The Interruption of Everything

by Terry McMillan

  “Marilyn Grimes?”

  Is that my name I just heard?

  “Marilyn?” the young girl says.

  I open my eyes and sit up straight. “Yes. Sorry.”

  “It happens a lot here.”

  I look at my watch. Only five minutes have passed.

  A door opens and a striking Middle Eastern woman with long black hair holds her hand out. She looks young enough to be my daughter. “Hello, Marilyn. I’m Doctor Rageh. Very nice to meet you. Is your husband here with you today?”

  “No. He had another commitment.”

  “That’s fine. Won’t you follow me, please?”

  We go into a room smaller than my pantry. There’s a tiny TV, and a large silver machine next to where I’ve been asked to lie down after I undress. The doctor leaves. I remove my lavender sweatshirt and sweatpants. It feels spooky in here. I’m scared. Freezing. I don’t know what I’m doing in this room. And I should not have come alone. I don’t care that I’ve done this twice before. This time feels different. Like I should be me twenty years ago and not the me I am now.

  I open my gown and look at my soft brown belly. Is it beginning to swell already? I wish I could see inside. The longer I stare, it dawns on me that this whole process, this amazing experience, is really a blessing, which makes this baby a gift. Why didn’t I see this before? When I hear a tap-tap on the door, I say, “Come on in.”

  “So, Marilyn. How’re you feeling these days?”

  “Tired. Hungry. Fat. But I haven’t thrown up in almost two weeks, so I’m not complaining.”

  “Good,” she says looking over my chart. “Dr. Hilton sent over your medical history and pregnancy test results, so it looks like you should be about ten weeks which would make your due date about September twenty-first. I’m sure you’ve been taking the prenatal vitamins she prescribed, right?”

  “I have.”

  “And I see here she’s discussed with you the risks involved with a pregnancy for a woman at your age, right?”

  “She did, but I pretty much know what they are. I’ve done a lot of research on this and I can tell you right now that I want to take the CVS test instead of the amnio.”

  “It’s your choice. You can actually have that done from this stage on, preferably in the next few weeks.”

  “Good.”

  “I also see that you’ve got three children.”

  “I do. Nineteen-year-old twin boys who’re away at college and a twenty-two-year-old daughter.”

  “Are the twins identical or fraternal? Just curious.”

  “Fraternal. In fact, they actually have different birthdays: Spencer was born at eleven fifty-seven p.m. and Simeon popped out six minutes after the clock struck midnight.”

  “Wow, that’s amazing! So, tell me, Marilyn, how do you feel about this pregnancy?”

  “Well, to be honest, at first I was just in shock, because I thought I was going through menopause.”

  “You probably are.”

  “And then I resented this happening because I felt like the next eighteen years of my life were being taken away from me.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  “It is?”

  “Of course. You’ve been a caregiver and nurturer for a long time, and now you feel like it’s time to nurture yourself.”

  “This is so true. I mean, I was even thinking of going back to school to get my master’s.”

  “What’s to stop you? Babies don’t rob you of anything. If possible, you get help and learn to manage your time more wisely.”

  “I know. That’s pretty much how I’m feeling now.”

  “Good. So today, let’s see if we can hear your baby’s heartbeat.”

  “Okay.” I lie down on the flat table like a corpse.

  “Now, just relax and try to breathe normally. I’m going to rub some gel all over your belly. It’s going to feel very cold at first but it acts as a conductor so I can hear better. You know all this, right?”

  “I think I remember.”

  I forgot that this stuff feels like icy hot! She places the stethoscope in her ears, then leans forward and starts rubbing the metal wand at the base of it all over my belly. After five or six minutes of this, she pulls her stethoscope from her ears and lets it fall on her shoulders.

  “Is something wrong?” I ask.

  “Well, I’m having a heck of a time finding this little creature, it’s so tiny. It’s probably hiding. Tell you what. Let’s look for it another way. Watch that little screen over there.”

