by Ashley Pullo
“May I get you something to drink?” asks the waitress with curly blond ringlets.
“I would like a Hendrick’s and tonic and my date would like . . . a Greyhound.” The waitress turns on her heels after gaping a little too long at Adam’s chest. As soon as she leaves, he removes his jacket and tie, runs his hand through his hair then rolls up his sleeves. I’m both furious and intrigued by his body language because I know he’s about to surrender, but why? We sit silently, our little staring contest in full action. The waitress returns with our drinks and Adam smiles courteously, but keeps his focus on me.
“Do you mind giving us a few minutes? We will be happy to wave you over when we’re ready to order.” His voice is always so calm and assuring that women become a robotic mess in his presence, prompting the doll-like waitress to return to the bar.
“Chloe . . . can we agree therapy is not for us? Five thousand dollars later and you had your answers all along and managed to insult the woman.” He takes a drink with amusement and continues.
“I do not enjoy being studied. I do not wear my heart on my sleeve and I will never compromise rational thinking. You intoxicate me, but what we have is private . . . guarded.” His face becomes somber as he leans in closer to me.
“Last year was difficult for both of us and I accept full responsibility for my cowardliness. I made a promise to protect you and I failed. But going forward, failure is unacceptable.” He rests his bare forearms on the table and motions playfully to his glass. “Chloe, you have exactly the amount of time it takes me to finish this drink to ask me anything you want . . . your favorite game.”
I’m speechless. Adam is cautious about showing too much emotion and he never allows words to dominate the moment. There is so much I want to ask him about the past year but he obviously wants this to be quick and effective, so I need to choose my questions wisely. I slowly reach into my handbag and pull out my shopping list notebook and the pen I stole from the bank.
“Excellent. I will just jot a few things down as we go,” I say as I pretend to scribble onto a blank page. I can feel the warmth of his smile on me and I tingle with anticipation of our fun little game.
“So Adam, how do you feel?” I look up from my notebook and his intense gaze startles me. Our eyes lock passionately, creating a spinning kaleidoscope of a movie montage set to the soundtrack of our life.
Adam calmly grabs his G&T and knocks it back in three consecutive swallows, his throat throbbing in anticipation. He pounds the glass on the table and leans into me to whisper the three most exquisite words . . .
“I . . . feel . . . you.”
The Pumpkin Impalement
October 2010
Sophie is five months old today, which means I’m also five months post-op. The doctor assured me I would be back to my old self by this pivotal date, but my old self has disappeared. I was diagnosed with postpartum depression in July and Mom immediately made arrangements to be back by my side. She has been the driving force in keeping me sane and healthy and relentlessly cares for the children. Mom takes Will to pre-school, Sophie to the park and always remembers scheduled play dates and school parties. They have little picnics in the backyard and prepare healthy dinners with chocolate desserts. She reads them books, washes all the tiny clothes, prepares the bottles and creates organic baby food recipes. She bathes them, cuddles them and takes a million photos in hopes that I will snap out of whatever uncontrollable force is holding me captive.
The scariest part of my diagnosis is that there’s no explanation and no immediate solution. I’ve been on medication for three months, one month longer than the average depressed mother, and my only form of recourse is to sit in a bath. I punish myself from enjoying any positive interaction because I’ve failed the scientific method of expected recovery. I sit on the bed. I go to my doctor appointments alone. I take my medicine. I sit in a bath. I go to sleep. I never listen to music. I never eat. I never know what day it is until I look at my phone to erase the chirping texts from Natalie.
Mom should be out with the kids by now so I quietly head down the stairs to the kitchen for water and possibly some oatmeal. When I get to the first floor I hear her talking on the phone so I sit on the steps, hidden by the French doors, and listen to her brutal honesty.
