Expecting: A Novel

by Ann Lewis Hamilton

  “Did you pick off the chocolate drizzle?” Laurie asks him.

  “I can get some Hershey’s syrup from the fridge. It’s the same thing—”

  “It’s not the same thing at all. I melted Ghirardelli semisweet chocolate chips and condensed milk and butter—I can’t believe you picked off the drizzle.”

  Jack sits and begins to eat his slice. He pretends not to notice the finger impressions on the top. “Yum,” he says. “I don’t think you need the drizzle.”

  “Of course you do,” Laurie says. She’s not looking at Jack; she’s staring at Alan. “The drizzle is the most important part. It isn’t a real fruit tart without the drizzle and you know that, Alan. Can’t you be honest about anything?”

  Jack takes a bite of the tart. “Yum,” he says again.

  But no one is paying attention to him. Laurie goes into the kitchen and comes back with coffee mugs and a pot of coffee. She pours coffee for herself and Jack, leaves the pot and empty mug on the table in front of Alan.

  Jack eats his slice of fruit tart as quickly as he can; he wants to get out of here. Even the drama back at Megan’s or the thought of Normandie waiting in the shadows pales in comparison to the creepy vibe in Laurie’s house.

  He stands up. “Um—I don’t mean to be rude, but I have an early class tomorrow.”

  Alan pushes the fruit tart toward Jack. “Have some more.”

  “No, thank you. Dinner was great.”

  “Are you sure you have to go?” Laurie puts a hand on his arm.

  Jack nods and turns to Alan. “Nice to meet you—” He’s ready to say Mr. Gaines again, but remembers in time. “Alan.”

  “Same here, Jack.” Alan looks tired. “I’m not usually such a rotten host. And I’m sorry I was suspicious about how you got your black eye.”

  Jack hesitates. “I lied, Alan. I didn’t run into a light post. My ex-girlfriend threw my cell phone at me because she saw a picture of baby Buddy’s ultrasound, and she thinks I’m having an affair with your wife.”

  Alan doesn’t say anything.

  “That’s ironic,” Laurie says, and Jack doesn’t understand what she means. She has her hands on her stomach, and he’d like to feel the baby kick again but isn’t sure he wants to do it with Alan watching him.

  “How about another beer?” Alan asks Jack.

  “I think you drank all the beer, Alan,” Laurie says and turns to Jack. “Thank you for coming.”

  Why does Jack get the feeling there are going to be fireworks when the door closes behind him? Should he say something, tell them not to fight? Wish them good luck? Hope you don’t throw things at each other once I’m gone.

  “Maybe we can do it again,” Jack says as he steps outside.

  “I hope so.” And Laurie closes the door.

  Laurie

  Alan explained. Or tried to explain. “It’s a mistake. Nothing happened with Nancy Futterman.”

  “But you wanted it to?”

  “No, of course I didn’t. It was—I don’t even know what it was. It was nothing.”

  “It was something.”

  Alan sighs. “There’s no good answer here.”

  “The good answer would be that you shouldn’t have started a Facebook flirtation with your old girlfriend in the first place.”

  “It wasn’t a flirtation.”

  “Really? Because it looked like a pretty excellent imitation of flirtation to me.” She can tell Alan is trying to think of the right thing to say. Something, anything to make things better. Good luck with that, Alan.

  “I’m sorry,” Alan says.

  Laurie shakes her head. “That’s not enough.”

  ***

  Alan sleeps in the guest room/office that night. He takes a bottle of Advil with him and says he wishes he hadn’t had so much beer. Laurie is unsympathetic. At least she’ll have the bed to herself and she can enjoy that. But when she tries to go to sleep, she can’t. The bed is empty without Alan in it. And Buddy decides to practice his soccer kicks, so Laurie lies in bed sleepless and angry and exhausted. She can hear Alan snoring from the other room, deep and beer-y. She should go in and wake him up. If she can’t sleep, why should he? Guilt alone should keep him awake for weeks.

  Life is always full of surprises. But hit me in the head with a waffle iron, hasn’t Laurie filled up her surprise quota by now? Miscarriages, mixed-up sperm, her husband is having an affair.

