by Nicki Chen
Diana handed her the chardonnay, and they lifted their glasses in a silent toast. Oh, my gosh! Diana thought, suddenly remembering. I shouldn’t be drinking today. She was only four days late, but late was late. She twirled the pedestal of her glass slowly between her fingers and thumb and watched the parakeets hop and preen and flutter their wings.
“I insisted I’d bloody well pack the kids up and move back to London.” Abby took a big gulp of wine. “Said I’d get my old job back. Hire a nanny.”
“What did he say?”
“Saudur? Ha. He looked worried for a minute. But, hey.” She shrugged and took another drink. “He knew I’d give in. What the hell happened to me, Diana? I’ve become a typical expat wife. I don’t have any life of my own.”
“That’s not true, Abby. You’ll never be a typical anything.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what I am anymore.” She emptied her glass and ran her fingers through her hair, letting it fall in a tumble. “I need some more chardonnay.”
Diana followed her back to the low table where Lourdes had served the wine, juice, and cookies.
Abby held the bottle over Diana’s glass. “Hey. What’s this? Your glass is still full.”
“I have to drive home.”
Abby raised her eyebrows. “One small glass?”
“And . . . I’m starting to get a headache.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” Abby filled her own glass and sat down. “Do you know there’s not a single stoplight in Vanuatu? Not a bloomin’ one. But then, why would they have a stoplight. The so-called downtown in the capital city only has one main street and two or three side streets. Can you believe it? Hey.” She frowned at Diana. “Are you all right? You look almost as bad as I do.” She pulled her T-shirt away from her body as proof.
“I’m fine. Just a little . . . I don’t know.”
“Here. Have a biscuit.”
Yes, Diana thought as she scooped up a handful of shortbread cookies. Sugar! Yes!
By the time she stood up to go, all the cookies on the plate were gone. She could feel them puffing up her stomach as she walked to the car. She slid her car key into the lock and stopped. Then, with the fingers of her left hand—as though she knew it would be there—she touched the pimple blooming between her eyebrows.
14
The cramps didn’t start until almost an hour after she left Abby’s house. The first pain hit while she was riding the elevator up to their apartment. A dull ache low in her abdomen, nothing more. By the time she and Jay sat down to dinner, it had spread to her lower back. And by bedtime, all she could do was curl up with her knees pressed to her chest and wait for the Midol to take effect.
Maybe it was better this way, she thought. Better to feel in her body what she felt in her heart. Her body was discarding the very blood and tissue meant to cushion and nourish her baby. That shouldn’t happen without pain.
“What’s the matter, honey?” Trailing a stream of Irish Spring-scented steam from his shower, Jay padded across the floor to their bed.
“Mmm,” she groaned. She shouldn’t have to explain it to him, should she? Didn’t he pay attention to the calendar? Why else would she be hugging her knees to her chest if she didn’t have cramps?
He climbed up beside her, dripping water from his wet hair. “Cramps?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought you were awfully quiet at dinner.”
He’d noticed? She thought he’d been too involved in talking about his next project—something about livestock development in Pakistan.
“Here. Let me rub your back.”
She straightened her knees and rolled onto her stomach. His warm, practiced hands knew exactly how much pressure she liked, how fast she wanted him to circle over her pelvis, one hand moving clockwise, the other counterclockwise. She took a deep, slow breath, and as she started to relax, the pain became more bearable. “I thought it was going to happen this time,” she mumbled into the sheets. “I thought I was pregnant.”
“But honey, how could you be? I was away.”
“And then you came back.”
His hands went still. “You mean the night I flew in from Korea?” He chuckled and went back to massaging her. “So that’s why you woke me up.”
“Hey!”
“You were all over me, my dear.”
“I missed you. Not everything is about getting pregnant, you know.”
“You sure about that?” He leaned over and kissed her neck.
“Yes. I’m sure.”
After a week of Christmas parties and holiday preparation, Christmas Eve was quiet. Too quiet. Even Clarita was gone. She’d taken the week off and sailed away to her family’s home on Masbate. She wouldn’t be back until January.
