The Unbreakables

by Lisa Barr

  “Thank you, I certainly will. Dr. Stein is a wonderful doctor,” I say, and she has the best magazine rack in town, which I don’t say.

  Dr. Goldberg examines Ava’s chart. “So, Ava, I understand you are nineteen and from Chicago, studying at our excellent École des Beaux-Arts.” She tilts her head slightly. “And you think you are pregnant, yes?”

  “Oui,” Ava responds, playing with the ends of her hair, a nervous habit she’s had since middle school. “I forgot my pill, missed my period. I’m nauseous, and I’m having this weird sharp stabbing pain in my pelvic region.”

  I turn to her, surprised. “What pain? You didn’t mention that.”

  Ava shoots me a wide-eyed, annoyed, just-stop-it’s-my-body look. I exhale deeply. One second she wants me, the next she wants me to jump off the nearest cliff. I don’t know how to be anymore.

  The doctor’s gaze shifts briefly from Ava to me. We share a knowing glance that is universal in any language. This is not optimal, her eyes express. I return the volley. Not optimal at all.

  “Did you take a pregnancy test?” Dr. Goldberg asks.

  Ava blushes slightly. “No, because I had a final presentation at school, and I was too scared to take it. Stupid, I know, but . . .”

  “I understand.” The doctor examines Ava, and when she presses down on the pelvic region, Ava lets out a shrill wince. “Well, given the pain—let’s skip the pregnancy test and go straight to the ultrasound, which will tell us the whole story,” Dr. Goldberg says decisively. “Pauline will bring you to the ultrasound room, set you up, and I will meet you there in just a few minutes.”

  “Can my—”

  “Yes,” the doctor says, snapping shut her file. “I heard there is someone out there waiting for you. He can join us.”

  IN MY WILDEST DREAMS, I NEVER IMAGINED THIS PARTICULAR SCENARIO PLAYING out for at least another ten years. Olivier (extremely quiet, picking at his fingernails) seated on a chair in the corner of the room, Ava lying anxiously on the examination table, and me, standing next to her, waiting for the doctor to arrive, as Pauline the technician sets up the ultrasound machine.

  Dr. Goldberg finally enters and acknowledges everyone in the room. She sees Olivier and stops in her tracks. Oh God, now what?

  “Olivier?” she says with open surprise.

  Olivier’s eyes pop. “Yes . . . do we know each other?”

  “Not very well,” she tells him. “We actually met a few years ago at a hospital benefit. Your wife, Sabine, and I sat on the board together.”

  With my rudimentary French, I pick up exactly what’s going on here: Your wife Sabine being the only words that actually matter. I look at Ava, who turns white. She understands perfectly. It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to comprehend that Olivier has just been busted.

  Dr. Goldberg clears her throat, visibly uncomfortable with what appears to be a “situation.” There is dead silence in the room, and instinctively, I jump in—

  “You know Olivier?” I turn to the doctor, my voice higher pitched than usual. “What a coincidence. We are so fortunate that he came here with us. He is Ava’s mentor and advisor at the École des Beaux-Arts.” I glance over at Olivier, who seems to be wondering where I’m going with this. As do I, but I just keep talking. “You see, I asked him to come with us just in case we had difficulty communicating.”

  Everyone in the room knows I’m lying—including Pauline the technician. Why would Ava’s school advisor be sitting in an ultrasound room? More important, why did I jump in to save him from exposure?

  Because I can’t just let him fall. If Olivier falls, Ava falls. If Olivier falls, then Sabine falls. If Sabine falls, then so do all the cheated-on women. But most important, my daughter comes first. I don’t want anyone to gossip about her. My interjection—ridiculous as it may have been—is all Mama Bear instinct.

  The doctor, like everyone else, sees through the bullshit but resumes her professional stance. “Well then, let’s see what we have here, shall we.” But not before she eyes Olivier with a piercing blue you-don’t-fool-me glare. “And if we have any issues, then how fortunate we are to have our very own translator in the room.”

  Good French sarcasm, I think. Bedside manners must not be a thing here.