  I say nothing but watch the little black monitor as she rubs another instrument all over my stomach, while looking back and forth at the screen. I don’t see anything except what looks like a neon green graph. She rubs on more gel and continues the search, even more carefully, as if she missed a spot. Then she stands straight up.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I didn’t see a heartbeat.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means that the baby has no heartbeat.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I could see the fetus but no heartbeat and there should be one at this stage.”

  “So, are you saying that my baby is dead?”

  She looks at me, eye-to-eye, woman-to-woman, not doctor-to-patient, and I can see she’s trying to keep a neutral face when she says, “I’m afraid it is. I’m so sorry.”

  For a split second, I don’t know who this woman is. And why are my clothes off? When she touches my arm and then squeezes my hand, I realize that a lot has just happened. I can’t believe that fifteen minutes ago I was pregnant. And now I’m not. I suppose she was waiting for me to scream or burst into tears but I don’t. “Could I have caused this?”

  “I don’t think so. Marilyn, I’m sure you’re aware of how much harder it is to get a healthy egg after forty, and that the odds of carrying a pregnancy to term decrease even further.”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “Tell me something. Have you been exercising heavily?”

  “I wish I knew how.”

  “Taking any medications you didn’t disclose?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, then. So. You’ve experienced what we refer to as a missed abortion.”

  “A what?”

  “I know it sounds terrible, but it just means that the fetus has miscarried, or died, and hasn’t been expelled.”

  “But I haven’t been bleeding. Haven’t had any cramping. Nothing.”

  “Miscarriages can occur in a variety of different ways.”

  I say the word “miscarriage” in my head. I even spell it: m-i-s-c-a-r-r-i-a-g-e. “A miscarriage of justice,” I say aloud.

  “Are you okay?” the doctor asks.

  “I’m not okay but I’m okay. How old are you?”

  “Thirty-five.”

  “Do you have children?”

  “A six-month-old and a three-year-old. Both boys.”

  “That’s nice. Very nice.”

  “Do you need a few minutes alone?”

  “No, don’t leave yet. Please.”

  “Okay. Now. I know you’re saddened by this news, but we need to shift our focus a little to your health. Since the fetus and placenta tissue are still inside you, in order to avoid the risk of your getting infected, instead of waiting for you to expel it, it would be wise for you to have a D and C as soon as possible.”

  “How soon?”

  “Soon. Have you ever had an abortion before?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “This is pretty much the same kind of procedure. I think the earliest opening at the hospital is Tuesday or Wednesday, if that works for you.”

  “Hospital?”

  “It’s strictly on an outpatient basis.”

  “Tuesday.”

  I just sit there while she tells me that I’ll need to stop in late Monday to get some seaweed sticks inserted into my cervix to help make the surgery go smoother. It’ll only take a few minutes. That I might feel mild cramps but
it’s nothing to be concerned about. That I’ll only be at the hospital about four or five hours. That someone should drive me and pick me up. She apologizes again for something she didn’t cause.

  “There are ways you can still conceive with little risk if you’d like to try again,” I hear her say as if she truly believed that I tried this time.

  “Try again?”

  “With donor eggs. Didn’t I read that you have a sister?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “And how old is she?”

  “Twenty-six.”

  “Terrific. Do you think she’d be willing to give you some of her eggs if you wanted to try again?”

  “I wouldn’t want any of her eggs. If anybody’s eggs are chromosomally deficient, it’d be hers.”

  The doctor seems confused by my response. She doesn’t know how relieved I feel, as if I’ve been cramming for a big test and the professor has just canceled class and even though I was prepared, I now have plenty of extra time to study.

  Chapter 10

  I can’t remember where I parked the car. Or did I drive the truck? I walk around the side of the building to see if I spot a black Tahoe. I see one, but it’s not mine. I circle the building until I’m almost back where I started and that’s when I see them: Paulette and Bunny leaning on the trunk of my Audi. I feel like I’ve been rescued.

