Expecting: A Novel

by Ann Lewis Hamilton

  The girl nods. “The poisoned robes trick works; Jason shows up, gets pissed about Medea killing Glauce, and then he finds out she’s killed the kids too—he goes apeshit. Medea tells him he’s an asshole, you know, you reap what you sow; she curses him and takes off. The end.”

  “Kind of depressing,” Jack tells her.

  “But Medea’s an amazing part for an actress.”

  “So you’re Medea?”

  “No, I’m the understudy.”

  “Why didn’t you get the part?”

  “I’m not that good. Plus, the girl who’s Medea is sleeping with the director. You want another beer?”

  ***

  They go back to his room at the SAE house; they listen to music and make out and she volunteers to do a scene from Medea. She wraps a sheet around her body, Greek style, and begins to speak.

  “And if these ornaments she take and put them on, miserably shall she die, and likewise everyone who touches her; with such fell poisons will I smear my gifts. And here I quit this theme; but I shudder at the deed I must do next; for I will slay the children I have borne; there is none shall take them from my toils; and when I have utterly confounded Jason’s house I will leave the land, escaping punishment for my dear children’s murder, after my most unholy deed. For I cannot endure the taunts of enemies, kind friends; enough! what gain is life to me? I have no country, home, or refuge left.”

  The girl grins at Jack. “I love that part, ‘miserably shall she die.’ Do you want to have sex now?”

  They have sex; she is eager and bold, but not too bold, and doesn’t take it too seriously, which Jack likes. Sex is overrated, Jack thinks. It should be a good time, simple, and uncomplicated. Unlike idiotic Carter, who keeps a fuck journal in a drawer by his bed and makes notes. He made the mistake of mentioning his fuck journal on Tequila Shot Night and Danny went into Carter’s room and got the journal when Carter was passed out, took it back in the common room, and read excerpts aloud.

  “Kendra. Two and a half stars. Average tits. Good BJ.

  “Hillary. Two stars. Said she came, totally faking. Said I was too hairy. Should I wax?”

  Danny put the fuck journal back into the drawer, and Carter never knew anything about it, although he might’ve suspected something when bottles of Nair and Veet suddenly appeared in the bathroom.

  ***

  Jack looks over at the girl. One leg is visible from under the sheet, like a dismembered limb. Was Medea the one who served her children to her husband for dinner, or did he mix that up with something else? A Saw movie maybe? He’ll ask the girl in the morning.

  If he can remember her name. Damn. He’s living in a Seinfeld episode. Bovary. Mulva. Dolores.

  He is genuinely fucked. Except…her purse is on the chair. How hard would it be to slip out of bed, walk over, pull out her wallet, and check her driver’s license? He slides out from under the covers. Should he put his boxers back on? Might make too much noise. This is a bad idea, he tells himself, but he heads for the chair.

  And steps on something sharp; it pierces the ball of his foot and he draws his breath in quickly. Looks down to see a high-heeled shoe. What are the chances she’s written her name inside? Slim to none, unless her name is Madden.

  Could it be Madden? He thought it was Megan. What makes him think it starts with an M?

  “Your butt is cute,” she says from the bed.

  He turns around. She’s sitting up and smiling.

  “Bathroom,” he says.

  “I’ll be here when you get back,” she says.

  Maybe some of the other guys know her name. He could ask them, realizes that’s a huge mistake, as stupid as Carter telling people he kept a fuck journal.

  Maybe she’d have a sense of humor about it. Honesty, the best policy.

  Which is bullshit. He tried that once on a girl he went out with. It wasn’t about her looks. Okay, it was sort of about her looks—fat ass, the hint of a mustache. After the date, he said he’d call. And he meant to but never got around to it. When he ran into her in his European history class, he thought he’d explain things—in a nice white lie kind of way.

  “I know I said I’d call you,” he said.

  “Yeah.” She looked at him, and he could see the mistrust in her eyes. And—this made it worse—a glimmer of hope. Was he going to ask her out again?

  “But I didn’t because the two of us, we’re not…compatible.”

  “How exactly are we not compatible?”

  He didn’t think she was going to ask for specifics. Oh, shit. “You know, like…personality things.”