  Pauline spreads the ultrasound gel over Ava’s tummy. My heart flutters. Please, God, I pray, may my baby NOT be having a baby. Tears rise once again, my throat tightens, and I will myself not to lose it. Pauline steps aside and Dr. Goldberg takes over the probe and begins to place it on various spots along Ava’s stomach, eyeing the machine closely, highlighting various areas in neon, and calling out numbers that Pauline records.

  Dr. Goldberg leans forward, studying the screen closely. Olivier is shaking his head to himself, wanting to comfort Ava but refrains from touching her because of the your wife, Sabine comment. But there is no doubt in my mind: something is wrong.

  “What is it?” I ask finally, breaking the unbearable silence.

  Dr. Goldberg places her hand over Ava’s. “Well the good news, and I assume it is”—slight side eye at Olivier—“Ava is not pregnant, but she does have a large ovarian cyst, which looks like it may be erupting very soon, as well as a few polyps that should be removed—hence, the sharp pain.”

  Not pregnant is all I hear. Not pregnant. Thank you, God.

  Instant tears stream down Ava’s face. She reaches out for me and I hold her hand tightly. Ava, a teenager who has her whole life ahead of her, will miraculously not have to make a crippling choice that would surely haunt her sensitive soul and change the course of her life. She has been spared. The cyst and the polyps we can manage.

  I glance around the room, see the high-five in Olivier’s eyes: We are all free.

  THE DOCTOR WANTS TO MEET ME AND AVA IN HER OFFICE; SHE PURPOSELY EXCLUDES Olivier. I excuse myself to the bathroom as Ava gets dressed, and I hear Olivier walking behind me. Actually, I can smell him, that musky cologne. I turn in his direction.

  “You’re leaving,” I say.

  “Oui. I don’t think I was invited to the doctor’s office. Please, walk me to the elevator,” he says under his breath. “I must go home.” He stops there, choosing not to elaborate. It’s obvious to both of us that Ava’s nonpregnancy just bought him his life back. It’s also evident that being recognized by Dr. Goldberg shook him up. “You are right about what you said at the Rodin. I need to reassess everything,” he says, moving in closer. Once again, I take a reflexive step backward, keeping my distance. He smiles slightly. “I don’t bite, Sophie, I promise. Look, thank you for what you did in there. You were not even remotely believable, but thank you for trying to protect me. You could have easily tossed me to the wolves and I deserve it. You could have—”

  I lean against the wall. I’m so mentally exhausted by everyone. “I was simply protecting my daughter,” I say, sighing deeply. In the distance, a door opens and a pregnant woman waddles toward us from Dr. Goldberg’s office. “I hope by ‘reassess’ you mean that you are ending things with Ava,” I whisper firmly. “You need to do it, because from where I stand, I don’t think she will.”

  “Yes, but it’s not so easy to just—”

  “Let me be clear”—I notice the woman stopping to drink some water—“I saw the fear in your eyes when the doctor recognized you. You are now free from the responsibility you never wanted. Do you hear me, Olivier? C’est fini—it’s over. You are free to go ruin other people’s lives.” I bite my lip. That was really nasty and I instantly regret saying that. “I’m sorry, but please just let Ava resume her life without you.”

  He nods with full understanding, but is he really listening?

  “All I ask is that when you do break it off,” I press on, “just remind her how wonderful she is and that what you two shared together was special but that it was wrong. Tell her that you must take care of your family, and as a father and a husband it was a big mistake that you cheated on Sabine.” I know I’m projecting Gabe all over him—but really, it is one and the sa
me. “I want her not to be afraid to love and trust again.” I stare deeply into his eyes with those dense lashes that rival a makeup model’s. “Please, Olivier, no bullshit, okay. Just let this go. You don’t need her and she certainly doesn’t need you.”

  He takes a bold step closer. That scent, that raw male sexuality, invades my personal space like it had at the Rodin Museum, but this time I don’t step back. I cross my arms, stand my ground. I mean business. His infallible charm is no match against Mom Kryptonite. He doesn’t dare move another inch.

