by Jayne Allen
“Sounds like CVS to me!” Laila interrupted. “You can go get the Plan B and a bottle of wine to wash it down with—perfect combination…beech!” She screeched, doubling over with laughter this time. Now we were in unfamiliar territory for me.
“So what do you do? How do you get it?” I asked her. I had no recollection at all of ever seeing it on any of the shelves, come to think of it.
“Just go to the pharmacy and ask for it.”
“Just like that? Is it covered by insurance? Don’t I need a prescription?” I asked, perplexed.
“Covered by insurance??” Laila spat out the words, laughing at me again. “Girl, hell no! It’s not Viagra. This is for women after the Viagra actually works. And since it’s just for women, you know it’s not covered by insurance! But, you don’t need a prescription for it. I guess they make you go up and ask for it to keep people from thinking they’re candy,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“Well, I’d rather pay for Plan B out of pocket than egg freezing!” I said, suddenly remembering part of my conversation from the night before. “Marc told me that a bunch of other employers in California cover egg freezing! That’s so far from my reality at the station.”
“Egg freezing? Girl, that’s like $20k. If my eggs expire, that’s just gonna have to be it for me. There’s no way that I could afford that working at the paper. Not even if my name was on the masthead…”
“And to think that Viagra has become a standard benefit,” I mused.
“When men start caring about some shit, it’ll happen!” Laila said confidently. “Let enough men have to start paying for IVF, keeping them from buying their midlife crisis sports cars! You’ll see some changes then, I bet!” I laughed at the sober truth coming from her very tipsy tongue.
“Maybe so, but until then, an ‘oopise baby’ is not the ideal way to go about saving my bank account. Ugh!” I exclaimed through my gritted teeth in exasperation. “I still can’t believe that I got myself into this situation!”
“Don’t feel bad,” Laila said with a dismissive wave of her hand in my direction. “You aren’t the only one playing fast and loose with the D…me and Mr. Big…” she said, cutting herself off with a sly grin.
“Wait, you have a Mr. Big? Who?”
“Yeah, girl, a Mr. Biiiggg. Big hands, big bank account, big personality, big…” she said with emphasis as she snickered down into her drink.
“Oooh, Laila! You’re getting some! Haha! I knew you had that glow up look happening. Details please!” I said, leaning forward. Laila was a true Gemini. She only told you what she wanted you to know, and meanwhile, she’d be living some entirely separate life that you’d only find out about when she was ready to share.
“Well, that part is all good, and then, there’s a part that’s complicated...I just met him at the recent NABJ conference—the one that you were too busy to go to. He’s on ESPN and,” she continued dreamily, “it was just sparks right away. From our first conversation to the first night we spent. Everything just…it just happened…and we really should have…should be, strapping up…especially because…because, well, let’s just say he has…a situation.”
“Laila, I know ‘a situation’ does not mean what I think it means. Your ass is crazy, but I’m know you’re not out here being stupid…tell me you’re not…”
“Ok fine,” Laila said, bringing her champagne glass to her lips, “I’ll tell you no lies…” And with that she took a sip, turning to pretend-watch the people next to us.
“What??!!”
“I told you! I met him at the conference. He wasn’t wearing a ring. I had no idea—I didn’t think to ask and things just went so fast. Whiskey and weed girl, it’s like a roofie. We had this whirlwind night of passion and conversation and then next thing I know I woke up in a hotel room with this man and …well, before I knew anything…we were doing it again!” Laila said, throwing her hands in the air.
“All night?” I asked, admittedly now more intrigued by the stamina than the circumstances.
“And all morning...” Laila said. “And it’s been like that ever since we met...”
I leaned forward, further intrigued. I had never been in this kind of situation before. “So, how did you find out that he’s married?” I asked.
“Eventually, I asked. Without the ring, it didn’t occur to me, but I am an investigative journalist—so even if I didn’t want to see the signs, eventually I would have anyway.”
“Oh my god, Laila! So you’re dating a married man??” I made a mental note to dial back on my tone. I could tell even from my end that I was coming across as a little judgy—and knowing Laila, that would be the first way to make her shut down on me entirely and tell me absolutely nothing, all over again. Given my history with Diane, as I listened, I found myself struggling with finding a way to be supportive. I wondered briefly if my dad had been wearing his ring when they met.
“Well, he says that he’s on the fence,” Laila said eventually, snapping me out of my own thoughts. “Things haven’t been good between him and his wife for a minute now. He’s really high profile and doesn’t want to risk the divorce just yet. I think he just needs some time…He doesn’t have sex with her anymore,” she added. I didn’t know what to say. I wanted my friend to take the chances she needed to find her own happiness, but I couldn’t help but feel worried about everything I was hearing.
“At the end of the day, we don’t know what any of these dudes out here are really doing,” Thinking briefly about Marc’s reluctance, I added, “Yours, or mine.”
“Yeah,” said Laila, pensively. “We do need to do a better job of protecting ourselves.”
“Girl, we definitely do.” Even with that, I somehow didn’t feel convinced that either one of us would suddenly start making the right decisions. For a moment, both of us were lost in our own thoughts.
