Two of a Kind

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  “All right, all right. Let’s eat already.” Mark began passing the food around.

  “Andy, what’s wrong?” Gavin asked quietly. “You look rattled. Off. Did something happen?”

  “She’s pregnant,” Andy blurted out. Damn, he hadn’t meant to say it like that.

  Gavin, Mark, and Joey exchanged looks, but it was Gavin who spoke. “Who’s pregnant?”

  “That woman I was dating all winter.”

  “What woman?” Gavin said. “How come none of us have ever met her?”

  “Well, you won’t get to either. We broke up.”

  “I’m not following this,” said Mark. “You’ve split with her, but she’s knocked up? How do you even know it’s yours?”

  “Trust me, it’s mine,” Andy said.

  “What’s going to happen?” asked Joey.

  “Damned if I know.”

  “Have you talked to her?” Gavin asked. When Andy shook his head no, Gavin said, “You’ve got to talk to her. Now.” Still Mr. Fix-It.

  Andy took out his phone and stood. “Go on—start eating,” he said. He went into his room and shut the door. There was no answer when he tried Christina, but instead of going back to report to his friends, he made another call. Then he returned to the table. “I’m going to have to cut this trip short,” he said. “I just changed my ticket; I’m flying back to New York first thing tomorrow.”

  “Good move,” said Gavin. “I’ll drive you to the airport in the morning.”

  “We’ll all go,” said Joey. “Won’t we, guys?”

  • • •

  Andy’s flight was not very crowded and he was able to stretch out a bit; since he’d barely slept the night before, he sank into a deep sleep almost immediately. He dreamed of small, helpless creatures: mice, kittens, a litter of piglets. When he woke, he felt clearer than he had since he’d gotten the news about the pregnancy. It was a sign. An unequivocal sign. Christina was pregnant and he did not want her to end the pregnancy. No, he wanted her to have the baby, and he wanted to be there when she did. It would mean a huge change in his well-ordered life, but he—no, they—would handle it. They belonged together.

  The flight attendant appeared with a small container of juice; how had she known how thirsty he was? Although it was warm, overly sweet, and essentially flavorless, it went down like it was nectar from the gods. A baby, he thought. Our baby. He just had to hope she would see it the same way. As soon as he touched down at LaGuardia, he tried her again. Still no answer, but this time he left a message. I need to see you as soon as possible, he said. Please.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Kneeling in the dirt, Christina carefully dug around the roots of her rosebushes and patted the dark, coarse coffee grounds into the soil. The grounds lightened the soil around the bushes, making it easier for the roots to grow. And they attracted worms, which aerated and loosened the soil still more, so that the roses were able to get additional oxygen and water. Although the roses themselves were fairly ordinary—a common shade of pink, rambling, blossoms of no particular rarity or beauty—their smell was unusually strong, dizzying at moments, and she cultivated them tenderly for that and the fact that her mother had planted them; Aunt Barb had told her so.

  Finally, she straightened up. It was early—not even seven—but she’d been waking before six these days, unable to stay asleep or in bed once the morning light had broken. She had taken to coming out here to putter in the garden, engaging in the small, satisfying chores that distracted her from the decision that was looming: she’d rescheduled the abortion for this coming Tuesday though she honestly did not know whether she’d be able to go through with it. Believing that a woman had the right to choose whether to abort her fetus was a different matter from undergoing it herself. She and Will had dreamed of having at least two if not three more babies—both had been somewhat isolated only children and wanted their own children to have a very different sort of life. Will’s early death had derailed those plans.

  Now life was handing her a surprise gift: a baby when she had least expected one. It would be an enormous undertaking, having a child alone. How would it affect her work, her life, and her daughter? She could not predict. But she did have an ace up her sleeve, one that she had not told anyone about—yet. She had fished out Pratyush Singh’s card and left it in the center of her desk. The sum he offered—for Mira’s whim—was life changing. If she took it, her financial troubles would be over. She could find an apartment in the neighborhood and rent a storefront for her business. The beloved house in which she had grown up would be sold, but she would still have her daughter—and her baby.

