It’s my mother. If I send her to voice mail, she’ll just keep calling until I pick up. She’ll give up on my cell and soon the landline will start ringing, demanding an answer.
There’s no better way to kill a boner than a well-timed phone call from your mommy.
I push myself up from the couch, eliciting another pout from Sarah. “It’s my mom. I should call her back; it could be an emergency,” I lie. It’s most likely nothing at all, but I’d rather Sarah think I’m an adoring son who sacrifices his own needs for his mother’s. Let her think I’m the good guy for a while. Might get me another blow job if I’m lucky.
“James.” My mom picks up on the first ring, as if she’s had her hand on the phone, which is probably exactly the case.
I can’t help but smile. She’s certainly predictable, which I find immensely comforting. “Hi, Mom.”
“James, you won’t believe what I heard.” She pauses, waiting for my response. “Are you there?”
“Yes, Mom. What did you hear?”
My mother loves to gossip, although she generally saves her best stories for her friends at church. Since no story is too boring, it’s just as likely she’s calling to tell me someone stole from the Sunday basket as it is she has news about something important to my life.
“You know that lovely girl you dated in high school? The pretty dancer?”
I sigh. So it’s one of those conversations. The ones where she bemoans my inability to maintain a relationship. “Gymnast,” I correct. “She was a gymnast, and yes, I remember her. Her name was Karen Martin.” My pulse quickens just saying her name.
“Yes! Karen. What a nice girl. I wish you two had stayed together. Your dad and I really thought you two would end up married . . .” The thought trails as she allows herself a moment to imagine what might have been.
In the other room, the television turns on. Sarah’s getting impatient. “Well, we were young,” I say, unsure where she’s going with this. Karen must be getting married or having a baby. Not that I care either way.
“I bumped into her mom at the supermarket. Tina. Nice lady, although a little out there, if I remember correctly,” she says, winding her way to whatever point she’s trying to make. “Anyway, she was just beside herself. Karen was diagnosed with cancer.” She says this last part just above a whisper, as though it’s contagious.
The word hits me in the gut like a sucker punch, and all the air is sucked from the room. Karen. My Karen. Well, not my Karen anymore. But we were in love once. She’s the only girl I’ve ever loved, if I’m honest. I haven’t seen her in years, and last I heard she was teaching gymnastics near her parents’ house. I swallow back a lump in my throat, confused at my body’s response. I barely know this girl anymore. It doesn’t make sense to feel this much for her still.
“That’s too bad.” I can’t put into words what I’m thinking. I want to cry, to curse. But I don’t do any of that. “Give my best to her family.” Generic. Unsatisfactory. Typical James.
Mom breathes heavily down the line, waiting for something more. Something better that I can’t deliver. Like always. “Well, okay. Just thought you might want to know.” Pause. Nothing. “It’s ovarian cancer and a pretty rare form. She’s still young and it was early, her mom said. Karen’s a fighter.”
“That’s good to hear. Karen was always strong. I’m sure she’ll kick it.” Kick it. Like it’s a bad habit or something, not a life-threatening illness. “Mom, I can’t really talk now. I have company,” I mutter, eager to get off the phone. To forget this conversation ever happened. To get back to Sarah’s long legs and silky hair. “If you see Karen or her mom again, give them my best.”
She sighs, the disappointed sigh I know too well. “Okay, Jimmy. She’s staying at her mom’s house. Her number is the same as during high school. I’m sure she’d love to hear from you,” she says. Mom must know it’s unlikely I’ll do any such thing, but I play along and let her imagine I was the son she deserved, a better son. “Have a good weekend.”
“Thanks. Love you.” I hang up the phone.
Twenty-eight is too young for cancer. Karen was the most health-conscious person I knew, even as a teenager. While everyone else drank soda and ate crap from the vending machines, she was always eating salads and drinking SlimFast. Ovarian cancer. Damn.
“James, you all right?” Sarah calls from the living room, the television muted.
