He held my gaze, and said nothing.
“I should go,” I said, trying to ignore that flutter in my heart. “Have to gussy up.”
He bowed and stepped aside. “Please. Gussy away. Call you tomorrow?”
“Yep.” I placed my basket on the conveyer belt, but didn’t empty it until he had wandered towards DAIRY.
A pudgy clerk—his nametag said Arnib—with spiky gelled hair and skin as pale as rice paper rang up my items. He lifted an eyebrow and smirked as he scanned the pregnancy test. Another black girl in trouble after having wild, drunken sex with a rapper. After Truman’s return from Everest, sex had been wild and sometimes drunken, but he was far from a rapper. He folded his socks, brushed and flossed his teeth with disturbing zeal, and had never fired a gun. I didn’t tell Arnib this. Maybe he disapproved of my other purchases. Five Slim Jims combined with that much Coca-Cola couldn’t be good for anyone.
Truman’s crazy work schedule meant that he had started to flake on me. But this meant more than me going to the mall alone. It meant that he also kept postponing our plans to have a baby. Let’s wait until my schedule normalizes, he’d say. Problem was: he didn’t budge from this even as his schedule refused to cooperate.
After five months of late-night gropings and early-morning quickies, and close to $600.00 spent on pregnancy tests, ovulation prediction kits, incense and lingerie, I couldn’t get pregnant. Not that five months of trying and nothing happening was a great span of time. Not that Truman knew I was trying in the first place.
I thought it was best this way—getting pregnant on the sly—and yeah, it was a selfish thing to do, but I knew that he’d be thrilled once the idea of having a baby became a reality. He’d get to be the father Douglas Baxter had failed to be for him: open-minded and kind, a lover of adventure, mud and snow. For this initiative, I had to act as summit leader since I’d literally be bearing the burden of a baby at thirty-seven-freakin’ years old.
On month five, day twenty-three of my unsuccessful conception adventure, Monica had said, “You’re insane.”
“I’m not insane,” I had responded. “I’m as barren as the Arctic.”
Monica had shot me a frustrated glance, then rolled her eyes. “You must not be doing it right, then.”
“What do you know?”
“My momma had five kids. And she didn’t consult no calendar, or scrutinize her cervical mucus or none of that yuppie nonsense. Idiots have babies every day.”
Monica had also attended UC Santa Cruz, and had lived in the dorm room next to Leilani and me. Back then, Monica, a Ghetto BAP from Watts, wore long, golden weaves and giant doorknocker earrings. She wore matching tennis shoes and tracksuits, and drove her boyfriend’s purple Z28 until the repo man came for it during spring semester.
“Something’s wrong,” I had said. “Either I have bad eggs, or Truman has lazy sperm. I bet it’s because of all his extreme sporting. He probably sprained a testes or something. Maybe if he went to see the doctor, and squooshed a little puddle of himself in a cup—”
“But then you’d have to confess that you’ve been trying to get pregnant on the down-low,” Monica had said. “You’re freaking out, Nic. You read too much, that’s your problem. You always think that something’s wrong with you.”
I dipped my toes in the pools of Hypochondria more than the average American. But I also grew up in a health store with an aunt who constantly shoved vitamins and minerals down my throat. There, I learned that you could always fix yourself by popping something. Psyllium for better bowel movements. Cod liver oil pills for shinier hair. Cinnamon bark tablets to freshen breath. At one point, I could swallow five horse-sized pills at once, without water.
As an adult living in the age of the Internet, I have self-diagnosed scabies, Legionnaire’s Disease and a hernia. Went to the doctor each time in search of a pill to cure me; but there were no pills for the heat rash, wicked virus and pinched nerve—maladies that I actually had.
I had been getting better about distinguishing true health problems from imagined ones, and had banned myself from surfing the pages of WebMD. Before my pregnancy attempts, two months had passed since my last search. And then my ovaries broke…
The baby dance reminded me of seventh-grade P.E., with the cool kids choosing teams for dodge ball. I never got to be captain. Hell, I never got to throw. As bait, I stood in the middle of the court with knobby, ashy knees, wearing too-small gym shorts, ducking a rubber ball rocketing through the air at fifty-five miles per hour. Most times, the ball would hit me in my face, occasionally breaking my glasses. The other kids would laugh at me, and I would retreat to the bench in tears.
