Morning

by Nancy Thayer

  “You mean you get pregnant even if you use birth control?” Annie Danforth asked.

  “The first time I was using a diaphragm, if you can believe it. I guess it was just worn out. It was super-old. And I took it out after about four hours; you’re supposed to leave them in for six. But I was filled up with that spermicide goop. And Heather happened when I was nursing Blaise. They’ll tell you you can’t get pregnant when you’re nursing, but believe me, you can. And with this one, I was using foam. I still don’t know what happened. It’s just the way I am, I’m just basically an old breeding sow, I guess.” Mary leaned back on her elbows, looking down at her stomach, which still stretched sleekly between the two tiny strips of bikini. She smiled, a smile Sara had seen often before on others, a smile that reeked of secret pleasure and superiority.

  Sara sat in the sun and listened to the others talk. She could not rouse herself to join in the conversation. She could not trust her voice not to shake, giving away her emotional state. And what could she ask? What could she say?

  How do you do it? she could ask. Can you tell me how you do it? Could you loan me some of your power, some of your luck?

  The sun shone down on them all, on the men yelling and falling in the sand as their volleyball game got wilder, on the babies toddling and sleeping around the group of women, and on the women, who sat focused now on the new queen of their group, the one with the secret, the power, the age-old triumph, the unknown baby growing in her belly. The sun shone down hotly, making the ocean throw off shards of light that sliced at their eyes. It was a good excuse to put on sunglasses, and Sara slid hers on gratefully, glad to cover her eyes, which she felt must be vivid with pain. When she put her glasses on, she realized with a shock that her hands had gone icy cold.

  That night she said to Steve as they lay together in bed, “I’m going to go ahead and schedule that laparoscopy.”

  They had already turned off the light, and she could not see his face, or he hers.

  “Are you sure?” Steve asked, turning toward her, putting a hand on her shoulder.

  “It’s the end of August,” Sara said. “I know I’m going to get my period tomorrow, for the twenty-first month since we stopped using birth control. I think I really should do it.” She kept her voice matter-of-fact and pleasant.

  “But you told me you were afraid.…” Steve let his voice trail off in a question.

  “Well, I suppose I still am, a little. But Ellie promised me that I’ll be okay, and she’s a nurse. She says the risk of getting killed in a car accident on the way to the hospital is higher than the risk of anything happening in the hospital.”

  “Well, don’t feel like you have to do it,” Steve said. “I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

  “Oh, I know,” Sara replied. She could feel his hand on her arm, he was kneading her arm, and she was grateful for this sign of concern. “But I’ve been thinking, now that I’m through with Jenny’s Book, and almost through editing another romance novel, we aren’t rich, but we have enough money for the operation. So that’s okay. And—and I just think it’s time to schedule it. The doctor told me it has to be done between the time I’ve finished my period and before ovulating. So that they’re sure when they cut into me that I’m not pregnant. I know they won’t be able to schedule it this month, so I’ll have a month to finish editing Love’s Golden Clasp before I go. I feel good about it, Steve, really I do.”

  That was a lie, of course. She did not feel good about it. She simply felt desperate, in a strangely numb way. It was as if that afternoon on the beach, when The Virgin made her announcement, something had happened to her, to her entire body and soul, that caused her to go cold, blankly cold, like something dead. And she carried death within her now, she was in her period, she did not carry life. It was a relief, this cold, this blankness, for the heat of grief was so searing, so painful. She felt her husband stroking her now, and wondered that he did not mention how cold she was, wondered why he did not pull his hand away in surprise. She knew he was making love to her, and she knew she was responding acceptably, but she felt nothing at all, nothing at all.

  Chapter Eight

  “You’re in luck!” the nurse said, as cheerfully as if she were from Wheel of Fortune. “We can schedule you for a week from Wednesday. According to what you’ve just told me, that should be your twelfth day. You’ll be through with your period, but you won’t have ovulated then, right?”

