Shatter My Rock

by Greta Nelsen

  He continues, “The presentation killed, by the way. Genius stuff. They lapped it up.”

  My mind begins to clear. “I’ll tell Bob. Thank you.”

  We sit.

  “How’s your head?”

  “About the same,” I say, the migraine intensifying at its mention.

  He shoves his hand into his trousers and pulls out a clenched fist, which he dangles over my lap with a delighted grin. “Then you’ll love this.” He jiggles his fist as if he’s about to drop something, so I cup my hands and wait.

  A single, cross-scored pill. Small. White. Boring. I hope for a moment that it’s Imitrex, but then I realize it’s the wrong shape. Round when it should be triangular.

  I pinch the pill between my fingers and ponder, “What’s this?”

  “Muscle relaxer. Great for migraines. My sister swears by ‘em.”

  I have taken muscle relaxers for neck spasms. “Where’d you get it?”

  “Tweaked my back on a ski trip,” he tells me. “Didn’t use ‘em all.”

  I wonder why he has a stash of prescription pills at the ready, but something tells me not to ask. If I’m too curious, he might take this one away.

  “Thanks,” I say, eager for him to leave so I can down the thing and get back to bed. I give him what I think he wants: an appreciative smile. “You saved me again.”

  “I told Tim you’d be out of commission for the night,” he says in a satisfied tone. “You can call him tomorrow.”

  I have not considered contacting my husband until just this moment, my gaze falling on the desk where my cell phone inexplicably rests.

  He catches me staring and, as if he’s read my mind, nonchalantly says, “He called while you were sleeping.”

  There is no rational explanation for why a coworker of the opposite sex has entered my hotel room without invitation, so I don’t bother asking. Instead, I lead Eric to the door. “See you in the morning,” I say, as he slips out.

  Behind him I clunk the deadbolt to its locked position and test the door just to be sure. It’s as secure as I have any right to expect in a place like this.

  My head still throbs after twelve-plus hours of sleep, which prompts me to consider the possibility of a brain tumor. But without the Imitrex, I can’t be sure.

  I scuff into the bathroom, coax a disposable cup from its wrapper and load up on lukewarm tap water, the only kind this faucet agrees to deliver with regularity. Then I give the muscle relaxer one last chance to convince me of its gratuitousness before I gulp it down and retreat to bed.

  Chapter 2

  I have one female friend, Jenna Dearborn, a fellow VP at Hazelton who, like me, has worshiped career over all else. She is forty-one. Disappointed. Alone.

  We sit across from each other in the cafeteria at work, our table by the windows overlooking the comings and goings of the parking lot below.

  “I bet you’re glad to have that over with,” Jenna says, referring to the marketing conference, her celery-green eyes studying me in a way that makes me squirm.

  I take a bite of my salad and wait, wonder what she hopes to find. “It wasn’t that bad,” I say, the fiasco already a distant, weeks-old memory. “I spent most of it in bed.”

  “Bob’s back, you know,” she tells me.

  “I heard.”

  “Was he pissed?”

  “Not really,” I say. “I gave Eric all the credit.”

  She stares harder. “Can I ask you something?”

  I hate sentences like this, their sole purpose to preface a bald-faced intrusion. But I say, “Sure.”

  “Are you pregnant?”

  Not even Tim would ask such a thing so bluntly. “What makes you think…?” I have made a point of keeping our most recent attempt at parenthood a well-guarded secret.

  She shoots me the kind of cocky smile Tim gets when he’s sure of the Final Jeopardy! question. “It’s just that…something’s different.”

  I consider letting her in on everything. A cheerleader in our corner couldn’t hurt. But her emptiness spurs guilt in me over Tim and Ally. “I don’t think it’s in the cards,” I say. And I believe it.

  She shakes her head. “Well, something’s going on,” she persists, unwilling to let go of whatever nuanced tidbit she has latched on to.

  I humor her. “How so?”

  “You seem really calm.”

  “And that translates to pregnant?”

  “It’s like you’ve let go of something,” she says confidently. “Stopped striving.”

