Baby Crazy (Matt & Anna Book 2)

by Annabelle Costa

Matt’s penis both terrified and intrigued me. It was big—bigger than I thought it would be. I couldn’t imagine how such a thing could fit inside me. It seemed clean, but I always thought of sex as an intrinsically dirty act.

  But at the same time, God, how I wanted it. I loved the way it grew hard when he’d run his hands over my body. I never told this to Matt, but I used to dream about it.

  Unfortunately, I couldn’t seem to get past my fear, no matter how badly I wanted him. So we made a trip to see Dr. Hayward, so he could counsel two adults in their thirties about how to have sex. Matt’s face was bright red through most of the first session, but after talking it out for three sessions, I felt reassured enough to allow my boyfriend to make love to me.

  And it was really, really…

  Well, there aren’t words.

  In any case, Dr. Hayward was successful in allowing Matt and I to consummate our relationship, so I’m optimistic he’ll figure this one out.

  I sit on a chair in the waiting room, remembering how at my first visit, I was too nervous about the chairs being dirty to even take a seat. Back then, the thought of even going on a date with Matt scared me, and now he’s my husband. Those pills really are a miracle.

  Matt looks as anxious as I feel. He’s tapping his fingers against his knee, which is something I’ve noticed him doing when he’s nervous. He told me once he used to tap his feet when he was nervous, but he can’t do that anymore. He can’t move his ankles or feet at all anymore. I look at him and flash him a tiny smile, and he returns an equally miniscule grin.

  By the time Dr. Hayward calls us in, we’re both a wreck.

  Dr. Hayward’s office is small enough that Matt’s chair has to squeeze between the couch and the wall. I know from experience he won’t be able to do a full turn and will have to back himself out. It’s almost as bad as our bathroom at home. But like at home, he makes do.

  “So, Matt.” Dr. Hayward folds his arms across his large belly as he settles into his leather chair. “Anna says you’ve been thinking of starting a family.”

  “He is,” I quickly clarify. Matt glares at me but I don’t want there to be any misperceptions. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  Matt gives Dr. Hayward a look. “She won’t even discuss it with me. If I bring it up, she runs away. This was the only way she was willing to talk about it.”

  “It’s not a good idea,” I reiterate. “It’s foolish.”

  “It’s foolish to want to have a child with my wife?” Matt shrugs helplessly. “I love Anna. I want to start a family with her. Is that so wrong?”

  We both look at Dr. Hayward. He’s going to tell Matt I’m correct—I’m sure of it.

  “Matt,” Dr. Hayward says, “I think Anna is just worried that her condition might negatively impact any child you have.”

  “Look, nobody’s perfect,” Matt says. “Anna is…” He looks at me so tenderly that I nearly burst into tears. “She’s great. She’d be a great mom. Even if she doesn’t believe it. I know she would be.”

  I can only shake my head. He has no idea.

  “Please tell me what I can do,” he murmurs. “Whatever I have to tell you, I’ll do it. You know I’m going to help you with the baby. It’s not going to be just you going at it alone. We’ll be partners.”

  “I just can’t…”

  “You’re so much better though,” he points out. “The OCD is under control. You can do this.”

  I can hear the plea in his voice. He wants this so badly. I don’t have the heart to say it to him, which is why I brought him here. Dr. Hayward needs to be the bearer of bad news.

  “Matt,” Dr. Hayward says quietly, looking my husband in the eyes. “You know that if Anna were to try to get pregnant, she’d have to stop taking all her current medications.”

  His mouth falls open. He didn’t know. He stares at me, his eyes glassy. He doesn’t want me off my medications. He knows what I used to be like. He doesn’t want to go back to the days when I had to wash my hands every fifteen minutes and flew into a panic at the thought of a kiss.

  “Jesus,” he breathes. “I… I didn’t realize…”

  “There are other medications we could switch them for,” Dr. Hayward says. “Zoloft is a similar medication to Paxil that’s considered safe in pregnancy.”

  “Zoloft didn’t work for Anna,” Matt says. I’m surprised he remembers this—I wouldn’t think he was keeping track of my medications.