  His thick brows narrow inward like parentheses, as though organizing his thoughts and sentences within, translating the French into English. “This afternoon, seeing Rodin through your eyes was really meaningful. I wondered how your husband could possibly give you up for another woman? Then I looked over at Ava, so young and beautiful, so afraid on the examination table, and I hated myself. And then I thought of Sabine at home with our children . . .” His mouth becomes taut, determined. “I promise, Sophie, I will end it properly. I’m even contemplating giving up on the arrangement altogether.” His words are strong and promising, but his body language, like molten wax, tells another story. He is a man fighting himself, a player who suddenly sees the light but who will surely be blindsided once again. “Maybe I’m not capable of fidelity. But all I know right now is that I will try . . . thanks to you.”

  “Goodbye, Olivier.” I exhale deeply. The pregnant woman, who looks as if she could deliver any second, is now just a few feet away from us. I turn to go and he lightly grabs my arm. I stare at him over my shoulder with surprise.

  He leans in to kiss me French-style, the right cheek first, his mouth landing dangerously close to my lips. But before he can get to my left cheek, I pull away quickly, wanting to slap him but conscious of the approaching woman. The elevator arrives. Olivier stands to the side, ushers in the woman first, then turns to me. “Au revoir, Sophie,” he says as he enters the elevator. I don’t respond. I give Olivier’s newfound resolve one month. Tops.

  Chapter Eleven

  I TUCK AVA INTO THE HOTEL ROOM BED THE WAY GABE AND I USED TO EACH night when she was a little girl. We didn’t rotate back then, do the it’s-your-night/my-night thing like most other parents. Neither of us wanted to miss a single minute of her—our one and only. We would each read a book, take turns saying good night to all her stuffed animals, and sing songs. Off-key, wrong words, it didn’t matter—it was our treasured time together, the three of us, bookends positioned on either side of Ava, our hands entwined over her head.

  But not today. Today it’s just me. Ava had a minor laparoscopic procedure last night at the hospital after experiencing sharp pains and heavy bleeding from what turned out to be an ovarian cyst eruption two days after the gynecologist appointment. Dr. Goldberg was the consummate professional. She met us at the hospital and took care of everything. She was surprisingly warm and nurturing, still in Chanel, even at ten in the evening. She told her team to speak to us only in English and made sure that we were comfortable. She knew better than to inquire about our “translator” Olivier. I texted Olivier, letting him know what happened because Ava had insisted. He texted back how sorry he was, that he wished Ava well, no further explanation. Harsh, but better that way.

  “Call Daddy please, Mom,” Ava said, before drifting off to sleep.

  “I will. I promise.” Damn. I can’t hold back anymore, I will have to deal with Gabe directly. He’s called at least twenty times and sent just as many “call me now” texts.

  I wait until my heavily medicated daughter is full-on asleep. I gently stroke her head, pull away the stray strands of hair from her face. Ava is so beautiful when she sleeps. Her skin is luminescent as a sliver of light seeping through the window glances over her face. I then stare at my phone on the nightstand, searching for answers, as though it were the Magic 8 Ball that I used to consult when I was kid. I picture Gabe sitting on the couch with his feet kicked up on the ottoman in front of the supersized flat-screen TV, Pablo at his feet, waiting to hear from me. We still haven’t talked directly to each other, but we’ve played pretend for Ava’s sake. I decide it’s best to FaceTime him, not deal with the international call static, and just get it over with. But first I grab a bottle of wine from the minibar and head out to the balcony. There’s no way in hell I’m doing this sober.

  I sit at the bistro table for two, plop down my phone, and chug the pint-sized chardonnay. The air is balmy and fragrant, and I take in the city’s twinkling lights. The romance of Paris at night is not lost on me, I’m just lost in it. Ironically, at another time, I would have sat here on Gabe’s lap, feeling his strong arms wrapped around me, our legs intertwined, as we’d point out all the magical sites in the distance—the Eiffel Tower, the glittery Seine, the imposing Arc de Triomphe. I would have leaned into him, thinking how happy I was, and he would be leaning backward, thinking, Tuesday at 7:54.

  I finish off the bottle, which is not an effort—four swigs until I hit backwash—and notice how the flickering lights that just moments ago appeared enchanting now seem to mock me, the Eiffel Tower looks fake, and if Gabe were here and happened to drown in the Seine . . . oh well.

  But he’s still Ava’s dad. And no matter what he did to me, I owe her that. Just do it. I pick up the damn phone, hit FaceTime . . .