  The nurse babbled away at Sara. The operation would take place at Brigham and Women’s Hospital on Wednesday. She would need to come into Boston on Tuesday to get consent forms at Dr. Crochett’s office and then have lab work done at the hospital. She would have general anesthetics; the day before the operation she would have a consultation with the anesthesiologist. They would do a laparoscopy, with a possible laparotomy if she had endometriosis. They would do a tubal lavage and an endometrial biopsy. Possibly a D&C. If the doctor did only a laparoscopy, Sara could leave the hospital that day—probably. If he had to do a laparotomy, which required a major abdominal incision, she would be in the hospital for five days more and should plan on spending four weeks after that resting and recuperating. She should get her insurance information ready for the hospital. She should plan to have someone drive her home from the hospital; she would not be allowed to leave the hospital by herself.

  Sara hung up the phone weak with terror. She did not know why it was that her sister loved hospitals, while she grew sick with fear at the thought of them, but it was an instinctive reaction she couldn’t help. Perhaps it was that her imagination was too vivid and that she remembered every medical mistake ever mentioned on television or in the newspapers. Perhaps she had a basic mistrust of people and knew how easily even the most careful person could make mistakes. Perhaps it was simply that this was her phobia, almost everyone had at least one special fear. But there was no way to explain it away. She did not know how to handle it. She would go ahead with this surgery, she would not back down, but she would go into it filled with dread.

  She called her sister. Ellie tried for a few minutes to be sympathetic and reassuring, but then interrupted herself. “Oh, Sara,” she said, “I’m so sorry, I’ve been waiting for the right time to tell you this and I just can’t wait any longer—I’m pregnant again! I’m almost five months pregnant. Yes, I was pregnant when I was with you this summer, but I didn’t want to tell you. I knew it would upset you.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful, Ellie, that’s wonderful. I’m so glad for you,” Sara said. It took all her energy to infuse her voice with enthusiasm. She was consumed with jealousy. It was as if something had just grasped her heart and twisted it.

  “You should see Joey,” Ellie said. “He’s so adorable now that my tummy’s sticking out. He goes around sticking his fat little tummy out and saying, ‘I’ve got a baby in my tummy just like Mommy!’ ”

  Sara laughed dutifully. And, just as dutifully, Ellie turned the conversation back to Sara’s operation and reassured her once again.

  When Sara hung up, she went out the back door and stood for a moment in the dark yard, looking at the empty blue sky. Why Ellie? Why not me? she asked whatever force it was that ruled the day and night, that caused the patterns of seasons and constellations and birth and blood. But whatever force it was did not answer. Sara knew it would never answer her, and she felt rejected by it, ignored. She wanted to sink into the ground, crushed with shame.

  That weekend Sara and Steve were invited to dinner at Steve’s parents’ house. They had decided to tell the older Kendalls about Sara’s forthcoming operation—it would be too difficult to disguise what was going on, especially if Sara had to stay in the hospital for five days. And Steve was going to take three days off work to go up with Sara on Tuesday and come back with her on Thursday; or, if she had the laparotomy, would come back after five days to pick her up. Sara and Steve spoke to his parents daily when they were on Nantucket; they couldn’t just disappear for a couple of days without
worrying them.

  Sara had a stiff drink before facing her in-laws with the news of her inability to get pregnant. She loved Clark and Caroline and knew they cared for her, but still she worried what their reactions would be—concern, pity, bewilderment? The reaction, to her surprise, was impatience, even anger, from Caroline.

  As they sat in the living room, looking out at the Atlantic, Caroline Kendall became uncharacteristically bold.

  “Sara, this is ridiculous!” she said. “A young woman like you scheduling herself for surgery. Steven, how could you let her do such a thing? Really! You should never schedule surgery unless it’s absolutely necessary! Unless it’s a life-and-death matter! It’s so dangerous! Besides, this is an issue for the Lord to handle, not for surgery. I’m sorry if you’ve had trouble getting pregnant, Sara, but really I think you’re going about it the wrong way. Surgery! I think you should relax. Everyone knows if you just relax, you’ll get pregnant. Relax and trust in the Lord. If He wills it, you’ll have a baby, and if He doesn’t, no amount of surgery will help. You should trust in the Lord.”

