Ellipsis

by Kristy McGinnis

  Twice a week, we found a secret respite, I’d lay posing in the studio, and would squint my eyes against the bright lights to find his across the room. The anonymous, disinterested faces in the class were unaware we were dating, and that only added to the excitement of our game. After enduring over an hour of public foreplay with his brush and my eyes, we’d sneak off for an urgent lovemaking session. Physically, we had been a match from the very start. We didn’t have sparks, or kindle a slow burn; we’d just jumped right into the fully engulfed incinerator. That physical connection pushed us to discover something deeper and more meaningful.

  The golden spring morphed into a white-hot summer. Our schedules were more relaxed and together we explored the city. Whether we were rafting on the James River or riding bikes along the Capital Trail, we had become children of the summer and I read so much promise in that. We were serious enough by then that I was introducing him to friends and coworkers as my boyfriend, and it was generally known we were an exclusive couple. We were established.

  In July, we bought plane tickets, and he accompanied me home to Northern Michigan to meet my family. Mom liked him immediately; she was suckered into those big brown eyes as quickly as I had been. I’d known she’d love him; he was exactly the kind of young man that middle-aged women were charmed by. He wore his shy smile and a deferential head nod like a crown.

  “He’s a hunk!” she whispered as we cleaned up the dishes after that first night’s meal.

  I rolled my eyes at both her word of choice and the fact she’d actually said it out loud, but then conceded with a nod. Yep, Narek was a hunk.

  Dad was indifferent, but this, too, had not been unexpected. My father was indifferent about every boy I’d ever brought home, and to be fair, there had been enough of them he had no reason to expect it might be safe to get attached. Still, he was friendly enough with Narek, before disappearing into his garage to do whatever it was, he seemed to spend hours doing out there.

  My only sibling, Sarah, deemed him “hot” but was quickly bored by our public displays of affection and disappeared for most of our visit with her friends. Sarah and I had always had a somewhat strained relationship. She was four years younger than me, but it wasn’t just age we didn’t have in common. As children, I’d always been the responsible one. Sarah would toss a deck of cards in the air, and I’d clean them up. I expected I’d always be cleaning up Sarah’s playing cards. Like me, she was a talker; but unlike me, she had no filter for what came out of her mouth. More than one family or neighborhood drama had been exasperated by Sarah’s big mouth.

  When our visit home ended, Sarah dutifully leaned in for a quick, perfunctory hug and then commented, “Well, if we don’t see you again, it was nice to meet you, Narek.”

  He laughed at that and assured her it had been mutual, then accepted the much warmer goodbye from my mother and a respectful handshake from my father. I felt proud as we walked into the airport. I knew my family had watched us walk through the door, and I knew they had judged that I’d chosen well.

  There’s a natural shift that happens to a relationship when a girl brings her lover home to meet the family and after returning to Richmond, it felt like the most natural thing in the world to suggest it was time to share his apartment. I was eager to leave student housing, I quickly moved my meager belongings in, and we played house in earnest. When I called home to tell my parents, I could hear the concern in my mother’s voice. She’d attempted to temper it with a false cheerful note, but I’d spent 18 years with her before heading to college and I heard it.

  “That sounds wonderful,” she’d said dutifully.

  “Mom… you don’t sound convinced.”

  It took prodding, but she finally admitted she was worried. She liked Narek a lot, but would this move derail my own plans? I assured her that wouldn’t happen. I’d dreamed of being a lawyer since girlhood, and I’d worked far too hard to make it happen to give it all up now. In two years, I’d graduate VCU with my English degree; I’d get into the College of William & Mary School of Law, I’d make the law review staff, would intern for a supreme court justice, and would ultimately practice constitutional law. I had every step planned; I was meticulous about checking off every necessary box. My parents had a lot riding on my academic success; we were a modest, middle-class family from rural Michigan, and they’d worked hard to give me the out-of-state education I’d dreamed of. With the absurd aplomb of youth, I was certain I wouldn’t let them down.

