Luscious Lemon

by Heather Swain

  “What’s wrong with Lemon?” Ernesto asks as I slip out the back.

  “Who knows,” says Franny angrily.

  From the alley, I hear the door open behind me, and I turn around, expecting to find Franny, ready to give me hell about leaving early, but it’s Makiko. She stands with her arms crossed tightly against her body and hurries to catch up with me.

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  “I’ll be all right,” I tell her, but my words are uncertain.

  “I think something’s wrong,” she says. She reaches out and puts her small hand on my upper arm.

  I want to tell Makiko. Want to voice all my deepest fears right now, but it feels like blasphemy to say it out loud. As if I’ll jinx whatever’s the matter and make it worse. So I simply say, “I’ll be fine,” and hurry away.

  “Call if you need anything,” she yells after me.

  When I’m around the corner, I pull out my cell phone and dial Dr. Shin’s number. I try to explain the situation to the receptionist quietly and calmly. I use the words “abnormal” and “spotting” as if speaking in some quasi-medical jargon will prompt her into action. She seems bored by my description.

  “Do you want to see the doctor?” she asks.

  “Yes!” I say. “Of course. I’m bleeding. I’m not supposed to bleed. I’m just a few blocks away. Can I talk to her?”

  “She’s in with a patient.” I hear her flip pages. “She could see you Wednesday.”

  “Next week! You’re not listening to me!” Then I lose it. I whimper into the phone. “I have to see her right now,” I plead.

  “You’d have to hurry. She’s getting ready to leave,” the receptionist says.

  “I can be there in two minutes.” I speed up.

  “I’ll ask her to wait,” she says and hangs up the phone.

  Chapter

  Seventeen

  D r. Shin is behind the desk with her coat on when I walk in. She looks up and frowns at me. “You have an appointment?” she asks.

  “I just called. She told me I could come in.” I point to the receptionist, who gives me an indifferent stare.

  “Oh, no,” says Dr. Shin. She looks at the appointment book on the desk. “No, no. She made a mistake. I have to go to the hospital now.”

  “But I just called. I’m bleeding. I have cramps. She said you could see me.”

  Dr. Shin juts her head forward like a turtle. “What do you mean, bleeding?”

  “It just started,” I say and force myself to stay calm. To explain the facts. No emotion.

  “How much?” she asks.

  “Spots. Dark spots.”

  “Spotting’s not abnormal,” she says. “You probably just bumped your cervix.” She gathers her things. “Did you have sex today?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Or you could have a little food poisoning that upset your stomach.” She turns away and puts a chart in her bag. This can’t happen. She can’t leave. She has to see me.

  “But what if I—” I choke. Sputter. The words fail.

  “What if what?” she asks.

  “I shouldn’t be bleeding.”

  “I know what you’re afraid of.” She waves her hand dismissively. “Every woman thinks she’s going to have a miscarriage.”

  “Can’t you just look?”

  “If you’re going to lose it, you’re going to lose it. Nothing we can do.”

  She must see the horrified look on my face, because she stops collecting her stuff and leans against the desk. “How far are you?”

  “Twelve weeks.”

  “Did we see a heartbeat?”

  I think of the little blips. I think of the foot. The arm. The hand waving to me. I nod furiously.

  “Then you don’t need to worry. There’s an eighty percent chance that you won’t lose it.”

  I stare, dumbfounded. What am I, a thunderstorm?

  “It’s very rare to lose it after we see a heartbeat,” she says. “Sometimes women bleed. We don’t know why. It’s not abnormal. There’s a good chance everything is fine. Anyway, if it’s not, there’s nothing I can do. It’s your body’s way. Nature,” she says and tries to sound cheery. “So, go home. Relax. Enjoy this time. You’re pregnant. Be happy. Lots of women can’t even get pregnant.”

  “But—” I sputter some more. She cannot dismiss me like this. She puts her charts in a briefcase. She gathers her keys. “Stop!” I demand.

  Her face goes stony. “You’re not listening to what I’m saying,” she says sternly. “You’re okay. And if not, I can’t do anything. It’s too early. You’re only twelve weeks. It’s still normal to lose it. Some women do. Maybe thirty percent of first pregnancies end in the first twelve weeks.”

