“Where’re you going?” he asks.
“Have to pee,” I say.
This is stupid, I think as I march to the bathroom. It’s just PMS. And being overworked, overtired, overstupid. That’s the logical explanation for the grouchiness, the fit I threw about the stupid pheasants, the tiredness, bloating, and aching boobs. The barfing? That could be something else. A virus. Nerves. Still. What if it isn’t?
I shut the bathroom door and look at myself in the soap-speckled mirror. Franny was right, I do look like shit. My skin is ashy. My eyes, normally a warm hazel color, have gone muddy brown and lack any luster. The skin beneath them is grayish blue. I look worn. A little haggard. I’ve got no flare, no flash. All hints of luscious Lemon have vanished from my face.
I turn to the side and examine my body. The same little trundle of flesh that always sits below my belly button is there. I’ll never be one of those perky girls who can run around all summer braless in a tank top and hip-huggers. I come from child-bearing stock. Broad shoulders, strong arms, and solid, capable hands. Full round breasts, perfect for suckling a babe. Sturdy legs and Botticellian hips, great for lugging infants around. It took me a long time to learn to love this body. To see myself as sumptuous and sexy. Eddie calls me voluptuous and loves to lay his head down between my hipbones where my low-slung belly is. But as I look at myself I wonder, am I losing it all at thirty?
“Lemon?” Eddie knocks on the door. “You okay in there?” He stands in the hall, yawning and rubbing the hair on his belly. When he’s wet, he looks like an otter with slick fur. I half expect him to break oysters on his gut and hand me the oily meat.
I lean against the scummy sink. This bathroom hasn’t been cleaned in weeks, and it’s disgusting. “Eddie, what if I was—” I say, then stop.
He cocks his head to one side and blinks at me. “If you were what?”
If I say it, it might come true, and I’m not sure it would be such a good thing. Eddie and I have never discussed having kids. Plus, I’m not sure that I’m ready. How could I keep up with the restaurant if I had a kid when I can barely keep my head above water now? And Eddie? I look at him. He stands in the doorway, scratching his stomach. He claims he wants a family someday, but he’s never seen a man actually take care of a baby. His father never changed a diaper, and his older brother hardly counts as the modern man, working fourteen-hour days down in Atlanta as a bond trader while his wife and the nanny shuttle their kids around in the minivan.
“I could be—” I say and stop again.
Eddie looks down at my hand resting on my belly. Then his eyes widen. He looks up at me. “Are you pregnant?” he asks in a hallowed whisper.
I bite my lips and shrug. “Could be,” I say.
We look at each other uncertain.
“But I thought you were on the pill.”
“I am, but—” I shake my head. Try to count up the days since my last period. All time falls into the before-the-anniversary category and the after-the-anniversary category. I know I haven’t had a period since before. That was well over a month ago. Five or six weeks maybe. I pace around the little room between the grimy toilet and the door.
“I’ve been so busy and exhausted,” I tell him. “Everything’s so hectic. I know I’ve missed some pills. I tried to make up for them, but I could’ve gotten off track.” Then I shake my head. “No. I couldn’t be. It doesn’t make sense. We’ve barely had sex in the past month.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” he says with a little snort. Then he stares at me again. His eyes are bright. Worried and excited. “But is your period late? Do you feel sick?” He runs his fingers through his hair. “Have you done a test?”
I think of Franny downstairs grousing to Ernesto while she stuffs the pheasants without me. The Sunday brunch menu that isn’t set. All the receipts and bills in a pile on my desk. This is not what I need right now.
“It’s probably stress,” I say. “Besides, I always think I’m pregnant. Every time my period’s even a second late. It’s the curse of growing up around a bunch of fertile Italian women who get pregnant every time the pope sneezes.”
Eddie continues to watch me from the doorway. I pick up a hairbrush from the sink top and pull out wads of tangled hair from the bristles as if it’s the most important task in the universe. I have to move, keep myself busy. I concentrate on the brush so I don’t have to think about what might be happening.
