by Margot Early
“When, in human childbirth, isn’t a person involved?” she asked. “Or are you drawing a comparison with primate childbirth?”
“A child that you and I conceived,” he said bluntly. “My offspring. It’s personal.”
Cameron wasn’t sure she’d ever heard anyone speak those words so unemotionally. “You’re closing yourself off,” she remarked. “You’re trying not to feel.”
He spoke to someone in the background, saying, “I know. I haven’t been able to get him to stop.”
She heard the person say something in response.
Then, Paul said to Cameron, “You were saying?”
“Nothing. Are you really coming to the doctor with me?”
“Oh, yes.” Paul’s certainty surprised him.
“Don’t think you’re going to make the decisions.” In Clare’s yard, preparing to mount her bicycle, Cameron said the words that were inside her, with her, at every moment. “You don’t even know what part you want to have in the baby’s life.”
The words shocked Paul. Not because of the truth of them but because the truth sounded terrible when articulated. He said, “Let’s go out to dinner tonight. My treat.”
“I’m incredibly nauseated.” Why did he want to take her out to dinner? He never took her out to dinner, and when they happened to eat out at the same place and the same time, they went Dutch. Well, except on those occasions when she was posing as his girlfriend. He’d fed her on the way to and from the Crawl gig. “Well, all right,” she said.
“Rick’s,” he said, naming the best restaurant in Logan.
“I hope I can eat,” she said, though the very thought was disgusting.
“Why do you think I’m taking you out now?” he said. “You’ll be a cheap date.”
MARY ANNE LOOKED a little worse for the wear, Cameron decided when her cousin stopped at the Women’s Resource Center late that afternoon. She still wore a cast from the surgery on her leg following her caving accident. In general, Cameron envied Mary Anne’s height, the always-smooth look of her honey-colored hair, her style. But it was hard to look stylish on crutches. Cameron, exhausted from reading three grant proposals before their submission, nonetheless jumped up to pull out the most comfortable guest chair in her office for her cousin.
Mary Anne carefully settled into it, then looked up, almost nervously, at Cameron. “Are you still mad?” she inquired.
“About what?” Cameron furrowed her brow.
“About Graham, of course.”
While Cameron had certainly not forgotten that she’d ever cared for Graham Corbett or ever been devastated by his love for Mary Anne, other thoughts and feelings had been getting more play recently. “I was never mad.”
“You were,” Mary Anne retorted.
“Maybe a little. But it was never your fault. It was always my problem. And I have other things on my mind right now.” She studied Mary Anne. “I’m being taken out to dinner tonight. Could you help me dress?”
“I think so. I’m getting better at steps, and there are fewer up to your house than at Graham’s or Nanna’s.” Nanna was Jacqueline Billingham, their grandmother, with whom Mary Anne still, nominally, lived. The reference to “Graham’s” gave lie to that, and Cameron couldn’t quite repress a tiny sting of envy. But she thought it was the envy of Mary Anne’s knack for doing everything in the right order. Fall in love, get engaged, get married, then get pregnant.
Cameron had somehow become pregnant completely out of order.
Her cousin asked, “Who’s the lucky man?”
Cameron wondered if pregnancy made a person over-heated. Her face felt too warm. “It’s just Paul. Don’t make a deal about it. “
“The father of your child?” Mary Anne said, as though clarifying matters.
“Undoubtedly that is why he has asked me on a date.” For a moment, Cameron considered the timing of his invitation to dinner. He’d asked her immediately after she’d mentioned that she had no idea what role he intended to play in their child’s life. She confessed this to her cousin.
“Rick’s? He’s suddenly taking you to Rick’s?” Mary Anne exclaimed. “Obviously he’s going to propose!”
Cameron wondered if being engaged herself had addled Mary Anne’s wits. “Not a chance,” she answered. “This is Paul, remember?” But, whispered a small voice inside her, say he did propose. What, then, would she say?
Well, yes, of course.