My ovaries represented the seventh-grade me I had longed to be. Except that sperm had replaced rubber balls. My stupid eggs dodged those throws. They needed to get hit to win.
“It’s not like I’m twenty-five anymore,” I had explained to Truman. “All eggs have expiration dates. Keep something for ten years, it comes back in style. Keep it for twenty, it’s a classic. Keep it for twenty-nine? Antique.”
“Honestly?” he had said. “I’d be okay if it was just you and me for the rest of our lives. But kids would be great. I just want us to do everything we’ve dreamed of before they come.”
By ‘us’ he meant ‘him.’ By ‘we’ he meant ‘him.’ And then he drove to Beverly Hills BMW and traded his Audi sedan for a Z3. Babies couldn’t ride in two-seat sports cars. They rode in Volvos, Saabs and Fords. Didn’t matter. Who needed a kid when you had a BMW and a great career with a crazy salary?
Still, I had respected his decision to wait because I enjoyed our last-minute trips to Santa Barbara and Las Vegas. We’d talk, laugh and hold hands all the way. I’d gaze at him, and think, I could do this forever. Drive around the country with the car’s top down, listening to Earth, Wind and Fire, eating meals cooked in a kitchen by a chef and not by a teenager with a deep-fryer and catsup packets. And I liked my quiet, clean apartment, and I enjoyed buying designer handbags and $30-rib eye steaks instead of diapers and Juicy Juice.
Because the alternative sucked. My friends and co-workers with children were miserable people. Madison always had an ear infection or diarrhea. Connor’s teeth were always coming in or falling out. They couldn’t see a movie. They couldn’t go out for dinner. They were too tired. Too poor. Too everything.
Truman and I—we had each other… Until he found other people to hang out with.
The more he climbed, jumped and explored, the stronger my desire to buy teddy bears and paint the guest room pink and yellow. I envied my neighbors as they walked with their kids up to the reservoir. Would they go out for spaghetti and meatballs later? Or would they drive to Target for toilet cleaner and paper towels, leaving the store sharing an Icee and a bag of popcorn? My gaze lingered after them, and I coveted the intimacy I had experienced with my parents for only three short years, the intimacy I longed to share with Truman.
So, one morning, I ‘forgot’ to take the Pill.
I ‘forgot’ that next morning, too. And the next.
When Truman returned to the States from Nepal, we pounded each other as though two years had passed. I had lacked an agenda during those moments in bed (and in the shower and on the patio). I just wanted to be with the man I loved more than anyone in the world. I wanted to hear his laugh again. Listen to him breathe. Lay beside him, tucked beneath his arm.
And then it happened… or didn’t happen.
No period.
6
At home, I dashed up the stairs to the master bathroom. I pried open the box, and read the pregnancy test’s instructions:
1. Aim stick under urine flow.
2. Hold stick in steady stream for three seconds.
3. Place stick on flat surface for two minutes.
Two minutes later... A blue plus sign!
I drank another diet cherry Coke and four glasses of water. Sat at the kitchen counter, gnawed on Slim Jims and pretended to watch Judge Judy on the plasma television set bolted above th
e sink.
How about Jack for a boy and Zoë for a girl? Or maybe Zora?
What’s CelluTech’s Family Leave policy?
Should Mo be the godmother, or Leilani?
My bladder filled again, and I raced to the bathroom to pee on the bonus stick.
Another blue plus sign. Light-light blue this time, but still blue.
Smiling, I slipped both positive pregnancy tests back into the box and stashed the box in the back of my lingerie drawer.
Lei should be the godmother.
And Zoë. Definitely Zoë.
7
I placed my plastic cup of urine in the patient bathroom’s two-way cubby. Then, I followed Nurse Charmaine to Room 9. I undressed, pulled on the paper gown, and perched at the edge of the examination table. A moment later, Dr. Corrine Silas breezed into the room with a bright smile. After updating my chart, she asked me to recline on the table.