  Moving in together jettisoned our relationship to another level. I’d underestimated just how deeply under my skin he would burrow and just how quickly it would happen. Before cohabitation, I had wanted Narek. After moving in, though, I found I actually needed him. Very quickly, I admitted I was in love with him. I loved how every morning he awoke with the softest fringe of tiny black hairs across his jawline. I loved how his shirts were all speckled with the tiniest of paint splatters. I loved the spicy smell of the deodorant he wore. I loved how thick the dark thatch of hair was at his groin. I loved how he sometimes reversed his adjectives and nouns. I loved how excited he got whenever he saw a stray cat in the city. I loved how he slept perfectly still on his back, as if nothing ever troubled him in his dreams. Most of all, I loved his eyes. They were deep brown pools that held secrets I longed to uncover.

  Narek wasn’t as demonstrative as me, but I was confident that he loved me in return. Sometimes in the evening, I’d lay on my back and allow him to explore my body. It wasn’t a sexual exploration; it was the careful caress of an artist appreciating curves, valleys, dimples. His fingertips would move lightly along the hollow of my cheek, as his mind recorded the shape. Later, he would replicate the shadows on canvas. The words he couldn’t quite say out loud, would spill out in amber, copper, and red from the mouth of his brush. His paintings said I love you. I love you and I won’t leave you.

  As much as I loved Narek, though, I didn’t lose myself in him. Not completely. I was still firmly dedicated to my plans, still determined to reach my own goals. Loving Narek was necessary by that point, but I knew my plans would have to come first.

  With autumn came the start of my junior year and Narek’s final year at RSAD, and the first fine cracks began to appear in the beautiful glass house we’d built. His senior thesis would have him traveling abroad to Florence for six weeks, where he’d study in a space the true masters had once studied. I felt insanely jealous about the opportunity. Along with my envy of his ability to travel to a place so storied and beautiful, a heavy sense of dread filled me at the thought of his absence. Six weeks sounded like a lifetime, and everyone knows a lot happens in a lifetime. I had never suffered from a lack of self-esteem, but I drove myself half-crazy imagining the Italian beauties he’d meet. I was also worried because Italy was a lot closer to Armenia than Virginia. What if he got there and decided to just stay?

  Part of the deal I’d made with the forces that had allowed Narek to love me back at least a little had been my quiet promise to hide any hint of fragility. I tried not to let him see me needing him too much, but on at least one occasion, my resolve wavered.

  “You could have chosen Washington, DC, instead, right?”

  “Yes, but that would have been terrible. Maybe okay for someone who is more interested in being a curator, not for a serious painter. Besides, it’s Italy,” he replied shrugging.

  “Maybe I should have taken the semester off and joined you…”

  His facial expression made it quite clear that notion was ridiculous. “Why would you do that? I will be busy and you wouldn’t graduate on time then. John and Nancy wouldn’t be okay with that.”

  I rolled my eyes; since when did we concern ourselves with what my parents might think?

  “It’s just… I’ll miss you,” I said softly.

  He’d pulled me close and nuzzled the top of my head with his chin before promising, “I’ll miss you too, it will go fast, though.”

  I kept further fears to myself, unwilling to look weak and
unreasonable. When drop off day arrived, I played it cool. I gave him a goodbye kiss and told him I’d see him soon. I resolved to myself that I’d fill every moment of the next six weeks when not in class or at work, studying for LSATs. Refocusing on The Plan would give me purpose and help time pass more quickly. That singular vision got me through the first three lonely weeks of his absence.

  Despite my best efforts to pretend life had gone on, the apartment was too quiet, the bed too empty, and the phone calls too infrequent. We would go days without speaking to each other. Between the time difference, my overloaded work schedule, and Narek’s weekend forays around Italy with his new friends, I felt deserted. For his benefit, though, I continued the illusion of “cool girlfriend” whenever he’d call. If he casually mentioned drinks after class, I’d resist the urge to demand his companions’ names. If he mentioned being tired, I stilted the desire to ask what had kept him so busy the night before. When occasionally I heard female laughter in the background, I pushed the ugly accusations far from my lips. I knew they could never be uttered.

