Shimmers of Pearl (The Pearl Trilogy, Part 3)

by Richmonde, Arianne

  “Look, I’m flying to Paris in a couple of hours.”

  I wait for him to say more. Wait for his invitation. He says nothing.

  “Christmas?” I ask.

  “I’m in a real mess right now, a real bind. I’m sworn to secrecy.”

  “Christmas?” I repeat, my heart pounding with disappointment and anger.

  “Baby, of course you’re welcome to come for Christmas in Paris but…”

  “If there’s a ‘but’ involved, I don’t think I want to,” I reply tentatively, my throat swelling up.

  “Yes, there is a very big but.”

  I take a deep breath. My eyes are prickling with tears. I had imagined Christmas here, in New York, both of us alone with Rex. If his mother were ill of course I’d understand, but this…this is beginning to sound like some strange excuse. “What’s going on?” I croak through my wooden throat.

  Alexandre’s voice sounds as pained as mine. “Something I have to sort out. I don’t want to lie to you, Pearl, so please don’t ask me any more questions. Just know I love you and want to marry you the second you say yes.”

  “Why would I want to marry someone who has secrets from me? Someone who’s hiding something?”

  “It’s a Catch 22, isn’t it?”

  I try to stop my voice from breaking. “It certainly is.”

  “I love you.”

  “Are you going to London, by any chance?” I ask, not wanting to hear the answer that I’m dreading.

  “Please don’t ask me any more questions - I don’t want to lie to you.”

  “I take that as a ‘yes.’ So you’re going to London,” I state flatly.

  “Look, I have no choice.”

  “We always have a choice, Alexandre.”

  “External forces are trying to pull us apart.”

  “Laura.”

  “Yes.

  “You’re going to see Laura?”

  “Please, Pearl, don’t make this harder for me than it already is.”

  I hang up. There is no more to discuss. I don’t want to humiliate myself, scream and cry down the phone. All I know is that he will be seeing Laura again after he promised not to. Her phone call…she knew she had him back. She was right; I’m the deluded one, not her. For whatever reason, whatever hold she has over him, he just can’t keep away from her. And he’s not even offering to explain why – everything shrouded in some big, enigmatic secret. Well, fuck him!

  This time I know it’s over between us, once and for all.

  Chapter Five

  Christmas zipped by, Alexandre spent it in Paris. Anthony came to stay (Bruce went to his parents in Napa Valley because his father was ill). Here, at my new abode, it was like one big slumber party. Daisy and Amy, Ant and I all snuggled together in our two bedroom apartment, Ant on the couch and Amy in her special Wigwam in the bedroom which was a gift from Anthony. It was fun.

  We watched endless children’s movies which we loved, particularly the Toy Story trilogy. Embarrassingly, I found myself weeping in Toy Story 2, identifying with the toys being abandoned by their owners. I still have all my old teddies; I never did have the heart to get rid of any. It feels to me that only yesterday I was a child, playing tea parties and doctors and nurses the way Amy does now.

  She, Ant, Daisy and I all played cowboys, too – a toy gun and western outfits came along with the wigwam kit, although Amy refused to kill any Indians – a politically correct tomboy. Christmas is all about children and Amy had a ball.

  I kept waiting for Anthony to slip into his old sarcastic, jaded demeanor but he didn’t. He was adorable and very loving towards me. I am so glad the troubled part of our relationship is history.

  The troubled part of a relationship….namely, Alexandre. He called on several occasions and each time my brother picked up and chatted merrily away, but never handed over the phone and told Alexandre that as long as he had anything to do with Laura I was not interested in seeing him. Alexandre didn’t push it; he just seemed pleased to have news of me. He has been flitting from Paris to New York to London. I keep half expecting him to be waiting outside my door but it hasn’t happened.

  I guess he has made his choice, after all.

  And that choice is Laura.

  Made all the more complicated by something I have been feeling for two whole weeks. Swollen breasts, sleepiness, occasional vomiting and a strange longing for pickles.

  Perhaps my old teddies will get unpacked, after all.

