by Emily Giffin
Then again, I argue with myself, maybe Matthew and I aren’t unique. Maybe all relationship journeys are messy and complicated in one way or another, products of two flawed people coming together to form a flawed but, one hopes, stronger union. Maybe the only people who don’t have any reservations amid a marriage proposal are delusional about love—and therefore destined to be disillusioned later in life when things get tough.
I vacillate between the two extremes. In one moment, I’m fearful that Matthew and I are both settling—or at least rushing into this; in the next moment, I have accepted that all of life is a grand compromise, and Matthew and I are exactly where we’re supposed to be.
Ultimately, in conversations with myself, whether in the shower or riding the subway or falling asleep at night—sometimes right next to Matthew—I make the conscious decision to be happy and grateful. Yes, Matthew and I had our setbacks; and yes, I had an interim relationship that caused me to question my feelings for him; and yes, my first answer was a feeble maybe; and yes, I haven’t told him the truth about absolutely everything. But things aren’t perfect. They’re very far from perfect. The world is unpredictable and unsafe—we know that now more than ever—so maybe it’s about holding on to the things we can really count on. And I know I can count on Matthew to be steady, honest, and true. When the going got tough, he returned to me, and now we are moving forward, together.
So we forge ahead with wedding plans, choosing October 19, 2002, both because I’ve always wanted a fall wedding and because it gives us approximately a year to plan, plenty of time so that we won’t be stressed. We reserve my hometown church, make tentative plans to fly home and look at reception venues, and choose our attendants, five each. My sister will be my matron of honor, and the bridesmaids will include my cousin, a friend from college, Jasmine, and Matthew’s sister, Elizabeth. The groomsmen will be Matthew’s best friend from high school, two friends from college, my brother, and Scottie, although Scottie insists that he will be joining all bridesmaid functions, as well as planning my bachelorette party. Frankly, his enthusiasm actually surprises me a little—in a good way—though it does occur to me that he’s overcompensating, somehow trying to make up for all of the critical things he said about Matthew in the past. But I just add this to the list of things I refuse to dwell on, managing to find a peaceful equilibrium.
* * *
—
Then everything comes crashing down. I probably shouldn’t use that expression, given September 11—but it feels absolutely calamitous when I glance in my bathroom drawer, see my packet of birth control pills, and realize that I never got my period during the seven-day stretch of white sugar pills—my usual cue to start a new pack. In other words, I’m late. My heart races.
I tell myself to calm down—that it’s really difficult to get pregnant while you’re on the pill. But then I recall that there was at least one day—maybe two—in which I forgot to take it amid the insanity of 9/11. Was there another day, too? Around the time I got back together with Matthew? I can’t remember for sure.
Now, suddenly, my mind is spinning out of control, my body bombarded with all sorts of phantom pregnancy symptoms. Or maybe they’re actual pregnancy symptoms. My breasts do feel fuller than usual—and also vaguely sore. I run to the bathroom, lift up my shirt, and stare at them. They definitely look bigger, the nipples slightly darker. Aren’t those signs? And my God, I’m feeling nauseous and light-headed. Is that from sheer panic—or a baby growing inside me?
I have to find out. I have to find out now. I throw on a pair of sweats, grab my wallet and key combo, and run out the door, down the stairs, through the lobby, and into the cool fall morning. Once on the sidewalk, I sprint toward my corner bodega.
There’s no way, I keep repeating to myself, as I find the aisle of shame with the pregnancy tests and condoms and lubricants. I check the prices and select a generic brand, then decide it’s not the time to be cheap, putting it back and grabbing a more expensive name brand. I turn and fast-walk to the checkout line, trying to look nonchalant—as if such a thing is possible when you’re throwing a pregnancy test and a credit card on the counter before eight in the morning. The clerk, an older bald man, whom I recognize and have always liked, gives me the courtesy of pretending that this is a normal transaction, but at the last second, as he hands me my bag, he gives me a sympathetic, almost fatherly look that makes me want to cry.
I thank him under my breath, bolt out of the store, and cross the street, running for my apartment. Once inside, I go straight to the bathroom, locking the door, even though I’m alone. My heart in my throat and my hands shaking, I open the box, read the instructions, then read them again, making sure I didn’t miss anything before carefully following them step by step. I take off the plastic cover, start to pee, put the absorbent tip into my urine stream for a three-Mississippi count, then recap the test, laying it flat on the counter. All the while, I keep telling myself that there’s no way this could happen to me during the only month of my entire life when I’ve had sex with more than one person.
Feeling suddenly claustrophobic, I leave the bathroom. I count to sixty, pacing around my bedroom. For the next count of sixty, I lie on my bed, staring up at the ceiling. Then, for about a minute after that, I pray harder than I’ve ever prayed for anything, which in turns makes me feel like a horrible, selfish person. After all, thousands of innocent people, including pregnant women and fathers-to-be, lost their lives on 9/11 through no fault of their own, and here I am praying that a life doesn’t exist in the aftermath of my own irresponsibility and recklessness.
