by Lynda Curnyn
Of all the nights for the latex to give out…
I put my hand on my stomach, gazing down as if I could divine what was going on inside my body just by looking at it. I tried to imagine a child growing inside me, and suddenly I saw it, alive and nestled in my lap. I could almost feel the warm weight of her—I felt certain that it was a her—against my body.
And I got that feeling again. That warm wash through my veins that I had felt that night with Ethan. Except this time it felt more like…longing.
“That’s insanity,” I insisted to myself, and then, as if to punctuate my words, my intercom buzzed, indicating I had a call from someone in the office. Claudia, I thought, recognizing the extension that lit up my caller ID screen.
I picked up. “What’s up?”
“What do you mean, what’s up? We have an eleven o’clock. It’s 11:05. Not that I want to disturb you.”
I bit back the retort I wanted to make, letting Claudia’s sarcasm slide. I sometimes think she takes delight in seeing me fuck up, which isn’t often. But could anyone blame me for forgetting we were meeting with a prospective ad agency this morning?
Needless to say, I was a bit preoccupied.
My preoccupation did not end with my eleven o’clock. Because it was leaning toward eleven-forty-five when I finally began to emerge from the dense fog that had descended over my brain ever since I’d done my little calculation. I was utterly useless during the meeting. Well, not totally useless. I mutely handed over the focus group research while Claudia pontificated on what we hoped to bring to the younger market to the two reps who had come from the Sterling Agency. Not even the chiseled good looks of the elder of the two—Laurence Bennett, approximately thirty-eight, approximately one position away from agency president and, depending on how you viewed his presentation style, practically flaunting that ringless left hand at us—could revive me.
I might not even have noticed his good looks, had it not been for the gleam I saw come into Claudia’s eye when, after she had gone over the slides laying out the desires, the hopes, the dreams and, more importantly, the buying habits of the 18-to-24-year-old set, Laurence winked and jokingly suggested that he was glad he wasn’t so young anymore.
From then on, I saw a new tension in Claudia’s movements as she went through the rest of the slides. In fact, if she’d had a tail, it would have been riding straight up into the air the way my mother’s cat’s had whenever some randy tom meandered through our yard.
Not that Larry noticed, I was sure. If nothing else, Claudia was subtle about her desires, or that desire was even part of her makeup. Nine times out of ten, the guy never even noticed she was female, much less attracted to him. Which probably accounted for the fact that Claudia hadn’t gotten laid since her husband left her for a younger woman five years ago.
Somehow the sight of her preening today filled me with a sadness I could not fathom. What was the point? I wondered as I watched their heads lean together to examine a chart Lori had created which summed up the research. It all would result in nothing anyway, I thought.
My hand went to my stomach reflexively.
Whereas this…this was…something.
What it was, exactly, had yet to be determined. And probably could have been determined sooner rather than later by a simple stop at Duane Reade for a pregnancy test. Yet somehow I was reluctant to verify what my body seemed to be saying.
Instead I fed it. Quite literally.
I went home that night and ate an entire pint of butter pecan ice cream. And that wasn’t the only indulgence I caved into. There was the bag of jalapeño cheddar potato chips I devoured, quite guiltlessly, along with lunch the next day. The Fettuccine Alfredo I grazed on at a café on my way home from work.
By the time I came home at week’s end, a tub of chocolate-covered pretzels in tow, I realized something else.
I liked the solitude of my life. The sight of my message-less answering machine did not bother me. Not even the memory of Michael’s confident grin as he gazed lovingly at Courtney had the power to hurt me. Nothing did. Not even Kristina Morova, I thought, carefully tucking her sister’s letter in my desk drawer, certain now there was no real reason to reply.
Six chocolate-covered pretzels later, I slid out of my work clothes in the small dressing area in my bathroom, seeking out the soft cotton yoga pants that had become my evening uniform as of late. As I began to slide them on, I caught a glance at my naked body in the mirror on the back of the door and stood, hesitantly turning sideways to check for any visible changes.
And began to imagine that the roundness I saw in my abdomen had nothing to do with my recent indulgences and everything to do with the longing that had taken over my mind.
A baby, I thought, running a hand over the small swell.
Suddenly everything seemed…possible.
A cold breeze accompanied me up the steps of the building where Shelley Longford, C.S.W., kept her neat little office, and as I climbed them I felt, for the first time in weeks, a sense of anticipation. Maybe it was because, for the first time since I had been coming to see her, I was actually looking forward to it.
I had news to share, after all.
“So what makes you think you’re pregnant?” Shelley said, finally breaking the silence she had fallen into ever since I cheerfully made my announcement, effectively sidetracking her interrogation as to why I had canceled my recent appointments. And as I embellished my story with the dates of my last ovulation, the bloatedness I felt, the tenderness in my breasts, I saw her usually placid expression purse with suspicion.
Clearly she wasn’t buying it. “The symptoms you describe could easily be premenstrual.”
I bristled. “I think after nearly thirty-five years, I know my body,” I argued, suddenly aware that I was arguing. In a somewhat calmer tone, I added, “I mean, have you ever been pregnant?”