  “You don’t think I’m good-looking enough.”

  “No, it’s not about your looks.” Except for the mustache. And your fat ass. “You’re really pretty.”

  “Just not pretty enough to keep going out with.” The glimmer of hope look was gone, replaced by loathing. “You’re right. We’re not compatible. Because I don’t waste my time on douche bags.”

  For a minute he thought she was going to spit on him. But she walked away. She was wearing a short skirt, and he was surprised to see her ass looked good, not fat at all, but kind of sexy. He felt stupid.

  So as far as honesty goes, it’s never worth it.

  ***

  He could call the girl in his bed another name by mistake. She’ll correct him with her right name; he’ll laugh—whoops, that was my last girlfriend.

  Why won’t that work? She’s seen the Seinfeld episode; everybody’s seen it. She’ll be pissed. You had sex with me and you didn’t know my name? That’s cold. Maybe she’ll call him a douche bag too.

  Or she’s crazy. Although she couldn’t be as crazy as the last girl he went out with. Heidi was Hall of Fame Crazy. Jack’s friend Will was dating a girl at UCSB; her roommate, Heidi, loved the Harold and Kumar movies and Heidi had a major crush on Kal Penn. So when Heidi found out her roommate’s boyfriend knew an Indian guy—when could Jack come up to Santa Barbara?

  Jack should’ve said no. Yeah, he’s Indian, but he doesn’t look like Kal Penn. At least Heidi turned out to be cute. She’s on the giggly side, loves beer pong and Kal Penn.

  “That’s not really his name, you know,” she says to Jack when they’re alone at the table in the restaurant. “It’s Kalpen Suresh Modi. His parents are from India, but he was born in New Jersey.”

  “I was born in San Francisco. My parents are from Mumbai,” Jack says.

  “Kal worked for Obama. Have you ever met Kal?”

  Jack shakes his head. Heidi thinks everyone with an Indian heritage knows each other? What a moron. But he’ll let that slide because he can see the top of her bra peeking out from her tank top. And she has excellent boobs.

  ***

  After dinner, Jack and Heidi head to her dorm room, where they watch some 24 episodes. Heidi explains that Kal Penn’s character, Ahmed Amar, works with Fayed, an Islamic terrorist, and he has to deliver a package, but it gets screwed up, like stuff always does on 24, and there’s a gun battle and Ahmed is shot by Jack Bauer.

  She begins to cry when Ahmed dies, and the next thing he knows, she’s got his arms around him and she’s kissing him, and what’s Jack supposed to do? Tell her to stop?

  Afterward, he looks up to see a bulletin board above her bed and there’s a picture of Kal Penn—actually two or three pictures of Kal Penn, possibly more. He decides to stop counting.

  When it’s time to drive back to L.A. with Will, Heidi squeezes Jack’s hand and leans close. “Bye, Kal,” she says. “See you around like a doughnut.” And she makes a little circle in the air with her finger. Then turns it into a gun and mock fires at Jack. “Look at me. I’m Jack Bauer and I’m killing you. Take that, Ahmed. Pow pow.”

  Jack forces a smile and slides into the passenger seat quickly. On the road, Will asks if Jack had a good time. “Heidi’s wild,” Will says. �
��She’s a physics major and super smart. Talks all the time about how she almost built an atomic bomb in her basement when she was in seventh grade. Why did she call you Kal?”

  ***

  Jack imagines asking his father about the situation with the girl in his bed. Except Jack’s father, Rakesh, doesn’t like to talk about feelings. “Do I look like Dr. Phil?” he’s fond of saying. His comment on Jack’s current dilemma? He’d blame Jack for being stupid. How do you get yourself in situations like this? Your sister would never do something so foolish.

  Of course not, because his sister, Subhra, is the ideal child, unlike underachiever, un-ever-going-to-accomplish-anything Jack. He tries not to hate his sister. It’s hard. Her nickname growing up was Princeton. Jack’s parents didn’t bother to give him a nickname.

  The Girl With No Name is smiling at him again. GWNN. Gwnn, that’s what he’ll call her. “You talk in your sleep,” she says.

