“You know,” he continued, topping her wine glass, “I just want you to be happy. I mean, I’d even be fine doing it in Vegas, if that’s what you want. You are calling the shots here. I just want you to be happy.” Paul tended to repeat himself after a single glass of wine.
He turned his back to her to do a final scrub of the countertop before they sat down to eat. She could see his trapezius muscles and his deltoids, those strong, broad shoulders, through his shirt, which was freshly pressed. And his freshly pressed shirt reminded her, all at once, of a trip she had taken to San Francisco with Yarrow and her parents when she was eleven years old. They had taken a ride on a cable car, not to get anywhere, but simply to say that they had done it. Olivine was standing nearly on tiptoes to reach the leather strap that hung above her when a man, a middle-aged commuter, jumped on the car. Without a glance at her, the man grasped the leather strap just ahead of hers. He had short black whiskers and a briefcase and when the cable car jerked forward, he slid into her. His body had been so surprisingly hard. Unyielding. And she felt suddenly like she was peeking into the dark and strange world of adults. Seeing a man on his way home from work. Feeling his body against hers.
And she had imagined herself sitting in a tiny room, looking out a window in one of those San Francisco apartments, those tiny windows stacked one on top of another, in building after building, clear up to the sky. She had imagined herself older, with her long hair held back in a simple clip, wiping her breath from one of these windows and waiting for a man like this to come home.
And she remembered deciding, right then, that she would never do this. That marriage was a trap. That there was no way she would ever wait at home for a man. That it might seem like you were getting a man to laugh with, to share time with, but what you were really getting was a job to do, day after day, and a tiny window to look out of. A tiny window of many, many windows.
And then she remembered, another day, shortly after this vacation. Her mother had invited all of the neighbor ladies over for coffee and cinnamon rolls. Christine had loved to bake and all the moms came over and marveled, first, at the clever way she had folded the lemon yellow cloth napkins, and their lips stretched tight over their teeth and their voices were strident and laced with false enthusiasm, and young Olivine thought they must all be so terminally bored that they had to make up things to get excited about. That morning, the ladies chattered about a lot of things: how to get tomato stains out of Tupperware, the best laundry detergent for grass stains, the long distance commercials that always made them cry.
And one of the ladies asked her mother how in the world she got the raisins in her cinnamon rolls to be so plump and another asked how she had managed to get all the cinnamon and raisins into that tight spiral shape. At the time, her mother had laughed and purred and kindly revealed a few of her tips. She went into detail about how the secret was to soak the raisins before baking and how she had first rolled out the dough and sprinkled the toppings inside, and then rolled it up and sliced the dough for baking.
And once the ladies left, her mother had turned to Olivine and she had said, “Now can you believe those ladies don’t know how to make cinnamon rolls?” and “Marjorie thinks she knows everything there is to know about getting whites whiter, but I could show her a thing or two.” And just then, Olivine vowed that she would never grow up to feel superior and self-righteous over something as trivial as plump raisins. Also, that she would never host these kind of parties.
She looked at Paul just then, across the bar between the kitchen and the dining room. His red hair combed so precisely. His voice was low, like he was telling her a secret, or waking her from some dream he imagined she was having. “Hey,” he whispered, “Ready to eat?”
“Ready.” She smiled and let him take her hand and walk her to the dining room table, where she had set the serving bowl of pasta. He pulled out her chair, and she looked into his eyes. Could he tell that he loved her more than she loved him? Did he have any idea? Did she, before this very moment?
“I’ve taken the liberty,” he said, as he ladled pasta onto her plate in a portion only slightly smaller than she would have chosen for herself, “since you are almost finished with your prerequisites, to talk to some of these admission counselors today.”
He slid his hand under his placemat and withdrew a thin catalog and a series of brochures. He set them on the table between them. The shiny cover of the largest booklet featured a fresh-faced, grinning young woman and, in soft focus in the background, a bearded man lobbing a Frisbee. “You could get a Master’s degree in Nursing in roughly the same amount of time it would take you to get your R.N. certification, and your pay would be higher. And then, who knows, where you will take it. That would be better, don’t you think? I mean, maybe a little more stress, a little more time, a little more tuition, but we have that covered. The admissions counselor was really pretty adamant that this is the direction you should go. Unless you just want to go all the way and start thinking about medical school now.”
“Oh, I can’t imagine being a doctor.”
“You are such a nurturing sort. You’d be amazing at it. A natural. Really.”
She thought of the potted plants her mother kept appearing with. She couldn’t even nurture a houseplant. This was not her gift. How did he not know this about her? And if he didn’t know, did she even owe it to him to tell him?
He nudged the brochures toward her. He took a bite of his pasta and chewed, then wiped his mouth with his napkin and returned it to his lap.
