Lost You

by Haylen Beck

  The bed, still unmade since the morning, called to her. She had planned to go out for a walk, partly for the exercise, partly to enjoy a little spring air. But the tiredness clung to her constantly, weighing down her limbs, her head, her eyes. She climbed into bed, lay down, and pulled the comforter up around herself, burrowed in beneath it, letting the warmth swallow her.

  Sleep came, black and thick, punctuated by garish dreams of old strange houses with winding hallways and undiscovered rooms. When she woke, the world had dimmed, and her bladder ached for release. She sat up, yawning and rubbing her eyes.

  Then she saw the figure in the doorway.

  Anna froze, staring at the shape. Part of her mind knew full well that it was a man standing watching her. The other part told her that it couldn’t be, the doors were locked, and anyway, why would anyone be here? Adrenaline-fueled tremors rippled through her limbs and she wondered if she should run, but where to? And what from?

  “Hello, Anna,” the man said.

  She gasped, felt a sudden chill, from her toes to the top of her head.

  He reached for the light switch, flicked it on. She saw his face and found her fear matched with anger.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Mr. Kovak said.

  Anna put a hand on either side of her head, trying to keep the rage inside. “Startle me? You scared the shit out of me. What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

  He gave a patient smile and said, “Please don’t swear at me, Anna.”

  “What? Don’t swear?” She grabbed a pillow from the bed and hurled it at him. “Fuck you!”

  He batted the pillow away with one of his meaty hands and entered the room. “Again, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. I was in town, so I wanted to see how you were getting along. I called your cell, but there was no answer. I was starting to get a little worried, so I came over, and you didn’t answer your door.”

  “How did you get in?”

  “I have a key,” he said. “I do work for your landlord, remember.”

  “This is not okay,” Anna said, her initial terror ebbing away to leave only anger in its place. “You can’t just show up here and let yourself in.”

  He went to the chair beneath the window, picked up the few items of clothing that rested there, and set them aside.

  “Like I said, I did call, and you didn’t answer.”

  “Doesn’t matter. There are laws. I’ve been renting places ever since I left home, and I know my rights.”

  Mr. Kovak sat down and said, “You’re absolutely correct, and I apologize. It won’t happen again.”

  Anna felt her anger cool, but the fear returned, coiling like a snake inside her. Even though she was fully clothed, she pulled the comforter up around herself.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “To see how you’re doing.” He crossed his legs, an oddly feminine movement for a man of his size. “To make sure you’re comfortable and you have everything you need.”

  “I’m doing okay,” Anna said. “I could’ve told you that over the phone.”

  “But I like to see my girls in person.”

  Mr. Kovak smiled, and she wished he wouldn’t. It didn’t suit his face, showed too many teeth, made him look like a predator.

  “Well, now you’ve seen me. I’m fine, honestly.”

  “Any sickness, nausea?”

  “Some,” she said.

  She could have told him about earlier, how she threw up her lunch, but she didn’t want to tell him any more than was absolutely necessary. His intrusion had rattled her beyond the fear of it; it had left a feeling of vulnerability, the knowledge that he could do this at any time, even if he promised he wouldn’t. She felt her anger bubble up and rise again.

  “How about headaches?” he asked.

  Look at him, she thought. Sitting there all prim like some priest or pastor when he could rip me to pieces without even breaking a sweat.

  “Not really,” she said.

  “Are you eating okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Have you been taking your folic acid and vitamin D?”

  “Yes, and yes.”

  She unconsciously rolled her eyes, and he gave a small condescending laugh that angered her more than anything he’d said or done so far.

  “You know what’s not so good?” she asked.

  “Mm-hm?”

  She looked him in the eye and said, “I haven’t taken a decent shit in, like, four days.”

  He nodded and said, “Eat plenty of fruit and drink lots of water. That should help.”

  “And the farting,” she said. “My God, I’ve never farted so much in my life. And they stink so bad.”

  “The hormonal changes slow down your digestive tract, the gases build up, it’s perfectly normal. Almost every woman experiences it when she’s pregnant. What about hemorrhoids? Any of those? If you haven’t yet, you will in the later months, so you’ve that to look forward to.”

  “Fuck you,” she said.

  “Anna, there’s no point trying to gross me out. I’ve been doing this job for a few years now, I’ve guided many dozens of women through the process, even attended a few births. You know you’ll probably soil yourself during labor, right? Believe me, I’ve seen everything. All the stuff people don’t mention in polite conversation. You don’t have anything to scare me off with.”

  “All right, so you’re Mr. Maternity, I get it. I’m fine, the baby’s fine as far as I can tell, so I don’t know what else you need from me.”

  Mr. Kovak got to his feet, put his hands in his pockets, and approached the bed. Anna shrank back against the headboard, her courage evaporating. He came to the nightstand on one side, examined the top, then opened the single drawer and peered inside.

  “What are you doing?” she asked. “Stop.”

  He walked around the bed and did the same at the other nightstand, this time pushing a few items in the drawer aside to get a better look.

  “I said stop, you can’t do that.”

  “Yes, I can,” he said.

