When in Vanuatu

by Nicki Chen

  “It’s the first thing I do every morning.”

  “Good. Recording your temperature is a valuable tool. But it’s only valuable insomuch as you put the knowledge to use.” She removed her reading glasses and leaned forward. “Your husband travels a lot, I recall.”

  “Yes. It’s part of his job.”

  “Hm.” She let go of her glasses, allowing them to dangle on their silver chain. “Couldn’t you go with him?”

  “With him? On his business trips? He’d be busy working.”

  “I realize that. But still, you’d have your evenings together.”

  “I don’t know,” Diana said. “Maybe . . .” Could she? It didn’t seem likely. As far as she knew, wives never went on mission with their husbands. And if she did, what would Jay think?

  “Think about it.” Dr. Feliciano moved her index finger down the list. Did Diana exercise regularly? Did she remember not to douche before sex or use a commercial lubricant? “If you focus on foreplay,” she added, “you won’t have any need for a lubricant.”

  Diana nodded. This was her fifth appointment with Dr. Feliciano, but she still wasn’t comfortable talking about foreplay in clinical terms. Kissing and touching, whatever she and Jay did in the privacy of their bedroom, were more than a means of lubricating the vaginal canal. She was afraid that naming it too many times in a doctor’s office would strip away, little by little, all that made lovemaking real and wonderful.

  “Boxers not briefs for your husband,” Dr. Feliciano continued, “and a multi-vitamin with folate. Is he still taking his vitamins?”

  “Yes.”

  The doctor worked down the familiar list of recommendations. “Adequate sleep? A healthy diet?”

  “Yes,” Diana answered. “Yes.” She and Jay had been observing every recommendation on the list for months. She knew them by heart. As she answered Dr. Feliciano’s queries, her attention wandered to the items on the big mahogany desk: an orchid with creamy blossoms, a basket holding paper clips and push pins, a stack of Post-its, and an array of framed photos, some facing the doctor, others turned toward the patient. The doctor’s family photo had been updated since Diana’s last visit. In the previous picture the five children were arranged according to height. This one had the girls kneeling on the grass and the three boys standing behind them.

  “And do continue to stick with the missionary style,” Dr. Feliciano concluded. “You can experiment with other positions later.” She tucked the paper back in the folder. “These are the basics.”

  Diana cleared her throat. “Doctor, uh, if we find that I still can’t get pregnant . . . um . . . what about . . . I mean, could we look into something like . . . a test-tube baby?” She’d been keeping the idea in reserve. She hadn’t said a word about it to Jay. He might think she was being obsessive and weird. Back in the late ’70s, when people heard about the test-tube baby in England, they thought it was freaky. But now, more than ten years had passed. People would be getting used to it.

  “You mean in vitro fertilization,” Dr. Feliciano said, quick to provide the correct terminology. “It’s a relatively new procedure. Experimental some might say. Even though it has gained a degree of popularity in several countries, it’s not available here in the Philippines. Even if it were available, I don’t think you would be a suitable candidate. From all that we have seen, you should be able to conceive without resorting to exceptional means. And you, my dear,” she said with little sympathetic shakes of her head, “are still quite young.”

  “I’m almost thirty-five, Doctor.”

  “You’re still well within the peak reproductive age range of twenty to thirty-eight.” She opened the folder again. “Ah, yes. Relaxation. How is that going?”

  Diana felt a flash of anger. “I’ve been trying, trying very hard.” She looked down at her clenched fists. “But trying hard seems to defeat the purpose.”

  “Yes, yes. One must know how to relax.” She grabbed a pen and scribbled on her prescription pad. “Here,” she said, ripping the paper off and handing it to Diana. “Make an appointment with Marilu Reyes. She teaches yoga and meditation, and she counsels people with anxiety disorders, phobias, and panic attacks.”

  “But I don’t . . .”

  “She’s very good. I think she will be able to help you.” Dr. Feliciano closed the folder and pushed her chair back. “Come back in three or four months, and if you’re not already pregnant, we’ll see if something further needs to be explored.”

