by Alix Strauss
As if in a trance, I find myself standing by the refrigerator. “You said the company was paying, right?” I call to her. With the door open, the cool air feels good on my hot face, my sweaty shirt. The little bottles jingle as I tap the top of the door. The ants go marching one-by-one hurrah, hurrah. My finger sweeps left to right over the mini bottles looking for the perfect one, something sweet and sticky. Something that will stain and trigger unpleasant sense memories later on in life, perhaps as she relays the incident to a therapist on a leather couch. I unscrew the seven-dollar bottle of Kahlúa. Take a deep whiff, smell memories of a family vacation in the Bahamas. I close my eyes and picture the beach, the sand, the way the three of us once got along, when my parents were still together. I think about Michael and his children whom I don’t know, about his wife whom I’ve only met once, about my father and his new wife and how lonely my mother was after they got divorced. How Vicki and Michael were gone and only I was home to watch her cry.
I take a small sip. It’s thick and syrupy and overly sweet. I wish there was a container of milk and a shot of espresso at my disposal. But there isn’t. And then my hand is reaching for the Beefeater, the Baileys, the red wine, the tomato juice. Holding all the overpriced mini bottles of liquid I jog back into the bedroom, the bottles clinking in my arms. I climb over her, sit on her as she did to me minutes ago, decades ago, feel her twist underneath me, feel her bones and the warmth of her skin. I drizzle the Kahlúa first, slowly, purposely over her face, making a star on her cheek. The liquid is cold and she presses her lips closed.
I pour all the liquor on her. Watch the red wine soak into her hair, run down her face and into the robe. Smell the salty, unpleasant scent of tomato sauce. As a special sacrifice, I take the knife and cut her long, beautiful brown hair. A modern-day scalping. I almost shout out a war cry as clumps of hair are in my hand, on the bed, the floor. I wonder if the pregnant lady’s hair will be this short. If we should have invited her back with us and talked her into having only one child. “See,” I could have told her, “not all siblings get along. Some are mean and hurtful and kill every good relationship they ever had.”
I take a step back and look at what I’ve created.
“This deserves a photo. Don’t you think?” My cell doesn’t have a camera in it, and my digital, which I normally carry around in order to take pictures of people’s apartments, is at home, along with the outfit I’m supposed to wear tonight to Abby’s shower—where my mother, my aunt, my cousins, and friends will all be. I remember a camera is in the basket on the refrigerator that holds the overpriced sunblock and extended cell battery. I run back and return with the flash indicator already glowing.
“How do you feel your boss will take this? Perhaps you could say you were merely entertaining in your room?” I hold up the camera and take a photo.
I take a step forward, lean in further. Click. Another shot.
Then another.
Vicki tries to look away, but I get in closer, not letting her escape.
“Okay, show me anger. That should be an easy one.”
Click.
“Okay, now show me horror.”
Click.
“How about love. Can you show me that?”
Her expression remains unchanged.
“Hmmm. I guess not.” I put my face up close to hers, snap another as I think about the picture of us as kids and once I get these developed the two can sit side by side.
“One more for your boss. Oh, and one for James. You can’t forget him. Or the wedding I guess you’ll be missing.” Hearing this, she looks at me hard, almost a glee in her eyes. I wink.
“Fuck you!” she screams. “You’ll fucking pay for this, Robin.”
Back in the bathroom I make one last trip to the sink, turn on the faucet, try to warm myself by running hot water over my hands and face. I sneak a peek at my reflection, hoping I look liberated. Like a teen after she’s lost her virginity and expects to see something different, a hint that her former self, the girl she once was has been left behind and now looks for something to prove she’s changed, that this incident has meant something. I fix my hair, reapply makeup with what Vicki’s left in here—a lipstick, some blush—then take a photo of myself and exit.
“It was great seeing you,” I say, emerging from the bathroom, my face freshly painted. But when I see Vicki, I stop short. Her complexion is pale, making the blood across her cheeks stand out even more. Her face, sticky from the liquor, seems slightly distorted and instead of looking at me, her head is turned away slightly. Embarrassed. The once perfectly applied makeup is gone. Mascara and lipstick have smeared. She looks grimy and tarnished. Long clumps of brown hair are scattered everywhere. The white robe is soaked with wine and tomato juice. The tiara is crooked and I think about fixing it, think about rubbing a hand across her forehead soothingly and tell her I’m sorry.
“Just go,” she barks. “Just fucking leave.”
I think about James, realize when Vicki doesn’t show at the wedding he’ll phone and after getting no answer eventually come back to see what’s happened. If not, housekeeping is bound to enter at some point.
I walk into the main room and collect my belongings: cell phone, purse, the black Barneys shopping bag that holds the Nars and Dior makeup. I look through Vicki’s new purchases as well to see if I want any of them. Pretty things she bought, mine now. All mine. What doesn’t fit I’ll exchange for something else or get a store credit to use later. The navy cashmere sweater feels soft and lovely. I put it up against my face and smell the faint fragrance of my sister. I’m about to add it to my stash when I realize I don’t want anything of hers. Not the sweater, not the new makeup, not even Vicki’s makeup, which I’ve just applied. I reach for the cloth napkin, which rests on the food tray that has yet to be cleared away. I wipe my lips harshly, do the same with my eyes and cheeks. I toss the throw-away camera into the trash, return the bags to their places, and leave the handcuff key on the desk. I then slip on my sunglasses and try to catch my breath, which seems lost.