“There’s one way to find out,” Eddie says. “I’ll run down to the pharmacy and get us one of those kits.” He hustles down the hall. “What’d you call them?” he yells. Then he’s in front of the open door again, hobbling into his jeans.
I stand with a wad of hair in one hand and the clean brush in the other. “A pregnancy test,” I say stupidly.
“What kind is best?” he asks me. Before I can answer he says, “I’ll ask the pharmacist,” then runs back into the bedroom and returns with his shoes. “Should we call the doctor? Can I get you anything else while I’m out? Vitamins?”
“But Eddie,” I say. “What if I am?”
He shrugs. “A kid could be fun, Lem,” he says as if we’re talking about a puppy. “My mom would flip.”
“Do you know how much work a baby is?” I shake the brush at him. “You think it’s all fun and games, entertaining your nephew, but you get to send him home at the end of the day. Having a kid would completely disrupt our lives!”
He hops into the room and kisses me on the forehead. “We don’t even know yet, so don’t get all wound up.” He shoves his wallet and keys into his pockets. “I’ll be right back,” he yells as he goes out the door.
I walk slowly to the bed and flop down. Grab a pillow and hug it to my chest. I’m not ready for this. I’ve just gotten to the cusp of success with my restaurant. I can’t ruin ten years of hard work with a baby. Then again, Eddie’s excitement is so sweet, so seemingly genuine. He looked at me with pure amazement, as if I had done something brilliant by possibly getting knocked up. As much as I deny it, there’s a part of me that wants a family someday.
Sometimes I imagine having kids. When I’m cooking, baking a pie, or making meatballs like Grandma and Aunt Poppy taught me, I think about what I would say to a kid. How I would teach her the same things. Or if I had a boy, I think he would be something like my dad. At some point in my life, I think that I’ll want this. A successful restaurant, an adoring husband, and a gaggle of ornery towheaded kids. Sometimes I daydream about a farm upstate. Moving Grandma in with me. Having kids who run free through fields and meadows with goats and ducks and chickens. Who paint their faces with berry juice and make mud pies on the bank of some little creek.
Other times my family daydreams are of a sprawling apartment in the West Village. My children will be city-smart, street-wise little imps who hang on subway poles and love John Waters films. And I will be forever with them. Never leave them. I’ll take everything my grandmother has shown me about loving a child, and I’ll revisit it tenfold on my own kids.
But not now. Not quite yet. If I had a kid now, I’d be too much like my mother. Torn between pursuing my career and trying to be a parent. I’m afraid that my restaurant would win. So I can’t be pregnant. But then again, what if I am? I place my hand on my belly. “Hello in there,” I say. “Anybody home?”
The front door opens, and Eddie jogs, panting, into the bedroom. “Okay.” He dumps the bag of tests on the bed and flops to his stomach at my feet. There are three kinds of tests—EPT, First Response, and a generic drugstore brand, plus a bottle of folic acid tablets and a fake yellow rose in cellophane wrap.
“First of all, this is for you.” He hands me the tacky little rose.
“Thanks,” I say and pretend to sniff it. It smells like plastic.
“There was a line for the pharmacist, and I didn’t want to wait to ask which test was best, so I got a bunch. We might want to try more than one, just to be sure.” We examine the instructions on the back of each box.
“I don’
t think I could pee that much,” I say.
“I’ll get you some water.” He rushes out of the room again.
“What’s folic acid?” I call after him.
“Good for neural tube closure in the first three months.”
“How do you know that?”
“My sister-in-law took it when she was pregnant,” Eddie yells from the kitchen.
I open the EPT box and look at the instruction sheet. A cartoon woman with a perfect Y-shaped crotch holds the stick between her legs. She has no expression on her face.
Eddie comes back in the room, flushed and excited. He hands me a glass of milk. The smell makes my stomach clench. I push it away.
“Calcium,” he says.
“Don’t start,” I warn.
Eddie takes the cap off the folic acid and slips his thumbnail under the foil top. “It’s good for you.”
“I might not be pregnant.”
“Act like you are until you know you’re not.” He taps a tablet into his palm and holds it in front of me.