“Oh Marty, I’m beside myself . . . she’s doing better with her medication but she’s still embarrassed and anxious . . . yes, the children are wonderful. Will is a miniature version of Adam, so serious and smart, and Sophie, oh Marty she’s a doll! It breaks my heart that Chloe doesn’t think she’s a good mother . . . yes, the doctor is very aware of everything. Adam? That’s the worst part . . . he doesn’t know what to do. He comes in and out of the house and I know he’s been sleeping on the couch. He’s so scared, Marty, and well, it’s hard to see someone you love depressed and you don’t have the cure . . . Oh! Little Sophie is waking from her nap. I love you Marty, I’ll call again tomorrow.” I hear Mom walking to the playpen as Sophie giggles so I quickly retreat back up the stairs. Even in my confused emotional state, it’s obvious that I’m disappointing everyone around me and will never be able to mend the broken hearts. And Adam . . . what have I done?
Will throws open my bedroom door and leaps onto my bed with a Lego truck. Mom follows with Sophie on her hip and my daily iced coffee in her hand. I’m overwhelmed by the thought of my beautiful children not having their mommy and it’s that anxiety that forbids me to progress. I need to cry and scream but my medicine has regulated every emotion to a nice happy, middle ground.
“Chloe, we have exciting news! There is a fall carnival happening right down the street!” Mom places my coffee on the side table and walks to the window to raise the shades. The one-hundred-year-old tree outside my window is bright copper and the leaves float down like tiny umbrellas from a tropical drink. My old self loved the autumns in New York City, sometimes spending hours wandering amongst nature’s yearly transformation. My new pathetic self wants to sit in the bath. Mom throws the covers back in a quick yank and sits down next to me. Sophie crawls off her hip and onto my stomach gurgling and cooing. She’s been blessed with my green eyes and Adam’s dark hair, and I’m tempted to swallow her up so she’s always mine. Sophie reaches for Will’s Lego with a slobbery, chubby hand and launches it at my face. Message received.
“Hop to it, missy! I will start the shower . . . no time for a bath today.” Mom jumps to her feet and leaves me on the bed with my children. I put one arm around Will and he cuddles into me. I put my other hand on Sophie’s chubby wrist and kiss her hand. Today could be the day . . . the one where the old me kicks the shit out of the new me.
I don’t know how Mom did it, but I am dressed and pushing Sophie’s Baby Jogger toward Christ Church Cobble Hill. The air is fresh and crisp and the golden sun expands across the entire sky. It’s a gorgeous Saturday afternoon and the streets are bursting with families and eclectic hipsters enjoying the last days of the beautiful weather. I smile down at Will who is skipping over the cracks on the sidewalk, his dark hair shimmering in the sunlight. Mom puts her arm through mine, which makes it difficult to push the stroller, but I welcome her loving gesture. Dozens of speared pumpkins line the brownstones to create an unusual path known as the Cobble Hill Pumpkin Impalement and it’s surprisingly uplifting. We reach the church parking lot and my anxiety takes control. Families laughing and kids running, the noise, the movement, it’s too much. I sit on the nearest bench with Sophie while Mom cheerfully takes Will to decorate a pumpkin.
Sophie is drooling on a rubber elephant and my anxiety is slightly diminishing, but then I notice two young men staring at us from across the street. My heart races as they come toward us. They appear harmless, but I don’t want to talk to anyone and I definitely don’t want to interact with strangers when I feel shamefully vulnerable.
“Hi!” The shorter one with blonde hair says to me. The other guy crouches down to make a baby noise at Sophie and she giggles. Oh my God, this is too much!
&nbs
p; “I’m Tom and this dork here is Dan,” he says with an animated voice. The dork stands up and I’m immediately drawn to his dark blue eyes and adorable smile.
“You seem weirded out, everything ok?” Dan puts his hands in his tight corduroy pockets and beams at me.
“Hey, we didn’t mean to upset you!” His face is compassionate and sincerely apologetic. “Do you think you can settle a bet?” He pauses for me to comply, then continues anyway. “Are you Chloe LeGrange?” Dan reminds me of a cute puppy wanting to play Frisbee.
If I answer them, maybe they will leave. “I am.” Tom slaps Dan on the shoulder, clearly the winner.
Dan must pick up on my confusion so he quickly explains, “I saw you perform at the Rockwood. You were like the pre-opening act, but I remember you and I couldn’t stop talking about your performance.”
“It’s true. Dan only wants to perform Johnny Cash songs because of you. If I hear Hurt one more time . . .”