The moment of truth had arrived. I’d get a glimpse of Zoë or Jack for the first time!
She clicked off the room’s lights, then squirted ultrasound gel onto my bare belly.
I giggled, and said, “That stuff is cold.”
Dr. Silas smiled, then moved the wand around my abdomen. She grunted and squinted at the monitor, but said nothing. And she said nothing for two minutes. Finally, she swiped tissue across my belly. With thirty-six years of experience as an obstetrician-gynecologist, Dr. Silas knew a pregnant womb when she saw one.
And my womb wasn’t.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she said. “You’re not pregnant.”
I slowly sat up and opened my mouth to speak. But my mind offered nothing.
She offered a small, apologetic smile. “I wish I had better news.”
“Are you sure?” My voice sounded small. Who-ville small.
“The urine sample you gave came back with very low HCG levels. Almost non-existent. But I wanted an ultrasound to confirm that.”
I shook my head, unable to process her diagnosis. “But the pregnancy tests I took on Tuesday were positive. And my breasts are sore, and I’m more tired than usual, and…” My mind raced, grabbing other symptoms off the shelf before they vanished into the past.
Dr. Silas took my hand, and said, “It’s unfortunate, but half of all pregnancies end in miscarriage.”
“Miscarriage?”
She nodded. “Most times, women don’t even know that they’re pregnant. Since you’ve been trying, you’re hyper-aware of your body’s changes. I think you may have had a chemical pregnancy. Which is, basically, an early miscarriage.”
With tears in my eyes, I nodded, and said, “Okay.”
“You may have a little cramping, but nothing serious,” she said. “I didn’t see any cysts or tumors during the ultrasound. It just… happened. But that shouldn’t keep you from trying again.”
After more talk about exercise and nutrition, she squeezed my arm, and said, “Come back in November for your annual. Or maybe I’ll see you earlier. When you’re pregnant.” She closed my file, and sighed. “I’m sorry, Nicole. It wasn’t the right time.”
I thanked her, pulled on my clothes and trudged to the parking lot. I sat in the car—a chemical pregnancy—and tried to think positive. You have time, Nic. There was probably a defect or… I lay my head against the steering wheel as sobs broke from my chest. Each time I gained control, another wave of sorrow crashed over me.
All cried out, I started the car and pulled back into the world with the resolve to eat better. To exercise more. To pop prenatal vitamins and tell Truman straight-out that it was time to have a baby. Busy schedules could kiss my ass… He wouldn’t mind that last part.
The driveway was empty. Truman wasn’t home.
Of course, he wasn’t home.
He had left a voice-mail message. Hey, babe. I’m gonna be late tonight. Conference call with China in an hour. I’ll check in later.
After popping two Tylenol to combat a tension headache spreading between my shoulders, I wandered to the foyer to sort through the day’s mail. I spotted Jake ambling down the hill and opened the door. “Hey,” I shouted. “Heading down for coffee?”
He nodded. “You comin’?”
“Only if you’re buying.” I grabbed my keys, and ran out to meet him.
On the first day of our move to Rockcliff Drive, Truman and the movers had disappeared into the house to place the couch in the living room. I had stood out front, guarding my immense library and my Le Cruset stoneware collection from thieves who sought a first edition Treasure Island and a blue French oven. Footfalls had pounded against the asphalt, and I turned to see a jogger nearing my house. He was tall and broad, tanned and dark-haired. Spanish or Italian roots, I couldn’t tell, but wow, he was beautiful.
On most days, my skin would be flawless and radiant. On most days, my shoulder-length hair would be combed, and my big, brown eyes would sparkle. Alas, this was moving day. A pimple had commandeered my oily chin. My hair hid beneath a dusty FSN baseball cap, and my eyes were bloodshot from packing until three that morning.
The jogger smiled, and stopped a few feet away from me. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”
“Thanks.” I grinned—at least my teeth were clean—and held out my hand. “Nicole Baxter.”
He shook my hand and squeezed it. “Jake Huston.” He nodded towards the modern white tri-level further up the hill. “I’m right there if you need anything.”