“We’ll know in five minutes.”
“So for the next five minutes—” Eddie says.
“I won’t smoke any crack.” I grab the test stick and head for the bathroom.
“Can I come, too?” Eddie clutches the instructions next to his chest.
“And watch me pee? Gross, Eddie.”
“Like you never pee in front of me.”
I stop and point the stick at him. “You act like this is some kind of game.”
“You act like it’s something awful,” he says to me.
We stare at each other. An impasse. Which is it?
“Just let me pee alone, and then you can come in and watch the results with me,” I offer.
“Fine,” he says. “But do it right.” He reads the instructions. “Only pee on it for five seconds.”
“I know,” I say as I shut the bathroom door.
“And then put the cover back over the soft tip.”
“I know.” I open the foil packet and pull out the purple-and-white test. It’s curved to fit my fingers. An ergonomic pee stick, how convenient. I take the purple cap off the test area.
“And then lay it flat. On the sink. Don’t hold it up,” he says through the door.
“Okay.” I drop my panties and scoot far back on the toilet so I can hold the stick between my legs and hit my target.
“Are you done yet?”
“For Christ’s sake, Eddie. If you don’t shut up, I won’t be able to pee.”
“Okay, sorry. I’m going to be quiet now.”
I can hear him breathing right outside the door. “Why don’t you make me some tea?”
“I will when you’re done.”
“I can’t pee with you by the door.”
“I’m not by the door,” he says in a small quiet voice, as if he’s far away.
“I can see your shadow through the crack.”
He moves away. The floorboards creak. I relax and feel my bladder start to release, but then Eddie tiptoes back toward the door. “Eddie!” I shout. “For Christ’s sake.”
“Dang, Lemon, you have better ears than a hunting dog.”
“Really. Go make me a cup of tea. My stomach is upset.”
“Okay,” he says. “Herbal only. No caffeine. And don’t read the results without me.”
“It takes a few minutes.”
“Exactly three minutes,” he yells.
I sigh. Then laugh. This is all so ridiculous. I hear the water running in the kitchen. My pee comes. I shower the stick, put the cap back on, and set it gingerly on the counter.
“Lem, where do we keep the tea bags?” Eddie calls from the kitchen.
I peek out of the bathroom door. He stands with his head inside the cup cabinet. It’s amazing how he’s never learned where anything but the corkscrew is kept in my place.
“Forget it, Eddie. I don’t want any tea.”
He pulls his head out, leaving the cabinet doors wide open and the water heating on the stove. “You done?”
I nod and wrap a towel around my body. Being half naked feels way too vulnerable right now.
“Everything go okay?” Eddie advances down the hall.
“I peed, Eddie.”
He smiles at me like I’m a good dog. Then we both lean over and watch the test strip. The urine creeps through, turning the first window a pinkish mauve color.
“If both windows show a line,” says Eddie.
I turn to face him.
“You’re blocking my view,” he says.
I wrap my arms around his middle.
“The line is coming up in the first window.”
“I’m scared,” I admit.
“Shhhh,” says Eddie. He rubs a circle on my back. “We can handle this.”
I close my eyes and imagine for just a second Eddie and me with a baby. Maybe things would be easier. Maybe I wouldn’t push myself so hard then. I’d have to learn to balance. To make my life more even. “Are you ready for a kid?” I ask him.
Eddie kisses the top of my head. “Yes,” he says with such confidence and clarity that I’m calmed. He picks up the test and squints at it. I squeeze my eyes shut.
“What’s it say?” I ask.
“Well,” says Eddie, “it’s kind of hard to tell.”
“It’s a yes or no thing, Eddie.”
“But I don’t know. Maybe there’s a line. It’s faint. Or maybe that’s not it. How long has it been?”
I grab the stick from him and hold it up to my face. He’s right. There could be a line in the second window. Or maybe not. I hold it up to the light. We both squint at it.
“This is certainly anticlimactic,” I say.
“Maybe we should do another one,” Eddie suggests.
“I don’t have to pee again.”