Suddenly my question seemed inappropriate. For I had never broached the subject of her personal life in a session before. It had never been an issue before and I suppose it wasn’t now, I thought, glancing at her ringless left hand. A flutter of questions rose in me about the stranger who sat before me and I stared at her, hoping she’d give me some information for a change.
Of course, she didn’t. “Have you ever missed a period before?”
“Never,” I said—a bit smugly, considering the fact that I couldn’t entirely remember if this was true. “And I’ve never had a condom break inside me,” I continued, finding the validation I was looking for in the facts of this particular case. “Besides, I feel…different. My body feels different.” It was true. Ever since my period had failed to show up in its usual clockwork fashion, my body seemed to have shifted onto a new timetable. I was aware of myself in a way I hadn’t been before. I woke up in the morning with a heaviness in my limbs that I couldn’t attribute to sadness, for my mind felt suddenly clear.
Now here I was, sitting before a licensed professional and finally giving voice to that which my body already believed, and growing ever more suspicious of her by the second.
Just who the fuck did she think she was, telling me I had cramps? You see, that was the whole problem with this therapy business. As if anyone else could truly tell you what the hell was going on inside of you.
“I’m just saying it’s a possibility you are simply suffering from PMS,” was all she replied to my protest.
I retreated then, deciding I didn’t give a shit what she thought, and moved on to the subject of Claudia, who, predictably, had already started to pine for Laurence Bennett, Eligible Bachelor Number 6,785.
“I just don’t get her,” I said. “If she wants the fucking guy, she should just go after him. But instead, just like she always does when she meets a guy, she’s going to go on and on about how hot he is. Then, when he doesn’t notice the way she’s gawking at him across a meeting room, whine, whine, whine to me about how no one appreciates her for the goddess she is, how she’s better off alone, when what she really needs is to g
et fucking laid.”
I should mention that Shelley did not utter so much as a word during my discourse on Claudia. This was another thing I found irritating about her. How do you have a conversation with someone who seems to have no response to anything you have to say? It’s so fucking ridiculous. And because she was really getting on my nerves today, I decided to tell her so.
“What makes you think I don’t care about what you’re saying?” she replied.
“You should see yourself,” I said, angrily trying to pull together a prim yet blank expression for her benefit. “It’s clear to me you don’t give a shit about what I just told you about Claudia.”
“Maybe you don’t give a shit about what you just told me about Claudia.”
That silenced me. Probably because I had never heard Miss Priss utter a swear word—or any other word my mother might deem distasteful. Or maybe it was that she was right. I didn’t give a shit—not really—about Claudia’s love life. Or lack thereof. Then what the hell was I blabbering on about it for, especially at these prices?
So I moved on. Or thought I moved on, anyway, to the new campaign, the work I suddenly found myself deluged in. Until I came back around to someone else again, this time Lori. And just as I was summing up my assistant’s weepy little love fest, I realized I was doing it again. Going on and on about nonsense. What the hell was wrong with me? I had more important things to think about. Like the fact that I could be a mother in less than a year.
But knowing that wouldn’t yield the response I wanted from Shelley, and because she indicated in her usual miserly way that our time was up, I decided not to go there again. I mean, couldn’t the woman throw in an extra five minutes of therapy once in a while, for chrissakes?
When I stood up, I suddenly realized I was exhausted. Probably from the effort of talking. I couldn’t remember the last time I had spoken so much in a session.
Then, as if I couldn’t resist getting in one last little bit, I turned to Shelley once I reached the door. “Oh, I guess I should tell you. I got a letter back from K. Morova.” Then I laughed mirthlessly, as if finding humor in the fact that I had been all but obsessing over a signature I had believed belonged to my biological mother, but had in fact belonged to my aunt, who was equally a stranger to me. “As it turned out, K. Morova is also my biological aunt—Katerina, I think she signed it.” Then, as quietly and simply as I might have commented on the weather, I said, “Kristina would have written herself, I suppose, except she died last year. Cancer.” Then I shrugged, tugging my pocketbook more firmly onto my shoulder and reaching for the doorknob. “So I guess I’ll see you next—”
“Grace, do you realize what you’ve just done?” Shelley said, stopping me as I made my exit.
I looked at her, a bit startled that she’d ask me a question and allow me even an extra minute of her precious time. “What?” I replied, feeling like a recalcitrant child.
She paused, as if carefully planning her next words, which inevitably put me on guard. I didn’t trust people who thought that much before they spoke.
“You told me about Kristina’s passing as you were walking out the door. Why do you think you did that?”
I shrugged, though I was starting to squirm a bit inside. I guess, to be fair, I should have given the death of the woman who gave me life more than a passing mention. But then, Kristina Morova obviously hadn’t thought all that much about me while she was alive, had she?
“I’ll tell you why,” Shelley offered, startling me out my thoughts. Now this was getting interesting. I’d been fattening up this woman’s bank account for months, and up until this moment, she had yet to offer me one bit of advice.
This better be good, I thought, standing firm as I looked down at her.
“I think you waited to talk about the most important thing that’s happened in your life recently until you knew there was no more time left in the session to talk about it. In fact, I’d guess that you canceled the last two appointments for the same reason.”