“I also talked to them about your living arrangements. You could commute, especially since we’ll be newlyweds and all.” He winked at her. “Or I could rent you a little place. Right next to campus. This particular program,” he said, sliding a different brochure toward her, “is the accelerated one. If you go this route, I don’t think you should commute. Just live there, work hard and get it done. I mean, you can do anything for a year, maybe two. Right?” He scooped another forkful of pasta into his mouth and continued, “I mean, it’s intensive, but nothing you can’t handle. You could be finished in no time. Then we could take trips. Eventually. We could take trips and fix babies.”
“Fix babies?”
“Yes. There are so many medical outreach programs. I’ve been looking into that, too. It’s a way for us to adventure. To see the world. Isn’t that what you wanted? Wasn’t that your idea of…of fun?”
Her throat clutched again. “Have you ever thought about maybe having one of our own?” she asked.
“A medical outreach program?”
“No,” she laughed. “A baby.”
“Oh.”
“You know, fixing one of our own. From scratch.”
“You mean instead of you going back to school? Or after you go back to school?”
“I don’t know. But I’m not getting any younger.”
“That’s the problem, Olivine. I want you to know.”
“Know what?”
“I want you to know what you want.” Paul put down his fork and closed his eyes. Then he looked up at the ceiling, clasped his hands in front of his face. “Honestly. Here we’ve been working toward our dreams. And then out of the blue, you say you might want to have a child.” He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders at her. “I want you to know what you want to do with your life. Not just spring things on me whenever the mood arises. We have never talked about having children. Not ever.”
“But if we’re getting married, isn’t it something that most people do? Or at least talk about? Isn’t it something most people discuss when they enter that chapter of life?”
“Well, no. There are plenty of couples who don’t do that. Do you think that’s why people get married? The only reason?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Do you think the reason I asked you to marry me was so that we could have babies?”
“No.”
“Because it wasn’t.”
“For the record,” she said, “I
asked you. You never got around to asking me.”
“Oh, I was going to, Olivine. I told you that. You know that.”
“I’m just saying that maybe I’m not the only one who doesn’t always know what I want.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then he sighed. “Look, Olivine.” He put his hand on the table and cupped his fingers around her elbow, a gesture that made Olivine feel awkward. Her instinct was to shake him off, but she kept still. She struggled to keep her breathing even. “I know a lot of things,” Paul continued, “And if there is anything I know, with absolute certainty, it’s that I want you. I want this.” He pointed his finger toward her face, then toward his own, then back again. “But, look, we have always known that we were…are…getting a little too old for that. As an older mom, you are more likely to suffer complications, anything from placenta previa to preeclampsia. And your chance of having a baby with Down’s Syndrome is five times higher after the age of thirty-five.”
“I’m not thirty-five”
“Well, no. But you aren’t having babies yet either. And you haven’t even gone to nursing school yet.”
He moved his chair closer to the table and lowered his voice. His tone was deliberate and measured, the words over-enunciated. “We could fix so many more babies if we didn’t have one of our own. That’s always been my idea. That’s been my mission. To help and to heal people. Not to be a dad. And it’s certainly not to be a hardly-ever-there kind of dad.”
In her mind, she saw the little girl from the reception hall at Grandma’s memorial service. She had dark droplets for eyes, like molasses, dark and melty, and, this time, she was wearing an A-line dress with ruffles that started at the chin and continued down, down, down…all the way to her tiny Timberland boots. The girl stretched out her hand, in a way that showed she was sweet and inviting. Not the precocious kind of sweet, but quiet and introspective. The kind of child who would listen and put her hand gently on her mother’s back, just to see how things were going. Her eyes were calm and filled with patience and wisdom.
“But I have to say, right now, I can picture her,” Paul said, just then, stabbing a piece of pasta with his fork and then using it to scoop a shaving of Parmesan cheese.
“You can picture who?” Olivine answered, startled. Sometimes, she swore Paul could see inside her mind. It made her uneasy.
“Our child. Our little girl, if we were to have one,” he said. “She would be sweet and kind. With big, plump lips, just like yours. Big pouty lips and a strong will. She would voice everything, just the way she felt it. She would be honest and strong and not afraid. She would know what she wanted from this life. And she would have red curly hair. And green eyes.”
She sat at the table, watching the candle in the centerpiece flicker, though it was full daylight as they ate. She could see both of these children, as clear as though they were sitting at the table alongside them. One was edged in dirt from the yard, a smile creeping across her lips. The other wore a green jersey knit Polo dress, tiny white Keds shoes and anklet socks, and she sat with her ankles crossed. She had freckles on her face, and she wore a crisp white bow in her ginger hair. Olivine could imagine them both, could see them as clearly as she would if they were sitting across from her at the table. And she wondered whether one of these children would be permitted to enter the world. Was she seeing them here, so clearly in her mind, because she was standing at the brink of two possibilities? Were these angels in heaven, pleading their case in her imagination, right this very minute? Had she the power to grant one and not the other?
“How long has this been on your mind?” Paul asked. A piece of pasta flew from his lips as he spoke. His eyes were steady on hers.
“What?”
“Pay attention, Olivine. It’s not like this discussion isn’t important. Why do you keep drifting away? And why don’t you take me with you…wherever it is that you go?”