Shit. That was one of the worst nights of my life and they are here to humiliate me. They must know my social skills are a complete wreck so I just nod and turn my head to look for Mom and Will. When I look back, Dan is still smiling at me with two adorable dimples. This is getting uncomfortable.
“Anyway, Tom and I have a band that performs at the Coffee Bar every third Saturday. We would be honored if you’d check us out sometime and maybe, if you pity some young musicians, sing some vocals?” He is so sweet and adorable that I could very well crush him with my pathetic self, so I just nod and say, “Sure.”
“Fantastic! An honor to meet you Chloe,” Dan says. Tom imitates a bow and they continue down the street.
The autumn sun is setting when Mom and Will stroll back to my bench carrying a maple-leaf-painted pumpkin and an armful of cotton candy. Will tosses the wet pumpkin in my lap and yells, “Daddy” and then races off down the street.
“Adam, dear, over here,” Mom says while waving her hands excitedly.
My Adam. Dear god, he looks majestic towering over the townspeople like a statue. His hair is short and his face is clean-shaven, but his solid features appear soft and fragile. Adam scoops Will in his strong arms and kisses him on the forehead. He carries Will like a baby monkey and leans down to kiss Sophie. She gurgles and flaps her arms and I swear, Mom just secretly snapped a picture with her phone. He sets Will down on the sidewalk then sits down next to me and drops his arm around my shoulders. Adam leans into me, his familiar smell of sea salt and citrus awakening my senses and opening my heart. His mouth lingers by my ear as if he’s studying my profile, waiting for a suspended moment of clarity.
“Always,” he faintly whispers.
I love him and I wish more than anything I could show some sort of emotion . . . anything that was part of the old me. He squeezes me tightly . . . I feel like crying but it embarrassingly comes out as a nervous laugh. We start our walk home, Mom pushing the stroller, Adam carrying Will on his shoulders and me; I wander aimlessly along the street entranced by the impaled pumpkins and knowing exactly what it feels like to rot on display.
Later during dinner, Mom tells spirited stories about Dad while I poke at my sushi with chopsticks. Adam relaxes by stretching on the floor near Sophie’s exersaucer, smiling and laughing about Dad’s crazy plan to buy a camper. One of their Facebook friends traveled across Canada and I can’t help but giggle when she tells us she found him on the computer, not looking at porn, but creating a Facebook account. It’s getting late and Will has fallen asleep on the couch with blue, sugared hands hugging his Canadian pumpkin, so Adam carries him up to bed. Mom follows behind them wishing me a good night . . . winky-wink. I need Adam here, but I don’t like pretending that everything is okay, or rather, that I’m okay.
I’m in the kitchen putting the glasses in the dishwasher when Adam returns. He quietly approaches me from behind and I can feel his body almost touching me. He takes his index finger and slowly moves my hair to one side, exposing my neck. Adam reaches his arm around me to shut off the water then returns his arm to his side, gently brushing my elbow. I can feel his breath tickling my neck, but he doesn’t move. After the tensest moment of my life, he recklessly grabs my hair and licks my neck from bottom to top with an animalistic force. Like a protective lion licking my wounds. He does it over and over, each one more powerful and invigorating than the last one, that I eventually fall back into his arms. He spins me around to meet his eyes and they are surprisingly dark and impulsive. He kisses me hard and my body pulsates with need . . . I need him. Tears roll down my cheek and our lips part. Adam wipes my tears with his thumb holding my head delicately in his hands, my gentle protector desperately trying to heal my pain. He closes his eyes, inhales me and walks away.
What the hell just happened? I stand motionless. Emotionless. The only rational idea going through my head is to sit in my giant porcelain tub, hot water permeating my body and Brandi Carlile’s words flooding my heart and maybe, if I’m lucky, I can just melt away.
Brandi’s first album finishes on the stereo before I realize I’ve been lying in the lukewarm water for over an hour. I’m preparing to get out of the tub when I hear footsteps outside the bathroom door. I assume Mom’s coming either to spy on me or to console me, but to my surprise, Adam walks through the door. No words are exchanged as I watch him undress hastily, throwing his clothes everywhere. I glance at his scar, but I’m distracted by his muscular thighs and erect penis. I pull my knees into me, not sure why, I’ve never felt like his prey, but his predatory stance is intimidating. He sits down on the opposite end of the tub, stretching out his long legs and trapping me.