My desire for an afternoon roll in the hay has disappeared with my mom’s call. A normal person might crave company now, someone to talk to. I’m sure Sarah would love to help me deal with my confusing emotions. But I can’t do it. I tell her to go back to her place, ignoring the wounded look in her eye. The only thing that will take my mind off Karen is work, and I’m eager to get lost in some divorce document, bury myself in someone else’s despair in hopes it’s worse than my own.
***
I’ve had the numbers punched into my Blackberry for twenty minutes: 4-5-4-7-7-8-7. Instead of hitting send, I just stare at them, repeating them over and over in my head. Mom didn’t have to tell me the number; I know it by heart. I called it three times a day for four years. But that was years ago. Now I keep replaying how the conversation might go, and my brain refuses to let my finger hit send.
Hey, Karen. It’s James. Yeah, the guy who lied to you and broke your heart senior year of high school. How you doing? Yeah, I heard you got cancer. Sucks. Well, hope my call makes it all better . . .
Hey, Karen. It’s James. James Knight? No, you don’t remember me? No, not at all? We dated for four years? Still nothing? Oh, well, I heard you had cancer. Wanted to say sorry . . .
Hey, Karen. It’s James. No, please, stop crying. I’m so sorry this happened to you. You won’t die, you can’t. You’re too young. You will get better. I promise . . .
Nothing I say will make her better. I’m not even her friend. I’m just someone she loved along the way. I also happen to have hurt her badly along the way. I wonder what she remembers most now, the love or the pain I caused. Calling her tonight will only hurt her more.
I’ll send flowers. She used to love flowers.
13
Jimmy
Age 29
September 2000
“Three.” I kiss her bare belly three times, right above her belly button. She’s always been self-conscious about her belly button. Some mean girls in high school made fun of her outie once, and ever since she’s tried to keep it hidden. But it’s perfect to me. A perfect button. “Girls. All girls.” I kiss my way up her stomach, her skin goose-bumping beneath my lips. “I think we should name them all after birds. We can have a little flock.” I kiss her collarbone and then the nook between her shoulder and neck. Her whole body shudders and she pulls me closer.
“You want to name our children after birds?” She laughs at me. “We can have Cuckoo, Warbler, and Ostrich,” she says before gently biting my lower lip. “They definitely won’t get made fun of.”
“Shut up. We wouldn’t name them after the ugly birds.” Her mouth tastes like peppermint.
“Oh, silly me. What pretty birds shall we name them after . . . how about Flamingo? Or Blue Jay?”
“I was thinking Robin and . . .” I kiss her more deeply as she unbuckles my pants. She reaches her hands under my waistband, and my mind goes blank. “Well, that’s as far as I got.”
“Fine. Robin. Can we stop talking now?”
I roll over and shift her on top of me. Her hair falls down either side of her face and tickles my chest. Reaching behind her back, she unclasps her lacy pink bra and twirls it around one finger before throwing it on the floor beside the bed.
***
Lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling fan, I can’t help but hope we have just made a baby. We’ve been waiting for the right time for so long now, and it’s finally here. I used to fear we’d never be ready, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. We are both twenty-nine years old. I’m making good money at the law firm. Wren is happy and healthy.
Maybe I should be scared, but I’m excited. Anxious, even, but not anxious about the prospect of becoming a parent. Anxious because I want it so badly.
“Hey,” she whispers. Her cheek rests against my chest, and I can feel her eyelashes flutter against my skin. “What are you thinking?”
I’m glad for the dim lighting in our bedroom. Sometime in the last hour, dusk has faded into evening. “I don’t know,” I say, suddenly self-conscious. “Thinking about what we just did.”
She props herself up on one elbow, holding the sheet up over her chest with her other hand. I can see her nipples through the thin white cotton. Despite my exhaustion, desire stirs me awake again. “Oh yes?” she says, grinning and dropping the sheet to her waist. “Thinking about this?” Her eyes twinkle.
I brush the hair back from her shoulder. “I meant the greater scope of what we just did,” I say, meeting her intense gaze. “But now I’m thinking about this.”
She pulls away and bites her lip. “I know,” she whispers. “I know.”
“Want to do it again?” I tease.