  Sara was so shocked at her motherin-law’s outburst that her breath seemed knocked out of her. She looked at Steve; his jaw was clenched.

  “Look, Mother,” he said, his voice hard and formal. “There’s no point in arguing about this. We’ve made up our minds. We’ve been trying for quite a while now, and since ‘the Lord’ hasn’t come through for us, we’re going to try a little intelligent medical help. This is the twentieth century, you know.”

  “How long have you been trying?” Caroline asked.

  Oh, spare me this, spare me, Sara silently pleaded. Still she could not answer.

  “Almost two years,” Steve said.

  Caroline was obviously shocked by this news. “Oh, dear,” she said, and looked at Sara quickly, as if trying to see through her clothes and skin into her flawed belly. Then she looked quickly away. “Well,” she said, and then she was speechless. Her hands fluttered up to her hair and her eyes blinked, then her entire face sagged. It was as if suddenly it occurred to her that this was serious, this was final; she was not to be a grandmother; she was not to have a grandchild. Her face almost crumpled. “I’d better go check the roast,” she said, her voice quavering.

  The silence when Caroline left the room was more painful than her loud comments had been just moments before. Clark Kendall sat red-faced, uncomfortable with the entire subject, and Sara was close to weeping. How horrible to be such a daughter-in-law, who brought these kind people sad instead of joyful news.

  Steve broke the silence. Sara sat looking out at the ocean, sipping her drink, sick with grief. Somehow they managed to smooth over the riff in the evening and the dinner went on well enough. Sara thought the worst was over.

  But when she was in the kitchen, helping her motherin-law with coffee and dessert, Caroline surprised her by grabbing Sara’s hands in hers. She looked Sara in the eye.

  “Sara, my dear,” she said, “I can’t let you go home without saying this to you. I’ve never wanted to be an intrusive motherin-law, I’ve never wanted to interfere—and I think you’d agree that I really haven’t been too nosy. And now I just have to say my piece or I won’t rest.”

  Sara smiled encouragingly. She could see in Caroline’s face how upset she was.

  “I know you think I’m old-fashioned,” Caroline said. “And yet I think you would admit that Clark and I have a fine marriage, a happy marriage. Well, we have this happy marriage because he’s the man and I’m the woman. What I mean is, he works, and I take care of the home. Sara, dear, if only you’d stop working, I’m sure you’d get pregnant. It just isn’t natural for a woman to work as hard as you do.”

  Oh, no, Sara thought. Oh, please, not this.

  Sara gently pulled her hands away. “Caroline,” she said, “it’s true that when I worked in Boston I was under some stress, or at least I worked hard, and my days—and nights—were very busy. But now I’m only working part-time, only freelance editing, some days I work only a few hours, and some days not at all.”

  “And many days you go to Boston,” Caroline said accusingly. “It’s not just the time, don’t you see? It’s your attitude. It’s where your heart is at. Sara, to be honest, I’m not sure you want to have a baby. I’m afraid that in your heart of hearts you’re afraid to have a baby because it would interfere with the work you think is so important to your life.”

  “Oh, Caroline,” Sara said, both angry and hurt, “that’s not true. That’s simply not true. I can’t tell you how much I want a baby.”

  “Then you should stop working and try to live like a real wife, a real woman,” Caroline said. “If you’re going to go on living as you have been, half woman, half man, why of course you’ll never get pregnant.”

  Sara felt sick with despair. What could she possibly say to this woman that would change her mind?

  “Will you at least think about what I’ve said?” Caroline asked.

  “Yes,” Sara replied. She began to place coffee cups and saucers and spoons on the tray. She wanted to get it over with, the dessert, the evening, the relationship, which was now ruined beyond repair. She had not known how Caroline felt about her working. She had been so naive, so simple-minded. Now her horrid infertility was stretching its grim death-dealing coils to this part of her life, too. Where there had been trust, there was now distrust; where there had been friendship, there was now enmity. If she had been able to present her motherin-law with a fait accompli—a pregnancy, a baby—then Caroline would have had no power, no right to criticize her working.

