The Vanishing Expert

by David Movsesian

  She looked at him, a long searching gaze, and then she looked away.

  “No,” she finally said. “There’s something else.” She turned to him again, searching his eyes as if she was hoping to find something in them that hadn’t been there a moment before. She turned her body on the sofa so she was facing him, her leg folded neatly in front of her so that her knee rested lightly on his thigh. There was no easy way to say what she needed to tell him. She decided it was best to simply say it, to put it out there. She drew a deep breath. “I’m pregnant.”

  She’d imagined this moment countless times during the last week since she confirmed her suspicion, each time picturing James’s reaction the same way. She’d thought of nothing else during the long silent ride from Orono to Southwest Harbor. She’d perfectly imagined the shock on James’s face as she uttered the words, just as she’d accurately predicted that moment of panic that quickly followed. What she hadn’t anticipated, during those long sleepless hours in her bed when she’d thought of little else, was the joy she observed washing over his face immediately after that. It was as clear and unmistakable as it was unexpected.

  Through all those sleepless hours she’d spent playing out this scene in her imagination, and through all the variations she considered, the notion that James might be joyful at the news had only crept in a few times, and only briefly. Each time, she chased it away, never allowing herself to believe it. But now, as she stared at James’s broad and loving smile, she forgot, if only for a moment, that everything about her life was about to change. She considered, in that moment, that perhaps the fear and the worry that had gripped her during the last several weeks weren’t the only emotions she should be feeling. At the very least, she felt some small sense of relief knowing the burden she’d been carrying was no longer hers alone to bear. Whatever James’s reaction had been, that weight would have seemed suddenly lighter, but seeing the pleasure on his face, it seemed, if only briefly, to be not a burden at all.

  In September, she’d initially dismissed her late period as a symptom of stress. She’d been late before, never by more than a few days; a week at the most. This time, even that grace period came and went. That was when the panic set in.

  She’d been at a party shortly after that when a random puff of cigarette smoke caused her to wretch and sent her racing for the bathroom. As she knelt at the toilet, clutching the porcelain bowl, she clung also and even more desperately to the hope that she was coming down with some sort of flu. Aside from the queasiness and the sudden feeling of fatigue, which could also be attributed to dormitory food and late nights studying in the library, she felt fine.

  If it were true, it wasn’t difficult to determine when it happened. In the last several months, she’d only been with James. She thought back over the many times she’d been in his bed, frantically searching her memory of those intimate moments as if she were retracing her steps searching for lost keys. They had always been careful. There was only one time when they’d been reckless. She thought back to that first breezy afternoon on James’s boat, perched upon its trailer in the shadow of the tall pines behind Ruth Kennedy’s house. Suddenly, it all made sense.

  She decided she shouldn’t have been surprised. James had wanted a child for so long it was almost inevitable, as if it had been the strength of his resolve to become a father and not just his sperm that had impregnated her.

  She waited one more week before seeing a doctor. She avoided the health center on campus, not wanting anyone from school to learn of her predicament. Instead, she borrowed a friend’s car and drove herself to Eastern Maine Medical Center in Bangor where they confirmed what, by then, she already knew to be true.

  Afterward, she sat in the car for nearly an hour, listening to the steady tapping of the rain on the roof and staring blankly at the rivulets running down the windshield. Until then, she’d clung to that last thin shred of hope that it might not be true, but now there was simply no denying it.

  It was the only time she allowed herself to cry. It lasted only a few minutes, although it seemed much longer, and when she was finished, she felt no relief. Ordinarily she found a good cry to be a cleansing experience, purging herself of the tears as if she was expelling a poison from her system, but this one was unsatisfying. Her tears had changed nothing. She was no less confused. She was certainly no less pregnant. And she was no less alone. She determined right there in that hospital parking lot that she would resist indulging herself with tears again. Instead, she set herself to the task of deciding what to do next. It was, as her mother would have said, ‘what Berkhardt women do’. Given that there were only two Berkhardt women, Christina always knew that what her mother really meant when she used that phrase was that it was what she would do.

  During the long restless nights that followed, as she lay in her bed staring at the ceiling of her dorm room and listening to her roommate’s untroubled snoring and whistling, she considered her predicament— and her options.

  Of all the possible solutions to her problem, terminating the pregnancy, although unappealing to her, offered the only opportunity to put this behind her and to move forward with her life as if nothing at all had happened. If that was to be her decision, she knew she would have to act quickly. She knew also that James must never learn that she had, if only briefly, carried his child. The thought of keeping such a secret from him only served to make an unappealing option even more abhorrent.

  Whenever she considered James, it hurt her to imagine denying him this chance to be a father. He wanted it so desperately. She was certain that, should James learn of her condition, he would want her to keep the baby, just as she was certain that he would do the honorable thing in marrying her. She had no doubt that James would make a loving husband and father, but the hard truth of it was that Christina, herself, was simply not ready to become a wife and mother. She had to ask herself, if she weren’t in this predicament, is that the life she would choose?