  She may be right on one point: The IVF has taken its toll; I’m not sure I want to continue. “I don’t see another baby,” I say, the personal nature of the declaration emphasizing its awkwardness in the lunchroom. “It’s too late.”

  The gravity of what I’ve said reverses her course. “It’s probably something else,” she now claims. “Did you color your hair? It looks so shiny.”

  “I’ve noticed that too,” I admit, running a hand over my unusually silky locks. “Tim put in a water softener.”

  Jenna glances around the cafeteria, in search of something more interesting than the vacuous conversation we’re drifting toward, and I don’t blame her. Eventually, her gaze settles on Eric Blair’s profile as he swipes his payment card for lunch. “He didn’t try anything, did he?” she asks, sopping up the last of her soup with a chunk of French bread.

  The question catches me. “Huh?”

  “You know, at the conference. Did he make a move?”

  “No,” I say, as surprised as anyone. “He didn’t.”

  She shrugs. “First time for everything, I guess.”

  I say, “Guess so.” But Jenna’s inquiry leaves me wondering: Why didn’t the most prolific letch on the east coast try to get his rocks off with me when I was compromised and defenseless? And why has said letch taken such pains to avoid me since the moment our plane touched down from Cincinnati?

  * * *

  My stockpile of pregnancy tests is due for replenishment, but I’m considering letting it run dry. Something tells me it’s about to outlive its usefulness anyhow.

  Tim points at the computer screen and, referring to a pack of EPTs we normally buy in bulk, asks, “Should I put these in the cart?”

  I have just sloshed my way inside from an hour and twenty minutes on the highway, hemmed in by a snowplow and a salt truck. “Sure,” I say, lacking the energy to initiate a conversation on the subject. If I thought we’d need them, I’d want them too. But I don’t.

  He happily clicks his way to the checkout, while I don a ratty sweat suit, comb my hair into a ponytail, and run a warm washcloth over my face.

  As I pass Ally’s room, I lean in and tell her, “Dinner’s ready.”

  My daughter relaxes cross-legged on her bed, knitting. Since Tim’s mother taught her how, she hasn’t put those needles down. While I spent my tenth year nursing Ricky through a series of worsening seizures, Ally spends hers in the throes of a love affair with colors and patterns, museum-quality textiles spilling from her fingertips.

  “Hey, Ally,” I say, stepping over the threshold. I realize she is wearing earbuds and can’t hear, so I snap my fingers under her nose, disrupting her hand-eye coordination.

  Without looking up, she whines, “Mom!”

  No matter how imbued with teen angst it becomes, I never tire of that lilting voice, its melody tattooed on my DNA.

  Ally yanks one of the buds from her ear and stares.

  “Your dad made spaghetti and meatballs,” I say, as I rake my nails through her tangled mane.

  My daughter is a tomboy, a softened version of her Uncle Ricky. Older now than he was when he died.

  “I know,” she says. She gives me an eye roll I’d better start getting used to. “I helped.”

  A pang of loss jabs me. It was supposed to be me at home with Ally, braiding her hair and teaching her to swim. A million tiny moments lost forever.

  I nudge her knee. “Let’s eat.”

  In the dining room,
Tim has the table set and the wine poured. It took him all of three minutes to master the stay-at-home dad thing once he quit his civil engineering job, my maternity leave winding to a close. Now he’s a gourmet chef, the local chauffeur, and a topflight cleaning machine. All the mothers in the neighborhood are jealous. And so am I.

  “This looks delicious,” I say. After such a taxing day, I’m eager for Tim’s home cooking. With a broad grin, I ask Ally, “You make meatballs now?”

  Before Ally can answer, Muffin lumbers over and plops his bowling ball of a head in my lap, hungry for affection and whatever table scraps I may be willing to part with. A Great Dane was Tim’s idea, which he sold me on by singing the praises of the breed’s majesty and protective prowess. But instead of taking to Tim, Muffin has claimed me as his own.

  As I stroke Muffin’s ears, Tim spots an opportunity. “Don’t be mad.”

  “What?” I say. But somehow I know.

  “It wasn’t his fault.”