  “Or Prozac…”

  “That didn’t work either.”

  “They may not have been as effective as her current regimen,” Dr. Hayward admits. “But there will be some benefit…”

  The room is silent while Matt absorbs this new piece of information. I don’t know what to say. I’m not sure if there’s anything to say.

  It’s finally Dr. Hayward who breaks the silence: “Perhaps adoption?”

  Matt lifts his brown eyes. “Who the hell would give us a kid?” he snaps. “I’m crippled and Anna’s mentally ill.”

  He appears to be upset.

  Matt rubs his hands over his face. He sees now the biggest reason why I have been resistant to contemplating a family. I know this will disappoint him, but he will certainly understand. Neither of us want me to be without my medications. He knows what that means.

  “So if we did this,” he says slowly, “Anna would only be off her meds for a year… I mean, maybe not even a year. Right?”

  He’s still considering this? He can’t be serious.

  “It depends how long it takes you to conceive,” Dr. Hayward says.

  He glances down at Matt’s legs when he says it, making the assumption that his ability to conceive may be as impaired as his ability to walk. It is not an unreasonable possibility. While Matt has been able to perform for me sexually for the most part, he is not always capable. He sometimes has difficulty maintaining his erection and usually takes a pill to ensure a pleasurable experience for me. There are times when he’s unable to achieve orgasm. He always tells me that it’s fine, he doesn’t mind as long as I’m satisfied, but ejaculation is mandatory for procreation.

  And then, of course, my age should be taken into account. I’m not young for a first time mother by any means. Female fertility drops precipitously after age thirty. Even with a young, virile partner, it might not be easy for me to conceive.

  It could take me a year to even get pregnant. Maybe longer.

  Matt looks at me, a deep crease between his eyebrows. “We could try for a couple of months, couldn’t we? See how it goes?”

  I get a sick feeling in my stomach. I don’t want to go back to the way I was before the medications. I remember the feeling of panic that gripped me around the chest like a vise on a daily basis. He’s right—I’m much better than I used to be.

  How could he ask this of me? How could he ask me to go back to that? Of all people, he should be the last one who would want me to go back to being the old Anna.

  He must really want a child very badly.

  Chapter 11: Matt

  Anna and I will never have children.

  It’s taking a bit for the reality to sink in. I was in shock when I heard the sacrifice Anna would have to make for us to have a child. I have to admit—for a moment, I wanted her to do it. I didn’t care if she’d have to stop taking all her medications. What is a year in the scheme of things?

  That was really selfish. I know it now. Anna could never go off her meds. She was a wreck before. She could barely be near me. We can’t risk going back to that.

  So that’s it.

  It’s been two days since our appointment with Dr. Hayward and I’m trying not to think about it. I’m sitting on our couch, playing Grand Theft Auto on the Xbox Anna bought me on our ginormous TV to take my mind off the whole thing. If we had a baby, I probably wouldn’t be able to do that. I’d be busy doing baby stuff—there’d be no time for Xbox games. And I’d probably sleep like shit. And Anna would be too tired to want to have sex anymore.

  Ther
e’s a silver lining to this whole no kids thing. Plus I’ve got my niece and now a nephew on the way. And of course, we’re getting a new house, and now we don’t have to worry about how much it’ll cost because we won’t be paying any childcare expenses.

  This is fine. It’ll be fine.

  I’m really involved in my game when I hear the front door open. I crane my neck and see Anna come inside, clutching a plastic bag in her hand. She waves to me and I take my hand off the controller to wave back. I assume she’s going to go into the kitchen to start dinner, but instead she pushes my wheelchair out of the way and sits down next to me on the couch to watch me play.

  “What are you playing?” she asks me.

  “Grand Theft Auto.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Basically, you go around stealing cars.”

  “So why are you in a helicopter?”

  “Well, some cops were chasing me, so I was trying to escape.”

  “And why are you jumping out of the helicopter?”

  “Don’t worry—I have a parachute.”

  “So why aren’t you opening it?”