He takes it from me. “I think that’s a line. I think you are.”
I grab it back from him. “No. It’s too faint. It’s just left over from the pee going through.”
“How do you feel? I mean deep down.” Eddie presses his hand against my belly and closes his eyes. “Do you think you are?”
“How would I know?”
“Because it’s your body.” He opens his eyes and stares at me. “Don’t you know? Can’t you feel it? If you close your eyes and concentrate?”
I swat his hand away. “It’s not like that, Eddie.”
He looks at me, skeptically. “My sister-in-law swore she knew the minute she conceived.”
“Your sister-in-law’s full of shit.”
“Maybe she’s just more in touch with her body.”
“God, I hate this in-touch-with-your-body bullshit. Women drop babies into toilets because they have no idea they’re pregnant.”
“That’s not true.”
“Is so,” I insist. “There was a girl in my high school who had a baby and swore she had no idea that she was pregnant. Everyone thought she was just getting fat. She was already kind of chunky. She had a period every month and the baby never kicked or moved. It can happen.”
“She was in denial,” Eddie says. “Didn’t want to believe she was.”
“Next time you’re pregnant,” I say angrily, “you let me know how it feels!” I drop the test in the trash and stomp out of the room.
“Lemon,” Eddie calls after me. “Lem, come on.” He follows me to the bedroom.
I crawl back into the bed, pull the covers up to my chin, and face the wall.
“Hey.” He sits beside me. Rubs my legs. I squirm away from him and pull my knees up to my chest.
“Let’s not get all pissed off at one another,” Eddie pleads. “This could be one of the happiest moments in our lives.” He pulls me into his body and lies down with his arms wrapped around me.
“This wasn’t in the plan,” I mutter.
“Sometimes the best things are unplanned.”
“I don’t think I can handle it.”
“Of course you can,” says Eddie. “You’re the toughest perso
n I know. You can handle anything. Plus you have me. We’d be great parents.” We’re quiet for a while and then he asks, “So what do you want to do?”
“If I don’t get my period in a few days, I’ll do another test,” I say and realize that I’m a little disappointed. Despite all my fears about whether I want a kid or could handle a kid and the restaurant, for a moment there in the bathroom, with Eddie all excited, I was looking forward to the idea of a baby.
“Let’s get married,” Eddie says.
I groan. “Not this, Eddie. Not now.”
He’s done this four times in the last year. The first time he asked me was a joke. He’d lured me away from the restaurant for a long weekend at an old ski lodge in Stowe, Vermont. We’d seen so little of each other since I’d opened Lemon, and I was so exhausted, that we stayed holed up in our room for two days. After a strenuous and vocal round of sex, we lay tangled up on a featherbed beneath a goose-down comforter, and he panted in my ear, “That was so good I ought to ask you to marry me.” I laughed, but he said, “No, seriously. I think I will.” Then he slid off the bed onto his knees and said, “Lemon, will you marry me?”
“Not a chance,” I said, and he looked momentarily hurt, but quickly recovered when I invited him back beneath the covers.
The next time was at the Fulton Street Fish Market at 5:00 A.M. on a Thursday. We were both loopy on too many cups of Chinese tea from an all-night dim sum joint where we waited for the fishmongers to open. We goofed our way through the market, Eddie cracking jokes, me giggling. At the height of his silliness, he picked up a red snapper and moved its sad frowning mouth to say, “Don’t you want to marry Eddie?”
“Not on your life,” I answered.
“You’re one cold fish,” he made the fish say, and we both cracked up.
He also asked me in the car on the way back from an organic farm I was checking out for the restaurant. He made an impassioned speech about how he wanted to move back to Georgia, buy a farm, marry me, and have a brood of wild children. Then once he proposed after a particularly brutal fight, when he’d left me waiting at a bar on my one night off while he finished a squash game. When I was done stomping down Avenue A, screaming at him about his pathological lateness and overinflated sense of entitlement, he took my hand, grinned at me, and asked in his sweetest drawl, “Don’t you want to marry me now?”
Luscious Lemon Page 6