  Narek had never given me reason to question his loyalty. The only women he looked at were models in his classes, and I knew from experience he didn’t actually see them when they were on that display. He wasn’t a flirt; he didn’t even flirt with me, really. He was guarded and kept his internal thoughts hidden well. And that was actually the real problem. Even as I gave everything to him, I’d felt the reserve. I knew he had yet to truly open up to me. This trait felt survivable when we were spending every free moment together. With his physical distance, though, the emotional distance became exaggerated and unbearable.

  It was at the end of his fourth week that my facade finally slipped. We’d preplanned a phone call, and when the call never came, I felt uneasy and frustrated. The next day, my anxiety continued to climb, and I took the ridiculous action of calling in sick to work so I could wait by the phone. I stared at it beseechingly and willed it to ring but was only rewarded with silence. By evening despair had overtaken me.

  I found myself balled up in bed, sobbing into his pillow, imagining the worst things possible. I pictured him lying on his back naked, a dark-haired woman riding him, breasts bouncing, head tilted back. I pictured his hands clinging to her hips, then moving across the peaks and valleys of her body. She changed; she was blonde, she was fat; she had short hair, she had tiny breasts, she had long red curls. I pictured him fucking every single woman in Italy. Now I was sobbing into the damp pillow. Finally, I couldn’t take one more image, and I knew that I was going to vomit. I ran to the bathroom and emptied the contents of my stomach.

  After showering, I felt calmer and saner, more like my normal self. I slipped my invisible cloak of cool, impervious confidence over my shoulders. I made myself tea and poured a little whiskey into the mug, and sat down to consider my extreme reaction. I was worried. I’d never been the jealous type, and I certainly wasn’t the sob into a pillow kind of girl. I felt emotionally fragile, and it was a disturbing feeling. What was wrong with me? Where was the old Nell? As I ticked through a mental list of all that could be broken within me, the thought occurred there could be a chemical component to this. Perhaps this could be as simple as an extreme case of PMS. Perhaps my body was sabotaging my peace of mind with an assault of hormones.

  As if a thousand angry ice pellets were assaulting me at cosmic speed, a different realization hit me. My period. Where was my period? I ran for the kitchen; we kept a wall calendar hanging in there. I’d never tracked my cycle in writing, but I needed a visual aid to count back. He’d been gone for four weeks. Before that, how long was it before that? I tried frantically to piece together our hectic lives of a month ago. It hadn’t come the week before he left; I was sure of that. Two weeks before we’d gone to Virginia Beach, I’d remember if I’d needed tampons. I felt cold; it had to have been at least six weeks. Maybe more.

  After walking to the CVS and buying a small cache of pregnancy tests, I sat on the 20-year-old floral sofa he’d rescued from a street corner the year before I moved in with him. I gulped water, so much water I thought I’d burst. And then, when my bladder threatened to do just that, I forced my legs to move to the bathroom. My stream was heavy enough to time out two different test sticks. Another sat unused for the moment. I expected to wait five minutes then see a result, like they do in the movies. What actually happened was I watched a second line in the “pregnant” window appear immediately on the first test. The second test turned pink twenty seconds after it started processing my urine. Numbly, I looked at the remaining test and knew it was pointless.

  I would like to say I was suddenly filled with an indescribable joy and that I tenderly rubbed my still flat belly and imagined the baby within. I’d like to say I handled it gracefully and celebrated the moment with a prayer of gratitude. I’d like to say I felt even a hint of happiness. I’d like to say my first instinct wasn’t a panicked, “How do I get rid of it?”

  In actuality, escape was all I could think of. How does one escape a prison growing within one’s own womb? I pictured my entire future during those bleak early hours. Narek would leave me. He’d stay in Italy. I’d get fat. I’d have to leave college, forget law school. I wouldn’t even complete undergrad. I’d have to go back to Michigan in shame. I’d have a screaming, ungrateful infant who would demand every ounce of my soul. I’d never be a lawyer. I’d mooch off my parents until I met some local older man who’d already been married and divorced twice. We’d live in a trailer, and my child would perpetuate the cycle. Narek would never know her.