  And now I’m dead. I put down my controller to look at Anna, whose usually pale face is flushed pink. She’s sitting primly on the couch like she always does, still clutching that plastic bag. I feel a sudden surge of crazy love for this woman. I love Anna so much. I don’t care if we’ll never have kids. Well, I care, but it’s okay. It’s enough that I’ve got her.

  “I bought something,” she says, thrusting the plastic bag in my direction.

  “Uh, okay,” I say. “That’s good. And everything went all right?”

  “No, I mean…” She smiles nervously. “I bought something for us.”

  I shake my head at her, but I take the bag from her. I reach inside and pull out a pink box.

  Holy shit, it’s an ovulation kit.

  “Anna,” I say hoarsely. “We don’t have to do this. Really.”

  “I want to do it,” she says firmly.

  “You can’t go off your meds…”

  She looks me in the eyes. “I already started tapering them.”

  Christ, this is heavy. I don’t want to lose all the progress Anna has made. I don’t want her to go back to the way she used to be. But if I’m being honest, I do want us to have a child. It was tearing me apart that we couldn’t.

  “I think you’ll make an incredible father,” Anna says.

  I didn’t think I could love her any more than I did five minutes ago, but there it is.

  We’re going to try for a baby.

  Wow.

  Chapter 12: Anna

  Two months later

  Most days when Matt comes to work rather than working from home, we eat lunch together. At 10:45 a.m., sharp. Well, it used to be 10:45 sharp. I used to be very strict about making sure we met in the break room at that exact time, but now if Matt shows up at 10:46 or even 10:47, it’s okay. One day he got caught in a meeting and didn’t show up until 10:49, but I was fine.

  It’s 10:40 a.m. right now, and I’m in the ladies’ room, washing my hands in anticipation of lunch. I scrub them for the requisite eleven seconds, then dry them off with a piece of brown paper towel. As I’m tossing the paper towel into the trash, I notice a small, dark red smear on the paper.

  I freeze, taking a closer look at the paper towel. I know what I’m looking at—it’s blood. I put down the paper towel and look down at my hands.

  There’s a cut on my left hand, which is oozing blood. It’s the only open area I can see, but my hands are overall red and raw. I feel stinging pain on my palms where the soap made contact with the tiny cracks in the skin. I stare at them for a moment, a sick feeling coming over me. My hands haven’t looked this way in years—they haven’t bled in so long. A few months ago, Matt commented on how soft they were.

  How much have I been washing my hands? I didn’t think it was that much, but perhaps it is.

  I’m now off all my regular medication for my OCD. I’m on a different medication, one that is safe to consume during the first trimester of pregnancy, but one that has proven not to be as effective for me in the past as my previous regimen. It’s better than nothing, Dr. Hayward reasoned.

  But it’s clearly not enough.

  I drop my hands, my heart pounding. This is not a big deal. So I’m washing my hands somewhat more than I used to in the past. It doesn’t mean all my symptoms are coming back. It’s just washing my hands. Maybe my hands are more sensitive because of the weather changing.

  In any case, this is all temporary. Just until we are able to successfully conceive a child. We’ve had one unsuccessful attempt, but this month I have timed our copulation perfectly. Perhaps I am with child as we speak.

  Oh my God, it’s 10:43! I have to get to the breakroom!

  I rush out of the bathroom and down the hallway to the breakroom, arriving at 10:44. Matt isn’t there yet, but I notice the room is quite dirty. There are coffee rings all over the table! Luckily, I’ve got a minute to get the table clean. I grab a paper towel and the bottle of Lysol I keep under the sink. And I start scrubbing, my hands stinging painfully where the chemicals make contact with the dozens of tiny cuts on my skin.

  10:45. Where is Matt?

  There’s one ring of coffee that seems embedded in the table. I scrub and scrub, but it’s not coming out. I don’t understand it. What is going on here? Was the employee drinking some superhuman brand of coffee that is impermeable to conventional cleaning products? And where’s Matt? It’s 10:46. 10:46!

  The door to the breakroom swings open, and before Matt can even get his chair entirely in the room, I snap at him, “You’re late!”

  Matt’s mouth falls open. He stares up at me, blinking his kind brown eyes. I instantly feel horrible for yelling at him that way. What came over me? He’s only seventy-two seconds late. I’m sure he has a very legitimate excuse.