  Muffin pokes his nose into my thigh, as if I’ve already punished him.

  “Where is it?” I ask, my gaze darting to the empty alcove, where the fertility idol belongs. I wonder why I haven’t noticed its absence before.

  “It’s getting fixed. There’s an antiques restorer in Providence who could resurrect King Tut.”

  Tim sounds so sure of himself that I almost believe him. And I hope he’s right. When our ob-gyn, Dr. Patel, returned from her honeymoon with a select few of these god-awful talismans, I almost refused the one she offered us. But Tim thought it would work; he said: This might be the thing that tips the scales in our favor. From our next embryo transfer, I got pregnant with Ally.

  I plunge my fork into a meatball and say, “Bad dog, Muffin.” And that’s the end of it.

  * * *

  My dry cleaning is the one thing not included in Tim’s job description as Master of the Universe. In the last decade, he has seldom had the occasion to don anything more elaborate than a polo shirt and a pair of khakis; hence, the management of my tailored, color-coordinated work wardrobe falls to me.

  “Good afternoon,” I say to Mrs. Tran, the stooped Cambodian woman who owns The Laundry.

  She scurries over to the counter, a look of scattered bewilderment fixed on her face. “Ticket?” she grunts, not one to foul a perfectly good exchange with useless pleasantries.

  We have done this dance the second Tuesday of every month for as long as I can remember. I push the paper across the counter. “Here.”

  She gives the stub a scowl and disappears behind a heavy canvas curtain. The humidity in this place clogs my pores, coats my lungs. I slip out of my blazer and drape it over my arm.

  An attractive young guy, one of those pretty-boy, Brad Pitt types, swaggers in and queues up behind me. On the off chance he wants to make chitchat, I pretend to be occupied with the jagged cracks in The Laundry’s ceiling.

  Eventually, Mrs. Tran emerges with a mountain of plastic-wrapped garments, but this time she does something she’s never done before: look me in the eyes. And when she does, an unmistakable spark of recognition dawns. Her gaze travels from my eyes to my abdomen and back again, wearing a path in the air between us. “When your baby coming?”

  I open my mouth and close it again without saying a word.

  “Baby good for you,” she pronounces with a toothy grin.

  I now understand why she has treated me with disdain for so long: From the money I spend in her shop, she’s concluded I’m a materialistic black hole, devoid of the warmth and femininity that compose a woman.

  I resist the urge to prove myself with a Christmas card-worthy photo of me, Tim, Ally and Muffin. Instead, I laugh nervously. “No, no baby.”

  She tallies my dry cleaning and, as I pass her my credit card, declares, “You wrong.”

  * * *

  There is a convenience store three blocks from our house that sells the most heavenly sausage sandwiches, mounded with onions, peppers, and mushrooms. I shouldn’t be eating them while we’re trying to conceive—and Tim would have my head if he knew I was—but I can’t resist; they’re calling me.

  I place my order and begin browsing. Maybe there’s something here we need. I tuck a box of Ho Hos into the crook of my arm, grip a loaf of Wonder bread by its neck, wrestle a can of tuna from a tipsy stack. And when I round the corner, something unexpected catches my eye: the family planning section. I can hardly believe this hole-in-the-wall has such a thing, but here it is: condoms, lubricants, pregnancy tests. I feel as if someone has placed these items to taunt me. Or perhaps they are a mirage. If nothing else, they are a coincidence too unlikely to ignore.

  After multiple failed attempts to conceive, Dr. Patel now allows me to administer the pregnancy tests at home, to save myself and everyone else the humiliation and disappointment of yet another squandered opportunity.

  I run my fingers along the edge of the EPT box, deciding. I’m sure the embryo transfer has failed; it has been almost three months, and I have no symptoms. Weeks ago, I told Tim and Dr. Patel that the test was negative. But now I must know for sure.

  I wrap my fingers around the box and proceed to the checkout, where a teenage girl—maybe a mother already herself—bags my items with a stone face.