“Nic—” Truman returned to the porch and threw a surprised glance at Jake. “Oh. You’re not alone.” The two men shook hands and exchanged names.
Jake pointed to his house. “I’m right there. I just met…” He peered at me, then said, “Sorry. I don’t remember…”
“Nicole,” I said, disappointed that I hadn’t made much of an impression.
Truman turned towards our neighbor’s house. “She’s a beauty.”
But Jake kept his eyes on me. “Gotta agree with you on that.”
I swayed as I held his gaze.
Then, the three of us chatted about the housing market, about rising crime, abandoned cars and the dying economy. Jake was a partner at Tucker & Johns, criminal defense attorneys famous for defending shoplifting actresses and rich husbands with disappeared wives. Divorced, he had no children and lived alone in his big, white house.
The movers caught our attention, and Truman said, “Oh, yeah. Why I came out here.” He turned to me. “The guys wanna know where you want the bed frame.”
I nodded, then smiled at Jake. “Nice meeting you.”
Jake smiled, then he and Truman continued their conversation about septic tanks.
After that, I had bumped into Jake at least twice a week. We passed each other driving up and down the hill. We saw each other at the village market and talked about movies in the bread aisle. We sat together at the coffee shop to drink our lattes and talk politics.
The sun would drop behind the hills, and the coffee crowd would thin. Jake and I would toss our empty cups into the trash can and make our way back home. Sometimes as we walked, we wouldn’t talk, and the backs of our hands would brush.
He’d escort me to my front door.
I’d grin at him like a goofy teenager and thank him for his company and the coffee.
He’d nod, then retreat across the flagstone pathway, and start up the hill.
Weak-kneed and lightheaded, I’d wobble into the house.
Bad girl. Bad Nicole.
Why? I hadn’t done anything. Racing pulse and tingling skin? Felt that way before, after a bout of food poisoning. And if Truman caught Jake and me together—not ‘caught’ since I’d done nothing wrong—I would offer my husband an explanation. Jake walked with me because a few homes were burglarized (true) and last week, a woman down the hill was raped in her garage (also true), and since you don’t come home until late now and I’m alone, I’m a little jumpy (very true).
And Jake and I were friends. Just friends.
8
As the house slipped into sha
dow, I filled the bathtub with hot water and eucalyptus oil. I slipped beneath the water, closed my eyes and slowly exhaled…
My eyes snapped open.
The bath water had chilled, and my fingers had shriveled into brown and pink sticks. I had fallen asleep.
“Hey, babe! It’s me!” Truman.
After drying off and slipping on a camisole, I peeked through Truman’s office door. He sat at his desk, a Red Vine between his teeth, as he played “World of Warcraft” on the computer. I turned away, deciding not to disturb him.
He called out, “Nic?”
“You’re adventuring. I’ll leave you alone.”
“Come back,” he said, eyes on the screen. “It’s just a stupid quest to find some stupid key. What’s going on?”
“Not much.” I stood behind him, and wrapped my arms around his neck. “I went to the doctor today. Haven’t been feeling well lately.”
He nodded. “A virus is going around the office. We both need rest.”
“Yeah,” I said, knowing that my malady hadn’t been a virus.
“Let’s go away next weekend. Drive up to Santa Barbara and stay at the Four Seasons.”
I smiled. “Can I get one of those massages where they slather you in lotion and wrap hot towels around your body?”
“My treat.” Truman swiveled in his chair. “And I promise—promise—not to flake on you.” His gaze swept over me, lingering at my breasts hidden beneath the pink silk camisole. He pulled me closer to him, and his hands ran up my thighs to my hips. Even through the lingerie, his touch warmed my skin.
I kissed him, and whispered, “I’m glad you’re home.”
“I’m glad I’m home, too. I miss you.” He pulled my right leg up and wrapped it around his waist. I lifted my left leg, and slipped it beneath the arm of the chair.
We sat face to face, and kissed again.
“You taste like licorice,” I said, unbuttoning the strained fly of his Levis.
“And you taste like…” His lips brushed across my neck and across my shoulders. He swiveled the chair again and lifted me onto the desk.
The View from Here Page 3