At least she thought so. If he didn’t seem as though he felt obligated to marry her. But Paul virtually never felt obligated to do anything, as far as she could tell. Nothing imposed by societal expectations, anyway.
“He won’t ask me to marry him. It’s against his philosophy.” And she would not get her hopes up.
“Men change suddenly,” Mary Anne said with the voice of experience.
“I haven’t noticed Paul changing, except that he seems to want to push me around.” She told Mary Anne of the chimpanzee escape and Paul’s treatment of her during and after the episode. Then she related Paul’s sudden antipathy toward homebirth.
“He’s just being protective,” said Mary Anne. “You can’t want a homebirth, can you? It seems to me that pain control isn’t an option.”
“That’s not the most important thing. Anyhow, I’m not wedded to the idea; it’s just my first choice. Hospitals aren’t very supportive of women with long labors, for instance. If I go to the hospital, I’m afraid I’ll end up having a C-section.”
“And the problem with that is?”
“There’s no problem, if I need one. But I don’t want an unnecessary cesarean. If it’s unnecessary, it’s worse for the baby and worse for me. And if it’s safe for the baby, I want to experience vaginal delivery.”
Mary Anne frowned, her gaze steady and compassionate. “I can understand that.” Then she assumed a knowing expression, which Cameron didn’t like. “So Paul’s a little overprotective. But you say nothing is different between the two of you. Do you want his attitude toward you to be different from what it has been?”
“Of course not. Which is fortunate, because it isn’t.”
“So how was this child conceived?” Mary Anne inquired.
Flushing when she remembered that the stated purpose of that night together had been to help Cameron get over Graham, Cameron snapped, “It just happened. Do you want to help me figure out what to wear or not?”
“Of course, I’ll help,” Mary Anne replied as Cameron heard the bell that meant someone else had come in.
“Hello?” called a male voice, one Cameron recognized.
Cameron stood, and stepped around Mary Anne to look out the door. “We’re in here.”
It was Sean, and he came to the open door of the office and handed her an envelope. “Your comp ticket to the high school play. The Night of January 16th, by Ayn Rand.”
“Thank you!” she said and impulsively hugged him, then turned to introduce Mary Anne. Her cousin, still seated, gazed up at Sean as though someone had just struck her with an unabridged dictionary and Cameron knew she was thinking, Who is that gorgeous man?
“I would have gotten you two tickets,” he said, “but we’re almost sold out.”
“Thank you,” she repeated. “This is great.”
“Have you eaten?” he asked.
“Actually, Paul’s taking me to Rick’s.”
Sean raised his attractively arched eyebrows and smiled. “I wasn’t going to propose anything so grand. Just wanted to make sure you got something good.”
“Thank you,” Cameron said, feeling like a broken record. She emphasized, “Really, I’m doing a good job of that.”
“Don’t make me feel unnecessary,” he answered, showing his dimples.
A trickle of uneasiness went through Cameron. She’d told him about her mixed feelings toward Paul, had even told Sean of what had happened between them back in university days. She tried to be absolutely straight with Sean, but she knew he was attracted to her. And she had told him that she r
egarded him as a friend, no more.
But should she be more discouraging?
When he left them, after saying it was nice to meet Mary Anne and promising to call Cameron the next day and saying he would take her for dinner the night of the play, Cameron sat back down and Mary Anne said in a low awestruck voice, “My God. That is possibly the best-looking man I’ve ever seen. And he acts like a lovesick puppy around you. He’s in love with you, isn’t he?”
“Maybe a little, but it’s not mutual, and I’ve told him so. Anyhow, I have too much on my plate right now. I don’t have time for…that,” she concluded vaguely.
Now, Mary Anne stared at her in amazement.
Cameron expected her cousin to comment on her idiocy.
Instead, Mary Anne said, “You’re in love with Paul, aren’t you? Oh, Cameron, be sensible!”
“I can’t help what I feel!”
Mary Anne muttered, “If there was ever a time for a love potion—”
“No!” Cameron almost shouted.