I reach for the door and pull it open.
“Come the fuck back, you fucking bitch!” Vicki screams.
I don’t answer her. Instead, I step out into the hallway and realize I’m shaking and crying.
The DO NOT DISTURB sign is still hanging on the shiny doorknob when I close the door slowly, quietly behind me. I watch it swing back and forth. Back and forth. I reach out to stop it from dancing as I listen to Vicki’s muffled rants. At the far end of the hallway I can see the housekeeping cart and realize it’s already passed this side of the hallway. Hear it rattle as the plump woman pushes it further and further away from me.
Then, unable to help myself, I switch the plastic marker over so that the black words read HOUSEKEEPING PLEASE. Because someone needs to clean her up. Because she needs fixing. Because at a hotel, that’s what they do.
I walk away, my sister’s voice barely audible in the background.
Chapter 14
Ellen
Conference Room
Ellen is at the Baby Gap in Connecticut’s Milford Mall holding up a cotton onesie with a duck on it. Everyone here is very nice. The salespeople talk in bubbly, vivacious sound bites and the customers are all smiles, happy to share information. Happy to be a partner in kiddy-clothing crime.
Ellen isn’t sure what she’ll need, so she turns to the woman standing next to her. “Could I trouble you for a second?”
The woman is petite with cropped, pixielike hair. She’s seven, maybe eight months pregnant and her wool sweater is rising up on her stomach, exposing her stretch marks.
“Sure.” She smiles at Ellen, who holds a bright blue jump-suit in her hands.
“I wanted to get a few items for a newborn, but I’m not sure what one needs during that first month.” Ellen takes a deep breath, blows a few unruly strands of hair away from her face.
“Well, you’ll need booties, a swaddling blanket, countless cotton tops…”
Ellen starts reaching for the items the woman has mentioned. They are so tiny, so beautiful. “How far along are you?”
“Eight months.”
“Your first?” Ellen asks, her arms now laden with miniature items.
“Second. You?”
Ellen is so happy to have been asked this. “Two and a half months.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything, because you barely show, but you’ve got this look about you. My friends call it pregnancy glow.”
This makes Ellen ecstatic.
At Dreamtime Baby she inquires about a crib, even though this is incredibly premature. And though she’s not superstitious, she thinks perhaps she should wait. But she can’t and orders a bassinette, rocking chair, and changing table.
Back in her car, she sits in the garage at the mall going through a mental list of names, people she hasn’t talked to in years, some even as far back as her wedding. The iPhone is in her hand and she flips through her address book and settles on her old college roommate. The answering machine clicks on and she hears a child’s voice informing her the Reinhearts aren’t home.
She leaves a greeting.
“Hi all, Ellen Simon-Thompson here. A blast from the past, you must be thinking. Been forever since we’ve talked. I was changing over my address book and when I got to your name thought I’d give a call and say hi.” Then, almost as an after thought, “Oh, by the way, Harry and I are expecting, so hopefully you’ll have some tips to share. Love to everyone.” She hangs up and makes another call. Then another.
She wants to phone her good friends and share the news but she knows they’re tired of listening. They were so excited the first time she told them. Then they were wonderful when she relayed the sad information.
She was at ABC Carpet with clients when it happened. She was going over decorating suggestions when the cramping started. She was two months along when she felt what can only be described as a tiny, internal snap. Like a cord being released. She excused herself. Left the two partners of the accounting firm surmising the leather couches and hurriedly entered the bathroom. By then the cramping had turned into a stabbing pain and there was a wetness in her crotch. Inside the stall, she sat on the toilet, vaguely aware she hadn’t put down the protective sheet or lined the seat with toilet paper. As she doubled over she felt slimy clumps of something ooze out of her—which she was later informed was fetal tissue and placenta. She called her sisters-in-law to come and get her. Catherine arrived first, followed by Gail, who had to explain to her clients what was happening. She bled for days, had cramps like she was back in high school, and stayed in bed with the blinds drawn, the phone off while wondering what she could have done differently. She’d had a drink or two before she knew she was pregnant with clients one time, champagne with Harry one night at dinner. She didn’t smoke but many of her clients did, especially the older men who loved to have a cigar and go over floor plans and drink port and whiskey late at night at expensive hotel lounges.
The second time she disclosed the news, her friends’ responses were filled with cautious congratulations. They were happy but tried to stay realistic. That miscarriage hit her even harder. She didn’t emerge for weeks. And still everyone was understanding. Everyone had a friend of a friend to talk to, a doctor to see, a fertility clinic to investigate. And she did. There were blood tests for chromosome abnormalities, an ultrasound of her pelvis, a hysteroscopy—a viewing of the uterus through a special scope—even a hysterosalpingography, an X-ray of the uterus.