  Yes, I’m pregnant – at least that’s what a home pregnancy test has confirmed. I called my gynecologist and booked an appointment for next week. Meanwhile, I thought it was time to pamper myself, so I also booked a massage.

  ***

  The Ayurvedic salon is not what I had imagined. Daisy recommended this place to me – a friend of hers comes here on a regular basis for soothing massages. Daisy’s friend had described in detail a warm herbal oil massage designed to bring nourishment to the tissues, deep relaxation to the muscles and calmness to the mind. Hmm…sounds perfect. However, this place seems like less of a beauty parlor and more of a doctor’s office. I am given a form to fill out with my medical history – Jeez, all I wanted was a relaxing massage with oils! But because the book I’m reading on my e-reader has me hooked, I remain in the waiting room patiently; in fact, happy that I have this peaceful excuse to devour my novel.

  Finally, a large woman in a white coat brushes out of her office and says a warm goodbye to the lady before me. She smiles and ushers me in. She’s Indian and dons a happy, friendly face with cheeks like ripe apples.

  “Come in, Ms. Robinson, sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “No problem, I caught up with some reading.”

  “Please sit down. Let me see your medical history,” she says, and I hand her the piece of paper.

  She adjusts her spectacles and peruses it with great interest, although I’m not sure why – I’m your pretty average type. No allergies, no epilepsy, no addictions – except, of course, for sex with a particular Frenchman, if you count that. Right now, you could say I was going ‘cold turkey.’

  “Now, what can I do for you?”

  “Well, I…um…I came here for a basic massage.”

  “Nothing is basic about our massage therapy, Ms. Robinson.”

  “Oh, I see. Please call me Pearl, by the way; I hate formalities.”

  “Pearl – what a lovely name. Tell me, what’s troubling you? Are you feeling tired, sluggish, depressed?”

  “Yes to the first two things you mentioned. Depressed? Well, I would say I feel more anxious that depressed.”

  She says nothing, just nods her head as if to say ‘go on’.

  “I’m pregnant, for starters.”

  “Congratulations, that’s wonderful news.” She beams at me, her sparkling white teeth are set off against her coffee-colored skin.

  “Thank you. Well, yes.” I want to explain to her that I’m not with the baby’s father; I want to burst out crying, fling my arms about her ample shoulders and unleash my inner turmoil, but I chew my lip instead, and fight back any impending tears.

  “Well, of course, you know that any kind of massage therapy is out of the question for you right now, don’t you?”

  I’m stunned. Who is this woman? I just want a goddam massage, lady!

  “But why? That’s why I’m here.”

  “Well, perhaps it’s divine intervention – you don’t want to lose your baby. How many weeks are you?”

  I think back to the rampant, sex-fueled night with Alexandre when he practically pierced my womb, he went in so deep. I can’t be sure if that was the qualifying moment, there have been so many since.

  “I think about five weeks. I’m not sure – I just did a home pregnancy test this morning.”

  We discuss my periods, dates, medication and so forth for a good ten minutes. I’m wondering why I’m offering all this information about myself to a massage therapist when she informs me, “I run this Ayurvedic practice but, you know,
I’m just as much a doctor as I am a masseuse.”

  “No, I had no idea. So you don’t practice regular medicine here in the States?”

  “Ayurvedic medicine is not recognized officially in this country but where I come from – Kerala in southern India – well, it is an important part of our culture and taken very seriously. But I am also a qualified GP. My mother was a doctor and also my grandmother; all of us GPs with a particular interest in preventative medicine.”

  “But I have nothing to prevent,” I venture, still confused as to how I got myself into the doctor-ish situation when all I wanted was a freaking massage.

  “I see here that you are forty years old.”

  “Yes.”

  “With a history of two miscarriages – one DNC,” she says, reading my notes.

  I remember that awful time; when I went in for an ultra-sound and they discovered the baby had no heartbeat. I had been carrying about a dead fetus for two weeks and they had to operate immediately. “Yes, I had a DNC,” I say, suddenly profoundly grateful that I’m now pregnant, that God has given me another chance even if I am to be a single mother forevermore.

