Ellipsis

by Kristy McGinnis

The nurse reassured him I was doing fine. I wanted to scream at her. I wasn’t doing fine at all, but another contraction hit, even more intense than the last. I screamed in earnest at this and pushed again. Oh, dear God, burning now in my crotch. I feared I was ripping from end to end. “Narek!” I cried out in terror, and he leaned over my chest, his tears soaking the thin gown I wore.

  “Again! One more, Nell, you’re doing great!” the nurse encouraged cheerfully. I kicked one leg, hoping to make contact with her face, but she was quicker than me.

  Another one. Push, push, push. Then suddenly, relief.

  “Heads out, stop pushing now,” the doctor instructed from somewhere between my legs. He said this so calmly, as if just stopping pushing was the easiest thing in the world. Another wave hit. I screamed. “Push, gently, gently…” he instructed, and then I felt the slippery thing escape from my body.

  Almost immediately, an infant’s cry filled the room. An angry protest of a cry. The nurse smiled and took the screaming, red thing from the doctor and brought it to me. “A boy! You have a son!”

  Narek’s face broke into a huge smile even as tears continued to stream down his cheeks, and as she placed the squalling infant on my chest, I felt my entire world shift. A son. I had a son.

  We went about the business of checking a baby into the world. I labored on to deliver the placenta as the medical team weighed and cleaned the baby before wrapping him into a little cocoon and placing a tiny cap on his head. They handed him to Narek, who looked terrified he might drop the tiny 7-pound bundle. Watching him, my heart swelled.

  The nurse smiled too, and asked, “What’s his name going to be?”

  We’d discussed and chosen names, but until this moment, we had never shared them with anyone else. I glanced at Narek as he held the well-wrapped bundle to his chest and answered, “Charles. Charles Vazgen Buyukian.”

  It was as if I’d spoken an incantation. I felt the magic of the name; a golden-clad spirit spun invisibly about the room, ready to fight to the death to protect my son. My son.

  “Baby is very small. He is healthy?” Narek asked. I could see the sheer tininess of his son overwhelmed him.

  The nurse smiled again and assured him Baby was just fine. Baby must have realized he was the center of attention because he suddenly wailed again. I motioned for Narek to bring me the bundle and put him hesitantly to my breast. We needed a little assistance, but soon he was correctly latched, and I had the slightest inkling about just how much my life was about to change.

  We were released in the morning. Our impossibly small baby was placed gently into the bucket-like car seat. Straps, clips, bumper cushions held him in and promised to keep him as secure as a plastic toy being shipped from China. Still, both Narek and I felt slightly panicked, strapping him into the waiting car and during the drive back to the apartment. It was an awesome responsibility to be told you have a human being whose survival depended completely on you. It wasn’t as if either of us hadn’t failed at some relatively simple tasks in the past; there was no room for failure with this one.

  If our small apartment had seemed cramped before, it was suddenly impossibly minuscule. The baby gear was everywhere; it sat stacked on every horizontal surface, and then within a day, my parents had arrived with even more. They were, of course, enamoured with their grandson. Whatever disappointment they may have felt over my derailed plans had dissipated into the sheer joy of smelling the magical elixir of a newborn baby’s head. It had taken a while, but Narek was finally right, John and Nancy were happy.

  As we stepped over the diaper bags and laundry baskets and suitcases, it became clear we needed to make our move as quickly as possible. For two terrifying hours, we left Charlie with his grandparents as we toured several two-bedroom apartments in the area. I found it difficult to focus on the units we toured; I trusted my parents implicitly, but anything could happen while we were gone. I pictured home invaders breaking in, a fire starting in the apartment next door, the boiler exploding (did our building even have a boiler?), the gas leaking from the stove, and a dozen other potential calamities. My parents had successfully kept both my sister and me alive to adulthood, they’d clearly proven they were capable, but I had that ominous but classic maternal instinct that only I could truly keep Charlie safe.