Diana pushed the play button on the CD player and turned the volume up a smidgen. Maybe the familiar carols of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir would stir up some holiday spirit. “Have a seat,” she told Jay. “I’ll be the Christmas elf.”
In Diana’s family, the youngest child was given the honor of passing out the gifts. And since Diana was younger than Jay by two years and two months, this year and every year since they moved to Manila, she had been the elf. Jay didn’t have any corresponding Christmas customs. He’d grown up overseas, moving from one country to the next each time his dad was reassigned. His family’s was the kind of lifestyle that valued new experiences over family traditions. Now his father was stationed in Johannesburg, South Africa, and his sister Fiona was living in Paris.
“Ah,” Diana said, taking a cylindrical box with no bow out from under the tree and squinting at the tag. “This one is for Mr. Jay McIntosh.” She presented it to him with a flourish and twirled away. A dancing elf.
He gave the thinly disguised bottle a little shake. “I think I’m going to like this one.”
He always played along with her, even though she suspected he thought the whole thing was just a little bit silly.
“And look at this one.” She reached for a package, all bold colors and geometric shapes tied with twine. “I wonder where this came from.” She winked at Jay. His mother always made good use of local materials and styles in her gift wrapping. Holding the gift over her head, Diana turned from side to side as though she were displaying it to a room full of people. “Oh, my goodness! This one’s for me.” She set the package on a side table and carried on in the same vein. If there was one lesson Diana had learned from her dad, it was that if you wanted to make an occasion special, you had to overdo it.
They kept up the ritual of good cheer all through the opening of the gifts. Afterwards, with the gifts unwrapped and the paper and ribbon thrown away or folded and saved for next year, Diana brought out a freshly baked apple pie and a carton of vanilla ice cream.
Santa didn’t come during the night, but the next morning Diana woke up thinking about her childhood and her mother and Andrew. It was too early to call them, though. Mom would be in the middle of cooking—stirring the gravy, testing the turkey, placing lettuce leaves and squares of cranberry salad on small plates. Better to wait.
She kissed Jay softly behind the ear and tiptoed into the kitchen. When he joined her, she had an omelet with ham, mushrooms, and cheddar cheese ready to take out of the oven and a stack of Grandma’s gingerbread pancakes on the table.
“Merry Christmas,” she said, offering him a cup of coffee.
“Merry Christmas to you, my love.” He took a sip and sat down. “I haven’t seen pancakes like these since last Christmas.”
“If you like them, we can make Grandma’s pancakes a tradition in our house.”
“I like them.”
They took their time eating and cleaning up. Then they got dressed and drove to San Antonio for Christmas Mass. By the time they got home, it would be just about the right time to place a phone call. Twelve thirty in Manila, eight thirty yesterday evening on the US West Coast.
Diana dialed and waited. The rings sounded strangely hollow and high. But when Mom answered, she sounded
fine, a little giggly maybe. “It’s the eggnog,” she said. “I love my Christmas eggnog. All that cream and nutmeg. Gary made it with bourbon this year instead of rum. And I tell you, honey, it’s every bit as good. Maybe better. Have you opened your gifts yet?”
“Last night, Mom. It’s Christmas afternoon here. Twelve thirty.”
“I can never remember how much behind or ahead you are. Thank goodness you keep track of those things.”
“Hi, Anne,” Jay said from the phone in the bedroom. “Merry Christmas.”
“Oh, Jay. Merry Christmas. Hey,” she shouted, her voice only slightly muted. “Can you guys quiet down? I’m talking to Diana and Jay. Long distance. Andrew, get on the other line.”
“Who all is there?” Diana wanted to picture them: Mom in her apron, Grandpa in the La-Z-Boy, his feet up, yelling at Grandma to stop fussing and sit down.
