Life, Sideways

by Greene, Michaela

  A child who would never know me. Wow. My hands moved from my belly to the keyboard. Was I okay that this child would never know me: Vicky, the lady outside the uterus? Jen had asked and I had been so sure there in the parking lot but now, as I sat alone in my spare room, I wasn’t so sure.

  A child who would never know me.

  A child I would never know.

  Would his parents tell him he was adopted so he would at least know of my existence? Or would they tell him that sure he looked different, but if you looked hard enough you could see grandpa’s eyes or Uncle Bill’s nose? Once I gave birth, all my decision making concerning this child was over. Was I okay with that?

  Well, no one ever said giving up a baby would be easy. Christ, I had trouble lending out my favorite pen.

  You can do this, Vicky. You are strong.

  Am I? Am I really that strong?

  Or was I just too chicken to go through with the abortion? No, I didn’t think so. Because I always knew in my mind that this was the harder road.

  So adoption it is. No matter how hard, I can do this. What did Dad always say? If it doesn’t kill you, it’ll make you stronger. And I had no intention of dying in childbirth.

  Back to the business of bonding with my child; maybe it was more for the baby’s benefit than my own. But it was important for me to give him the best start possible.

  I refocused on the computer screen in front of me. Okay, so on to tip number two. Talk to your baby. Oh, well I’d already covered that, but maybe the article would point out what things to say and what things to avoid. “Beginning in the second trimester, your baby can hear.” Oh. Not quite there yet. I figured that meant I had a few weeks of swearing left before it began to do some damage. Really: there is nothing more unbecoming than a child whose first word is ‘fuck.’

  Tip three: play music. Obviously, I wouldn’t have to worry about that until trimester number two. I bookmarked the site for later use before moving on to tip four.

  Tip four: keep a journal. That seemed like a good idea. Not only would it document the pregnancy but it would give me something to do in the lonely hours before bed. I looked around my office and located the still unpacked box labeled, in Dave’s handwriting: ‘stationery and pictures’ and pulled it open, ripping the packing tape. In it, I found several notebooks. Nothing quite as fancy as the kind of journal I would buy myself at one of those upscale stationery stores, but some of the utilitarian, black-covered notebooks that Dave kept. He used them to record everything from his daily appointments to phone numbers to movie times if we had decided to go out for an evening. I found a new one, still wrapped in cellophane and wondered why he would have packed it in a box for me.

  I pulled off the cellophane and grabbed a pen out of the holder which had also been in the box. After several minutes of thinking, I put pen to paper:

  Dear baby, even though you were conceived several weeks ago, I think that today is only the second day of your life, since up until then I was going to abort you.

  “Oh my God,” I said out loud. “What the fuck is wrong with me? You don’t tell a baby that!” I ripped the page out of the notebook, determined to start again with something not horrible that maybe the baby could someday read without having a stress-induced seizure.

  Dear Baby, now that I’ve settled into my new house, I have decided to write this journal so that someday you can read for yourself the events leading up to your birth. By the time you read this, I may or may not be married to someone, but right now I am single. I just bought a house and moved in only a few days ago. I am divorced, or at least separated, which is one of the reasons I am giving you up for adoption.

  That wasn’t entirely true. But how can you tell a child that he was conceived in a nightclub bathroom and his father was some unknown stranger? I wasn’t about to write that in a journal, but I was surprised at how easy it was to fabricate things to my, as yet, unborn child. I would be a terrible mother.

  My hand hovered over the page as I thought of what to put next. Just tell the baby what you feel, what you want him or her to know, a knowing little voice in my head said. It came as no surprise that the knowing little voice sounded a whole lot like Dave’s.

  I wanted you to know that giving you up was a hard decision, but I think it is for the best. You deserve a family with two parents; both of whom will love you very much and provide for all your needs in ways that I cannot.

  The pen stopped as I realized I’d made myself out to be poor. It felt so complicated to try to explain something like this to a child without doing damage. I crossed out the last part.