  “Really? What did I say?”

  “You said upma. What’s that?”

  “It’s like oatmeal. My mother makes it.” Why did he say upma in his sleep? Was he thinking about his mother?

  “Are you having upma for breakfast?”

  “No,” he says.

  “Good. Because I know what I want for breakfast.” And she kisses him.

  ***

  Suppose the name thing never comes up? She’ll mention her name in conversation. Don’t people do that sometimes? Like they forget their keys and slap their foreheads and say, “Oh, Monica, how dopey was that?”

  What are the chances Gwnn will suddenly slap her forehead and reveal her name? Slim. No, impossible. Jack’s parents are right—he’s an idiot. He didn’t deserve to have a nickname.

  Gwnn checks the clock and says she’s got Medea rehearsal coming up. “Do you want to see it? It’s pretty good, except the girl who’s Medea sucks. But who knows? Maybe she’ll slip into a poisoned robe one night and I’ll get to go on.” Gwnn grins at Jack and he grins back, hoping she’s not serious.

  “Yeah, I’d love to come.”

  “It starts Friday. Opening night’s too crowded, so Saturday? I’ll leave a ticket for you at the box office.”

  Another moment of hope. Maybe her name will be on it.

  “Want my phone number, just in case?”

  “Sure.” He pulls out his phone, but the girl grabs it and begins to tap on the keys. A wave of relief washes over him. She’s typing in her number herself. He won’t have to ask for her name. Everything’s fine; he’s saved.

  “Here you go,” she says. “My turn.” She hands him her phone and he adds his number.

  After breakfast—no upma; they have stale Thomas’s English muffins with peanut butter—he walks her out to her car.

  “It was fun. See you next week. Jack.” She winks, gives him a quick kiss on the lips.

  “Yeah,” he says. “Same here. See you next week.”

  Whatever your name is.

  ***

  When she is gone, he goes into the den and notices Carter semiconscious on the sofa. He has a trail of vomit on his shirt. “Cute girl,” Carter says, but Jack ignores him.

  Jack pulls out his phone and goes to Megan. But it’s not there. Oh no. He was positive her name was Megan. Suppose her name doesn’t start with an M at all? He goes to the top and scrolls down.

  Notices a new number in the Ms. Right beside a new name.

  Medea.

  Shit.

  Laurie

  According to Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, there are five stages of grief. Laurie wonders if Elisabeth Kübler-Ross invented stages for everything. For example, at a party, if someone asked her what drink she’d like, did Elisabeth Kübler-Ross reply, “There are five stages of a drink. Number one, select the beverage. Number two, pick the glass. Number three, put in the ice…” Laurie could ask Grace what she knows about Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, but she’s out of breath from hiking up a steep path in the Santa Monica Mountains.

  “No wonder nobody knows about this trail,” Grace says, panting heavily. “You need a goddamn machete.”

  ***

  Stage one. Denial. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross got that right. “Wait a minute,” Laurie wanted to tell Dr. Liu. “The first time was an anomaly. I couldn’t possibly have two miscarriages in a row. There must be a mistake.”

  No mistake. A second blighted ovum, another pregnancy that didn’t progress. As they were driving home after the D & C—a second D & C—Laurie told Alan not to worry, she’d be fine.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I didn’t have as many expectations about this time, so it’ll be easier.” She’s lying. She expects Alan to realize she’s lying. It won’t be easier; it will be as lousy as before. Why wouldn’t it be?

  But Alan didn’t pick up on that. “Good,” he said. Once they were in the house, he asked if she wanted him to stay or should he go to work, and she told him of course he should go to work. She insisted. Didn’t she already tell him she was okay?

  And naturally, when he left, she got into bed and wished he hadn’t gone. Wished he was there to hold her, bring her a heating pad for her cramps, stroke her forehead. He should have known she needed him. Even though she sent him away.

  But she can’t blame Alan for the miscarriages. Unless…is there something wrong with his sperm? It isn’t sticky enough, or he’s got some freaky-ass chromosome that instead of dividing into cells, his undivides and causes blighted ovums. Ova?