I should have known she was going to turn it into one of those crazy little paradoxes. I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. Then, because for a change I didn’t have a proper retort, I merely shrugged again. “Maybe,” I said, giving in a hair. “But I don’t think so.”
“No?” she said, her dark eyes meeting mine as if she were…challenging me.
“Nope,” I said, more firmly now.
“Let me ask you something, Grace. Have you talked to anyone since you’ve received that letter?”
“Of course,” I replied. “I told my friend Angie.”
“No one else? Your parents, for example?”
“Look, I’m a grown woman. I don’t have to tell my parents everything.”
This got an eyebrow raise from her. Then, whether because she was too cheap to carry this conversation on for another minute, or because this was some stupid tactic of hers to get me good and mad, she simply said, “Why don’t we pick up with this topic next week?”
“Sure,” I said, with a final shrug, then waltzed out the door as if I didn’t have a care in the world.
I called my mother that night. I told myself I was just doing my usual dutiful check-in, but an undercurrent of anticipation swirled through me that I couldn’t deny. In my heart, I had decided to tell my parents about Kristina Morova. I mean, they knew about her, had stood by me as I tracked her down. They deserved to know that she was…gone.
Besides, I was still irritated by Shelley’s implication that there was some deep psychological reason why I hadn’t talked about this with my parents. It wasn’t as if I weren’t close to my parents….
“Gracie, what a surprise!” my mother declared once she picked up.
I found myself taking offense at her words. It wasn’t as if I never called.
“Tom!” I heard her bellow, “It’s Grace.”
“Is everything all right?” my mother asked, concern evident in her voice.
Suddenly everything didn’t feel all right. The weight of all I needed to say suddenly slammed down on me, and I felt an urge to cry. “Everything’s fine,” I protested, if only to convince myself.
“’Lo, Grace,” my father intoned into the phone a moment later. Something about his chipper tone had me biting my tongue.
I quickly made a decision. There was no way I could saddle them with this information on a Wednesday night. I knew my mother would cluck and murmur sympathetically, all the while working out a way she could be by my side as quickly and inexpensively as possible—because although my mother’s maternal instincts always outweighed her miserly ones, she couldn’t help fretting over fares. She’d be surfing the Internet all night, and she and my father would be on the first flight she could find that didn’t wipe out his retirement fund.
It just seemed like too much to ask on a weeknight. “Everything’s fine,” I said again. “I just called… I just called to say hello.”
My father grunted at this, and I tried not to allow this to rankle beneath my painfully—and surprisingly—thin skin.
“We’re so glad you did,” my mother chirped, the obvious merriment in her voice making me feel the distance between us all the more keenly. “We have news. Tom, tell Gracie about the panel you’ve been invited to speak on.”
I felt an ease flowing back into my body as my father started regaling me with the details of the paper he was to give. Though he’d retired four years ago, he was still revered as one of the top scholars in his field for his research on the Age of Revolutions and occasionally lectured at some of the local colleges near Albuquerque. I smiled as I listened to him go on for a few moments, taking comfort in the fact that I could rely on my father always to take satisfaction in his discipline.
My mother, on the other hand, was getting impatient. “Tom, never mind that, tell Grace where you’re giving the paper!”
“Oh, right,” my father said, as if remembering himself. “Paris.”
“All expenses paid, Grace,” my moth
er chimed in. “And just in time for our fortieth wedding anniversary!”
The full import of her words struck me then. My parents had met in Paris. My mother had been a promising young cellist fresh out of Julliard and traveling with a small symphony orchestra. My father had been on sabbatical, writing the book that would seal his career as a history professor and, ultimately, land him the tenured position he was to hold most of his life at Columbia University. It had always seemed the grandest of ironies that though they were both New Yorkers living within miles of one another for most of their lives, they had met in Paris. And what a meeting it had been. The way my mother told it, my father had approached her at an art opening featuring Paris’s newest crop of artists, and within an hour of taking her hand in his and kissing it so fervently my mother claimed she blushed with embarrassment, he had declared to her that he would one day make her his wife. She had laughed mercilessly at him. Less than a year later they stood before a priest in St. Patrick’s Cathedral on Fifth Avenue, promising to love and cherish each other forever.
“That’s wonderful news,” I said. And it was. So wonderful, in fact, that I felt my own news fading away. I was glad I hadn’t told them tonight. Now was clearly not the time for such ugly declarations about wasted lives. So I swallowed it down firmly, listening as my mother waxed poetic about the museums she couldn’t wait to revisit, the sights she hoped to take in, the streets she longed to walk on again, arm in arm with my father, just as if it had been four days since they’d met, rather than forty years.
I smiled, feeling the familiar ache roll through me. Though my parents’ lifelong love affair filled me with a certain happy wistfulness, it often made me feel like an interloper. Except now I didn’t feel like the third wheel. I felt invisible. I don’t think they even remembered I was on the line.
Well, my mother did. Eventually. “Gracie, there’s only one problem,” she said. “We need to leave on December twelfth in order to be there in time for the symposium on the fifteenth. And then we’d hoped to stay on for our anniversary, which means we’d be there through Christmas….”