  Only he didn’t have an affair. Not exactly. It was an online flirtation. He was trying to reconnect with his past, recherche du temps perdu or whatever it’s called. Nothing serious.

  Wait a minute. Why should Laurie cut him slack? She’s the pregnant one; she didn’t sit down and go on Facebook to hook up with old boyfriends.

  She is never going to fall asleep tonight. There’s a good chance she’ll never fall asleep again. Alan’s snores grow louder. “Shut up,” she yells at him, but he doesn’t hear her.

  ***

  She could forgive him. People make mistakes; marriage isn’t always easy. The switched sperm has been a nightmare, especially for Alan. Has she been selfish? Not given enough consideration to his feelings about the pregnancy?

  And yet she thinks back to Alan not getting in bed at night because he had “work” to do. Work, aka chatting with Nancy. He lied. He betrayed her.

  Laurie could post something on Alan’s Facebook wall. She knows his password; he used the same one for years: password, because he thought that was so clever until she pointed out that it was on the list of one of the most frequently used passwords. Like 123456 or 696969. Alan promised Laurie he’d change it to something tricky and complex. He chose password6969. So Laurie is able to get into his computer any time she wants. Right now she could go to his Facebook page and post a heartfelt apology to Laurie. Attach a photo of a cute puppy and Alan’s wall post will say, “Uh-oh! Somebody goofed up BIG time. Thought about cheating on my devoted wife with a skanky hose bag named Nancy Futterman.”

  She looks at the clock and realizes it’s almost two in the morning and she hasn’t been able to go to sleep yet and this is no fun at all, imagining fake Facebook posts when your husband is thinking about cheating on you and you’re pregnant and he’s sleeping in a different room and you have no idea what will happen next.

  Except tomorrow night is Lamaze. She can’t bear the idea of going to class with Alan, sitting on the floor between his legs, practicing relaxation exercises, and listening to Kathy’s soft voice, “Depend on your partner. It’s about trust. You trust him ultimately.” No, she has a tiny problem with that now. She doesn’t trust her husband. Not ultimately. Not at all. Will she ever be able to trust him again?

  She checks the clock. Will it hurt the baby if she stays awake? “Oh, Buddy. What a mess,” she says to him. “Buddy, and I promise to never call you Buddy once you’re born, I do not regret you. Please believe me. In spite of your what-the-hell genetics, I adore you. And you’re the only good thing in my life right now.”

  What will happen with Jack after the baby is born? Is Laurie expecting too much from him? That’s her biggest mistake—making contact with sperm donor number 296. She should have read his information and stopped there. But she got too greedy, needed to know more.

  Will Jack be around to see baby Buddy? Shouldn’t Buddy be able to meet his birth father? Know what it feels like to be held in Jack’s arms? Or should Jack fade into the background? Laurie will keep in touch with him by email, by Facebook (ha), send him occasional Buddy photos. And when Buddy is old enough, they can meet in person. By then Jack will be married and have children. He’s told his wife about Buddy, and Jack’s wife, unlike obstinate intolerant Alan, will understand and want Buddy to be part of her family—not take him away from Laurie, of course, but make sure Buddy always feels included.

  Laurie is crying now, her face pressed into the pillow because she doesn’t
want Alan to hear her. Not that he could hear anything over the sound of his snoring. It’s too late. She can’t do anything to stop him. She should let him run off with Nancy Futterman; they’ll be happy together, make a wonderful couple.

  And Jack will graduate from college, take the next steps in his life, go to graduate school, get a job, get married. He will have his own life, his own children.

  Laurie will be alone. Raising Buddy by herself.

  ***

  In the morning, Alan asks if taking five Advil is too many and Laurie suggests twenty-five and he doesn’t laugh.

  They don’t talk about last night. The breakfast table seems crowded with people who aren’t there—like Jack and Nancy Futterman.

  “I have to work late,” Alan says.

  “Lamaze class.”

  “I forgot.”

  Laurie doesn’t say anything. Does he really have to work late? Was he planning another Internet rendezvous with Nancy Futterman? She’s too tired to ask him any of these questions.