  She went back into the kitchen, where she made herself a cup of herbal tea—her usual latte felt too scouring right now—and then took a quick shower. Andy would be here at nine o’clock; she wanted to be ready when he arrived. She would tell him today, of course. No more procrastinating. Even if she did decide to have the abortion, he deserved to know.

  Finding something to wear was not a simple matter. Most of her summer clothes were now too tight, but deep in the recesses of her closet, Christina was able to locate a loose-fitting caftan that she usually wore as a cover-up at the beach. When she added her silver bracelet and a pair of leather sandals, she decided she looked presentable enough. Though presentable enough for what, she was not sure. Andy had not said where they were going, only that he would be there with his car and that he wanted to take a short drive. That was another mystery. No one else was home. Why did they need to go somewhere?

  Before she went back downstairs, she stopped in Jordan’s room. As usual, the bed was neatly made and the room was immaculate. The only place where order did not reign was the rabbit cage; the two animals had strewn straw through the wire mesh and onto the floor, and Christina saw that they had upset the food bowl as well. She peered in to have a closer look. The mother rabbit eyed her suspiciously, though the daughter—the pure soft gray of a chinchilla and the same size as her parent—seemed more receptive. Although she had never told Jordan, she didn’t like the rabbits. But she slipped a finger in to touch the gray rabbit’s head anyway. Under the fur, the bones of the skull felt alarmingly fragile.

  The bell downstairs sounded. Andy was here. Turning from the rabbits, she left the room and took the stairs slowly and carefully; she did not want to trip. There was a moment of hesitation as she stood before the door and then, in a single decisive motion, she pulled it open. He looked good, all tan and even more muscled than she remembered. His eyes scanned her face—anxiously, she thought—and he did not say anything right away.

  “So,” she said, breaking the silence. “You wanted to see me.”

  “I did,” he said. “And I hope you wanted to see me.”

  She didn’t reply. “I’d invite you in, but you seemed so insistent on taking a drive.”

  “It’s such a nice day,” he said. “And I thought the car would be a good place to talk. No distractions.”

  “All right,” she said. Though how many distractions would there have been in her empty house? “Give me a minute.” She left him standing there while she went to collect her purse. Everything seemed so stilted and wrong between them; maybe whatever there had been was not meant to last.

  “I like your dress,” he said when she returned. “It makes you look . . . exotic.”

  Was this a compliment? She wasn’t sure, but followed him to the car and slid in the seat beside him. She had not a clue as to where they were headed, and was puzzled when he got onto the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway.

  “How have you been?” she asked. Oh, this was so awkward. The unmentioned pregnancy obliterated every other conversational gambit; she was reduced to the most inane sort of small talk.

  “Pretty well. Busy as usual, though I was in Florida for a few days.”

  “Florida?”

  “Every year I spend some time with my old gang from college. This ye
ar we picked South Beach.”

  So he had not been with that singer. She was surprised at how relieved this made her.

  “How about you?” He turned to look at her.

  “Fine,” she lied. She could not meet his gaze.

  Another silence settled over them; Christina was so uncomfortable she wanted to leap from the car at the next light. She knew what she needed to tell him; why was it so hard? He seemed like a stranger: impervious and remote. Now they were on the Long Island Expressway. Maybe he was planning to take her out to the Hamptons for the day. “Andy, aren’t you going to tell me where we’re going?” she said finally.

  “Does it matter?”

  “Well, I guess not, but I was just wondering, that’s all.”

  He said nothing and she stared at his profile as he kept his gaze on the road ahead. They were in Long Island now and she began to pay attention to the road signs.

  “Are we going to Great Neck?” she asked.

  “I thought we would,” he said.

  “Oh.” She was puzzled. “Is there a particular reason why?”