“The usual,” Mom said. “Grandma and Grandpa, your Aunt Emily and Uncle Gary, Bonnie and Dennis and their kids. Little Jenny was our Christmas elf this year. She’s only learning to read, so her brother Jake had to help with the names on the tags.”
Mom talked about the turkey (too dry), Grandma’s mincemeat pie (“We all took a sliver so we wouldn’t hurt her feelings”), and the weather (“Aunt Em says she saw a few flakes of snow, but no one believes her”). Diana assured her that Manila’s weather was still hot. Jay said that no, they wouldn’t be calling his parents. They usually traveled on the Christmas holiday, and this year they were on safari in Zambia. Grandma and Grandpa got on the line to say hi. And then, since the call was expensive, everyone yelled “Merry Christmas,” Andrew gave them a Christmas blessing, and they all said good-bye.
Diana stayed staring at the glasses lined up on the bar in front of her, her hand still resting on the phone. Coming up behind her, Jay rested his hands on her shoulders.
“I just can’t believe Bonnie’s kids are reading already,” Diana said.
“Why?” Jay dropped his hands and stepped back. “How old are they?”
Diana turned around to face him. “That’s not the point.” She quickly wiped her eyes. “Bonnie is two years younger than I am. Two and a half. After my birthday we’ll call it three. Damn it, Jay. I’m too old to be the Christmas elf.”
Manila
1990
15
She awoke feeling suffocated by the sweaty, hot sheet and pillowcase, the thick blanket of sweltering, humid air pressing down on her. It was a miracle she’d been able to fall asleep sometime halfway through the night.
She started to stretch her legs and stopped just in time. Her calves were too tight, ripe for a charley horse. All she’d have to do would be point her toes and at least one of her legs would seize up.
She dropped them over the side of the bed and swung her feet like a child on a high stool. There. Better. If only it weren’t so damned hot. She fanned her face with both hands. Then she lifted her hair off her neck, twisted it, and tied it in a sloppy knot at the back of her head. For a split second before the humidity closed in, the back of her neck felt almost cool. She glanced up at the ceiling fan, wishing it back to life. The electricity had been off for almost twenty-four hours. Surely it would come back soon. She threw on her short cotton robe, the merest nod to modesty in recognition of Clarita’s presence in the apartment. Then, leaving her slippers behind, she went looking for Jay.
With the doors to both balconies open and no air conditioners to mask the sound, the roar of traffic on the boulevard below broke into their apartment like a gang of bungling, screeching cat burglars. Diana walked past the study and into the dining room. Without power, the aquarium was dark and silent. Ever since the last goldfish died in January, she’d tried to ignore it. But there it was, the hideous black algae eater that was always lurking at the bottom of the tank when it wasn’t darting after some little bit of food.
Jay was sitting at the dining table, looking very much as he did every weekday morning—his leather shoes shined, his black hair slicked back, and his pale blue cotton shirt ironed. She pulled out a chair and waited for him to look up from his Asian Wall Street Journal. If she were to touch his face now, so soon after his shave, it would feel as smooth and clean as a child’s skin after a bath.
“Morning, honey,” he said, turning the page of the paper and refolding it. In a few minutes he’d be sitting in his office, enjoying the air-conditioned coolness provided by D-TAP’s backup generator.
“Morning,” she said, returning his greeting minus the smile. She plopped down in her chair. Using her cloth napkin, she wiped her face and the back of her neck. It was hard to think straight when it was this hot. The tension in her shoulders and the pressure behind her eyes distracted her. She wasn’t made for this kind of weather.
Today wouldn’t be the last power failure they’d see this month. The electricity always went off in May. Wouldn’t you know it—May. Manila’s hottest month. It was every bit as hot as April, and more humid to boot. Already there was a hint of the coming rainy season. All day tall cumulus clouds would boil up like giant gods over Manila Bay. They’d hold their breath until, by late afternoon, they couldn’t hold it any longer, and the rain would fall.
“I made an appointment with Dr. Feliciano,” she said, throwing it out like a challenge.
“Dr. Feliciano?” He set his coffee cup down. “Why?”