  “But, wait a minute. You just said that I’m probably fine.”

  “Right. You’re probably fine, but if not, it wouldn’t be abnormal.”

  I don’t understand this at all. I feel weak and dizzy.

  She softens her voice. “I’m telling you, you’re most likely fine. Go home and rest if you want. Take it easy. Calm your mind down. Stop stressing. It’s not good for the baby.”

  She walks around from the behind the desk. I want to grab her arm and force her to stop. I want to slap her silly.

  “Your body will take care of itself,” she says, as if she’s being comforting. “That’s what it’s designed to do.”

  I stand in her way and don’t let her pass. “I want to see the baby,” I tell her. “I need to know for certain that it’s okay.”

  “I can’t tell you that for certain.”

  “Please,” I say and grab her arm. “Please.”

  Clearly irritated, but probably fearing that I’ll follow her down the street if she doesn’t agree, she turns around and heads toward an exam room. “Come on,” she says and I follow.

  I know the routine. In the bathroom off the exam room, I strip from the waist down and cover myself with a scratchy gown. That slow trickle from between my legs has continued and become a brighter red blotch in my underwear. The cramps are worse. Everything’s in knots. Go away, I implore, as if this problem were a disobedient dog.

  In the exam room, Dr. Shin has pushed the ultrasound machine beside the table. She waits for me with the wand in one hand, looking more like she wants to clobber me with it than scan my insides. I ignore her as I climb on board and hoist my legs into the stirrups. Without a word, she puts the wand inside me, and I hold my breath as I watch the screen, as if I’ll know what to look for. As if my baby will either be dancing the cancan and holding up a banner proclaiming her safety or there will be a funeral procession complete with a tiny hearse progressing through my womb.

  “The cervix is closed,” Dr. Shin says matter-of-factly. “But it looks a little tender, swollen.”

  “Is that why I’m bleeding?” I ask her.

  She shrugs. “Hard to say.” She moves the wand around.

  I see blobs go by, but nothing that looks like my wee babe. Where could she have gone? Disappeared just like that? Vanished to the bottom of a murky brown river, never to be seen again? I remember Eddie’s teary eyes when he brought me the pregnancy test to show me the line. How my grandmother laughed so hard she cried when I told her I was pregnant. Franny’s bright and happy face in the restaurant kitchen when I said I’d seen the baby’s heartbeat. Makiko and Mel and Xiao hugging and kissing me in the office. All of my aunts at Eddie’s apartment, making a nest for this kid. Bucky and ’Scilla touching my belly and grinning. You can’t leave us, I silently tell my baby. We all love you so much already. I’ll give up the restaurant, marry Eddie, be a stay-at-home mom, move to Georgia. Do anything. Just please stay here with me.

  Dr. Shin points to the screen. “There it is,” she says. I see the familiar white dot pulsate in the middle of a tiny gray glob. “Just like I said.”

  I don’t know what to do. Should I smile? Laugh? Ha-ha-ha! False alarm! Stand up and shake the doctor’s hand? Slap her heartily on the back? Looks like I won’t lose
this baby after all. Whew! What a scare! You gave us such a scare, kiddo! The only thing I can do is cry at the sight of that beating heart.

  Dr. Shin pulls the wand out of me and slags off the splotchy condom. “See, like I said, every woman thinks she’s going to miscarry.” She sounds like she’s chastising me for being as silly as every other woman who fears the worst. “Now you go home. Rest.”

  Despite the beating heart and her tone, I’m still not convinced everything is fine. “Bed rest?” I ask. I’ve heard of those weak-wombed women who are driven to their beds, flat on their backs for months, as the only way to save their babies. I’ll do it, if that’s what it takes.

  “No. No,” she says dismissively. “I don’t believe in bed rest this early. If this baby isn’t going to make it, there’s nothing you can do. You should live your life like normal. That’s the best thing for you and this baby.”

  “But how will I know? If I’m going to lose it, I mean?”