  Maybe I was trying too hard. Maybe this journal needed to be for me first and for baby second. If someday I realized it was either X-rated or inappropriate for my child’s eyes, I didn’t have to pass it along. But perhaps just writing it would help me get in touch with what I was doing in having this baby.

  It needed to be for me. I flipped back to the inside cover and created a title: Vicky’s pregnancy journal, for and by Vicky. Yes, that was better. Now I could write freely.

  But as I yawned, I realized that maybe I would write freely after a nap.

  * * *

  The phone woke me. I groaned and squinted at it, seeing Jen’s number come up on the screen.

  “Didn’t I just see you this morning?” I blurted out as I stretched and rolled over under the sheet and afghan. Ex was beside me and mewed in protest over being shifted.

  “Did you call him?” Jen asked, ignoring my question.

  “Who? Steve? Why? Was I supposed to?” I propped myself up on one elbow, still a bit groggy.

  “No, the hot veterinarian.”

  I dug into the bowels of my memory to try to recall if I had actually agreed to go out with the vet. There had been so much said at breakfast, it was difficult to remember. “I’m not calling him,” I asserted.

  “Call him,”

  “Jen, I just think…”

  “Call him.”

  “No seriously, Jen…”

  “Call him.”

  I sighed. “Fine, I’ll call him.”

  “Good. Okay so tell me, do you think I should go conservative or slutty with your brother tonight?”

  My eyes, of their own volition, rolled towards the ceiling. “God, Jen. Does it matter? You’ve already slept with him.”

  “It does matter, I need to make a good impression.”

  Her logic was lost on me, but rather than argue, I suggested she wear something conservative if she really wanted to impress him. God knows, he’d already seen her interpretation of ‘slutty.’

  After a few minutes of her grilling me on Steve’s likes and dislikes (for conversation starters, she asserted), I was able to get off the phone with only one more demand that I call the veterinarian.

  I stretched again, lazy between the sheets. It would probably be a good idea to get up; I had a shift in an hour and a half. Just as I threw the covers off, the phone rang again.

  “Call him. Call him now.”

  “Are you going to keep calling me until I say I’ve done it?”

  As predicted, Jen said yes.

  “Fine, I’ll call him right now. At least give me time to go look up his number before you call me back to nag.”

  “That sounds fair.”

  “Goodbye, Jennifer.”

  “Goodbye, Victoria. Oh and Vicky?”

  “Yes?”

  “Call him.”

  I growled into the phone as I hung up. My friends were relentless, but I loved that they were always looking out for me.

  But the more I thought about it, the more going out with Dr. Lewis sounded like a good idea. What could it hurt to have dinner with him? And my friends were right. If I didn’t like him, I could just cross him off the list and move on. If I did like him, I would cross that bridge when I came to it; no point putting my life on hold since I wasn’t going to actually come out of this with a baby. But how would he react if I told him I was pregnant? Should I tell him it was Dave’
s and was just the product of an unhappy marriage? No, that wouldn’t make much sense, especially if it turned into a real relationship and he learned the truth. But what guy really wanted that kind of baggage at the beginning of a relationship?

  * * *

  By the time I called Eli to tell him I would take him up on his dinner offer, I had gotten myself worked into such a lather, I could barely breathe. I stood in my kitchen, clutching the phone so hard, my knuckles were white. I dialed his home number and took deep breaths while waiting for him to answer, secretly hoping his machine would pick up so I could just hang up the phone and not have to talk to him. At least then I could truthfully tell the girls I had called.

  Ring number two, voicemail should kick in any time now.

  My heart raced.

  Ring number three.

  Vicky, you are a chickenshit.

  “Hello?”

  Damn.

  Ten minutes and several stutters later, I had myself a date. A date for the very next night, as a matter of fact. And that was hardly enough time to find an outfit and mentally prepare myself to be back in the dating world; more reason for panic.