  He closed the drawer and went to the dressing table against the far wall. His fingers picked through the detritus on top, occasionally turning items over for a better look. Some makeup, a hairbrush, a paperback that she never got around to reading. Then he began to go through the drawers.

  “If you don’t stop, I’ll call the police and tell them you broke in.”

  “Fine by me,” he said.

  “Well, Jesus, tell me what you’re looking for if you’re that—”

  “Are you using?” he asked, continuing his search.

  “Using what, exactly?”

  “Anything.”

  He closed the last drawer, seemed satisfied.

  “No,” Anna said. “I’ve never used drugs. I told you.”

  “Users lie,” he said. “I need to be sure.”

  Mr. Kovak went to the still-open bathroom door and turned on the light. As he opened the cabinet below the basin, Anna threw back the comforter and got out of bed.

  “If that’s what you’re looking for, then you’re wasting your time.”

  “No, I’m not,” he said as he left the bathroom. “I get paid for this, remember?”

  He headed for the living room, and she inserted herself between him and the door, her socked feet backpedaling across the carpet.

  “Be careful, please,” he said, stepping around her. “I wouldn’t want you to fall and hurt yourself.”

  She followed him around the living room, from the couch to the armchairs. He picked up an empty glass from the coffee table, brought it to his nose, sniffed.

  “It was a Diet Coke,” she said. “Look, I haven’t had so much as a sip of beer since before the procedure.”

  “Diet Coke?” he ec
hoed. “Please watch your caffeine intake. And the sweeteners, they’re not good for you. No more than one can a day. Sparkling water is better.”

  He set the glass back on the coffee table and took a deep breath through his nose.

  “You’re not smoking cigarettes,” he said. “I’d smell it.”

  He went to the kitchenette, opened cupboards, looked behind mugs and beneath plates, rattled the cutlery in the drawers.

  “You can’t tell me what to do,” Anna said.

  He didn’t turn from his work, lifting boxes of cereal out of the lower cupboards, looking inside. “Excuse me?”

  “I signed the contract, and I’m bound by that, that’s fine, but you don’t get to come here unannounced and start telling me what to do, what to eat, what to drink.”

  Mr. Kovak took one of the cereal boxes and dropped it in the trash.

  “Too much sugar,” he said. “You should be mindful of gestational diabetes. There are plenty of low-sugar alternatives.”

  “Did you hear what I said?” Anna asked, her anger building by the moment. “You don’t tell me what to do in my own home.”

  He turned to face her. “Yes, I do.”

  “I’ll do what the contract says, but you can’t—”

  He crossed the room with a speed she’d never have imagined a man his size could possess. She stumbled back against the couch, almost fell over, but he reached for her upper arm and kept her from falling. He moved in close, his stomach pressing against her chest.

  “I’m here for your safety,” he said, his voice gentle as he loomed over her. “That is my primary concern, along with the well-being of the baby. I don’t care what you think I can or can’t do. This is my job, and I’m good at it. Whether you like it or not is of no concern to me.”

  He released her arm and stepped away, turned toward the apartment door.

  “Please take care of yourself, Anna, and don’t hesitate to call me if there’s anything you need. And don’t be late for your appointment next week. End of the first trimester. It’s a big one.”

  He stopped at the door and turned back to her.

  “And please, don’t change the locks. That would only cause a headache for both of us.”

  Mr. Kovak opened the door, stepped through, and closed it behind him.

  Anna ran to the kitchen sink and threw up.

  25

  ANNA LAY BACK ON THE bed and pulled up her shirt. The lights in the ceiling made her squint, but through the glare, she saw Dr. Holdsworth lift the ultrasound transducer probe from the wheeled terminal. From a tray underneath she took a bottle of gel and squeezed some onto the business end of the transducer. Anna flinched from the cold as Dr. Holdsworth pressed it against her belly and used it to smear the gel across her abdomen. She’d been told to drink plenty of water that morning but avoid going to the bathroom. When the doctor pressed the transducer beneath her navel, it reminded her how badly she needed to go.

  “Let’s see now,” Dr. Holdsworth said. “There’s your bladder, nice and full, so baby should be right around…here.”

  Anna turned her head to see the screen and gasped when she saw the image. So clear. She hadn’t expected to see much, but there, the head, the arms, the pulsing heart.

  “My God,” she said.

  Dr. Holdsworth manipulated a tracker ball on the terminal, clicked at points on the screen, laying out connected lines across the image.

  “Just measuring the length, size of the head,” she mumbled, talking to herself more than Anna. “Good. Excellent. Going by the size, we’re bang on the money with the delivery date. You doing okay?”

  Anna looked up at the ceiling, rested her forearm across her brow to shield her eyes from the light. “Yeah. I mean, I’m tired all the time, and I throw up a lot, but apart from that.”

  “The sickness should pass soon,” the doctor said. “And the tiredness. Make sure you exercise, that’ll help. And what about you? Up here, I mean.”

  Anna couldn’t see Dr. Holdsworth, but she heard the sound of finger tapping skull.

  “I’m all right,” she said. “More or less.”