“Why?” She looked at him sideways. “Maybe it’s because another five months have gone by and I’m still not pregnant?” She heard the sarcasm in her voice and didn’t like it, and yet she kept going. “Or because my thirty-fifth birthday is coming up?”
“Honey.” He closed his newspaper and reached for her hand. “I just meant . . . I mean, I thought Dr. Feliciano said there was nothing wrong with us and we just had to be patient, follow her recommendations, and relax.”
She pulled her hand back. “I called Dr. Feliciano because ‘waiting and relaxing’ . . .” She made air quotes around the words. “. . . isn’t working. We need to try something else.”
“Like what?”
“She’s the doctor. She should be able to tell me.”
He looked at the ceiling. Not exactly an eye roll, but she caught it.
“I just don’t want you to get your hopes up.” He looked at his watch. “Sorry. I’ve gotta go.” He took one last gulp of coffee. Then he pushed his chair back and walked away, the Asian Wall Street Journal rolled up in one hand, his attaché case in the other.
She watched as his perfectly ironed blue shirt and slicked-back hair retreated into the hallway. She didn’t fail to note that he closed the door behind him just a little harder than his mask of control should have allowed for.
“Ma’am.” Clarita was standing a few steps back from the kitchen doorway, her gaze carefully fixed on the floor. “Do you want eggs, ma’am?”
“Ah.” Diana pulled her robe together over her chest. Right. Breakfast. “Um . . . a scrambled egg would be fine. Thank you, Clarita.” She wasn’t sure she could eat anything right now. Maybe after some water. She lifted the glass to her lips, and . . . Ugh! She screwed up her face and put it down. The water was lukewarm. Of course. The ice in the freezing compartment would all be melted by now.
When Clarita came back with the scrambled egg, she didn’t seem to know where to look. She slid the plate in front of Diana, backed away, and almost ran into the kitchen.
Oh my gosh! Diana’s cheeks flashed hot with embarrassment. Clarita must have been standing in the kitchen listening to them. Closing her eyes and fanning her face with her hands, Diana tried to play it back. It was all so private—her infertility and her distress, the way she’d talked to him. Had she shouted? Did they have a fight? She hated how out of control she’d sounded. She wiped her face and the back of her neck. It wasn’t Jay’s fault they had no power and the heat was making her crazy.
Grabbing a pan de sal, she nibbled on its soft crust and wondered how many fights between her and Jay had been averted because they had a maid who could hear them
fighting. And was that a good thing? Shouldn’t a husband and wife have a heated argument every now and then?
She looked down at the pure white center of the little bun. Pan de sal was the ultimate comfort food, way too simple and sweet to be healthy. She put it down and scooped up a forkful of scrambled eggs.
Sitting behind her enormous mahogany desk, Dr. Feliciano looked like Alice in Wonderland after downing the DRINK ME potion that helped her fit through the tiny door.
“Good afternoon,” the diminutive doctor said. She motioned toward one of the armchairs. “How are you doing?”
“Fine.” The doctor’s sympathetic tone had caught Diana by surprise. “I’m fine.” She blinked to head off a tear. “I’m still not pregnant, though.” She cleared her throat.
“Well, then,” the doctor said, “let’s see what we can do about that.” She rifled through some papers and pulled out what appeared to be the instructions she’d given Diana and Jay on their first appointment. “First, I’d like to review this page.” She reached for the reading glasses she wore around her neck. “Have you kept your weight within the range we agreed upon?”
“Yes.” Fortunately, gaining weight was one problem Diana hadn’t had since they moved to the Philippines.
Dr. Feliciano leaned over her desk and squinted at Diana. “Are you sure? You look a little thin. Remember, if your body mass index falls below twenty, you won’t have enough fat to metabolize the estrogens you need.”
“I weighed myself this morning. I’m right at my goal.”
“Good.” Dr. Feliciano slid her finger down to the next item. “Daily morning measurement and recording of your temperature for the purpose of predicting the start of ovulation?”