  Halfway to the door, Diana turned back. “You said the procedure used in England, in vitro . . .”

  “In vitro fertilization.”

  “That it was becoming popular in several countries. Which countries would that be?”

  Dr. Feliciano allowed herself a small sigh before naming them. “Australia and the United States were the first to follow England. Austria, Sweden, France, and Singapore were close behind. But as I said, I don’t think IVF is for you.”

  Diana thanked her and hurried away.

  Passing through the hallway and into the reception room, she looked straight ahead, focusing on the large blue aquarium at the far end of the room instead of the baby pictures on either side of her. In front of the tank, a small child swayed, turning his head slowly from side to side as though mesmerized by the lazy movements of the fish.

  It may work for him, Diana thought as she hurried past the reception desk, but raising fish had been a total bust for her.

  16

  Marilu Reyes’s Forbes Park house stretched deep into the property, almost disappearing in the shadows of fully grown acacias and fat blossom-laden kalachuchis. Its mossy carved posts hinted at respectability and old money. Diana clenched her fist as she followed the maid up the sidewalk and into the house. She was determined to take these lessons or sessions or whatever you called them seriously. What other choice did she have?

  The studio was in the front of the house, just to the right of the entry. The woman who met her at the door was wearing lavender tights, robin-egg blue leg warmers, and a loose off-the-shoulder T-shirt. Her expression, though, was more Zen than Flashdance. She ushered Diana into a large air-conditioned room with buffed wooden floors and floor-to-ceiling mirrors cut across horizontally by waist-high handrails. “My mother teaches ballet here,” she said in explanation. She raised her chin toward a pile of mats in the corner. “In a few weeks you’ll be ready to join my yoga class and meditation sessions.” In the meantime, it looked like it would be just the two of them in the big, empty, reflecting room.

  They sat down in folding chairs angled toward each other in front of a bank of windows. The plants and orchids hanging in front of the windows broke the sunlight into thousands of soft-edge pieces. “We’ll start with breathing,” Marilu said. She described in detail for Diana the benefits of slow deep breathing and the dangers of shallow fast breathing. Then she laid her hands on Diana, one small hand on her chest and one on her belly. “Relax your shoulders,” she said. “Breath in your tummy. In, out. Deep down. Slower. Remember, dear, this is not a foot race.”

  Until then, Diana had assumed Marilu Reyes was about her age. Maybe she was older, though. Or maybe she called everyone dear.

  In the next exercise, Diana practiced relaxing, slowly, slowly, one muscle at a time, from the top of her head on down.

  During the final fifteen minutes they tried some yoga poses—downward dog, bridge pose, and child’s pose. By then, Diana’s determination to take the class seriously was ebbing. As she caught sight of herself reflected in the wall of mirrors, she had to press her lips together to keep from giggling.

  “I’ll see you next week,” Ms. Reyes said as she walked Diana to the door. “And remember, dear, practice, practice, practice.”

  “I will,” Diana said, although the only thing on her mind as she walked to the car was the funny stories she would tell Abby about this first “class” with Marilu Reyes.

  Slamming the car door shut, she exploded into a fit of laughter. It wasn’t really t
hat funny, she thought as she leaned over the steering wheel, coughing and trying to catch her breath. She fumbled for the box of tissues on the floor. She wiped her nose on her arm. Then she teased the box closer and grabbed a tissue. “What the hell am I doing?”

  When she got home, the words she needed to tell a funny story to Abby were gone. The pictures remained though. In their study, with the air conditioner rattling out a stream of cool air, she found a sketch pad and set to work recreating exaggerated versions of the images of herself she’d seen reflected on the mirrored walls of Marilu Reyes’s studio.

  She’d completed two sketches and was starting a third when the electricity went off. She slammed her pencil down. Damn! She leaned back in her chair, and drummed her fingers on the desk. A brownout now and then was one thing, but every day . . .