  The owner of this store is a slow cook, so my sandwich is not nearly ready. And the bathroom is unoccupied. I set my bag on the warped floor, slide the pregnancy test into my purse and head for a scuffed door, to which someone has taped a sheet of notebook paper with the word “restroom” written in thick, black permanent marker.

  I clunk the door shut behind me and shove the hook through the eye, locking the world out. It’s clear this place is more utility closet than anything else, stacks of toilet tissue, paper towels, and cleaning supplies cluttering every corner.

  For a moment, I am ambivalent about taking the test here, an inauspicious place to receive such life-altering news, one way or the other. But I hike my skirt over my hips anyway and tear the flimsy wrapper from the predictable plastic stick, which I have come to refer to as the Oracle of Life.

  As I wiggle my skirt back into place, I wonder if I am the only woman to have asked such a serious question in this convenience store bathroom—or any convenience store bathroom anywhere, for that matter.

  I balance the stick precariously across a rusty soap dish and concentrate on the test window, praying for a miracle. Just one sibling for Ally would be enough, but there is always the possibility of multiples with IVF; twins are common.

  A vertical blue line quickly takes shape in the control window, which at least means the test isn’t a dud. Then something breathtaking: the shadow of a vertical line in the test window too. The vital half of a plus sign. I know from experience that a negative result is a simple horizontal line. A minus sign. But now I see a cross. The sign of life.

  * * *

  The early years were happy ones, our mother referring to us as the Rhode Island Kennedys. Until I was six, I had little doubt of this invention, its proof no more elusive than the fact that I was born the day John F. Kennedy died.

  Our father, George Ross, was a lawyer and a politician, a two-term senator for the Grand Old Party. There were limos and yachts, dignitaries and soirees. More money than anyone knew what to do with.

  Then came Ricky, like yellow oleander: delicate and toxic. Our old lives withered and fell away, a desert landscape in the rearview. The only thing that survived was Dukate Disease.

  It wasn’t Dukate that stole our mother, though. She bore well the cross of Ricky’s death. What destroyed her was our father, how he disintegrated and fled, leaving her pregnant for the third time and in mortal terror. She went directly from the abortion clinic to the asylum, where she passed two decades in a drug-induced fog. Now she fills a slot at a nursing home, with even better pills and less give-a-damn.

  I make the trip to Meadow Haven two or three times a year, more for me now than for her. Despite such infrequency, the place takes more than I can give. But I don’t want our m
other to die alone, even if she’ll never know, dementia having long ago blended my face with the crowd.

  “I’m here to see Charlotte Ross,” I tell the receptionist, a knot in my stomach.

  She shoots me an obligatory half-smile and nods at an open book on the counter. “Go ahead and sign in.”

  I do.

  She gestures toward the waiting area. “Have a seat.”

  This always happens: I work up enough nerve to get through those doors, and then I panic in the lobby. I have left here more times than I have stayed.

  But today fate smiles. I no sooner sit than a genial-looking orderly appears. “Visitor for Charlotte Ross?”

  I pop out of my seat and become his Siamese twin. If only I can get a look at her, I know I’ll stay; I’ll have to.

  “She’s almost finished with lunch,” the orderly tells me as we walk.

  I relax a bit and let him take the lead, small talk not my strong suit—especially in a place like this.

  “Macaroni and cheese today,” he continues. “Her favorite.”

  I wonder if this is true or if my mother has simply forgotten her taste preferences, each new meal an opportunity to fall in love all over again. “That’s good,” I say.

  He slows his pace as we approach an open door, through which the unmistakable sounds of a TV game show spill into the hallway. He steps aside. “After you.”

  I remind myself to breathe. Every time I see her could be the last. Through force of will, I penetrate her world, the window side of a fifteen-by-fifteen cube she divides with another lost soul.

  The orderly follows me in and watches as I hesitate, always uncertain how to begin. I have tried to force her to remember, but it’s no use. I am no more significant than the maintenance man who sweeps the floors or the pretty young anchor who delivers the evening news. Probably less so.

  “Hi, Charlotte,” I chirp, taking the seat beside her bed. I conjure a youthful smile I hope she will recognize. “How are you today?”