“Might as well get a head start on making the flock.” She lies back on the pillow, and I fall into her.
14
Karen
Age 30
August 2001
“You okay, coach?” Jodi asks me. She’s only four foot nine and is staring up at me from where she just landed a perfect dismount from the parallel bars. Or maybe it’s a single bar. I’m dizzy and can’t quite see straight. She looks at me with growing concern.
“Yes, fine. I’m fine. Do it again! More energy this time,” I say, harsher than intended. She blinks and runs around me on the mat to remount.
I woke up this morning with a queasy stomach and dry mouth. Thinking it was something I ate for dinner last night, I popped an antacid and hoped for the best. But the rumbling has progressed into a wrenching pain. My ab muscles spasm again, and I want to curl over in pain. Instead I yell, “Again!” hoping I’ll somehow work out of it. Jodi spins around and around . . . and around . . .
Before she finishes her third turn, I run toward my desk, which is really just a long counter at the front of the gymnasium. I need a toilet, but the locker room is too far. The trash can will have to do. Anything is better than puking on the landing mat beneath the bars.
Wiping my mouth with shaking hands, I realize my whole body is shuddering. I must have the flu. Perfect. The Junior Olympic games are coming up and I have a full weekend of lower-level competitions ahead of me. All of my students are competing in some event or another, so I can’t leave it to my assistants. There’s simply no time for me to be sick. I silently curse little Mandy Foster, who came to practice looking awfully wan yesterday and is mysteriously missing this afternoon. I’m adamant that if you’re sick, you stay home. Why mothers insist on forcing infected kids to practice is beyond me. This means half the girls will probably be out this weekend. When one kid has the flu, they all get it. An awful lot of germs are shared on the bars and balance beam.
I glance back toward the practice zones. The girls pretend to move, but I know they’re all watching their coach lose her breakfast behind the counter. One of my assistants is spotting a level-five on the vault. I catch her eye and wave her over.
“Lauren, can you come over here when you finish?” I call, but my voice doesn’t carry across the room with its normal force. My stomach hurts from trying to project. Lauren squints at me and I nod, waving again. I cover my mouth with one hand and clutch my stomach with the other. It hurts.
She jogs over, perky blonde ponytail bobbing behind her. “What’s up?” A few beads of sweat stick to her forehead. The smell of sweat mixed with her flowery perfume makes the bile rise in my throat. Who wears perfume to a gym? I need to post new rules.
Swallowing it down, I wince. “I’m not feeling very good; can you keep things under control here? I’m going to go to the doctor and get something to nip this in the bud,” I say, hoping I don’t look as feeble as I feel.
“Sure thing, no problem at all,” she says, looking excited at the promise of being left in charge for a change. I’ve never missed a day of work and pride myself on coaching all the students, every day. I’m sure she finds her position boring.
“Thanks. I’ll call you before closing.” For once, I’m thankful I hired the extra trainers. Between Lauren and Scotty, I’m confident the gym will be in good hands for the afternoon. I’ll be as good as new tomorrow. I need a nap and some antibiotics; that’ll do the trick. I’m never sick for long.
***
“Any unexplained weight loss?” Dr. Moss asks, gently touching my throat and rubbing his index and middle finger against my glands.
I consider the question. I make it a point not to weigh myself, but over the past few weeks I’ve noticed my clothes fitting a little looser than normal. Naturally, I was thrilled. What woman doesn’t love unexpected weight loss? Now I’m not so sure.
“Some,” I admit. “But I fluctuate depending on how much I’m working out.”
“Bloating? Fatigue?” he asks, motioning for me to lie back on the exam table. His hands move over my flat stomach. He presses against my oblique, and the pain shoots through my entire body.
“Ow! Jesus!” I exclaim, and he pulls his hand away, startled by my overreaction. “Sorry. That just really, really hurt.”
He relaxes and brings his hands back to my body. “It’s okay. How about here?” He presses a little lower and a dull ache runs through my core, much like period cramps. I tell him as much.
“Have you ever felt pain in this area before?” he asks. For a second I think he’s looking at me with his x-ray doctor vision and he knows. Somehow my abortion is apparent to his knowledgeable hands.