  “Took you long enough,” Paulette says. She’s got a red bandanna tied tight around her head and those braids are back. She looks like a thin football player because she’s wearing layers of denim and fleece since it’s not quite spring.

  “You just had to see the doctor during rush hour, didn’t you? It took us a southern hour to…Marilyn, are you crying?” Bunny asks.

  I didn’t know I was until she asked. I wipe my eyes on my lavender sleeves. Bunny pulls and pops the waistband of her hot pink leggings then shakes out her legs like Marion Jones does right before she runs the hundred.

  Paulette bends down to look at me. “Yeah, what’s going on? Are those happy tears or sad ones? Talk to us, girl. We’re here for you.”

  “Both,” I say.

  Then they start hugging and squeezing me so hard my breasts hurt. “Tell us something, okay? We tried you on your cell but you didn’t pick up so we got a little worried since we didn’t know where your appointment was and we tried calling Leon at work but his assistant said he left early to pick up his son at the airport and against our better judgment we tried your house and Hail Mary Full of Grace answered and after she deposed us, I asked if she knew your doctor’s number and she said she had to think for a few minutes and while she was thinking I started thinking who else we could call and that’s when I remembered your GYN’s name was a hotel: Hilton! So we called her and Bunny did some explaining—you know she’s good when it comes to exaggerating the truth—but to make a long story short, she gave us the information we needed but it took us forever to get here but here we are.”

  “Thank you, guys. I mean it. For real.”

  “So, did you hear the heartbeat or not?” Paulette asks. Her arms are folded in anticipation.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Her arms drop to her side like a rag doll’s.

  “Why not?” Bunny asks.

  “Because there wasn’t one.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Bunny asks again.She not only does not have children, she has never been pregnant.

  “The baby is dead.”

  “Oh, no,” Paulette says, crossing her arms again, only tighter. “I’m sorry.”

  “Good,” Bunny just blurts out.

  “I know I didn’t hear you right,” Paulette says, getting right in her face.

  “I don’t mean it’s good that it’s dead, but it’s good she doesn’t have to go through that whole ordeal of raising another kid all over again. It’s a whole lot of other things she can do with her time besides changing Pampers and breast-feeding. Let me shut up. You know I’m not glad that it happened this way, Mar.”

  “It’s all right. Everything happens for a reason.”

  “See, that’s all I’m saying,” Bunny says.

  “And you’re feeling okay about this?” Paulette asks, staring me down. “I mean, this is some devastating stuff, any way you look at it.”

  “It’s okay. I mean it’s almost surreal. One minute you’re pregnant and the next, you’re not. I didn’t expect anything like this, but I don’t feel devastated.”

  “So does this mean it’s still inside you?” Bunny asks.

  “Shut up, would you, Bunny?”

  “I have to have a D and C on Tuesday.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Paulette says.

  “I wish I could, but I can’t get out of a training seminar for this new equipment we’re getting. It’s in the city.”

  “Right now, I just want to go home, see my son, bake him a cake, and make a fattening dinner,” I say.

  “How can you even think about cooking today?” Paulette asks.

  “Because I want to. Spencer’s home for spring break for ten days, and brought a girl.”

  “Mac Daddy,” Bunny says. “Isn’t SimSim coming?”

  “Nope. He’s in a jazz band. They’re playing at a real club. I thought I told you. Anyway, Sabrina, Nevil, and Sage are coming over, too.”

  “Dang, you’ve got all this going on today of all days?” Bunny says.

  “You do what you gotta do,” I say, and finally get in the car. I roll the window down because it’s obvious they’ve got plenty more to say.

  “Is Mother Teresa not going to be there?” Bunny asks. “I didn’t hear you say her name.”

  “Arthurine is a given. And she’s got a boyfriend who she’s probably invited because she wants to show him off, but that’s a whole ’nother story. I gotta go.”