  But as it was, who could say that she was not right?

  During the drive home, Sara told Steve what Caroline had said.

  “Oh, Sara, don’t pay any attention to her,” Steve said. “She’s so old-fashioned.”

  “But do you think she’s right?” Sara pressed. “Do you think she’s right? That I’m not getting pregnant because I’m working? Do you think I’m too success oriented?”

  “No, Sara,” Steve said. “I think you’re fine. I think you’re wonderful. I think my mother is an old fogy who doesn’t know when to keep her mouth shut.”

  Sara looked at Steve, amazed. His tone of voice had been neutral, and so was his expression. But he never had criticized his mother before—Sara couldn’t recall a time when he had ever spoken against her. She felt sick. Had she forced Steve to take sides with her against his mother?

  Would there be no end to the damage her infertility could do?

  It was a beautiful summer evening, warm and bright with moonlight. As they parked the car and walked to their house, they could hear laughter drifting from the backyards and patios of other houses. It seemed everyone else in the world was carefree and happy.

  Sara went to the bathroom as soon as she was in the house. Her pad was soaked with blood. She sat looking at it, so rich and thick and red, so deep and huge that it spread across her life, blotting out life and joy.

  She hated herself enough to do herself damage. She hated herself so much that if she could have done it with a simple word, she would have chosen to vanish from the earth. But it was not so simple, and so she put on a fresh sanitary napkin and got ready for bed—for bed, which once meant only joy and rest but now meant, at the best, confusion.

  Ten days before her surgery, Sara ran away from home. That morning, Tuesday, September 12, was vivid with glancing lights, as if the buildings of Boston held separate suns that splattered silver from every skyscraper. The tiny whining plane that had carried Sara up the coast from Nantucket swooped low over Boston’s glittering harbor and landed smoothly on a runway that unrolled before them like a sheet of aluminum foil. The taxi that carried Sara to her destination was new and smelled of leather and success and it ticked speedily away through tunnels and over bridges without a single hitch or pause, as if the world were efficient and new. The Charles River sparkled, windows winked light, everything was clean and metallic and joggers slipped by effortlessly along the path
s, propelled by their robot hearts.

  Sara’s heart was slick, too, her body sleek, she stepped from the taxi, admiring herself as she moved: such sophisticated high heels, patterned hose, slender figure in svelte suit. Her hair glittered all in a piece, like a helmet, and her face was flawless, a beautiful mask. She felt like a woman from the twenty-first century.

  In the waiting room, she unbuttoned the camel suit jacket to reveal the blouse she was wearing, which in turn revealed her. It was a red silk blouse with full sleeves. She had turned the collar up high to further accentuate the way the neck plunged, unbuttoned, so that when she moved the rounded tops of her breasts were teasingly exposed. She knew what she was doing; she did not know what she was doing.

  “Tell Mr. Larkin that Sara Blackburn Kendall would like to see him,” she said to the secretary, and when the secretary asked politely if Mr. Larkin was expecting her, she smiled arrogantly and said, “No.”

  The secretary spoke on the phone to David Larkin, and in a flash he was there, opening the door into his office, looking out at her, his face beaming with surprise and delight.

  Her old lover. And it looked as if he still loved her. At least as if her presence, her simple presence, brought him pleasure.

  “Hello, David,” she said, smiling. “Do you have a minute?”

  He was a successful architect, she knew that, and she knew he was a busy man, but she knew also that this was his own firm, he was his own boss. So she felt no qualms about bothering him at work; he couldn’t get fired or hassled. She moved about, admiring the plush rug, the spotless glass-and-chrome furniture, the cool serene Japanese prints that adorned the otherwise bare walls. She was just as cool and serene as she talked to her old lover, her heart was as slick as the glass, as cold as the chrome, she enticed her old lover, she lured him. It had been a long time since she had done anything like this. It was like swimming after years away from the water; she slid through the morning like a seal in the sea. Cold was her element. But at least in some way, this way, she could still move, and her body still mattered, and had powers.