  She picked up the sketch pad and leafed back to the finished drawings. Not bad, she admitted, grinning at the floppy-eared spaniel she’d drawn. A pure fabrication. The dog sat cocking his head and smiling a doggy smile at a woman posing on all fours, her butt in the air and her hair in her face. You call that downward dog? the dog asks. In the other sketch, a woman is sitting on the floor in lotus position, her eyes closed, a hand on each knee. How the hell do I relax my pancreas? she asks in a bubble over her head.

  Diana smiled. Abby would appreciate the humor. After adding some color, she would stuff the sketches in an envelope with her next letter.

  Whew! Diana fanned herself with the sketch pad. After all these years in the Philippines, she was still amazed at how a room could turn hot and stuffy within minutes without the air conditioning. Before long she was going to need a cold shower.

  The phone rang, and, as though it might be something important or hopeful or . . . purely out of habit, she hurried into the dining room to answer it.

  “Hey.” It was Jay. “Can you meet me for lunch at the office?”

  He didn’t have to ask twice. The air conditioning at his office would be more than welcome. “Sure,” she said. “I’ll be there.”

  The D-TAP lobby was a spacious, high-ceilinged area designed to accommodate large gatherings and to display gifts from various Asian and South Pacific countries. It was meant to impress visitors, Diana thought as she pushed open the heavy glass door and stepped inside. The lobby was alive with men crisscrossing its floor, shaking hands, patting backs, or hurrying off to meet someone at a favorite restaurant. In the midst of all the motion, only Jay was still, illuminated by the invisible spotlight of their connection.

  She’d been with him only hours before, but from across the room, she was aware of how good-looking he was.

  He saw her, smiled, and strode across the great marble floor to her side. “Marshall Charbonneau wants to see you,” he said, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.

  “Why?”

  “He wants to give you something. He didn’t say what.” He put his hand on her back. “Let’s go. He’s waiting for us in the Executive Dining Room.”

  Every time Diana had lunch with Jay in the Executive Dining Room, she was struck by how nice it was—white tablecloths, filtered sunlight, silent air conditioning—and by how the men chatting, laughing, and eating there didn’t seem to notice.

  She didn’t recognize Marshall Charbonneau until he waved them over. He had an enormous bald spot on the back of his head now, and when he turned around, all she could see was the mustache. Eddie Wu was sitting across from him.

  “You remember Marshall, don’t you?” Jay asked, pulling a chair out for Diana.

  “Of course. How’s Carole Anne?”

  “Carole Anne?” Marshall tilted his head like a dog catching the scent of a fox. “Oh, she’s just fine. Busy with her garden and her riding lessons and whatever else it is she does while I’m hard at work.”

  Jay and Eddie chuckled, a kind of acknowledgment, Diana thought, that they all belonged to the same club, a club composed of hard-working men who supported women with nothing better to do than take riding lessons.

  “So,” Diana said, “What brings you to Manila?”

  “Business,” Marshall looked at his watch. “I have a meeting with the vice president as soon as we’re done here.”

  Diana didn’t know Marshall well. But seeing him now, she remembered that every time she saw him and Carole Anne at a dinner party hosted by mutual friends, he was always talking about himself. A few years ago, the Charbonneaus had moved to Vanuatu. Now Marshall was Saudur’s boss.

  Eddie raised his arm. “Pssst,” he said to get the waiter’s attention.

  You could count on a good meal in the Executive Dining Room. Soup and salad, a main course, and dessert, all geared to the tastes of an international staff and served by well-trained waiters in white jackets.

  “The usual for me,” Eddie said before their waiter had a chance to announce the daily special.

  “Yes sir.”

  “And, Rolly, I’m gonna need another San Miguel in a minute.”

  “Coming right up, sir.”

  The special that day, which the rest of them ordered, was tom yum soup, crystal noodles with prawns, Thai basil with chicken, and a scoop of mango ice cream for dessert.

  “Hey, Diana.” Marshall pulled an envelope out of his inside jacket pocket and dangled it over the table. “Got something for you.”

  She leaned across the table and took it. Scrawled across the front of the envelope in Abby’s familiar bold handwriting was Diana’s name. “Thanks,” she said, slipping the letter into her purse.

  “We rescued Diana from a brownout,” Jay said.