  We did find a suitable apartment, although we wouldn’t make the move until the end of the month. My father voiced his concern over our making the move alone, but we assured him we’d have plenty of friends who could help. He looked unconvinced, but with his own work schedule, he couldn’t afford to stay any longer. As my parents’ visit was coming to an end, my mother and I enjoyed a little alone time with Charlie.

  “He really is perfect, Nell,” she said with a smile as she touched the tiny, silky black curls on his head.

  “I know. I can’t believe we get to keep him.”

  She laughed at that but then turned serious. “Motherhood is a great gift and responsibility. I know you’re going to do a wonderful job Nell, but I want you to seriously consider finding a church here and having him baptized.” As if sensing the rising rebuttal in me, she threw a hand up and continued, “I know you’re not big on church attendance but just think about it.”

  I murmured an acknowledgement that neither challenged her or indicated agreement, but I knew I hadn’t fooled her. She sighed, and because apparently, my religious animosity wasn’t a controversial enough subject, she plowed right ahead to another.

  “So, have you and Narek discussed a date yet?”

  “A date?” I asked, sincerely confused.

  “For a wedding,” she said cheerfully.

  “Oh my god, Mom, of course not. I told you we have no plans to marry!”

  My raised voice disturbed the baby and he made little angry sounds. Raising him to my breast, I looked at my mother accusingly.

  She said, “I’m not trying to push, but what you actually said was you weren’t planning on getting married at this time. And that was three months ago, so I wondered if maybe it was time yet.

  “No. No, no, no. I will let you know if we change our minds, but you have to let that old fashioned expectation go already. We don’t need a piece of paper to show our love; we don’t need a piece of paper to be a family.”

  Her raised eyebrows and pursed lips told me she didn’t buy a word of that, but she sighed and said, “Okay, I’ll try to be patient. You know I love you, and I’ve already fallen madly in love with this little boy. Narek’s a good man; he’ll be a good father. I just want you all to be happy.”

  We tacitly moved on to more casual conversation, and when my parents left the next day, she hugged me tightly. I wiped the tears as we drove home and smiled at Narek. Now it was our turn. Without the buffer of my parents, the three of us began the fantasy of playing house in earnest. For a short period of time, I believed the fantasy was real. For a golden moment, I believed we would all live happily ever after.

  5

  Narek was distancing himself again. He’d hired on at a local gallery, and between that and his personal studio time, I found myself alone with Charlie most days and often in the evening as well. I had joined several mommy groups on the internet and found it wasn’t unusual for fathers to take on extra work hours to lighten their own parenting load. This frustrated most of the posters and intellectually, I understood their feelings. It was 2005, we were an enlightened society. We acknowledged raising children was no longer “women’s work,” and our men had promised to be active modern fathers. The truth I couldn’t admit in those online communities, though, was that I didn’t resent Narek for leaving the majority of parenting to me. I secretly relished the fact that I had Charlie all to myself for much of the day.

  On those same internet groups, I read about babies that never slept, babies always crying, exhausted moms, moms dealing with postpartum depression, moms with cracked nipples. They made me feel like the luckiest mom in the world. I kept my joy secret; I didn’t want to make those facing more challenging paren
ting journeys feel bad. In the privacy of my own home, I’d squeeze Charlie gleefully against my torso and admire his perfect little head of black hair and whisper to him, “I won!”

  At age three months, Charlie was preternaturally curious about the world around him. He’d sit quietly in his infant carrier in the front of my shopping cart, eyes wide open, staring at the world around us. People would often stop to comment about how alert and serious he was. They were drawn to his big, dark blue eyes clearly turning brown. Narek’s eyes. He wasn’t always serious, of course. When he did gift a recipient with his adorable, cheeky smile, the effect was contagious. The positive attention he garnered every time we went into public left me feeling embarrassingly proud.