“Why not? You persuaded me to buy one.”
“That was different. That was just Jonathan Hale, even if Graham did drink it. This time—well, there’s another life involved. His father’s attachment to his mother shouldn’t be based on something as flimsy as a love potion.”
Realizing what she hadn’t said, Cameron blushed and quickly added, “Or mother’s to father, for that matter.” Pretending that a love potion was needed. Then remembering, belatedly, that she half suspected Bridget of having given her one.
CHAPTER SEVEN
RICK’S WAS UNUSUALLY BUSY
that night, with a crowd in the foyer and every bench seat taken. Cameron felt so exhausted she could barely stand, and when a woman belonging to another party rose from her place, Paul swiftly guided Cameron to the seat with a proprietary air of consideration. Cameron thrilled to his touch on her elbow, and she constantly cautioned herself that his behavior was for the baby more than for her. Even as she sat, he stood close by, reminding her of a guard dog. Though she liked dogs and though his attentiveness touched her, she feared the strength of her own reactions. She didn’t want to be in love with Paul. He was being attentive to her, but it was because of the baby.
Cameron had always thought of herself as modern, a feminist. But a tiny, stupid part of her wished that what Mary Anne had predicted would come true, that Paul would ask to marry her. Why on Earth would a sane, mature woman wish such a thing? It wasn’t as though he was in love with her! It would be marriage for the sake of the baby, which wasn’t something she was sure she believed in.
She crossed her legs in her corduroy bell-bottoms; none of her pants had yet become snug. She wondered how soon they would. Over her corduroys, she wore a long, lacy top in dark brown, close around her breasts but extending loose below, a top she thought she would be able to wear as a maternity top. Mary Anne had helped her choose a necklace in jet and smoky quartz, which had been a gift from Mary Anne herself, along with the matching earrings, and she had persuaded Cameron to wear her long hair down, unbraided, which always made Cameron feel frivolous—entirely unprepared to, say, ride her bicycle or run five miles. Indeed, her hair had gotten caught on something on the passenger door of Paul’s vehicle, and he’d had to reach over the gear shift to untangle the tresses.
Which had been yet another opportunity to notice that though Paul’s feelings toward her hadn’t changed, hers toward him had done so.
She studied him for a moment as he stood over her. He wore a loosely knotted, narrow necktie with his olive-colored shirt, as neckties were required at Rick’s. His pants were dark brown twill.
How had she managed the charade they had practiced for so many years—four, at least—of simply pretending to be his girlfriend? Had she kept up the pretense because she was attracted to him and wanted to prevent him finding a girlfriend, a real girlfriend, other than her?
She had seen him many times before shirtless or in swim trunks, even on midnight skinny-dipping expeditions, but she had been so convinced of his lack of worth as a partner that she had ignored his physical attractions. Well, it had seemed that way at the time. Now, she tried to think him out of consideration as a partner, but it wasn’t working as well as in the past. In her mind, suddenly, he was the only partner for her. But what kind of fool adopted these ideas about a man sworn against matrimony?
Should she aim for something different? Simply try for boyfriend-girlfriend lovers?
Good grief, he was even opposed to that—or had always said so.
On the other hand, she could settle for Sean Devlin.
No. She remembered what Paul had suggested, that perhaps Sean told Cameron too much of himself and his feelings, too much for her to find him attractive. It was true she felt that she knew Sean. She also knew Paul, but there was so much of Paul she didn’t know. Paul would always interest her because they were different from each other.
But did she interest Paul in the same way?
It didn’t seem so.
During the ride to the restaurant, Cameron had longed to blurt out, “To what do I owe this honor?” But what if there was no special occasion, as her intuition told her was the case?
Fortunately, thanks to an increase in vitamin B6 and frequent protein-rich snacks, she felt less nauseated than she had for a week and was looking forward to hearing the specials.
“Are you all right?”
Her thoughts must have shown. “Fine. Fine.”