  “How many times have you had sexual intercourse with your partner in the last few weeks?”

  “Er…none.”

  She nods with approval. “Good. You must abstain from sex for the first three months of pregnancy or you risk suffering another miscarriage.”

  Well, that will be easy now that Alexandre is with Laura and I can’t even look at another man, let alone bed down with one.

  The doctor continues, “Any penetration is dangerous for a woman of your age with your medical history. You will not find this written in any textbook and most modern-day doctors would poo-poo this idea but, believe me, old wives’ tales are very often true.”

  I stare at her bemused. Abstain from sex?? What has this got to do with my herbal massage?

  She goes on matter-of-factly, “No penetration but you can do other, non-invasive sexual practices. No massages, least of all with powerful oils that can upset the body’s hormone-balance. You must not even indulge in reflexology; too much stimulation. Some doctors believe abdominal massage is good as it gets the blood flowing. I do not, unless it is very gentle and with your own hands – do not go to a massage therapist for the first three months or you could lose your child. You’re forty; this could be your last chance at pregnancy, you need to take all the precautions you can.”

  I eye her suspiciously. Is she some kind of quack? “I’ve never heard of this before. It seems so extreme.”

  “Once, my dear, people thought it was extreme when they were advised not to smoke and drink whilst pregnant. Believe me, I have been in this business all my life, since I could walk and talk – I have breathed it – every single member of my family, the men included, are doctors. We have picked up a few tips over the years.” She waggles her head in a figure of eight.

  I observe her warily but I’m also fascinated by this information. My mother would have loved this woman – she hated conventional medicine.

  “Now, what I’m going to prescribe for you, Pearl, is simple. One baby aspirin a day. This will safeguard you against any premature clotting. Stay off caffeine, alcohol and away from second-hand smoke - eat plenty of fresh vegetables and protein, but you probably already know all that. No heavy exercise at the gym, no jogging.”

  “Is swimming okay?”

  “Swimming is perfect but don’t train for the Olympics.” She smiles. “Folic acid in a multi-vitamin, B6, B12 and omega 3’s,” she states briskly.

  “I already bought all that at the pharmacy, and fish-oil tablets.”

  “Good. I’m going to give you a painless saliva test to see your progesterone levels and if they are low I’ll prescribe a completely natural progesterone cream. Progesterone is responsible for creating a healthy environment in the womb by creating and maintaining a healthy uterine lining. If more people used this treatment a lot of miscarriages could be avoided. All you need is a pea-sized amount of cream on your finger which you can rub into a different area each time, just once a day - somewhere the skin is thin; your breasts, face, upper thighs. It’s completely natural, no synthetics, no harmful ingredients.”

  She sticks something into my mouth to do the saliva test. My mind wanders off to my baby-to-be - that is, if it can survive the next couple of months up until the first trimester, the most precarious. Will he be blond or dark? Will she have Alexandre’s curvy red lips and his crooked smile? Will she be proud like him? Will he break hearts like his father…

  “Oh, and one more thing,” the doctor says assertively. “Try to keep your cell phone calling to a minimum. Radiation levels are harmful and can impair fetal brain development. Nobody will tell you this and few people want to listen but—”

  “No, you know what, doctor? I think it would be a great idea to dump my phone, once and for all. It’ll be safer for both me and the baby.”

  ***

  Alexandre may have been stalking me through my cell but I am stalking Rex. I miss that dog. I can’t break our bond. On my way back home, I get off the bus at Central Park South and walk into the park, listening to Michael Jackson sing Ben, the best love song ever written about an animal. But instead of ‘Ben,’ I sing along with the word, Rex.

  I know Sally’s schedule – she and Rex will be somewhere near the big bronze Alice in Wonderland statue, chit-chatting with her dog owner friends discussing their ‘children’s’ behavior and comparing notes. Will I be doing the same soon? Only, with a human child, not a four-legged one? I guess I should join prenatal classes and discuss breastfeeding options and which is the best brand of diapers.