  At home, when it was just the two of us, I’d stretch out on the bed next to him and stare into his eyes. Baby talk felt awkward with Charlie, so almost from the very beginning, I spoke to him as if he were a fully developed, cognizant human being. I’d describe my idyllic childhood to him, filling his tiny head with visions of long summers spent playing on the beaches of Grand Traverse Bay. I told him about how astonishingly beautiful fall was when the sugar maples could blind you with their fiery-orange foliage. I chuckled as I explained how mild Virginia winters were compared to home; we measured snow here in inches instead of feet, and the locals still couldn’t drive in it.

  I also talked about Narek, a lot. I shared how we met; I talked about how talented he was, how big his dreams were. I confided about the future I envisioned for the three of us. Often, when I spoke about Narek, though, it was as if I were speaking of someone long ago. He felt so absent from our lives. The man in my stories sounded like someone who existed only in memory. Whenever I realized I was doing that, I’d feel uneasy. It was as if I sensed how precarious we really were.

  It was shortly after Charlie’s three-month birthday I made the big mistake. The gallery had hosted a special evening event, one of those sip champagne and gaze at paintings and pretend to be moved affairs I no longer attended. Narek had returned after midnight, and I happened to be up feeding Charlie. We had a friendly enough exchange, and then he headed into the shower. After carefully transporting Charlie back to his crib, I returned to the bedroom in time to hear a buzzing sound. I traced it to Narek’s phone on the dresser, and without thinking, I picked it up.

  The name on the screen was written in Armenian script; I had no clue what it was. It shouldn’t have mattered, though. We had an unspoken agreement in our home to never touch your partner's phone. We were too cool and liberated for those kinds of sneaky games. For two years, this understanding had worked well for us. The thing was, normally, no one ever called after midnight, and considering our recent distance, my mind immediately went to the worst place. What if he were purposely hiding contacts in Armenian? What if it were another woman? I could not resist hitting the answer button.

  It was another woman, albeit not the kind I feared. I said hello, and I heard a voice reply back through static, “Allo?”

  I replied with yet another hello and was rewarded with a stream of Armenian in a voice I could only describe as annoyed. When I failed to comprehend or reply, the voice switched over to almost English.

  “Allo? Where Narek?” she demanded.

  “In the shower,” I explained. “Who should I say is calling?”

  “Shower? He bathes now? Who is this?”

  I felt my stomach tighten; the woman sounded older. I had a sinking feeling I knew exactly who she was. She must be the woman I’d somehow avoided for over two years now. Whenever I allowed myself to think about it, I knew how insane our arrangement was. I’d always known at some point, there would be a reckoning. The truth would have to come out and the longer it took for that to happen, the more awkward it would be. Until then, though, we’d somehow pretended we could keep our lives separate and secret from Armenia forever. His parents weren’t just unaware we lived together, they didn’t know I existed at all. The call was a disaster.

  Feeling desperate to fix it before Narek came out of the shower, I stuttered, “I think you have the wrong number,” and hung up abruptly. I knew, of course, it was a mistake as soon as I did it. If she had a modern cell phone, and I assumed they had those in Armenia, she could confirm she had dialed exactly the right number.

  Narek walked out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist at exactly the moment the phone rang again. I said, “Narek…” trying to warn him before he answered, but I was too late.

  He answered as he left the room, sounding casual at first. His voice became more animated. He was speaking in Armenian, and I didn’t know a word he was saying, but I understood it all nonetheless. His voice eventually dropped, and he was giving short, quiet answers. I didn’t understand most of what he said, but I did understand when my name was mentioned. They continued speaking for twenty more minutes before I heard something else I recognized. Charles, Charlie Vazgen. More angry talk, then the contrite voice. Then a few quiet words, and then the speaking ended completely.

  When he reentered our bedroom, I looked at him nervously. “I’m sorry,” I said, meaning it. The look on his face was horrible, a look of total devastation. Whatever brief fantasy I might have indulged of this call perhaps being a good thing, in the end, was dashed.

  He walked purposely toward his dresser and pulled out pants and a shirt, then slammed the drawer shut. Charlie began to shriek from his room next door, and I felt torn. I needed to get to my baby, and I also needed to stop Narek from dressing. I was certain of that. I looked at him beseechingly, but he refused to meet my eyes. “Charlie’s crying,” I said desperately.