“Let’s order another bottle!” Laila said, interrupting the silence. “If you’re pregnant, let’s toast to Plan B!”
The reality of her statement hit me hard with a pang in my gut. If I’m pregnant? Holy shit. I raised my hand for the waiter. We did need another bottle.
Walking back home after brunch, admittedly failing the straight line test, I decided to make a stop at the CVS at the corner. I contemplated going somewhere much further out of the way, where I wouldn’t have to see the same pharmacist again, but there was no way I could even think about slipping behind the wheel.
I thought about what Laila said. I couldn’t believe that she was dating a married man. Didn’t that make her a mistress? Just like what Diane had been before my dad decided for whatever reason to leave my mother and me, marry her and make her the foundation of his new and improved family. For no reason, the look on my father’s face that day in the kitchen flashed in my mind. My childhood mind only registered his reaction to my mother’s crying as upset; but as an adult, looking back, I could see it as much more complex and disturbing. My best adult description was a mixture of mortified helplessness, and indifference. It’s the latter part, the indifference that I’ve over the many years, wished that I could cleanse out of my memory.
I shook myself back to the present as the door to the drugstore swung open in front of me. I wasn’t ready to make such a heavy decision about Plan B, or to have an embarrassing conversation with the pharmacist, so I decided to take the long way to the back of the store and stroll the brightly-colored cosmetics aisle. I was grateful that nobody else was there. I walked slowly, letting my fingers linger across the lipstick colors, trying to remember the first color I wore when Granny Tab finally allowed me to put on a “girlish” blush during sophomore year of high school. I moved forward and examined the nail polish, letting my mind wander through thoughts, trying to ignore my biggest question: do I want to take a chance? Marc was clear on his point of view, but weren’t we both responsible for the decisions we made? What if I just didn’t want to take the
Plan B pill? And that was the truth of it, wasn’t it—I didn’t want to take it. I really didn’t want to. Overhead, I heard the metallic robotic announcement, “Assistance needed in the cosmetics section.” I turned to look around me, to the right and to the left, and still, I was the only person in the aisle. I hadn’t pushed any buttons, so I wondered what could have possibly prompted the announcement. Now certainly wasn’t the time that I was interested in dealing with the randomness of a drugstore sales associate. And almost as a response to my question, into my field of peripheral vision came the dark uniform of the store security guard sliding in place at the entrance of the cosmetics aisle, trying to pretend he wasn’t looking in my direction. All I could do was laugh silently to myself. To think, here I am, trying to make a major life decision, and all they see is a shoplifter casing the store for cheap cosmetics.
Just out of spite, I ran my hand slowly across the rest of the section as I made my way back to the pharmacy. When I got there, five people waited ahead of me in line to speak to the pharmacist. I took my place at the end. I thought about the moment with the security guard, and my conversation with Laila, and my moment with Officer Mallory. And all of a sudden, I felt tired—too tired to wait. I decided that I was going to do what I most wanted. I was going home. I made a pivot toward the front of the store and headed toward the door. It just so happened that I found myself passing through well-stocked shelves of wine to either side. I reached out and grabbed the closest one that looked like a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, paid for it at the counter and gave the security guard at the entrance a long look. “When I’m not stealing mascara, I’m buying wine,” I said as I walked out of the door. Turns out, bullshit also washes down well with a bottle of drugstore vino.
Chapter 7
It’s amazing what a busy time at work can make you forget about. In my case, I forgot about the Plan B that turned into plan “bottle of wine” for just about two weeks until the Buy Tampons!! calendar reminder popped up on my computer screen at work. Had it really been two weeks? It had. My Los Angeles real estate assignment from the newsroom had taken over the spare room in my brain and what would have been left of my time with friends, including Marc. I remembered what my mother said about priorities, but given what Marc said about our future, my priority would have to be my promotion. The only date I didn’t cancel was my standing appointment with Denisha. No way I was not getting my hair done for the week.
With our piece on real estate trends starting to come together, I was looking forward to getting back to my regular pace. I guess I had truly welcomed the distraction of being fully-immersed in research, team meetings and writing copy, which allowed me to not think about the possibility of being pregnant. Pregnant. Just a brief mental taste of the idea brought a warm smile to my face—followed by a swift smack of reality. Marc didn’t want this. Hell, I don’t even know if I wanted this so quickly. The flash of a future filled with years of resentment and custody battles, childhood trauma and unhealthy adversity brought me face to face with consequences I hadn’t even begun to consider. I pulled out my phone to text Laila.
Me: Dude, it’s been 2 weeks.
Laila: What’s been 2 wks?
Me: Plan B
Laila: Which Plan B?
Me: Bottle, not pill.
Laila: Oh shit!
Laila: R U pregnant?
Me: How would I know? Should I take a test?
Laila: Did you miss ur period?
Me: Not yet—supposed to come tmrw.
Laila: Tests don’t work until you miss. Just wait.
Me: Should I say something to Marc?
Laila: Hell no! Just wait.
Me: What r u doing tonight?
Laila: Seeing Mr. Big…U?
Me: Working…as usual. See u this wknd?
Laila: Maybe! Not if tonight goes right tho! Toodles!