  No, not Alan. It’s her stupid eggs. Stupid, badly functioning eggs. Why did Alan’s sperm have to pick that particular one, an egg clearly better suited to being part of a period, ending up on the end of a tampon. Alan’s sperm had to meet up with a dysfunctional egg. Laurie’s probably got two ovaries filled with dysfunctional, flawed eggs.

  Rotten eggs. Hilarious, maybe the name of the book she’ll write about her miscarriages. Because nothing says bestseller like a funny book about miscarriages.

  ***

  “I used to imagine Troppo growing inside me,” she tells Alan later. They’re sitting on the patio after dinner, occasionally looking over to watch the neighbors behind them who are working out on their second floor balcony to a Zumba dance DVD.

  Alan refills Laurie’s wineglass. Laurie puts her hands against her stomach. “I’d think how Troppo could feel the warmth of my palms. Idiotic.”

  “Not idiotic,” he says.

  “At least this one didn’t have a name. That makes it better, doesn’t it?”

  Alan nods at her. “What do you want me to do with the crib?” he asks in a gentle voice. He is trying, she realizes. He wants to say the right thing.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Laurie says. “Let’s put it in the backyard, douse it with gasoline, light a match—whoosh—all gone.”

  “Won’t work. We’d need a permit or our Zumba neighbors will get pissed at us for burning something outside and there’s probably a terrible fine.”

  “You’re right,” Laurie says. “Too bad.”

  The crib goes back into the garage. Neither of them talk about another pregnancy. Or a next time.

  ***

  Grace and Laurie have reached the top of the trail, a loose-gravel spit of ridge with a view that looks down over a new housing development, a tiny slice of blue ocean in the distance.

  “You’re kidding,” Grace says, popping open her water bottle. “We climbed Everest for this?”

  Finding material for Hidden Valley is interesting work, but at least half the tips turn out to be duds, like this trail. “The article I saw online called it ‘The Trail of Secrets,’” Laurie says as she opens her own water bottle. The houses in the development are big, with red-tile roofs, but squeezed too close together.

  “‘Trail of Tears’ is a better name. Damn, now we have to go down.” Grace turns to Laurie. “How are you doing? With the miscarriages. Ar
e you okay?”

  Laurie shrugs. “I’m going through the stages of grief.”

  “How far are you?”

  “Stuck between one and two, denial and anger.”

  “That sounds fun. How’s Alan?”

  “Fine.” She corrects herself. “Probably fine.”

  “It’s bad for him too. Maybe worse because it’s harder for him to articulate how he’s feeling. Hal would be the same way.”

  “I don’t think so,” Laurie says. “Hal is more open than Alan. Alan tends to retreat, go quiet.”

  “Alan needs some time to deal with this. Both of you lost babies, you know. How many more stages of grief are there?”

  “Five total.”

  “Sheesh. Let’s see if you can knock ’em off while we hike our sorry asses back down this canyon. Assuming we survive. Why didn’t we hire Sherpas?”

  ***

  Stage two. Anger. Why me? What did I do to deserve this? And if she can’t blame Alan, how about God? Laurie is torn between her faith that wavers between God is responsible for everything around us—bad drivers, an especially good latte from Starbucks, a zit on the end of your nose—to God is way too busy to be concerned with every bad driver, latte, or zit, no matter how big or omnipotent he is.

  She’d grown up going to church—her family was Methodist—but since moving to L.A., she’d sampled a few other churches: Presbyterian, Unitarian. On one of her early dates with Alan, he asked how she felt about religion. Uh-oh, she thought, a trick question. Some people get nervous when you talk about faith or God. Suppose Alan was an atheist?

  “I go to church sometimes,” she said. “One day I’d like my kids to go too. You know, so they have something—values, a moral center. But nothing freaky, like speaking in tongues.”

  She’d really blown it. Sweet, funny, sexy Alan, not an atheist, but now he was about to reveal he’s a snake handler and speaking in tongues is his favorite thing in the world. She waited for his answer.

  “I go to church sometimes too,” he said. “I was raised Episcopalian. There’s a great church in Pasadena, All Saints. I go there sometimes. You could come with me one Sunday if you want.”