  He ignored me and began to dress, and I grabbed his arm, desperate to stop him. He yanked it away, and I pleaded with him to stop and just listen. His normally placid face was tight with anger, and for a moment, I thought he might actually reach out and strike me. Still hearing Charlie’s wails, I turned and ran from the room to grab my son. Charlie’s little face was bright red with outrage at the disturbance. I pulled him tight against my chest, as if he were a talisman, and stepped into the living room to confront a now fully dressed Narek.

  “Please, I’m sorry, Narek. It was a horrible accident; I wasn’t thinking. I just answered it on instinct, and then I panicked.”

  He finally looked at me and then said in the coldest voice I’d ever heard him use, “I won’t talk with you. You don’t know what is done.”

  He didn’t slam the front door. Somehow, I felt as if the soft “click” of the latch was a thousand times worse than a reverberating slam might have been. It felt so much colder. I rocked a perfectly content looking Charlie in my arms, trying to spare him the shower of my tears.

  Narek didn’t return the next day. I walked dully around the apartment, shifting attention from Charlie to the book I was reading to the endless litany of chick flicks I kept popping into the DVR. I ordered Chinese for dinner, enough for both Narek and me, but still, he didn’t return. He answered none of my calls, and I fought the urge to visit his studio and gallery to hunt him down. For the second night in a row, I slept with the warm, comforting presence of Charlie next to me.

  On the third day, I finally heard the familiar, comforting jingle of his keys as he struggled to open the always glitchy door lock. Charlie lay cooing happily on his clowny blanket in the middle of the living room floor and Narek’s eyes went to him first. I could see the softening in those eyes when he made contact with his son. Then he looked at me. There was still anger there. I could sense it in the same way I could often sense a coming storm from the mild ache in my knees. There was a hint of affection there too, though, and it battled valiantly with the darker emotion.

  I’d spent days alternating between crying, raging privately to myself, and fighting the growing panic of trying to imagine how I’d support Charlie and myself if he didn’t return. At that moment, though, every bit of angst and doubt fled, and I wanted nothing more than to throw myself into his arms. He stood with his back rigid, his legs slightly apart and
his hands balled tightly at his side and I sensed physical contact would be a mistake. I knew there needed to be a difficult conversation before there could be any physical affection.

  “Narek… I’m so sorry,” I said once again, quietly.

  This time he seemed ready to hear the words. He didn’t rage or turn and run; he nodded slowly.

  “I was angry, you don’t understand what they are like. They are not like John and Nancy.”

  We’d had very few in-depth conversations about his family. He’d made it clear from the very beginning his relationship with them was complicated, and he didn’t like discussing it. I knew they were a very traditional family; they thought of his time in America as temporary, and they were not happy about it. He dutifully called them once a week, and sometimes a package would show up, but until now, they’d been removed from our lives. I’d been only too content with that arrangement. I loved Narek as he was. We’d formed our own unit, immune to the pressures and expectations his extended family might have introduced.

  “I know, but truly it was an accident. People make mistakes, they argue, you can’t just leave over that. You have a son now; he needs both of us here every day.”

  Narek walked across the room and sat on the sofa; I breathed a sigh of relief. He was staying, for now at least. Needing to know, I prodded. “Your mother, what did you tell her about me?”

  He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I try to explain, is different here. Not everyone marries, is okay to share apartment. I tell her you’re not pjatsadz, you are just normal American woman. She doesn’t understand, though, in Armenia this is not normal. She says amot eh, it means this is a thing of how do you say it?”

  I wasn’t sure what word he was grappling with, but I had the distinct feeling I wouldn’t like it.

  Finally, the word came to him. “Shame! Shame on me. Shame on you. That is what she says,” he finally finished.

  My cheeks burned; I understood the context even if I didn’t quite understand the words. She thought I was a whore. “And Charlie? What does she say about her own grandson?”