  She already knew the answer.

  She briefly contemplated adoption, but she abandoned the notion as quickly as it occurred to her. Any plan that involved seeing the pregnancy through to the end surely would involve her mother learning of her condition, and that would mean James would learn of it as well. There was no way she could hide the truth from them, and she couldn’t fathom forcing James to stand idly by while she handed his child over to a stranger to raise. Knowing what she did about his desire to be a father, that seemed like the cruelest option of all.

  It wasn’t wasted on her that it was her feelings for James that prevented her from choosing either of the two obvious options— either an abortion or adoption. What troubled her most was why. Somewhere in the midst of her muddled thoughts and her long anxious nights, she wrestled with the possibility that perhaps she really did love him after all. And if she did, perhaps she should put her own needs aside, and go ahead and have his child and raise it with him. She wanted to be unselfish, but there was just so much she would have to sacrifice. That it felt like a sacrifice only caused her to doubt it even more.

  Not the least among those sacrifices would be her relationship with her mother. She knew her mother loved James— even more than she did— and she was painfully aware of the damage she would be inflicting upon their relationship should Jean ever learn that her daughter hadn’t only slept with James, but had conceived a child with him. For Jean, who had already been betrayed and abandoned by her husband, it was impossible for Christina to imagine their relationship surviving such a revelation intact. Whenever she considered that, her guilt became so overpowering that it was hard to think of anything or anyone else; not James, and certainly not herself.

  The solution finally came to her about a week before she arrived on James’s doorstep. When it first occurred to her, she dismissed it as ridiculous, but it pushed its way back into her thoughts time and again until finally she didn’t so much embrace the idea as surrender to it. Of all the possible ways this could play out, this was the scenario th
at frightened her the most. At the same time it seemed to be the only way to make everyone happy— everyone but her.

  Even so, as she sat beside James in his apartment, it was that fear that found her again. The words she’d rehearsed during the drive from Orono had abandoned her. It didn’t matter. Even before she could deliver her proposition, there were questions to be answered.

  “Is it mine?” James asked, trying to conceal his enthusiasm.

  “That’s always the first question for a man, isn’t it?” Christina wondered aloud. “But yes, it’s yours.”

  “The difference is that most men in this situation are usually hoping for a different answer,” James said.

  She studied his hopeful expression. He was doing his best to suppress his delight for her sake. “Not you, though,” she said.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, touching her hand. “But is it wrong that I’m happy about this?”

  She offered just the trace of a smile. It was difficult not to given his exuberance. She wished she shared it. “No,” she said. But quickly the weight of it all pressed down upon her again. “Is it wrong that I’m not?” she asked. It was less a question than a confession.

  He tried to imagine all the emotions with which Christina must certainly be wrestling. Surely when she contemplated the road she hoped to travel in her life, she had to see this as an unexpected and even tragic turn. He knew she wasn’t interested in marriage and motherhood just yet, but what he said next was inevitable.

  “You know I’d marry you, if I thought that’s what you want,” he said.

  Christina looked down and touched his hand, lightly squeezing his fingers. “A half-hearted proposal,” she said with a wry grin, not raising her eyes. “Every girl’s dream.”

  “That came out wrong,” James assured her. “But I meant it. I’ll marry you.”

  She squeezed his hand again and held it this time. “I know you would,” she said. “You’re a good guy. And I wish it was that simple, but it’s not.”

  When she finally lifted her eyes and looked at him, he saw that they had welled with tears. He turned on the couch so he was no longer facing her but sitting beside her, and he reached his arm around her shoulders and drew her closer. He felt her sink into him, and he realized instantly that he should have done that sooner.

  They sat in silence for some time, James desperately wanting to know more, and Christina simply enjoying that intimate moment when she felt as if the weight of the world suddenly wasn’t resting squarely on her shoulders alone; if only briefly, it had been lifted from her.

  At the same time, not looking into his face, not seeing that hopeful expression staring back at her, seemed to give her the courage she’d lacked earlier, and before long, she found the words that had eluded her before.

  “Can I ask you something, James?” she finally said.

  “Sure.”

  “You love my mother, don’t you?”

  Not looking at James’s face, she was unaware of the look of confusion that settled upon it. To James, it seemed an odd question given the circumstances.

  “I’m not sure this is the right time to talk about my feelings for your mother,” he said.

  “Trust me, James, this is definitely the right time,” Christina insisted. “I know how you two feel about each other. I just need you to tell me something and I need you to be completely honest.”

  “Okay,” James said, but his tone was tentative.

  “If there was even a chance that she would have a baby with you, would you two be together?”

  James considered the question for what seemed like a long time. He knew the answer— he suspected Christina did as well— but such a confession seemed irrelevant and even cruel given the news Christina had just shared with him. How could he possibly tell a woman who had just announced that she was carrying his child that it was her mother he truly wanted?