I finally get up off the bed, thinking: There’s. No. Way. Then I hold my breath, head into the bathroom, look down, and see it. An unmistakable bright pink cross announcing that I’m going to be a mother.
In a last-ditch effort, I grab the box from the trash can, hoping I got it wrong—that the cross means I’m not pregnant. Of course that isn’t the case—which I already knew—so I scan the instructions searching for a note on false positives. Nothing. Too stunned to cry and too petrified to leave the bathroom, I pick up the stick and sit on the tile floor. I stay that way for a long time, clutching it, staring at it, wishing there were another window that could tell me who the father is.
Over the course of the morning, I end up taking three more pregnancy tests—the other one from the first box and two more from another brand purchased from a nearby Duane Reade. Though two are pink crosses and two are blue circles, all four are equally positive, and I’m reminded of that funny old adage that you can’t be a little bit pregnant. This time, though, it’s not the least bit funny.
I call in to work sick, because I suddenly am very, very sick, then go back to bed, bringing with me my calendar, going over and over it, making endless ovulation calculations as I try to determine which is more likely—that I conceived the last time I was with Grant or whether it was after that, with Matthew. I conclude that there’s no way to know for sure—both are possible and neither is impossible. Exhausted, I eventually fall asleep, waking up in the early afternoon to a fresh wave of shock, followed by gripping fear.
There are so many layers to my angst that it’s almost impossible to keep track of them. At the very least, my pregnancy throws a curveball in our wedding plans. In all of our plans. Matthew and I just got back together, and now we’re having a baby. It’s just so much to digest. But the fact that I can’t be sure who the father is makes things downright terrifying. And I can’t even bear to think about the possibility that Grant could be the father. That I might one day have to tell my child the truth about his or her biological father. The whole truth.
I know the next step is to talk to Matthew. It’s the right thing to do—the only thing to do. Yet here I am, holed up in my apartment, putting it off, eating ice cream in bed. Late that afternoon, I finally pick up the phone. Only I don’t dial Matthew. I call Scottie instead, which is depressing in its own right,
and not at all the way I dreamed this moment would go down with my husband.
After I tell Scottie everything, he says, “I hate to say this, but you may want to at least consider—”
“Do not say it.”
“Okay.”
“Were you actually going to suggest an abortion?” I ask, thinking that I feel heartsick enough remembering the drinks I’ve had since conceiving.
“I mean…kinda sorta…yeah.”
“You know I can’t do that,” I say, having had this discussion with him before, several times, including when I declined his invitation to go to a pro-choice march in Madison. “And besides. What if it’s Matthew’s? I’d be killing what would have been our firstborn.”
“Abortion isn’t killing,” he says. “And a fetus isn’t a child.”
“Let’s just move on,” I say. “There’s no use debating these points because I’m not getting an abortion. It’s just something I personally can’t do.”
“Okay. So then you still have two choices,” Scottie says. “You tell Matthew you’re pregnant and leave it at that…or you tell him you’re pregnant and confess that it could be Grant’s.”
“Right,” I say, my stomach in knots.
“Well, I bet you can guess my vote,” he says.
“You vote don’t tell him?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I mean, why even raise that possibility?”
“Because it’s the truth,” I say.
“Yeah. But a truth he doesn’t want to think about….I mean, he’s going to love this baby no matter what.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Then he’s a jerk!”
“I don’t know if that’s fair. And regardless, shouldn’t I find that out now?”
“Ohhh,” Scottie says. “You mean, like, use this as a test? You tell him the truth, and if he’s a jerk about it, then you don’t marry him at all? Call the whole thing off?”
“Um, care to tell me why you sound so hopeful?” I snap at him.
“I’m not hopeful,” he says. “I’ve already begun planning your bachelorette party….I was thinking Vegas, since you’ve never been.”
“Oh, that’ll be so awesome,” I say, laughing so I don’t start crying. “Pregnant bride-to-be takes Vegas. Real classy.”
“First of all, the baby will be born by the time we take that trip. Second of all, who cares about all of that?”
“I care! You really don’t see this as upsetting?” I say.
“I see it as a challenge. You know, like being gay is a challenge. But I wouldn’t change it.”
He’s trying so hard to make me feel better that I can’t help being a little touched. “Thanks, Scottie,” I say. “Truly. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” Scottie says, then laughs and adds, “even if you are a little bit of a ho.”
* * *
—
Somehow Scottie calling me a ho gives me the boost I need. It helps me acknowledge the absolute absurdity of the situation—and thereby gives me the courage to bite the bullet and call Matthew. I tell him I need to see him tonight—and ask if he can come over after work.
“Sure. Are you okay?” he asks, sounding worried.
“Yes,” I say as strongly as I can, convincing myself of the same. “But it is kind of important.”
“Wedding related?” he asks.
“Sort of,” I say.
“Are you still marrying me?” he asks with a laugh.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just come over, please?”