In some ways, I admired Laila for always being…Laila. I figured she was right though, it was too early to test, too early to panic and definitely too early to bring it up to Marc. Even without a day to spare, all I could do was wait.
Chapter 8
Saturday came around and by then it was pretty clear that there was no need for any escalation of my premature panic. The bloating and light cramping started as a telltale Paul Revere-style warning that “Your period is coming! Your period is coming!” I needed to prepare the fort with the necessary munitions to be ready for a bloody sudden attack. I played no games and went the tampon route before I left for Denisha’s to get my hair done. Before I even got to Granny Tab’s place, it was already time to swap out for a freshie. Part of me was relieved, but just part. These two weeks allowed me to live in denial that my fertility options maybe weren’t dwindling with each passing day. I didn’t want to give up my hard-earned down payment that I planned to use for a house and I couldn’t put any more pressure on Marc, who made it clear to me that he wasn’t into my idea of timing for a family. I wasn’t ready to lose him, not at all, so now wasn’t the time to push the issue. I had just been hoping for a simple solution that I could have mistakenly happened upon, that would have just not-so-innocently placed us where I happened to want to be. And we would have been equal culprits. I guess if I were further honest, I would say that I tried on the idea of being pregnant more than once in these past couple of weeks. It began as just a tiny idea that I let slip between my ears and sit there like a little bird on a perch. Soon, I started to like the song that it was singing to me, something sweet and joyous, sounding like hope. Not to say that by my period coming, I felt like all hope was gone, just that things were going to be a little tougher than I’d prepared for. For the first time, I was facing a circumstance knowing for certain I would have to sacrifice something that I held dearly, and there was just no getting around it.
Walking into Crestmire, thankfully this time with no friction at the front desk check-in, I happened to see my grandmother and her right arm, Ms. Gretchen, at a table chatting over what looked like a game of Uno and some ice cream. It was so funny to me that these folks who had lived so much life now found themselves doing many of the same things that we used to do as kids, when we had lived no life at all. Either this was some kind of shameful tragedy, or evidence that we work our whole adulthood just to get back to who we could have been in the first place. It was Ms. Gretchen who actually saw me first, and started her frantic gestures of waving me over, with the curls of her shoulder-length blonde highlighted hair bouncing in rhythm. Granny Tab had stopped dying her hair a long time ago, and resigned herself to what seemed like the inevitable takeover of gray, like weeds in any garden. I suppose at some point, she had rightfully grown tired of fighting against the badges of old age and seemed eventually to embrace it with a calm grace. Ms. Gretchen, on the other hand, fought like hell. She always had her hair colored, curled and coiffed to precision and her nails were manicured, polished and long. Usually, Crestmire didn’t let the residents keep their nails too long because of the “hazards.” Spats could get nasty. Once, I honestly thought that someone was going to lose an eyeball over a botched bingo seating assignment. You’re serious about what you’re serious about, even if it’s a chair. In spite of that, Ms. Gretchen always got her exemptions through.
“Tabby! You take this seat right here,” Ms. Gretchen offered. “I’m going to go get you some ice cream. You want some ice cream? Of course you do. I’ll be right back.” And with that she bounded off with the energy of someone half her age, toward the kitchen, giving my grandmother and me the opportunity to give hugs and for her to clear the cards up.
“How are you today Granny Tab?” I asked.
“Same ol same ol!” She said cheerfully. “When you get to be my age, so many things are changing that the same is good sometimes! How are you Two?”
I debated how I was going to answer that question. There was no denying that I needed to call the infertility specialist and make an appointment. But I was procrastin
ating because I was scared. I was scared for more bad news and scared to be on my own with something so significant that could affect the rest of my life. These were the things I didn’t want to burden my grandmother with, but I wanted to tell the truth. “I’m good Granny Tab! Still fighting for that promotion at work! And…and I need to go ahead and make an appointment with the infertility specialist. If I don’t, well…I have to, that’s just it, because I know I want to be able to have kids someday.”
“Oh yes, you definitely want to be able to have kids!” Granny Tab said. “And I hope that I’ll get to meet them—either here, or before they get here if I’m up there.” She pointed to the sky with an upward roll of her eyes and a quick tilt of her head. She sometimes talked about death like that, as if it were a comfortable old friend, who had invited her to one day visit his summer home.
“You will definitely be around to meet my kids, Granny Tab!” I said. “You’re gonna be living with me remember?” I teased her and pinched her playfully on her arm. Crestmire was nice, but I always thought of it as a temporary necessity. Granny Tab swore up and down she liked it here just fine. She said that it was as good as, if not better than her Fairfax-district place that she had lived in since forever. It was the fall at the Fairfax place about a year ago, which led to the discovery of Stage 2 congestive heart failure. She could still get around on her own, but none of us, her included, wanted to take any chances. So for now, here we were. My goal though, was always to move Granny Tab into my house, and one day it would be the two of us again, just like it was in high school. She insisted that would make her a burden, which she never wanted to be. We settled on her taking on the role of nanny, and that seemed to be a scenario that made her comfortable, optimistic even, for a life after Crestmire. The thought of telling her that things might be different stung my insides.