  “Because that’s where we met,” he said. “At Angelica’s wedding. Remember?”

  As if she could have forgotten. But all she said was, “I haven’t been in touch with Angelica in a while. I wonder how she is.”

  “She’s doing really well. Terrific, in fact.” He waited a beat. “I just spoke to her last week. She’s pregnant.”

  “So am I,” Christina said. There! She had done it. Now it was Andy’s turn to say something. Surely he would stop the car, turn to look at her, and—what? Take her in his arms? Ask if it was his? Either scenario seemed possible.

  Instead he said simply, “I know.”

  “What?” she cried. “Since when? Who told you? Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “I’ve known for a couple of days. Jordan found out and told Oliver, who told my mother. And then my mother told me.”

  “Did she also tell you that I’ve scheduled an abortion for this coming Tuesday?”

  Andy glided the car to a stop in front of a sign that read VILLAGE GREEN AND ROSE GARDEN.

  “Yes,” he said. “She did. And she told me to get home right away so I could stop you. Which is exactly what I’m trying to do.”

  “Your mother said this?” She knew how much Ida disapproved of her.

  “She did. She wants you to have the baby and for us to get back together. The baby is a sign, don’t you see?”

  “A sign?” She was wary. “Of what?”

  “A sign that we really are meant to be.” He took her in his arms, but when he tried to kiss her, she turned away. Even without looking at him, she could imagine the confusion on his face. The hurt too.

  “I’m not so sure,” she said.

  “You’re not so sure?” he said. “That’s not what you said when we broke up.”

  “We didn’t break up; you broke up with me.”

  “I was an idiot. A jerk. Also, impulsive, hasty, and a jackass. As usual.”

  “I know,” she said. “Which is why I decided you were right about us. That we really don’t belong together. I don’t think I could stand a life with your . . . moods, Andy. I’ve had enough of that in my life.” When he didn’t answer, she continued. “And what about you and that . . . singer? I haven’t even mentioned that.”

  “You saw that ridiculous picture.”

  “It looked pretty convincing to me.”

  “Xiomara is my patient. That’s all.”

  “Is that how you act with all your patients? Especially the ones that can call you any time of the day or night.”

  “She kissed me,” he said. “It was a bad time for her and she thought that was the answer. But it wasn’t.”

  Christina said nothing. Could she allow herself to believe that he’d changed his mind about the two of them, and that he actually wanted her to have this baby? “So why did you bring me here?” Looking out the window, she saw cluster upon cluster of roses, some just coming into bloom, others open and at their fragrant, ephemeral peak.

  “Because this is where we met and this is where I thought I should propose.” From his pocket he withdrew a small, velvet-covered box. “Will you marry me, Christina?” She looked down at the box but didn’t answer. “Aren’t you going to look inside?”

  She opened the box. There was a gold ring with a ruby at its center; the ruby was surrounded by a circle of tiny seed pearls. The ring was clearly an antique; the stone and workmanship were exquisite. She let herself admire it before she closed the box again.

  “Don’t you like it?” He sounded so miserable. “I knew you wouldn’t want a diamond, so she steered me toward this.”

  “She?”

  “Jordan. I asked her to help me pick it out.”

  “Jordan helped you to choose a ring for me? In what alternate universe did this happen?”

  He smiled. “She said she thought you would love it.”

  “It’s very beautiful.”

  “Then you’re saying—”

  “No, Andy. I’m saying no.” She handed him the box and, unable to look at him, kept her eyes on the riot of roses outside. Through the scrim of her tears, they began to melt and blur. “I’d like you to drive me home, please,” she added. “Unless you’d rather I took the train.”

  The ride back to Brooklyn was silent and miserable. She did not look at Andy once, and kept her eyes trained on the view out the window, though she did not register one thing that they passed. When they reached her house, she got out without a word. And without a word, Andy started the car and drove away. She did not cry, because she would not let herself. Instead, she went into her office where Singh’s card waited patiently on her desk.