“All right. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
* * *
—
Three torturous hours later, I am buzzing Matthew up to my apartment, having finally showered and put on clean clothes. I’ve also taken all four pregnancy sticks, wrapped them up in tissue paper and ribbon, and stuck them in an old gift bag. I feel like an utter fraud, but I figure I will fake it till I make it, even if that process ends up taking nine months. Even if it requires one last lie of omission—for now, anyway—as I rationalize that there’s no way to go back in time and change what happened; that a baby needs to be loved; and that I’ll just do what’s the least harmful for both Matthew and the child.
When I open the door, Matthew looks more than a little worried. “What’s going on?” he says. “You’re scaring me.”
I smile and tell him not to be scared, even as my own heart races with something approaching terror. “I just…have something to give you.”
“What?” he says.
“C’mere,” I say, taking him by the hand and leading him into the living room, where his gift waits on the coffee table. I point at it and say, “Open it.”
He sits down, smiles, and says, “Aww. You got me a present?”
“Um…sort of,” I say, second-guessing my method, as I’m sure he’s expecting something along the lines of sterling silver cuff links—and not four urine-soaked plastic sticks. But it’s all too late now—literally and figuratively.
Looking intrigued, he picks it up, shakes it, feels through the tissue, then carefully peels off the ribbon that I so ludicrously tied and curled. He holds up one of the tests and examines it.
“What in the world?” he says under his breath, looking confused.
My mouth bone dry, I say, “What does it look like?”
“It looks like…pregnancy tests?” His voice rises, as he sorts them into two pairs—one set of pinks, one set of blues. He looks at me with wide eyes. “What…what are you telling me?”
“What do you think I’m telling you?” I say, still too petrified to come out and say it to him straight.
“That we’re having quadruplets?” he says, a stunned smile on his face.
I don’t smile back, just shake my head and say, “No. Not four. Just one. As far as I know.”
He looks at me, now flabbergasted, all traces of his smile gone. “So…this isn’t a joke?”
I shake my head. “Nope. Not a joke.”
“But…I thought you were on the pill?”
“I was. I am. But that’s only, like, ninety-nine percent effective…and I think I may have forgotten to take it one day,” I say.
“So…we’re the one percent?” he says, now looking wide-eyed, almost as panicked as I feel.
“Yep,” I say, nodding. “Surprise.”
He stares at me, then looks back down at the tests, then up at me again, expressionless and clearly speechless. “Oh my God, Cecily,” he finally says, dropping his head to his hands so I can no longer see his face. “Holy shit.”
“I know,” I say, staring at the top of his head. “What are we going to do?”
Matthew doesn’t move, and I brace myself for the worst, although I’m not sure exactly what that is. Anger? Cold feet? Scottie’s suggestion that we make it all go away with a little medical procedure?
But when he looks up, he is smiling, then laughing. “What are we going to do? I’ll tell you what we’re going to do,” he says, pulling me toward him, kissing my face, putting his arms around me. “We’re going to get married, and we’re going to have a baby. That’s what we’re going to do.” His voice is shaking, but he looks downright joyful.
Overcome with relief, I push everything else aside and relax into his arms. “In what order?” I ask, my voice coming out muffled against his shoulder.
“Does it matter?” he says.
“No,” I say, suddenly convinced that the baby is his—that it has to be his. “I guess it really doesn’t matter.”
After a doctor’s appointment confirming that I’m around seven weeks pregnant, Matthew and I sit down in my apartment to come up with a game plan, at least with respect to our wedding, since we don’t have much say in regard to our due date. Incidentally, based more on an inexplicable gut feeling than any real calculation (since the l
ength of a pregnancy is measured from the time of your last period—not the time you had sex), I am becoming more and more convinced that Matthew is the biological father, and the baby will be born with his blue eyes and dimples.
The first thing I do is raise the suggestion of a quick civil ceremony. I can’t help but recall Amy telling me that is what Grant wanted, but tell myself it’s not what they actually did—and even if it had been, they don’t own the concept of tying the knot at City Hall.
“I could still wear a dress, and you could wear a tux or suit. It could be really simple and beautiful,” I say, going over to my computer and pulling up images of the Georgian-style columned interior of City Hall, as well as the dramatic staircase leading up to the entrance. “Plus we could save so much money.”
I feel a little wistful and sad, knowing that my parents want me to have a traditional hometown wedding in the church I grew up in—and that it’s what I’ve always dreamed of, too. My dad and I even have our song picked out for our father-daughter dance—Stevie Wonder’s “You Are the Sunshine of My Life.” I can’t count the number of times he played that eight-track (and in later years, the cassette) while twirling me around our family room.
But given the circumstances, City Hall feels like a solid, sensible option. “What do you think?” I say.
Matthew makes a face, shakes his head, and quickly vetoes the idea as “depressing.” I’m not sure what he means by that, exactly, but I certainly don’t want him to be depressed when he marries me, so I come up with another suggestion—what I call the “Hollywood route.” Specifically, we have the baby, and then get married, keeping our original wedding date.