  “I’m not sure how to answer that,” he finally said.

  “Just be honest, James. I’m dealing with some heavy stuff here. If there was ever a time for the truth, this would be it.”

  He considered his answer again. “It doesn’t change how I feel about you. You know that, right?”

  “I know,” she assured him.

  “Because I care for both of you.”

  “Stop worrying about hurting my feelings, James, and just answer the question.”

  “Then, yes,” he admitted. “I love your mother, but I need to be a father. If there was any chance she’d be willing to have a child with me, I think we’d be together. But she’s not, so why does it matter?”

  Christina slowly removed herself from his embrace and adjusted her position on the sofa so she was facing him once again. As before, her face was lowered, and as she lifted it, James expected to see tears streaming down her cheeks. He assumed his confession had hurt her. but she was smiling.

  “It matters because there might be a way,” Christina told him. She spoke slowly, studying his face. “We need to talk.”

  Before Christina returned to school in early September, the flashes of guilt were just that— brief moments of introspection and self-loathing that were easily tempered by the excitement of her relationship with James. That they had to keep it a secret only added to the thrill. At the very least it served as a distraction, if only a temporary one, from what she would ultimately come to recognize as a betrayal of the one person who meant more to her than anyone. Should Jean learn of her relationship with James, the revelation would not only have stirred the old painful memories of Richard’s betrayal and subsequent abandonment, it would have taken an even more hurtful twist: in this case, the younger woman was her own daughter.

  In fairness, by that afternoon in August that Christina and James came crashing together aboard his boat, the romance between James and her mother appeared to have reached a stalemate, if it was ever really a romance at all. From that first night almost a year earlier when James had come for dinner— and even before he’d passed out on her living room floor— Jean decided there was no chance for the two of them given that James so desperately wanted to be a father. At forty-five, she wasn’t about to risk a pregnancy, even if she was so inclined, which she wasn’t. His unshakeable desire for fatherhood was what Christina had labeled the following morning as the “fatal flaw”; not in James— since wanting to be a father was hardly a flaw— but in their relationship. It meant that any chance at a romance was doomed before it ever started, and both of them knew it.

  That was the logic Christina had used during those warm August days whenever she needed to convince herself that her affair with James was nothing more than a series of harmless trysts. Before long, what began as a mere dalliance became something much stronger, the secrecy serving to fan the flames of their relationship. Having successfully convinced herself that she hadn’t actually taken anything from her mother that her mother hadn’t already discarded, there was no reason to put a stop to it, even if she wanted to, which she didn’t. At first, she simply allowed it to continue, knowing it would end once she left for school. Later, particularly during those last days before her departure, she relished it for exactly the same reason.

  It was only after she arrived at school and had the opportunity to consider her actions from a distance that she began to recognize them for what they were. Only then did those flashes of guilt become more prolonged stretches of shame and contrition. Where she’d been able to deny those feelings before, suddenly she couldn’t deny them any longer.

  When she discovered she was pregnant— at least after the initial shock of it— was when the guilt bore down most heavily upon her. It was difficult not to wonder if her predicament was some sort of punishment for what she’d done, and it was during that time when she considered ending the pregnancy before anyone learned of it. But more secrets weren’t the answer to assuaging the guilt she felt over those secrets she already owned.

  She set herself to the task of searching for some way of resol
ving her dilemma in a manner that would relieve her considerable guilt without inflicting additional anguish on those she loved. It seemed an impossible task at first; every potential solution led to heartache and sacrifice. She could bear it if it were only her own, but in most cases, it meant hurting her mother or James, neither of whom deserved to be punished for the reckless choices she’d made.

  And so she allowed the weeks to pass without a decision, knowing that her time was running out. If she was correct in believing that it was that first encounter upon James’s boat that had led to this, then aborting the pregnancy, if that somehow became her only recourse, would be unavailable to her by mid-November. It was an option she’d already rejected numerous times, but every time some other resolution failed her, her desperation often led her back to it. There was some comfort— though she wouldn’t have called it that— in knowing that option, as abhorrent as it was, was still available to her. And so she decided that if no other solution presented itself by the end of October, she would make the appointment for the abortion, even if she ultimately chose not to keep it.

  It was a few days before she would be forced to make that call that the idea finally occurred to her. Perhaps it was the looming deadline that forced her to consider options that she might have dismissed as ridiculous earlier on, when time provided her the luxury of doing so. But with time quickly running out, what she might once have considered ludicrous suddenly seemed almost reasonable to her. It wasn’t a solution that was completely without the heartache and sacrifice she’d hoped to avoid, but for once it would be mostly her own. Just as importantly, the notion that she might make amends for her poor choices— the Catholics would have called it ‘atoning for her sins’— would give her the strength to live with her decision.

  As for the secrets she’d be forced to keep, there would be only one, and she wouldn’t be keeping that secret alone. Still, it seemed a small sacrifice considering how otherwise perfect this particular solution seemed to her at the time.