  I know, of course, that I was being ridiculous. I had options. It was 2004, after all, not 1884. There was the obvious choice, the one I immediately was leaning toward. A clinical procedure. I avoided using the “a” word, even in my own head. It would be a medical procedure. An evacuation of my body. A minor surgical event. I’d feel a little emotional afterward, bleed a few weeks, and then get back to my real life. I’d known girls who had been through this, and it certainly seemed they’d emerged on the other side none the worse for having made that choice. There was also adoption. I wasn’t inclined to think about that one seriously; I didn’t just not want a baby. I didn’t want a pregnancy at all! I wanted it to be over as soon as possible. I certainly didn’t want to explain myself to my family and friends, I couldn’t afford to miss work if the pregnancy was complicated, and if Narek came back, I wasn’t sure he’d go along with that at all.

  Narek. The other option was to pick up the phone and call the emergency number he’d left for his housing community. Have them hunt him down and get him on the phone. Tell him the truth. Why shouldn’t he suffer the burden of this choice alongside me? In the most unliberated moment of my young feminist life, another thought suddenly occurred to me. If I called Narek and told him, maybe guilt would force him to come back to me. Maybe he’d feel obligated to take care of the baby and me, to stay with us forever. Maybe if he knew, we could actually live happily ever after.

  I chose none of the above. I did seek crisis pregnancy centers, collecting phone numbers and addresses, but delayed acting on the impulse. When I looked at the carefully lettered list of addresses, I felt frozen with indecision. Unable to commit without him, I resolved to wait for Narek’s hopeful return. When Narek finally called a day later, I once again forced the fake cheery facade. I once again chose not to press him with questions. I shared no hint of the life-altering thing that had happened to us. That he didn’t notice the hint of sadness and fear in my voice troubled me more than I wanted to admit, but I reveled in the fact he still spoke of “When I get home.”

  He did, in fact, return. When he entered our apartment, he pulled me against his chest. Inhaling the scent of him, relief washed over me. It was still him. Pulling back, I met his gaze. The pregnancy was on the tip of my tongue, but first, I had to know something else. I hadn’t planned to speak of my immature fears and insecurities, but I needed to know. I needed to hear assurances before I shared my condition with him.
/>   “Was there anyone else?” I asked as calmly as possible.

  His eyes. I watched his eyes, and I knew what I saw. They darted quickly to the left. It was just for a nanosecond, but I saw it. He shrugged and shook his head.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re the only one; I came back, no? I don’t really think we should talk about it. Is a stupid question. I don’t ask you, is there another man, no?”

  His annoyance made me feel small. If he’d asked me if there had been anyone else, I would have laughed. It was such a preposterous question; I’d have asked if he had just smoked a joint. If he seemed very sincere and worried, I would have just held his hand and looked into his eyes and professed my love and reassured him of my faithfulness. Maybe if he asked ten times or a hundred times, I’d be annoyed. But it wasn’t such an outrageous question to ask after six weeks apart, just once.

  It was spoiled. I felt ridiculous thinking it, but everything was spoiled. I’d convinced myself that my fears were ridiculous and strictly hormonally driven, but at that moment, I felt a sudden clarity. There had been someone else. Maybe more than one. I understood he came back to me, to our life here, because this was where he wanted to be. I understood he loved me. I understood he wouldn’t purposely hurt me. I understood he would never confess a thing to me. I understood I had to accept this and move on with him or without him.

  In the end, I chose not to give my thoughts the power of my voice. I chose to dutifully follow him into our bedroom and make love. Afterward, I lay by his side. I stared at the ceiling for a while and then finally said the words. “I’m pregnant.”

  He didn’t reply. He lay perfectly still, and I wondered if he’d fallen asleep. Then I felt his hand creep over my torso and eventually come to rest protectively over my lower belly. Silent tears ran down my face in the dark, tears of both anguish and relief.