at another boy. And in there somewhere, girl gets pregnant and it’s always after the first and only time boy and girl have sex. I always wondered what the real odds are that you get pregnant after the first time.

  I carried my pregnancy test home in my leather backpack, a place where no one else ever would look.

  I read the directions several times, trying to retain some of the information, and had just peed on the test stick when the doorbell rang.

  “Be right there,” I yelled. Then I remembered that no one could hear me down the stairs and out on the porch. I ran downstairs zipping up my jeans.

  “Fergie!” I exclaimed as I flung open the door.

  “Rita,” he exclaimed right back. He picked me up and whirled me around. “I am—no, no, we are—going to Australia.”

  If someone’s face really could fall, I know mine did. I didn’t know if I had news yet, but I might in a few minutes and now I wondered who I would tell.

  “Who, what, where, when, why?” I questioned. I pushed myself away so I was standing on the floor.

  “Us, National Geographic, the Great Barrier Reef, June and July, great opportunity and genius grant,” he said, his face one huge smile.

  “Genius grant?”

  Here when our lives were hanging in the balance in the upstairs bathroom, the scales were being tipped by a genius grant.

  “Oh, baby.” He grabbed me again and swung me around and around. “This could be the start of the life I’ve dreamed of, for me, for us. Just the two of us, foot loose and fancy-free swimming in Bali, on safari in Kenya, or in the Kalahari Desert with the something herds.”

  I swung higher with every new adventure he named.

  “And of course, experiencing the Outback,” he added. “The glorious Australian Outback. Think of it, seeing a real Tasmanian Devil.”

&nbs
p; During this swinging, as the pregnancy stick did its magic, at least in my mind, we were moving from girl finds boy to girl loses boy.

  He set me down. I could see in his face that he expected more from me, but I just didn’t have more. I burst into tears.

  “Oh, Rita.” He folded me into his arms, his camera bag digging into my ribs.

  Men never knew what to do or say when women cry. As for me, I pride myself on a journalist’s detachment, a writerly thing, and I didn’t know what to do except sob.

  “We’ll only be gone for a few months to start. Don’t cry. You’re coming, too.”

  Now I was wailing.

  He detached himself and held me a shoulder’s length away. His face was a blur through my tears, but I could still tell he was staring at me with wonderment. His face telegraphed his surprise at what he thought was my depth of feeling for him. Then he hugged me tightly

  “That’s so great,” I said, my chest heaving from the aftermath of sobs and my tears dampening his fleece vest.

  “Never thought I’d get this so I didn’t tell you I applied.” He said this somewhat guiltily, like we should tell each other everything all the time, like we had a commitment to each other or were married or something.

  “Australia. Can’t believe it. What an opportunity for the footloose and fancy-free.” He lifted me again in a hug.

  “Never in our lives will we have another opportunity like this. Wow, think of what you can write, articles, your book. You can write words to my photos. The possibilities are endless.”

  He put me down. “It’s been my dream,” he said. “And to have it come true now, when I am with a great woman like you, it seems meant to be, doesn’t it? Know how you are always saying ‘It almost writes itself’ about your stories? Well, this is our continuing life story writing itself, isn’t it?”

  He walked into the living room, threw his camera bag on one end of the red couch and sat down on the other.

  “Rita. Say something. You never don’t say anything.” He stood up and began pacing. “You look pale. I’m getting you some water.”

  I stood there in the hall looking at my soft-focus glamour shot photo.

  A great woman like me. Even in my best moments, no one had ever said that to me or about me before, and even here in one of my worst moments, I could appreciate that comment. Without the word “love” entering into the conversation, I felt we were moving toward it. His enthusiasm might have been contagious, except that I knew life as we knew it could be ending upstairs in the bathroom. And thinking that, I got nervous. I hadn’t had occasion to see Fergie upset. What if he saw this as the ruination of his life? Resented me? Disappeared for a while and ran off with an Aborigine woman? Never saw his son or daughter? With the words son and daughter in my head, the enormity of all this was too much. I ran to the door and threw up in front of my neighbor, Mrs. Smithson, and her Chihuahua out for their daily stroll.

  Fergie rushed back into the hall and helped me inside. He put his arm around me and led me to the stairs.

  “You need to lie down. Let’s go upstairs. I’ll tuck you in and make you something soothing. What’s that tea you’re supposed to drink if you’re sick? Do you have any?”

  “No, not upstairs!” I sounded desperate I know, because Fergie looked alarmed. “Just let me curl up on the couch.” I was already there and pulling the afghan over me.

  “I’ll get your pillow,” he said and started up the stairs.

  “No, this one, this one,” I gasped, grabbing the decorative pillow from the couch and scrunching it under my head. “Soup, I need soup.” I think I pointed dramatically at the front door. “Chicken soup from the deli,” I said.

  I was feeling wan and looking wan. “I’m so hungry.” A lie but a necessary one.

  No sooner had he patted my forehead and left than I staggered up the stairs to look at the oval window on the pee stick. The + sign indicated pregnant.

  Chapter Nine

  Being Pursued

  Thoughts began flitting back and forth in my head. To tell or not to tell? Who to tell? What to say? I knew from friends that the first trimester is touchy and I didn’t want the world to know until after that. But Fergie had to know. I’ve never delivered this news to a man before. I think I could write down something like this, but telling him face to face, I wasn’t sure.