  It was just dinner, but I hadn’t been on a first date in well over a decade. Was I supposed to bring money to pay for myself? Was it expected that I kiss him, or more? What about the rules of conversation, or what I should order? Things had to have changed since I first met Dave.

  Maybe I’d call Jen back in the morning to get some tips.

  Chapter 35

  I should have met him there, I thought as I peeked out my curtains at the road, determined to be ready when he pulled up. The last thing I needed was the awkwardness of him coming to the door to pick me up like we were pimply-faced teenagers on our way to the prom.

  So there I stood, my heart racing, my mouth void of saliva, waiting to go on a first date, feeling like a pimply-faced teenager waiting to be picked up to go to the prom. At least it wasn’t a blind date, I told myself. I knew what I was getting with this guy, at least on the outside; there was no way to tell if he would turn out to be a shmuck or some kind of sexual deviant (both of the above seemed to have above average representation on Jen’s dating roster and I’d heard enough horror stories to be very reluctant to go down that road). But how could a guy who takes care of animals for a living be so bad? He would, at least, have to be caring and empathetic, wouldn’t he? Then it occurred to me again: this guy was way out of my league.

  Ugh, time to pee again. Not sure if it was the pregnancy or the nerves, but I had already gone four times while trying to get prepared for this date. I jogged to the bathroom, mindful of the new stilettos that I finally had an excuse to wear.

  As I washed my hands, Ex entered the bathroom as if he owned the joint and took a seat on the closed lid of the toilet, his tail swishing behind him. He looked at me, his head tilted, seemingly wondering what I was doing.

  “I’m going on a date, buddy,” I explained. “Something I haven’t done in a long time. I’m pretty nervous,” I confessed to the cat. He jumped down and did two figure eights around my legs before leaving the bathroom. It was as though he was saying, “I understand, here’s some encouragement, now you’re on your own.” I watched as his tail disappeared around the corner. I was unable to suppress my grin; that cat was definitely becoming like an old friend.

  I looked in the mirror to check my makeup for about the thousandth time. I could use a bit of the purported ‘special glow’ that I was supposed to be sporting, but as of this morning, my complexion was no different than it had been pre-pregnancy, except for the beginning of a zit on my chin.

  I wiped my hands dry and looked into the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. I wasn’t showing, didn’t even have the hint of a bump yet, but still I felt like there was a huge neon arrow pointing to my belly, giving away my dirty little secret.

  “Fuck it, he’ll have to take me as I am. Knocked up and zitty.” I said to my reflection and left the bathroom just as there was a light rap at my front door.

  The one thought that struck me as I opened the door was that he was about a hundred times hotter than I had remembered.

  “Hi,” Dr. Lewis…Eli said, pushing a little, mixed bouquet at me. “These are for you.”

  I looked from the flowers back to his eyes. “Thanks,” I said, unable to suppress my surprise. I really didn’t think guys bought flowers for dates anymore. I guess this one did.

  “I don’t mind waiting if you want to put them in some water.”

  It felt weird, the thought of having him in the house when I didn’t even know him, but how could I not? If I said no, then I was basically saying that I hated the flowers and didn’t care if they withered by the time I got home. Or that I thought he was a raving psychopath. “Sure, c’mon in. It’ll just take a second.”

  I turned to walk to the kitchen, maybe expecting that he would automatically go into the living room, but instead he followed me. “Cute house.”

  “Thanks.” I was suddenly very conscious of the fact that I didn’t have much in the house in the way of accessories, including a vase. Feeling a blush heating up my face, I turned from him and reached into the cabinet for one of my big water tumblers, hoping it would suffice. “I don’t have a lot of stuff yet. I’m pretty newly separated.” I felt I had to explain, but didn’t want to talk much about my failed marriage. That was not a subject sure to charm a new guy.

  He nodded, looking down at his feet as he leaned against the counter. “I feel like an ass; I should have gotten the one with the vase.”