  “Sorry,” I murmur. I drop my shoulders. “I… I can’t seem to get this coffee ring out of the table.”

  The hurt fades from Matt’s face and he manages a smile. “Out, damned spot?”

  Ooh, I like it when he quotes Shakespeare, even when it’s something as pedestrian as MacBeth. “Something like that.”

  He wheels over to examine the coffee table. He places his fingers on the table, and I bite my tongue to keep from asking him if he washed his hands prior to coming to the breakroom. He always washes his hands—I shouldn’t have to ask him. But lately, I’ve been noticing the pushrims on his chair are quite dirty. I gave them a good scrubbing yesterday, but a lot can happen in a day. I probably need to scrub them daily. I’ll do it while he showers in the morning.

  His eyes narrow as he finally detects the stubborn ring I’ve been furiously scrubbing. “Anna,” he says, “that ring is always there.”

  I frown. “What? No, it isn’t.”

  He nods. “Yes. It is.”

  I look at the faint ring again. I slide my fingers over it, noting it doesn’t feel sticky. Could Matt be correct? Is this ring a permanent fixture on the table? If so, how is it possible I’ve only become aware of it today? It seems impossible I might not have noticed such a thing. My powers of observation are quite keen.

  His eyebrows knit together. “Are you okay, Anna?”

  “Yes,” I say quickly. “I’m fine. Totally fine.”

  Please let me be okay. I don’t want to go back to being the way I was. I knew there would be a setback going off the medications, but I’ve done years of psychotherapy. I’ve got Zoloft. How could I revert to becoming the same ball of anxiety I was before? I thought Crazy Anna was gone—dead. But now it seems like she was only lurking in the shadows, waiting to come back when the drugs cleared out of my bloodstream.

  I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. I recite my mantra to myself. I’ve been using it more and more now that I do not have access to my Xanax:

  Most germs are not harmful.

  My immune system is strong.

  I have a husban
d who loves me very much, and I love him.

  It works. At least, I’m able to drop the paper towel in the garbage and make peace with the fact that the coffee ring will not be coming out of the table.

  “So what’s for lunch?” Matt asks me.

  This time I do not have to force my smile. Whenever Matt and I are having lunch together, I make him a sandwich. I used to make myself the same kind of sandwich every single day, but I could see him growing weary of that, so I have expanded my lunch repertoire in order to please him. I love it when I present him with a sandwich that brings a smile to his face. I know he thinks I am a skilled chef—I take pride in cooking for my husband.

  “You will love it,” I tell him. “It’s turkey and brie on honey wheat bread.”

  “Brie.” Matt nods appreciatively. “Brie is the best cheese there is.”

  “I agree.”

  “Sometimes I wonder,” he says thoughtfully, “why people bother to put other kinds of cheese on sandwiches when brie exists.”

  I laugh. “Well, you are the one who always says variety is important.”

  He grins at me. There is, in my opinion, nobody as handsome as Matt when he smiles like that. I will not be ovulating tonight, which means we can focus solely on pleasure. It will be very nice. So nice. I can hardly wait.

  “Let me get the sandwiches from the refrigerator,” I say, slightly breathless in my anticipation of what we will do tonight.

  For many years, I refused to put my lunch in the communal refrigerator. I used to bring it in a cooler with an icepack and keep it with me at my desk until it was time for consumption. Three years ago, Matt convinced me this was silly, and I’ve been keeping my food in the fridge since then.

  Except now when I open the fridge, I notice it hasn’t been cleaned in a very long time. There’s brown material lining the edges of the shelves. A white film—possibly mold—is all over the shelves. Someone has left an overripe banana in there that is turning a sickening shade of brown. There’s a carton of milk in the fridge and I spy the expiration date—yesterday!

  Oh my God, how did this fridge become so unacceptably dirty? I suspect it does not receive regular cleaning in spite of warning messages appearing on the freezer that it is emptied out on a weekly basis. And our lunches have been sitting in there for hours, absorbing all the dirt and germs, restricted to that tiny space.