  Eddie groaned. “These brownouts! I’m sick of them.” He tilted his head back and emptied his beer. “If Cory hadn’t mothballed the Bataan Nuclear Power Plant,” he said, handing the empty bottle to the waiter who’d just arrived with cold beers for the men and a coffee for Diana, “we’d have all the power we needed.”

  “That woman’s way outa her depth,” Marshall said, shaking his head and rolling his eyes.

  Diana cleared her throat. “Excuse me. Cory wasn’t the one who built a nuclear plant over a fault and within spitting distance of a very active volcano.” Diana couldn’t understand why people gave Cory Aquino such a hard time. After all those years under a dictator, you’d think they’d be happy to have a president who was at least trying to help the country.

  Jay looked at her and bit his thumbnail. He and Diana had argued more than once about Cory Aquino, Jay criticizing her, Diana coming to her defense, neither of them admitting that their view had anything to do with Cory’s gender . . . or theirs.

  “She didn’t have much choice,” Jay said finally. “The public was scared stiff of anything nuclear so soon after the Chernobyl disaster.”

  “That’s her problem,” Marshall said. “She doesn’t have the cojones to go against public opinion.”

  “As for me . . . Eddie fanned his face with his hand. “All I want is enough power to run my air conditioner. And . . .” He raised his beer. “. . . keep my San Miguel cold.”

  When their soup arrived, the men had moved on to office gossip. For the juiciest bits, they leaned over their bowls, slurping and lowering their voices. The juiciest gossip among D-TAP officers had nothing to do with sex. It was all about power. McCarthy was angling for Yamamoto’s job. Patel was spreading rumors about Torres, and they suspected Kapoor put him up to it. Diana had never been a big gossip. Even if she had worked for D-TAP and known all the parties involved, she wouldn’t have enjoyed the conversation.

  Jay put his spoon down and smiled at her. “Do you like the soup?”

  “Yeah. It’s good.”

  After the main course arrived, the conversation shifted to D-TAP projects and missions. Every so often they’d remember Diana and tear themselves away from shop talk. Before long, though, they were back at it again. Their work was just too darn interesting. If D-TAP didn’t have a policy against hiring spouses, Diana thought, she wouldn’t mind working for them herself.

  Twirling some crystal noodles
around her chopsticks, she considered her old job. It wasn’t the most exciting thing in the world to be an accountant, but when she worked, she’d had a sense of accomplishment at the end of the day. And she and her fellow accountants always had something to talk about at lunch. She was remembering some of those lunches when Marshall first mentioned Johnny Gamboa.

  “Poor old Johnny,” he said. “Looks like I’m gonna have to replace him. I don’t think he’s going to recover from that stroke.”

  The waiter brought their ice cream, and, almost in unison, they picked up their spoons and dug in. Magnolia’s mango ice cream was irresistible—creamy with chunks of mango, and just the right consistency. With the sweet, creamy taste of mangoes in her mouth, Diana lost track of the plight of poor old Johnny Gamboa, the tragedy of his stroke, and the need to replace him.

  17

  Diana rolled onto her back and floated motionless, staring at the sky. Abby’s letter and her own confused feelings about it fluttered at the edge of her consciousness.

  By now, clouds would be billowing up over the bay. But here at the pool, the sky was pure blue, its simplicity broken only by a pair of dragonflies stuck together in a mating dance. Their iridescent wings flashed in the sunlight as they dipped and rose in their graceful tandem flight over the water.

  The thought of finishing her laps made a brief appearance. Then it melted away. Instead she watched the dragonflies. They flew toward the tables and frangipani trees, and then, a minute later, swooped back. Finally, breaking apart, they zoomed off in opposite directions, as though they’d never met. As though one intercourse would be enough—which might be true for dragonflies. Considering their short lives, they would need to get it right the first time.

  She stroked to the ladder and climbed out. At her table, she threw a towel around her shoulders and sat down. She didn’t need to reach into the outside pocket of her bag. She’d already read Abby’s letter. But here she was with the envelope in her hand. She slid the letter out and unfolded it.