  “And you’re okay to drive home?” Paulette says.

  “I’m fine,” I say, starting the car.

  “And now you have to go home and tell your husband and mother-in-law and son this bad news when he’s just coming home from college on a short vacation with some strange girl you don’t know from Adam that you might not even be able to stand and wait a minute! I forgot. Sabrina’s pregnant, too. Lord have mercy, this is too much for me to handle. How in the world are you gonna deal with all this psychological and emotional activity at one time, Marilyn?” Bunny asks, looking at me out of the corner of her eye. She’s just waiting for me to set up Act II, but since she’s already cast it, and as the producer, I throw my hands up and back out. I’m not in the mood for a rehearsal when tonight is opening night.

  I have five messages. The first two are from Leon. I don’t feel like talking to him yet. And I forgot. I have no peach schnapps for the cake and I feel like grilling some rib eyes, which means I’m driving ten miles out of my way to go to my favorite market where I buy most of our meat, fish, and produce. Before I turn onto the street that leads to the freeway, an elderly couple is pushing a baby carriage through the intersection. Perfect timing. Until I see the fuzzy white head, and floppy ears and realize it’s a dog.

  I stop laughing when I get on the freeway because traffic is bumper-to-bumper. But I’m in it and it’ll probably take me just as long to get off as it will to stay on it. I feel like I need to talk to somebody. Somebody who cares about me. I speed-dial Lovey’s number and she answers on the first ring. “Hi, Lovey!” I say, trying to sound perkier than I am because I don’t want to bother her with any of this. I just want to hear her voice. See if she’s doing okay since we still have a week before her appointment.

  “Hi! And how are you doing today?” she asks. Boy, does she sound cheerful. This makes me feel better already.

  “I’m doing fine, Lovey. And you?”

  “No complaints.”

  “That’s good. I called to tell you that Spencer’s gonna be home from college for a week and he told me he wants to drive out to see you and Joy and the kids before he goes back.”

  “That sounds like a winner.”

&n
bsp; “Simeon couldn’t make it.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “He’s in a band.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yep. But, Lovey, tell me something. Why don’t you call me much anymore?”

  “I don’t know. Who is this?”

  I have to hit the brakes to stop from rear-ending a Volvo. I know my mother knows my voice. What is going on here? I get off at the next exit and decide to take the streets. “Lovey?” I say as I swerve into the parking lot of what is apparently a brand-new market I didn’t know about.

  “I’m still here,” she says.

  “This is Marilyn.” I turn off the engine and jump out of the car and head toward the entrance doors that pop open before she finally answers.

  “Marilyn who?”

  “Your daughter, Marilyn.” I grab a cart even though I should get a basket but I always buy more than I need.

  “Oh, hi there, baby!”

  “Lovey, are you fooling around or did you not know it was me on the phone for real?”

  “What difference does it make, I know who I’m talking to now.”

  I open my mouth to say something but nothing comes out. I drop my head so that other shoppers won’t see my tears as I push the cart down the spirits aisle. I’m trying not to make that crying sound. My mother is going through something, and I pray it’s not what I think it is. Just as I’m about to grab a bottle of peach schnapps, I hear her singing a Nina Simone song, as if she doesn’t have a care in the world. “Lovey?”

  “Yeeeesss,” she says, like she’s straining to hit a high note.

  “Who’s there with you?”

  “Those kids are always here.”

  “What about Joy?”

  “That bitch is gone.”

  This makes me want to laugh. But I don’t. “Hold on a minute, Lovey.” I’m at the meat counter staring at the thick red beef with hardly any trace of fat.

  “I ain’t got nothing but time,” she sings to a new melody.

  “I’ll take four of the rib eyes and four of those fillets,” I say pointing. “Gone where, Lovey?”

  “Who?”

  “Joy.”

  “How in the world am I supposed to know?”