  She sighs, exasperated. She’s had enough of me. “If the bleeding gets heavy, like a period, or if you have a lot of cramping, then you can call me.” She picks up her bag from the chair by the door. “Otherwise, you’re fine,” she says emphatically as she leaves.

  Outside of the doctor’s office, I stand on the sidewalk and stare stupidly at the ground. What’s happened to me? Where did that fearless woman I always intended to be go? Why am I so afraid that something’s wrong? I’m still bleeding and my belly aches, but Dr. Shin says that I’m fine. That I should go ahead and live my life like normal. What she doesn’t get is, my normal life is completely inconducive to motherhood. And therein lies the rub. If something’s wrong, then I’ve likely caused it, only I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. She tells me to act normal, but what if that’s precisely the problem?

  I try to find solace in her assurance. The heartbeat was there. My cervix is closed. Eighty percent chance. I’m always in the ninety-ninth percentile, I remind myself. The ninety-ninth percentile of winners. On standardized tests. On physical fitness exams. Of the hundred people who will open a New York restaurant, mine will be the one that makes it. With 80 percent odds, I won’t be a part of the lousy 20 percent of people who will get the raw deal. So clearly, I’m fine.

  In fact, I should probably go back to work. It’s the logical thing to do. Only I can’t. I can’t face another three hours of standing up over a hot grill worried about this baby. Ernesto and Franny will be fine. I’ll make it up to them later. I turn toward the subway and head home.

  Chapter

  Eighteen

  W hen I get home, I’m exhausted, but I can’t sleep quite yet. Every time I close my eyes, I think about the constant dribble and persistent ache below my belly button. I turn on the light and find my books beside the bed.

  I don’t read the thin chapters called “Pregnancy Loss,” because that’s a stupid title. As if some negligent mother has misplaced her pregnancy, like an errant set of keys. As if she could look between couch cushions or inside her overcoat pockets, and well, there it is! That darn embryo. Always getting lost.

  Instead, I look at development charts. I study what my baby is supposed to look like. She should be two-and-a-half inches long, the size of my thumb and perfectly formed. With her grape-seed lungs and minuscule fingers she could play a tiny oboe as she somersaults inside of me. I put my hand down below my belly button and concentrate quietly, but I still can’t feel her, no matter how hard I try.

  From the beginning, I’ve been amazed at how separate and independent my child is from me, but I’m not from her. I want to know everything. If she’s in distress, I want to console her. Take her pain for my own. Maybe if I put more thought and energy into being pregnant, rather than grousing about all the ways it’s changing my life for the worse, then I would be able to feel her. I would know why my body is leaking and whether she’s going to be okay. I’d never once thought of losing this baby. It seems so stupid now. Of course that was always a possibility. Why didn’t anyone tell me?

  I open up the books again, and I look at the small sections on miscarriage. What a stupid word, I think. Miscarriage, as if you drop it. As if it falls out of a carriage because you are sloppy and inattentive. The books tell me not to worry. That every woman thinks she might miscarry, but most won’t. What about the women who do? They must feel foolish.

  I read on. Make myself take in all the words. I need to know What to Expect When I’m Expecting the Worst. The books tell me the symptoms of miscarriage are bleeding, cramping, and the passing of tissue, as if I’m gestating a box of Kleenex. There are threatened miscarriages, inevitable miscarriages, missed miscarriages, incomplete miscarriages, and habitual miscarriages. So many kinds to chose from! Yet everything is inconclusive. Uncertain. If you bleed, you might miscarry, but then again, you might not. If you cramp, you could be losing it, but then again, everything could be okay. Why can’t they give it to me straight? Does no one know, or am I just presumed too dense to understand, with all the pregnancy hormones coursing through my system? Have I become the ol’ hysterical woman à la Freud?

  Now I’ve worked myself into another tizzy, and I know I’ll never sleep, so I find the phone in the living room and dial Eddie’s cell number. I have no idea what time it is in Italy, but at the moment I don’t care. I’m scared. I’m uncertain. I’m alone, and I need the comfort of his voice, even if everything is okay, as Dr. Shin assures me. He answers on the fourth ring. Behind him are loud voices, clanging dishes, and the cacophony of a live band.