“Well,” I stutter. I haven’t told anybody about my pregnancy except my closest friend in college, but he was sworn to secrecy. I’m sweating, and not because of my nausea.
He lifts his eyebrows at me, waiting for my answer. He looks a little like Santa Claus with his soft white beard and rosy cheeks. He’s not menacing in any way, but suddenly I’m frightened. Does he know my secret? I have to tell him, one way or another. It might be important.
“I was pregnant when I was seventeen,” I say. Hot tears sting the corners of my eyes but don’t fall. “But I terminated the pregnancy at seven weeks.” I let out a deep breath, the truth burning my throat. “After the procedure, I felt similar cramping. It was a very dull ache, with sporadic pain in my lower stomach. It went away about a week later.”
Dr. Moss smiles at me kindly. I imagine he’s a grandfather with lots of grandchildren.
“Well, I don’t think an abortion over ten years ago has anything to do with the pains today, but I’m glad you told me. It must be hard,” he says, taking his stethoscope from around his neck and placing it between my breasts. “Breathe in,” he says.
I suck in the heavy air and let it out, then again.
“All right, a few more questions.” He takes out my file and begins to write down my answers.
Any abnormal vaginal bleeding, such as between periods? Yes, all the time. I very rarely have a regular period. Sometimes they’re every three months, sometimes every five. Sometimes it’s a day here and there, sometimes seven days straight. This has been the story since I started menstruating at age fourteen. I’m a gymnast (as if this should explain anything).
Experience any shortness of breath? Sometimes. I’m getting older, and keeping up with junior gymnasts can get tiresome. Walking upstairs sometimes winds me, but I’m in very good shape (even though this sounds very contrary).
Pain during intercourse? I don’t have much intercourse. Sometimes it hurts upon penetration.
Intestinal upsets? Such as gas, diarrhea, constipation? I have a very sensitive stomach. I have a restrictive diet and often have diarrhea or constipation if I eat different things. I bloat when I eat dairy, salt, and soda (doesn’t everyone?).
Have any of your female relatives had any history of disease or illness
? My grandma died when she was in her forties, but we don’t know why. My mother suffers from depression but is otherwise healthy.
I listen to myself answer the questions and watch Dr. Moss scribble illegibly in my file, wondering if my answers are abnormal. All these years I’ve thought of myself as extraordinarily healthy, but some of my responses sound the opposite of healthy. Dr. Moss doesn’t look up from my file as he writes and writes.
“Karen,” he says, something in his voice kick-starting a sense of panic deep inside. Oh god, this is not going to be good. “I want to run a few tests to see if we can get to the root of all this.” He doesn’t look worried, but his tone is wrong. His face doesn’t match his words. So much for little Mandy’s flu.
My voice catches in my throat, and I cough, causing a pain to shoot across my belly again. “What do you think it is?” I hate the tremor in my own voice but can’t stop it.
“It could be any number of things. I want to start with some basic blood work and also a CA-125 test. After that, I’d like to schedule a few procedures.” He pauses, sensing my increasing panic. “Karen, it feels to me like you have a mass of some sort in your abdominal region. I can’t tell for sure without an ultrasound. Also, there is some fluid in your lungs. I don’t have enough information for a diagnosis, so we need to check out what’s going on inside of you.”
All I hear is mass. “A mass? Like a tumor?”
“It may be, or it could be a benign cyst. Don’t be alarmed; a lot of women have cysts. But I’m concerned that, combined with your other symptoms, there could be something more serious going on. No reason to worry yet; we’re going to take good care of you.”
The room spins and my mouth is suddenly bone-dry. “Do you have any water?” I choke. No reason to worry . . . How the hell am I supposed to stay calm when he is clearly worried enough to order a boatload of tests?
He fills a paper cup with cool water. I bring it to my lips with shaking hands, and some dribbles down my chin like I’m an invalid. Dr. Moss places his hand on my shoulder and steadies my nerves a bit, enough for me to take a deep breath.
Sometime, Somewhere Page 6