“Just because I have an emotion doesn’t mean I need to share it,” Olivine said. “Someone wise once taught me that.”
“Alright. If that’s how it is going to be.”
For a time, the only sound was their chewing, as though neither wanted to swallow.
“So how come you never, ever mentioned motherhood before?” he asked, finally. His eyes were hard on her, unblinking.
She shrugged and poked at the remaining pasta on her plate. One thing she knew for certain about Paul: he would not ask her the same question more than once. If she didn’t want to answer, she needed only to shrug. One time. And that would be the end of it. He would move on.
“I’m not saying that I won’t consider it.” He leaned back in his chair and his broad forearms swooped to the table and swept up his wine glass.
She nodded, and, as she did, tears sprang to her eyes. She looked down, into her lap, where she had wrung her napkin into a tight roll. “And would you consider these?” He thumped one hand on the brochures.
She nodded again. Blinked again.
He thumped his hand onto her shoulder. “I’m glad we talked.”
She nodded and tried to breathe, and she tried not to look at the two little girls that she imagined were still sitting at the table, playing with their forks.
“I’d like an answer, on the program, by, let’s say, Friday,” he said.
She knew she should nod, but she did not.
Paul finished eating his meal while she pushed noodles around on her plate. Then he said, “I think there is something you need to know.”
Here it comes, Olivine thought. Nothing good ever comes when a conversation starts like that.
Paul pulled back from the table and put his elbows on his knees. His voice was barely a whisper. “I worry that I won’t be a good father.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but he held up his hand, shook his head and continued, “I know I can care for you. But my mother…She left. And I know I should have told you this before, but now, it’s time. When I think about being a father, I just. I just don’t think I have it in me.”
Paul rubbed his hands together and continued. “I loved my father. I could appreciate his way of parenting. But my mother didn’t think he was there enough. She was always prying into my things, wanting to connect with me. In a way, I understand. I suppose. I was her only son, and I wanted to be just like my dad. When he went into his study at night, I went into my room, and because I often didn’t have much to do, I read, and I studied and I thought about things. And then one day, my mom said that both of her men had broken her heart and that we had made her so lonely that, as her fortieth birthday present to herself, she was leaving us both.”
Olivine gulped. “Wow.”
“Did you know any of this?” he asked.
She nodded. “Not all of it, but a little.”
“I knew my father told you this. That first night you met him, right?”
“Did he tell you that?”
“No. I just had a feeling that he did. And one of the reasons I knew you were the only person I could ever love is because you didn’t pry. You didn’t come knocking on my door to find out these things about me, Olivine. You don’t need me to open up to you.”
He pressed his palms against his eyelids. “The truth is, Olivine, you make it possible for me to do what I need to do.” He took a deep breath and pressed his hands together now, palm to palm. He closed his eyes and continued. “I know that when I can’t fix someone…when I fail…I won’t need to come home and tell you all about it. I won’t need to. And that is such a gift. You are such a gift to me. This complete acceptance of the way that I am. I need you so much. I know I don’t tell you this often enough, but I do. I can’t do what I need to do on this earth without you.”
He opened his eyes again and smiled at her. “Now. If you want a big wedding or a small wedding, it’s up to you. Whatever you want.”
And as she sat there, letting his words wash over her, she went sinking into the center of herself, and she knew that this was her role in life. To love him. She was the o
ne who was best equipped to do it. Everyone said this was how it should be.
She wished that Paul was the kind of man who would stand now and move behind her; who would hold her gently on the shoulders and who would kiss the back of her neck, around to her collarbone. She wished he was the kind of man who would make love to her right here, now, on the dining room floor. Someone who couldn’t help himself.
But he was not, and so she took him by the hand and she told him she would come back and do the dishes in just a little while, and then she led him into the bedroom, where she allowed him to lay her down and make love to her in his gentle way. He was a fine man, and everything was going to be just fine.
Chapter Eleven
Olivine woke early, pulled on a pair of Lycra pants, a tank and a thin hooded sweatshirt and then slipped on her orange running shoes. Her stomach felt raw, so she grabbed a handful of walnuts from the jar in the cupboard and tossed them into her mouth before looping an elastic band around her outstretched fingers and swooping her hair into a high ponytail. She was still crunching on the nuts when she heard Paul in the bedroom. “Hey, where did you go?”
She returned, leaning against the bedroom door frame.
“Come here.” He motioned her over. She took two steps forward.
“Closer,” he said, so she approached the bed and sat near him.
“Closer.”
She swung her leg over, checking first for dirt on the bottom of her shoe. She straddled him, held his gaze for a moment. And then she popped a kiss on his forehead.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“For a run.”
“Now?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“But I don’t have to go to work right away.”
“I just really want to run. I just… I just feel like I have to.”
“Can’t you stay for a minute. An encore?”
“Well, I could, but really, the only thing I want right now is a good run, straight uphill.”
“The only thing?’
She nodded.
The One Who Got Away: A Novel Page 13