  “Ms. Connelly,” he fairly purred when he answered. “I had a feeling I’d be hearing from you.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  Ida had not been on the subway in a very long time and marveled at how different everything was. No more tokens—just flimsy blue and yellow things called MetroCards. No token booths either, but plenty of ATM-like machines at which to buy the cards. The train she boarded was new, shiny, and it was so cold she wished she’d brought along a warmer jacket. But it was also very fast and soon she was in Brooklyn, emerging from the station at Grand Army Plaza and consulting the directions she’d gotten from Oliver. She could have taken a car service of course; Andy paid for all her trips by car. But this was a trip Andy did not authorize and she didn’t feel right about taking his money for it. No one could ever accuse Ida Stern of being a schnorrer.

  The streets of this unfamiliar neighborhood in late spring were lovely: brownstone and limestone houses side by side, mature trees, flowers in urns, window boxes, and planters. In another mood, she would have stopped to linger, but today she had a mission. An urgent mission. It was the unborn baby. The baby that belonged to her son and that this Christina person might actually abort. To Ida, the loss of this baby would be a fresh sorrow heaped upon so many past sorrows. She didn’t think her old heart could stand it.

  There had been another lost baby, decades ago, fathered by Jurgi, the boy who lived across the road. He’d been her best friend for years, like a brother, until they’d been hurriedly married and practically shoved into a room alone together after the wedding. “Do you know what we’re supposed to do?” he had whispered, suspecting, correctly as it turned out, that their parents were listening anxiously at the door.

  “Not really,” she had answered, knowing she should be more nervous than she was, but this was Jurgi and how could she be nervous with Jurgi? They did not figure out what they were supposed to do that night, or the night after that. But on the third night, he came into the room at Ida’s house that they were now told was theirs looking very serious. “I understand now,” he said to her. “My father explained it all to me.”

  “Why do you look so sa
d?” she said.

  “Because you’re not going to like it.”

  “No?” she asked.

  “No.” He turned out the light and began to unbutton his pajama top. When he saw her sitting there without moving, he said, “You too.”

  “Do I have to?” She and Jurgi had swum and played naked at the pond just outside their town, but that had been years ago. Her body had changed since then. So had his.

  “Yes.” The sound of his voice, so sad and grown-up, had made Ida afraid for the first time. But she took off the white, embroidered nightgown she wore and did as he asked. She did not cry out loud because she did not want to hurt his feelings. He knew anyway, and used his hand to rub at the tears that leaked from the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said into her hair. “So sorry.”

  Nine months later, she delivered a fat, beautiful baby boy with butter blond ringlets and blue stars for eyes. They called him Petras, and they all doted on him. “He’ll be the one to save you,” Ida’s mother had predicted. “You’ll see. He’ll save us all.” But she was wrong. Jurgi and his parents were deported first, sent away on a train belching smoke and crammed with anxious, fearful people. Ida and her family went next. Handing little Petras over to the guard had been the worst moment in Ida’s life; she would have collapsed had it not been for her mother’s firm grip just under her elbow. “Give him the cap and the socks,” her mother said in an unfamiliar, steely voice. Ida did as she was told. Petras looked startled; then he smiled, his chubby little hand reaching for a brass button on the guard’s coat.

  For years afterward, Ida allowed herself to think that her boy had been saved, shielded by his gold hair and blue eyes. Some barren German woman, longing for a child, would claim him, and call him her own. She’d rename him—Franz or Albrecht or even Adolf. Ida didn’t care as long as he was alive, somewhere. Every year on his birthday, she’d open the grayed, tattered birth certificate she’d folded and tucked in her shoe and kept against all odds at the camp, even though she’d been so hungry at times she’d been tempted to eat it. She would trace the letters of his name, and hers and Jurgi’s too. Jurgi was dead, along with the rest of his family and hers. She was the only one to survive the war.