“Come here,” his voice echoes and I oblige with caution. Adam cradles me as much as possible in the cramped tub and runs his finger across my lips.
“Let me wash you.” His request is calm and gentle. He cups his large hands in the water and pours the coolness over my head letting it run down over my face to soothe my eyes. He cleanses me with soft, circular motions as his warm kisses soak up the water.
“I want to go to therapy,” I say in a dry hush. He glides his hands along my hair, soothing me.
“Okay,” he replies. I need to rephrase my request to be clearer.
“I need us to go to therapy.” He continues to stroke my hair and kiss my head.
“I know.”
And just like that, my new self became the old us.
Sophie
May 2010
“Adam is unavailable at the moment; may I leave him a message?” Adam’s secretary squeals in satisfaction.
“Ok, well, it’s Chloe.” Absolute silence. “His wife!” I can tell she’s enjoying this exchange way too much. She suggests I try his private cell and actually offers to give me the number! So help me, if I weren’t eight months pregnant I would march right up to that bitch’s smug face and give her a Joan Crawford-slap she would never forget. It was bad enough that some of the partners hosted a little baby shower for me last week and the secretaries found it appropriate to traipse into the conference room handing me a basket full of Palmer’s Coco Butter and Pilates DVDs. I ate four candy bars that night.
Chloe: Wtf? My appointment is at 4:30.
Adam: I’m sorry. I will meet you there.
I grab a cab to the OB/GYN because walking eight blocks with an eight pound brick on my bladder could warrant an awkward pee-pee dance somewhere along Henry Street. When I reach Dr. Wong’s office, Adam is waiting for me on the stairs of the attached brick colonial. He’s ferociously emailing on his phone and only acknowledges me with a nod. Adam escorts me to the basement entrance where we are welcomed by Dr. Wong’s wife Connie and their fifteen-year-old dachshund, Dinky. She brings us into his office with a kind face and a motherly embrace. This can’t be good.
“Chloe, Adam! Please have a seat. Connie, please call Dr. Russell and find out if he’s available next Friday.” Dr. Wong’s voice is a soothing vision of Don Ho strumming a ukulele.
“You look great, Chloe. How are you feeling?” Adam grabs
my hand and places it in his lap. I could be imagining it, but I swear his leg is trembling.
“I feel great, aside from the water retention. I’ve been nesting and cleaning like crazy! Even Will is excited for the new baby.” Adam squeezes my hand and smiles at Dr. Wong. Plastic. Worrisome.
“So here’s the deal . . . at your six month sonogram, I made note of a cyst-like blur on your cervix. Sometimes it’s just that, a little glitch with modern technology and fuzzy film. You have no history of cancer, you’ve been my patient for several years with no underlying health problems and there was no indication that you were experiencing any pain. There was no need for alarm at that time.” Before he can finish I burst into tears.
“Chloe, please let me finish. Last week’s sonogram showed that the little blur was in fact a polyp and it’s doubled in size, around four centimeters.” He holds up an enlarged photo of the 3D sonogram and points to a white circle, but all I can see is the face of my little baby, sucking her thumb. “This is a very common occurrence in pregnant women and the success rate for removal and recovery is extremely high. Most times, these little cysts seem to disappear over time, but being late in your pregnancy, we don’t want to be presumptuous. We will need to schedule a cesarean within the next week to ensure the safety of you and the baby.” He stops to look at Adam for approval then passes me some papers and continues. “The procedure should last around twenty minutes after I safely deliver the baby and the good news is, your recovery time will not extend further than that of a normal cesarean.”
All this information is fired at me like a laser, but surprisingly, I’m calm. Dr. Wong opens his datebook then verifies with his computer screen. “How about next Friday? You will be thirty-eight weeks gestation and you can celebrate Mother’s Day with a new baby,” Dr. Wong adds sweetly. “The two of you will need to discuss the recovery plan at your home. Those stairs in your house will be a problem and no heavy lifting for a couple of weeks . . . Chloe, is there someone to help you during the day with the new baby and William?”