She met with specialists, researched her options and possibilities on the Web, even joined a group for women like herself. The group was nice—the women were gracious, though bitter, but mostly sad. Incomplete.
She stopped going to the biweekly meetings when she discovered she was pregnant. In that last group, a woman had broken down, telling them how useless she felt. That after all this time, she still couldn’t attend children’s birthday parties, that her friends had stopped inviting her over to their homes, that she and her husband were going to adopt, because that’s got to be better than not having anything.
Ellen wanted to talk about those rare moments that come after the crying. A rainstorm ends and a blissful floating feeling takes over when for five or ten minutes, sometimes an hour, she doesn’t ache. She dreams of waking in the morning to find the emptiness gone. She wanted to share this with the others because she knows they’ll understand. But all she was able to say when it was her turn to speak was “I hurt all the time.” And they nodded and dabbed at their eyes.
But now she’s pregnant. Now nothing else matters.
That night Ellen is standing on the scale, again. It reads 161 pounds. Three pounds more than two weeks ago. Which is okay, because her five foot eight frame can support it. And though she’s a little plump or chunky, she can see that her belly is swollen. Her breasts are sore. And she can’t get rid of the nausea, not that she wants to. She’s been begging for these feelings, these very symptoms for years.
Two new pregnancy tests lie face up on her bathroom counter, one reads negative, the other positive.
Harry looks at them sadly, like broken eggs, chicks that were supposed to have hatched but didn’t. He sighs, takes her hand, and leads her away from the scale.
“We’ll keep trying.”
“Keep trying? What are you talking about? Didn’t you see the scale?”
He’s already tossing the tests into the trash. “Please. I can’t do this.” He sits at the edge of the tub and looks at her, his eyes almost glassy.
“But one is positive. Two weeks ago, they all read negative. Can’t you see this is progress? We might have been too early.”
They’d been dating for three years when she said, “I do.” And at the wedding, surrounded by her family and friends, Harry’s two brothers, then both single, glasses raised in their honor, she squeezed her husband’s hand and thought, Yes. Yes, you really can have it all. Now it’s ten years and two miscarriages later. Harry is a partner at a law firm. Ellen sees the boy who cuts their lawn more than she sees her husband. Maybe this is too hard for him. Perhaps he doesn’t believe her because he wants this baby as much as she does and the disappointment would be all consuming.
They get into bed.
Harry has his reading glasses on, briefs and contracts by his side.
She wants him to look at her. Wants him to comment that her breasts do seem larger, her belly more distended. She wants him to believe in her the way she believes in this baby. She tries moving closer to him, hoping he will set aside his paperwork, put his arm around her, and hold her, like he used to. Like before they started trying to have children. Instead, he puts the papers down, rolls over, and turns off the light.
“Have you thought about calling the shrink Dr. Tepler suggested? I really think it’s a good idea. I’ll go with you if you want.” His head is on the pillow, the sheets pulled up close to his ear.
Her gynecologist, a short thick man with eyebrows that remind her of Groucho Marx, suggested the next doctor she should see be a psychiatrist and wouldn’t let her make another appointment with him. His assistant sent back her chart with a note that perhaps another gyno would be more suitable.
She remembers the first time she and Harry were sitting in his office. The warm rose–painted walls were a comfort, the chairs and space inviting. Dr. Tepler was kind and supportive. Offered her up the box of tissues, told them couples often have miscarriages the first time around. That they could try again. She sat holding Harry’s hand, her other wrapped around her stomach.
The second time was similar, only other tests were suggested.
“The good news is that everything is where it should be. You have no signs of tearing or tumors or cysts,” Dr. Tepler said, closing her file and leaning forward. “It takes some couples a few tries to get it right. I’m not concerned, and you shouldn’t be either, but just in case I’m happy to send you for a few tests.”
But last time was different.
Three weeks
ago Ellen was waiting for him when he entered the exam room, her body cold, the paper gown uncomfortable and too big. She remembered thinking how much better it would fit in four or five months when she’d be able to fill it out. And that maybe they should have colored gowns. Visual indicators to show what trimester you were at. Light pink for first, darker pink for second, and purple for third. Her feet were in the stirrups and her ass was squatted forward in perfect position. The words were out of her mouth before Dr. Tepler had a chance to walk into the room and close the door behind him.
“I haven’t had my period in forty-five days.”
“Really?” His voice was cool and even toned as he fought with the latex gloves. “Where’s Harry? I was hoping he’d be here, too.”
“He couldn’t come. But you know how regular I am. And I’ve been nauseous and had morning sickness four days in a row.”
Her chart was in his hand, filled with papers, and he looked a few things over before approaching. “Okay, let’s see what we’ve got.” He sat on the padded stool with the wheels and put her chart down.
“My stomach’s distended, too.”
“First I’m going to press on your abdomen, and then we’ll look inside. Let me know if this hurts,” he said, his thick hand at her belly.