  Oh my God, this guy was feeling guilty because I was a loser and didn’t have a vase? Wow. “Oh, please, Eli, don’t feel bad. I think it’s so sweet that you brought me flowers. It’s fine, don’t worry.”

  I took out a paring knife (bought only two days before), and trimmed down the stems of the flowers so they wouldn’t fall out of the glass. “See? Perfect.” I said with a smile as I popped them in the glass. “Just some water and then we’re good to go.”

  “Great. I’m starving. I hope you’re hungry.”

  Not surprisingly, I was. Turning toward the front door again, I grabbed my purse and we were out of the house. “Where are we going?”

  “Do you like Italian? I thought we’d go to my favorite little place called Roma’s. Have you ever been?”

  Of course, I had been. I’d been many times since it was one of mine and Dave’s favorite places, too. It was a small restaurant where you were guaranteed a wait if you came on a weekend, but the food was worth it and you could even see Mama in the kitchen slaving over the hot stove in her apron stained with tomato sauce. A knot lodged in my stomach. What if Dave was there? How could I go there if there was even a remote possibility that Dave was there? What if Eli and I became an item? How could Roma’s be our first date place when I had so many memories of being there with Dave, like on our third anniversary when he gave me the diamond pendant? Or the night when we laughed so hard, tomato sauce came shooting out his nose? No, I needed somewhere fresh for our first date place.

  But I couldn’t tell Eli why. Wow, lying to a guy within ten minutes of him arriving to pick me up for a date had to be a new low. “You know what? I really do like Italian, and I know the place you’re talking about, and it is awesome, but would you mind if we went somewhere else tonight? I’m really craving Thai. I’m hoping you love Thai as much as I do.” I gave him a sheepish grin.

  He smiled as he opened the passenger door of his car and waved me in. “I do love Thai. Do you have a place in mind?”

  I totally had a place in mind: a brand new place Kendra had recommended. It was the perfect clean slate I was looking for. And apparently their Pad Thai was to die for. And contained no beef.

  * * *

  “So have you always wanted to be a veterinarian?” I dipped my spring roll into the sauce before popping it into my mouth. Kendra was right: the food at this place was great.

  Eli shook his head. “For a long time, my mother had me c
onvinced I wanted to be a doctor for humans.”

  “Of course. Same as my mother convinced my brother he wanted to be a lawyer.”

  Eli grinned. “Ah, the curse of the Jewish mother.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Well, I really did think I wanted to be a doctor. I was into the whole package, you know: the diagnosis, the surgery part, healing. I’ve always felt that I had a real knack with healing, almost like a special gift…” he looked at me, a blush creeping up his cheeks. “Does this sound stupid?”

  Stupid? I almost choked on the last bite of my spring roll; it was adorable how he got flustered. “No, not at all. Please go on.”

  “Well I don’t know, but I always felt that I had some sort of special healing power. My mom saw it, which is why she told me I had to be a doctor.”

  “Makes sense,” I said reaching for my third spring roll; God they were good. Then I realized I was being a pig. I looked up at Eli, who had only eaten one.

  “Go ahead, please.” His smile broadened as he pointed at the plate. “It’s nice to see a woman who’s not afraid to eat.”

  If only you knew why I was such a pig.

  It was acutely embarrassing, but I took the spring roll. although I was a lot more secure than I was on my first round of dating as a teen, there were still some basic guidelines I felt were appropriate to follow, like: ‘don’t out-eat your date.’

  “So why did you decide to be a vet and not a doctor, then?”

  Eli took a sip of his wine before continuing. “I just never had it in me to want to heal people. I found that I was better at dealing with animals than humans. I remember there was this one time when a baby bird fell out of a nest in front of our house…”

  As he spoke, telling me about how he nursed the baby bird back to health, I was mesmerized by his voice and completely drowning in his eyes; the meaning of his words becoming secondary to the way he was drawing me in. Feeling suddenly very drunk and dizzy, the way I did after a full body massage, I forced myself to focus on his face.