  Gabe accepts even before the first ring finishes out its course. “Really, Sophie? I’ve only called you twenty fucking times to check in on her. How is she?” I was wrong. He’s not on the couch. He’s sitting at the kitchen table, looks sleep deprived and anxious, and is justifiably pissed off at me.

  I pretend not to notice. “Sleeping soundly. Everything went well,” I say clinically, as though I’m the doctor looking at my chart. “Ava just needs a few days of rest and then she can resume her normal activities.”

  “I wish I were there.” He looks at me through heavily hooded lids.

  I say nothing.

  “How are you doing?” He tilts his head, leans into the phone. “You look tired.”

  I don’t respond to that. No woman ever responds to that, even if it is true. Everyone knows tired is code for old. I just stare blankly back at his face, at those deep-set amber eyes; a face I’ve loved, and, I can’t help it, still do. But it’s now spoiled for me, ruined, no longer mine. “I’m . . .” I look away, feeling tears spring uninvited into my eyes. Jesus, not again. Don’t cry. Don’t give him that.

  Together practically our entire lives, Gabe sees what I’m trying to hide anyway. “Sophie, please don’t cry.” He shakes his head, purses his lips. Guilty Gabe. “I’ve done a lot of thinking these past few days, soul-searching. I am so sorry for all of it.”

  But that ship has long sailed, right along with trust, communication, and integrity. I meet his remorseful expression straight on. “This is about Ava,” I tell him firmly. “Only Ava—okay.”

  “Well, I’m not doing this to piss you off, but I’ve decided I’m coming there. I worked out coverage at the hospital, bought a ticket, and I’m arriving the coming weekend. I have to see her. You know that, right . . . I have to.” His voice fades out.

  Ava first . . . Ava last—our family motto.

  My wet eyes turn into dry sockets. “Please don’t come.”

  “I’m her father. I’m coming.”

  And Ava would want him here. “Fine, but I will be gone before you get here.”

  “Where the hell are you going?” Gabe’s face, pressing into the mini-screen, is now close up and distorted, abstract like a Picasso. He then pulls back and walks around the kitchen—my kitchen—and I can see the dirty dishes piled high in the sink behind him.

  “I don’t know,” I say honestly. “But somewhere else.”

  “We need to talk. You can’t just run away.”

  I stop breathing. He did just say that. Like one of those Stupid Things Guys Say memes. I throw my head back and howl with laughter, because it’s actually funny, especially if you weren’t me. “Says the man who ran after every woman
wearing a tennis skirt, as if fucking were a marathon.”

  “Sophie, please.” His eyes beg.

  “I’ve got to go.” Because I love you and I hate you, and I can only pick one.

  “No, stay, please.” His eyes glaze and I’m not remotely moved. The you can’t just run away comment is still instant-replaying in my head.

  “Bye, Gabe.” Looking at him is unbearable.

  I hang up, then turn my phone power off. Gabe’s coming, and I’ve got to get out of Dodge. I head back into the room, shed my clothes into a pile on the floor, grab my Northwestern T-shirt and sweats from the lavender-scented drawer, climb into bed next to Ava, and curl my arms around her slim shoulders. If only I could protect her from the inevitable that is waiting to crush her. I pull her in close, and in her drugged state of sleep she melds into me like she did when she was little and had a bad dream. She was so tiny then, I used to jokingly call it teaspooning.

  The hours pass and sleep is not an option, so I shoot for stillness. I’ve lost everything that I’ve ever counted on, believed in, trusted and loved—everyone but Ava—and the guy who nuked my life is now coming here to invade my safe space. No fair, I think. Life’s not fair, I used to tell Ava. And now I know I was telling her the truth all along.

  I toss and turn. The pillow is hot and mushy. I can’t lie here any longer. I get up, wrap the duvet around me, and head back out to the balcony. I sit at the table and watch the sparkling flicker of the city lights around me. Only this time, I count each light, beginning with one and hoping to reach five million—anything to muzzle my racing mind, anything to cut off the images of Gabe with his harem of infidels, Gabe touching Lauren. Even the dirty dishes in my kitchen sink make a cameo appearance in my head. And when the counting stops, I follow the hypnotic pattern of the illuminated street grid from right to left, left to right, until the sun rises and night bleeds into morning.