  Maybe I’ll be coming to this spot, myself, watching my child climb on Alice. Unlike most sculptures, children are invited to climb, touch and crawl all over Alice and her friends. In fact, through the decades, thousands of hands and feet have literally polished parts of the statue’s bronze surface completely smooth. I observe Alice now, sitting on a giant mushroom reaching toward a pocket watch held by the White Rabbit. Peering over her shoulder is the Cheshire Cat, surrounded by the Dormouse, Alice’s cat Dinah, and the Mad Hatter and yes, I see Rex and Sally not far off, just behind this landmark, Rex sniffing a fellow mate.

  Sally loves to pass by here every day. With her shocking pink pigtails and punk rocker outfits, Sally is an eternal child. Alexandre found her walking dogs with one of the dog walking companies that roam the Upper East Side. The handlers typically walk ten dogs at a time all leashed, making sure their right hand is free for picking up dog poop with wads of newspaper stuffed in their back pocket. Sally makes three times the money, now, being Rex’s personal nanny.

  “Hi Sally,” I shout, rushing over to Rex to hug him.

  “I wish you’d come home, Pearl,” Sally grumbles with a sad pout. “Alexandre is a bit mopey without you there.”

  “Really?” I ask, thrilled to know he may be suffering a little (obviously not enough, though, to stop seeing Laura).

  “Yes, really. He’s always on the phone doing business – doesn’t smile much these days, his temper’s short; he seems to have lost his sense of humor.”

  “Have you seen Laura?”

  “No, who’s she?”

  I try to sound casual but fail miserably. “Do you ever hear him speaking to a woman on the phone – you know, sweet-talk.”

  “The only person he’s been talking to more than usual is his mother. I know it’s her because he has one voice for his mom and one for Sophie. You know his ‘mom voice’ is super-protective – it’s very cute. Not that I understand French but I can hear the tone.”

  “No lovey-dovey talk with other women, then?”

  Sally shuffles her big biker boots along the muddy grass. “No way! He obviously misses his precious Pearl. Sometimes I hear him say so to Rex, discussing how lost they are without you. Not that Rex can talk, but you know, I think he understands. And the other day, Alexandre gave me a whole bunch of photos of you – I was a
sked to drop them off at the framers. Like I said, he’s either working or moping about you all day long. Rex is sleeping in his bed now.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “I know! Alexandre snuggles up with Rex everywhere. He’s now allowed on all the couches, even the bed. Since you’ve gone all Alexandre wants to do is be with his dog.”

  “Has Alexandre been traveling lately? To London?”

  “Yes, he went to London last week.”

  “I see.” I am now reminded of my mission. To forget about Alexandre for good and let him go - move on with my life. He has Laura now – he can’t have us both. Be strong, Pearl. “Oh, Sally, I have something for you.” I bring out my Smartphone and hand it to her. “A gift for you. It’s already unblocked.”

  She jumps up and down and her pigtails swing as if in celebration. “Wow! Really! But this is like, brand new – this Smartphone is the best!”

  “It’s a great phone. It has advantages. You can keep your gloves on when you dial a number – not all Smartphones let you do that. Handy here in New York with the cold winters.”

  Sally’s Cheshire Cat smile is spread across her whole face. “This is the greatest gift ever.”

  “Don’t let Alexandre know I was asking about him.”

  “Okay, sure.”

  “And if you hear any information about Laura, pass the word along.” Oops! I have just broken my own resolution to put him out of my mind. I add hastily, as if to excuse myself, “I just worry about him, that’s all.”

  “Of course. You have my word this is just between us.”

  Sally, Rex and I meander about the park for a good half hour before I wend my way back home.

  I am cell phone-less and it feels great. After all, once upon a time we humans made dates with people, arranged a time in advance and turned up. We couldn’t cancel at the last second and flake-out when a better deal came up. We were responsible people, once. We could spell: see you tonight, not C U 2 nite. We had attention spans of more than five minutes at a go. We painted, sketched and wrote in notebooks, not just flicked like mindless idiots through our Facebook and HookedUp pages, worrying about what everyone else was doing and living vicariously through them. Yay! I am no longer shackled-down with invisible chains to my social-media addiction!