  “You’re going through a huge life event, about as big a thing as a woman will ever face. And you’ll have nothing to show at the end of it. You must feel something about that.”

  “I’ll have money,” Anna said. “I’ll have a future.”

  “Is that really all it means to you?”

  Anna lifted her forearm from her eyes so she could see the doctor. “What else can it mean? The baby won’t be mine, no matter what. The money’s all I have to get me through. Do I sound hard?”

  Dr. Holdsworth couldn’t hold her gaze, set about tearing handfuls of paper towels from a roll and mopping up the gel on Anna’s belly.

  “No,” she said. “You sound like you know what you’re doing. But if you ever feel like you need to talk, I can give you a few numbers, help lines, counseling services, that sort of thing.”

  Anna looked once more to the screen, the tiny life frozen there.

  “Can I get a copy?” she asked.

  “No,” Dr. Holdsworth said, “you can’t.”

  26

  LIBBY USED A MAGNET TO stick the picture on the fridge door. She stepped back to admire it. Such a perfect thing. She had giggled when she opened the first email attachment, a video file showing the baby moving its tiny arms and legs, its little heart thrumming like an engine. Even the nose was there. The second file was a still image she immediately printed out on a letter-sized page. Mira had paused her cleaning and joined Libby in gazing at the image.

  “Guapísimo,” Mira had whispered.

  “I know,” Libby had said with an unabashed grin.

  She had barely stopped staring at it since.

  Mason would be home any minute and she wanted him to see it. To see his child. He had become distant in recent weeks. Never an outgoing man at the best of times, he had grown more reserved, and she seemed to see less of him every day. He had taken to leaving for work early, always saying he had things to catch up on or wanted to get a few shots off at the gun range before he went in, and evenings had become a grind of silence over dinner followed by his retreating to his den to do yet more work, though she suspected he spent more time playing those shooting games, living out whatever toy-soldier fantasies he harbored.

  In truth, she was relieved to see him go most nights. She had stopped drinking, said it was for the baby, and ignored the rolling of his eyes. So, he would open a bottle of wine to have a glass with his meal, then take it to the den to finish. Libby didn’t like him when he drank; he became sullen and quiet, and when he did speak, it was to snap and argue. Let him go play his games, she thought.

  She hoped the scan would change things. Looking at it again, she traced the shape of the head, the arms, the legs. It was real now. Surely he couldn’t turn away from this? Surely when he saw the child—his own baby—he would accept that he was a father along with everything that entailed? He would love this baby.

  He. Would. Love. This. Baby.

  He had to.

  “What’s that?”

  His voice startled her, and she cried out. She hadn’t heard his car in the driveway, or his key in the door. He stood in the kitchen doorway, briefcase still in hand, his shirt collar undone, tie loose. Libby moved the magnet aside and lifted down the printed picture. She brought it to him, held it out. He looked at the image but did not take it from her.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” she said.

  The muscles in his jaw worked, his Adam’s apple bobbed. He let out a long breath of air that skimmed her extended hand.

  “It’s our baby,” she said. “Your baby.”

  Mason sagged, his shoulder pressed against the doorframe. He finally took the paper from her hand. His eyes brimmed, his breath quivering.

  “It’s real,�
� Libby said. “This is happening. You have to understand that. Either accept it or go.”

  He dropped his briefcase on the floor, walked to the table, and sat down, the picture still in his hand. “How long to go?” he asked.

  “Twenty-seven weeks,” Libby said. “Six months.”

  He looked from the page to her. “I guess we’d better start planning.”

  Libby crossed the room to him, wrapped her arms around his shoulders, kissed his cheek. She smelled the burnt, acrid odor of spent gunpowder in his hair, on his clothes, and knew where he had been.

  As she lowered herself into his lap, she said, “It’s going to be all right.”

  “Is it?” he asked.

  She shushed him with a kiss.

  * * *

  —

  “WHAT IS THAT?” Mason asked.

  Libby turned away from the mirror. “It was delivered today. What do you think?”

  He didn’t answer, just stared. The artificial belly, formed from flesh-colored silicone, had been expensive, but worth it. At least she thought so, anyway. It was formed like an undergarment with Velcro fasteners at the back and transparent shoulder straps to support its weight.

  “I don’t know,” Mason said. “Seems a little…”

  “A little what?”

  He didn’t answer, stood there mute, his mouth open but no words coming. Libby supplied one of her own.

  “Weird?”

  He shook his head and put his hands up. “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to,” she said, running her hands over the silicone, feeling the strange coolness of it. “It’s what you were thinking, right? I know it’s strange, but it’s important for me, okay? I should be showing by now. Look, see? I can pad it to make it grow, then I can order bigger sizes as the pregnancy goes on.”

  It had been a month since the image of the ultrasound scan had arrived in her email inbox, and things had been better between them. He had opened up a little, they had talked more, and he’d been drinking less. Wine was saved for the weekends, with the odd beer on workdays, and he always asked permission. They had discussed the nursery, the things they needed to buy, how and when they would begin to tell people. Every now and then, he even seemed excited. Like a father.