The mâitre d’ came to seat them at last, at a table for two near one of the windows upstairs, now dark, but also near the fireplace.
When they sat down, she told him, “Your plot has failed. I’m hungry.”
He glanced up from the menu and grinned, his face creasing attractively, his dark eyes on her. Cameron remembered making love with him, recalled that even then she had felt a certain aloofness and reserve, as though there were an invisible barrier between them, which she recognized as his not wanting to commit. Not even to commit himself to being a little in love with her during the moments they were intimate.
Cameron thought again of the fact that it was after she’d said she had no idea what part he wanted in their baby’s life that he’d asked her to join him for dinner. Well, seeing that she had no silly romantic hopes for this occasion—really she didn’t—she may as well try to get some answers.
“The baby,” she said.
He blinked at her, as though unsure which baby she meant. She half expected him to start glancing around the restaurant in the hope of seeing the one of whom she spoke.
“For heaven’s sake,” she hissed. “The baby. I want to know what part you plan to play in the baby’s life.”
He stared at her for a moment, then grabbed his water glass. “I—I’m going to be the baby’s father.”
Cameron thought he looked as though he might choke, and she didn’t know whether she felt more sorry for him, herself or their child. She recalled Sean’s text message haiku, promising to care for her and the baby. She said sternly, “You are the baby’s father. I just want to know how you’re going to integrate the fact. What you’re going to do.”
Paul was keenly aware that the hero of any of those stupid books Cameron read would never have made love to her in the first place without being married to her; her ideal romantic world was that represented in books written for nice women in the 1940s and 1950s. Now that he had slept with her and she was pregnant, he felt constantly called upon to act without chivalry in order to be true to himself. The correct thing to do, according to many people, probably including his own father and possibly his mother, would be to ask Cameron to marry him. Briefly, he considered asking her to marry him in the hope that she would refuse.
But he didn’t think she would refuse.
Darting away from the picture of marriage with Cameron, a picture with too much finality for the moment, he said, “I intend to have regular visits with our child. Weekends, probably. You and I will work it out.”
To his horr
or, Cameron’s eyes filled with tears.
She said, “Sorry. It’s morning sickness. I’ll be back.” And she stood up hurriedly from the table, so keen to hide her face from everyone in the restaurant but especially Paul that she slammed right into David Cureux, who was escorting his daughter.
“Excuse me,” she said and made herself smile. “Morning sickness.”
Oh, God. The pain was excruciating, and yet all Paul had said was what she’d expected. He was immature, was against marriage for reasons which made no sense to anyone, and that only meant—how well she knew it—that he’d not yet met the woman he wanted to marry.
She did not have morning sickness, but she went to the ladies’ room anyhow, determined to keep up the pretense. She just had to get herself together, to accept that this was no fairy tale, no happily-ever-after story. In any case, the happy ending she wanted was a healthy baby—this baby. She didn’t want a man who was apathetic about her to offer to marry her just for the baby. Who would want to marry under those circumstances? Well, some women would, but she wasn’t one of them.
In the restroom, she stood in front of the mirror in thankful solitude and repeated a series of affirmations she had written for herself in the determination to take her through a safe, healthy, pregnancy, labor and birth. “I am a natural mother. My hips were made to push babies into the world. My body was made to carry babies….”
“NICE GOING,” Bridget said as she and her father stood over Paul’s and Cameron’s table. They had been guided to a table across the small room by the mâitre d’ but had both left it to speak to Paul, who had stood up when Cameron rose to leave the table. “Being your charming self, I can see.”
“It’s…morning sickness,” Paul said uneasily, gazing in the direction Cameron had gone. Despite his words, he’d been sure that Cameron was starting to cry, not that she was ill. What on Earth had he said to make her cry?
He felt rather than saw his father’s eyes on him in disappointment and disgust. Paul said, “I think I’ll check on her. If you see the waiter, tell him we’ll be right back.” Unless Cameron really was sick.