  “Lem? That you?” he shouts into the phone.

  “Can you go someplace quiet?” I yell back. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Hang on, darling.” He covers the phone and says something to someone in his atrocious southern-inflected Italian. “I’m going outside,” he tells me. I hear a door open, swing shut, the party noise recede, then he is walking on gravel. I imagine him alone, in the country, and I wish I were there, too.

  “Where are you?” I ask.

  He laughs. “I’m at a wedding. Can you believe it? I’ve been going to this farm outside Cerignola in Puglia to talk to a guy about importing his sun-dried lampascioni and eggplant. I think I’m close to a deal with him, but he’s been a little cagey. Then yesterday he invited me to his daughter’s wedding. It’s a trip. You’d love it. The food, Lemon. Oh my God. The lamb. Spit-roasted with fresh rosemary and mint. I wish you were here.”

  “Eddie,” I say abruptly. I need him to shut up. I need him to listen. I need him to intuit simply from the timbre of my voice that something is wrong.

  “Yeah, babe. What’s going on? Everything okay?”

  “No.” I wish that I could text-message my worries to him, because I don’t know how to say them out loud. “It’s not.” A door opens behind him, and the noise from the party spills over into the phone just as I say, “I’m bleeding.”

  “Ciao! Ciao!” he yells to someone. They yell back. I’m ready to hang up. I can’t compete with the revelry. It was stupid to even call. What do I expect Eddie to do for me? “What’s that, darling? You’re what?”

  “I’m bleeding!” I say, and it comes out wavering, wobbly, my words teetering near hysteria.

  “Did you cut yourself?”

  “For Christ’s sake, Eddie!”

  “Wait. Wait. Let me go over here.” I hear the crunch of gravel under his feet again. In my mind, I see him on some bucolic farm, rolling green grass hills, stone buildings, a setting sun. If I were there with him, maybe none of this would be happening. “Now tell me what’s going on,” he says.

  I take a breath. I’ll start from the beginning. Tell him everything. Purge all the worry from my brain. “I worked all day, then I got really tired about four o’clock.”

  “I’ve been telling you to take it easy, darling. You push yourself way too hard.”

  “Goddammit, Eddie. Would you please listen to me?”

  “Jesus, Lem,” he says. “You seem upset.”

  I drop the phone to my lap. I
can’t take it. Maybe he’s drunk or the connection’s bad, or maybe he’s just an idiot. I hear him calling my name through the receiver. I put the phone to my ear again. “I think I’m losing this baby,” I tell him as simply as I can.

  He is silent.

  “I’m bleeding. I saw the doctor.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Lemon!” I hear the gravel crunching under his feet as he begins to pace. Where’s he going? Home toward me?

  “What’d she say?” he asks. “Are you in the hospital? Do I need to come home?”

  Now I feel like a fool. I’ve completely overstated the situation just to get his attention. I hate to be such a drama queen. So needy and clingy. The books say not to worry. Dr. Shin says not to worry, and here I am, scaring Eddie half to death when he’s so far away.

  “She says I’m okay,” I quickly tell him. “There’s an eighty percent chance that everything is fine.” I repeat the odds dutifully, hoping that I’ll believe in them if I say them enough.

  “Eighty percent?” he says with a relieved sigh. “That’s pretty good. You scared the shit out of me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say and wonder why I’m apologizing. He’s the one who isn’t listening. “I’m scared, Eddie.”

  “You’re probably just working too hard. Why don’t you take a couple of days off?”

  I’m silent. This is not the comfort that I need.

  “Lem? You still there? Can you hear me?”

  “I can hear you,” I say stonily.

  We’re both silent for several seconds. “Do you need me to come home?” Eddie asks, but I hear the implication in his voice. That I would need him to come home because I can’t take care of myself.

  “No,” I say. I feel silly now. As silly as I did when I forced Dr. Shin to look inside me. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I can if you want.”

  “I’m sure it’s all fine. You should get back to your wedding.” I mean this to come out sarcastic, but my tone is lost over the long satellite distance carrying my small voice.