  “The Choc-O project, I told you about it,” Alan says.

  Alan forgets Lamaze and Jack coming for dinner. Laurie remembers everything about Alan’s work. “I know. Chocolate water,” she says. “It sounds sort of odd.”

  “The Belgians are anticipating big Choc-O sales in North America, so the repackaging for the North American market is a big deal.”

  Labels for chocolate water, more important than having a baby. “I can go to Lamaze by myself,” Laurie says.

  “Once Choc-O is out of the way—we need to hit a home run on this one. There are more downsizing rumors going around.”

  “Maybe you could live at your office. Would that be easier for you?”

  Alan looks at her. She realizes she’s crossed some kind of Rubicon. And because she knows him so well, she realizes he’s not going to back down.

  “Sure, I could live at my office. It wouldn’t be very comfortable. No shower, no bed.”

  This is her chance, the exact moment where she could apologize. Yes, she’s entitled to be angry but being bitchy won’t help anything. She stays silent.

  He looks at her for a long time. “The company has the apartment at Oakwood Toluca Hills. I could stay there for a couple days. Until Choc-O is done.”

  When did Alan get this idea? When did he look into moving out? Was this part of his plan with Nancy Futterman? We’ll rendezvous at the Oakwood Apartments, Nancy. My company keeps a place there for clients visiting from out of town.

  Laurie can tell Alan wants her to protest. Beg him—no, don’t go. You can’t move out. I want you to stay here. I need you. It’s crazy for you to leave. We’re having a baby; we shouldn’t be living apart. Don’t be ridiculous.

  “I think you’re right,” Laurie says. “It’ll be easier for both of us.”

  Alan looks surprised. But he nods. “Okay. If that’s what you want. I’ll figure it out with the office, let you know the details.” He gets up from the table, checks his watch. “Late already.” For a moment Laurie thinks he’s going to kiss her; instead, he puts his hand on her shoulder and gives her a small squeeze.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I know I keep saying that, but it’s true. I am. The Nancy Futterman thing was stupid. I don’t blame you if you can’t forgive me.” He waits for her to say something. “You have Buddy. And Jack,” he says. “And me? What do I have? I don’t know what I have. Nancy just offered some kind of escape.” He hesitates. “I wish I could fix this. Make it better.”

  ***

  After Alan is gone, Laurie cleans the kitchen. Alan ran the dishwasher last night, but he forgot to put in detergent, so she has to run it again. It might be a good idea to clean out the refrigerator, so she does that too. While she’s feeling super productive, she changes the shelf liners in the cupboards, sharpens the knives, decides the kitchen curtains look dirty, and throws them in the wash. Calls Grace and says she’ll be in the office after lunch. She goes into her bedroom and cries for half an hour. Turns on the TV and watches a young couple win a trip to Bali on Let’s Make a Deal and that makes her cry all over again.

  When she’s finally stopped crying, she heads into the baby’s room and begins to put the crib together. Alan has left copious notes, but at least one page has gone missing, so instead of an easy job like the first time they did it, this time it’s impossible.

  How long will Alan be gone? A few days? Until the Choc-O project is finished? Until Nancy Futterman’s divorce is final? No, he won’t be gone long. Just long enough for them both to cool off. They are smart, logical people who love each other very much. They are having a baby. A grown-up time-out might be exactly what they need. Years from now they’ll laugh at this; they’ll tell Buddy about it. “Wow, pregnancy is hard, much harder than we thought. We even had a time-out, Buddy, isn’t that funny? A time-out like we used to give you.” And grown-up Buddy will laugh and this will be at Laurie and Alan’s thirty-year wedding anniversary and Buddy will raise a glass and announce to the crowd, “To my parents. Who have the greatest marriage ever.”

  ***

  Still feeling industrious, Laurie begins to assemble her birthing bag. She needs to make a labor playlist for her iPod, pack a charger, and an extra charger—Grace warned her about that. A favorite nightgown, a toothbrush—one of her pregnancy books suggests “a reassuring photo.” What kind of photo would she find reassuring these days? A photo of her holding Buddy in her arms after he’s born? She can’t very well take a photo of that, can she? A photo of someone you love. Would that be Alan? Any photo with Alan in it would depress her right now. She’ll cut a photo of Daniel Craig from a magazine and bring that with her. A photo where he’s not wearing a shirt.