  Of all the things we’ve talked about, children were not even on the list. We’d talked about childhoods, or rather I talked about mine, post mistletoe. He had told me his family wasn’t close and he’d told me about his ex. In the grand scheme of life, family was not what was important to us, compared to work, money, great sex, strong coffee, dark chocolate, good wine, well-chosen words and stunning visual images.

  After nearly five months of getting to know each other, we hadn’t gotten to the commitment stage yet, although on some days I have been willing to talk about being in love. Those would’ve been the days when the stars were aligned and everything went well. We got along very well and we both were willing to compromise and be flexible, at least on most things, and our daily interactions began to feel like a marriage that was working. So it was working out, as long as he really continued to recover from his divorce. And now, as long as he didn’t find out I had kept something really important from him.

  I snuggled down deeper into the couch under the afghan.

  I could see him being the kind of person who would want to do right by me, and I wouldn’t have a sympathy marriage. I’d have to find a way to tell him so he did not feel obligated, and that probably meant I’d have to tell him in a way where he couldn’t see my face. I had an inkling of the right way and the wrong way to do things, and I know that I really wasn’t taking any of his feelings into consideration on this. I thought probably this was normal confusion and possible bad judgment because it was still only within an hour of learning myself that for sure, I was with child.

  I heard Fergie coming back with the soup. I propped myself on one of the decorative pillows on the couch as he poured the cardboard bowl of steaming soup into my favorite oversized black soup mug. He carried it in on my favorite tray, a big Norwegian flag design, a souvenir from a Norway trip.

  ”Sure you’re okay?” he said. “Still look a little wan, isn’t that the word?”

  I nodded and said, “I’ll be okay. Thanks for getting this.”

  “Just take it easy now,” he said. He arranged the afghan on my lap and sweetly tucked it in around me, then put the tray on my lap. He’d put crackers and a napkin on the tray as well.

  “Something to drink?”

  I shook my head. All this tender care and concern just made me feel worse. If I were a brave and confident person, I’d seize the moment now. Instead, I slurped the soup in uncharacteristic silence. Fergie sat at the other end of the couch rubbing my leg. His eyes were closed and I got the strong feeling that he was somewhere in Australia.

  Two days later, without knowing anything about the baby because I couldn’t tell him, Fergie left for orientation. He would have two weeks worth of planning meetings at the magazine’s Australian headquarters, and then he would know what was next. I held down the fort.

  I sometimes felt like I was being too secretive about my situation, and sometimes felt like just looking at my face, people would know. I tried not to rub my stomach in public, but caressed it frequently in front of the latest reality show as I sat on my couch, then quickly turned the channel to something more educational.

  After Fergie left I was, in a way, at loose ends, and in a way, energized. I hadn’t seen Derek in almost two weeks but I had talked to him several times. He’d asked me to an opera, which was not for me. Then he invited me to a lecture on nanotechnology, not my bag either.

  “How about a trip to the zoo then?” he said when I picked up the phone at work one morning. “Spring is mating season, you know.”

  Now why would he say that? I was getting paranoid that people would notice, then ask me how Fergie was taking the news, and I’d ha
ve to say it’s a secret, even from him.

  I didn’t seem interested enough for Derek, who required a degree of enthusiasm which was hard for me to muster up every time he called. Especially if I’d been up all night. I was about eight weeks pregnant and would have to make the decision to tell Fergie soon. I’d been to the doctor who confirmed the test and assigned me a November due date. Now, if I only could decide whether I was happy about this, or not.

  To go to the zoo or not, I couldn’t decide either, but the weather was supposed to be nice and I said yes, to his obvious surprise.

  “I can go when I get back from the opening of the new hardware store,” I said.

  “Well, some spontaneity,” Derek commented when he picked me up.

  We drove in silence, unusual for us, and arrived at the zoo as the clouds began to gather for something not good. It was a cool spring day, so zoo animal smells weren’t overwhelming yet, but the smell of hay, and maybe it was other grains or animal feed, was strong.

  We stood in a line, longer than I would have thought, to pay the entrance fee.

  “So your boyfriend’s where, again?” Derek said as we waited. “You said he was leaving the country?”

  “Australia, remember? Photography. Genius grant.”

  “Ah yes. I suppose I should be sorry for you because you probably will be lonely. But I’m not really that sorry, you know. I’m a selfish man and now I see more opportunities for dinners, lunches, many outings involving food and excellent conversation.”

  Missing Fergie was a new thought. I’d been so preoccupied with how to tell him about the baby that I actually had liked the idea he was gone for a while. I still needed time. Did I miss him? Not yet.

  I smiled. “Your selfishness sounds pretty high calorie.”

  “You could use to eat a bit more, if you ask me. You’re looking a little pale. After we commune with the animals, we’ll go for steaks.”

  The teenager in the concession stand by the entrance was popping popcorn with great zeal, letting that little basket of oil and popcorn barely empty before inserting another envelope and dollop of grease. As Derek paid and got talked into becoming a zoo member and had to fill out a form, I watched the mountain of popcorn in the machine grow and grow, almost filling the big container that was the top half of the machine. I was getting a little nauseous from the smell. I squeezed in behind Derek and walked up to the new elephant barn and huge enclosure recently completed with community money. I’d covered that story and as a perk had gotten to actually touch the pachyderms, feel their leathery skin and dodge their groping trunks. I’d learned a lot about elephants for that story, especially their interpersonal skills and mating habits.