  What else to bring? Your labor partner/birth coach. Oops, another problem. Has Alan abdicated that duty? Oh, well. Maybe Daniel Craig is available.

  She’s thinking about calling her mother to tell her about Alan. Except her mother will want to drop everything and come to L.A. and that’s the last thing Laurie needs right now. It’s only going to be a couple of days, she tells herself again. She’ll finish the birthing kit, make a pan of brownies, and eat the whole thing.

  As she’s cracking eggs for the brownies, she drops one on the floor. When she squats down to clean it up, the phone rings. Damn, she left the phone in the bedroom. It’s not as easy to move around as it used to be. Suppose she falls over? She grips the counter for support and almost slips on the egg. Oh, great. Now she’ll be on one of those “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” commercials. Right now they’re about elderly people, but they’ll add alerts for pregnant women living on their own. She could be their poster child. The phone keeps ringing. Alan? He’s already realized what a stupid move he’s made and he’s ready to come home. “I forgive you. You forgive me, let’s start over,” that’s what she’ll say to him. She runs to the bedroom with the grace of a hippo from Fantasia and picks up the phone.

  “Hello?”

  It’s Jack. “Hey. I just wanted to know if you were okay.”

  “Oh,” Laurie says, trying to hide the disappointment in her voice. “I’m fine.”

  “I hope you don’t think I’m too—like in your face or anything.”

  “No, not at all. I was just doing some baby things. The birthing kit for the hospital, trying to put the crib together.”

  “I thought Alan was going to do it.”

  Uh-oh. Should she tell Jack about Alan moving out?

  “He’s hasn’t gotten around to it yet. Lazy bones.”

  “He’ll do it soon. I could tell, he’s really excited about the baby. As much as you are.”

  Laurie doesn’t answer.

  “Laurie? Are you there?”

  I can do this by myself, she thinks. I don’t need anybody. Somewhere in her head she can hear her mother ready to offer advice.

  “Are you busy later today, Jack?”
she asks him.

  Alan

  He has Facebook messages from Nancy Futterman, but he ignores them. If he were less cowardly, he’d email her and say they can’t communicate anymore. “Sorry, Nancy, I was using you to avoid dealing with the absurdity of my life. I’m IMing you from the Palmer-Boone corporate apartment. Does that give you any idea of how well it went over when Laurie saw the messages we’d been sending each other on Facebook? Yeah, exactly. Lead fucking balloon.”

  He thought when he mentioned the apartment to Laurie she’d laugh and talk him out of it. But she didn’t. Instead, she helped him pack his suitcase—he assumed he’d use his favorite Ed Hardy carry-on bag she’d given him as a joke birthday present (“An Ed Hardy suitcase? Really?” she said), but she told him she was using it for her birthing bag.

  Even when he was standing at the front door, he was ready for her to grab the suitcase from his hand and say, “Enough already. We both know you’re not going anywhere.” But she was silent.

  The first night he was sure she’d call. He kept his phone close by, just in case. But the only time his BlackBerry buzzed is when it announced a new email—from someone in Nigeria telling him he’d won $1.6 million. Nothing from Laurie.

  ***

  He decided to allow for one night. One night for both of them to sulk, for him to beat himself up over his rotten behavior, one night for Laurie to hate him—not that he blames her. Who made this stupid bed? He did and now he’s got to lie in it—and it isn’t even his bed. It’s the queen-sized bed at the Oakwood Apartments, fully furnished, with linens and housewares. Convenient for Palmer-Boone employees coming in from out of town, cheaper than a hotel. And also available to Palmer-Boone employees in case of emergencies—like the time Alan and Laurie had a power outage during a heat wave.

  “I feel like I’m in somebody’s fuck pad,” Laurie said when they walked in. “It reminds me of that movie with Jack Lemmon where he pimps out his place to people at work.”