Maybe in Another Life

by Taylor Jenkins Reid

  “Do you have a minute?”

  “Sure,” he says. “Let me just step outside.”

  I can hear him walk through a door, and the background quiets down.

  “What’s up?”

  “You’d better not ever try to negotiate with me,” I tell him. “Because I just talked the car salesman down fourteen hundred dollars, and I talked the human resources lady up four thousand. So basically, I’m a force to be reckoned with.”

  Ethan laughs. “A car owner and a job . . . haver.”

  “You’re damn right.”

  “And did you find Charlemagne’s home?”

  “They can’t see her until six,” I say. “So I bought the car, and now I’m headed back. I’m thinking I’ll just kill some time in the waiting room, see if the doctor doesn’t free up early.”

  “Six?”

  “Yeah. She’s there now. I had to leave a credit card so they’d keep her there until I get back.”

  Ethan laughs again. “What, like collateral?”

  “That’s exactly what I said!”

  He laughs. “Listen, I’m leaving here in a half hour. What part of town are you in? I’ll come meet you.”

  “Oh, that would be awesome!” I say. “I’m in West L.A. The vet is off of Sepulveda.”

  “Jesus, that’s far from my house,” he says. “You took a bus there?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “With Charlemagne?”

  “I may or may not have hidden her in a backpack.”

  Ethan laughs. “Why don’t I come meet you and we can grab an early dinner? Find a happy hour somewhere. I know of a Mexican place close to the animal hospital. I could buy you a celebratory burrito!”

  “I’m in!”

  I get lost more than once on my way there. Then I try to take an alley, only to realize there is a big truck coming at me from the opposite direction. I have to reverse out slowly and blindly back onto the street and find another way. But I get there eventually. That’s me in a nutshell. I’ll get there eventually.

  I pull into the parking lot of the restaurant, and Ethan is waiting for me by the entrance.

  “Is this the new car?” he says dramatically. “I like it. Unexpected. I thought for sure you’d pull up in something cherry red.”

  I laugh at him. “I’m way more into practical decisions nowadays,” I say. “Stable guys, full-time jobs . . .”

  “Stray dogs,” he adds.

  I laugh and correct him. “I am merely helping Charlemagne find her true family,” I say as we head into the restaurant. “But the stable guy and the full-time job, those are . . .” I find myself intending to finish the sentence by saying “for keeps,” but I quickly realize I don’t want to do that.

  It’s too early to be talking about how serious Ethan and I are or may be in the future. We have a history together, and we have potential to be something very real, but we just started dating again. I think the best thing to do is allow myself to imagine the future in my head but not put it into words just yet.

  Which is to say that I think it’s very possible that Ethan is the one for me. But I’d rather be dead than say it out loud.

  Luckily, Ethan appears to be on the exact same page, because he looks at me, grabs my hand, squeezes it, and says, “I hear you.”

  The hostess asks if we want to be seated in the dining room or at the bar, and we go for the bar. As we sit down, Ethan orders guacamole.

  “I’m very proud of you,” he says when the waitress leaves.

  “Thank you,” I say. “I’m proud of me, too. I mean, I didn’t like where my old habits got me, you know? And I feel really motivated to turn over a new leaf.”

  I think things have been working out for me so far partly because I have people believing in me. Gabby and the Hudsons and Ethan are so encouraging that it makes me feel I can do all the things I set out to do. In other cities, I never had a true support system. I had plenty of friends and, at times, caring boyfriends. But I don’t know that I ever had someone truly believing in me even when I didn’t. Now I do. And I think maybe I need someone in my corner in order to thrive. I think I am one of those people who need people. Because my family left and I was OK with it, I always thought that I was more of a lone wolf. I guess I thought I didn’t need anyone.

  “Well, I admire it,” Ethan says.

  The waiter sets the guacamole down in front of us. I grab a chip and dip in. But before I can even bring it to my lips, it smells awful. I put the chip down.

  “Oh, God,” I say. “Is it rancid or something?”

  “Uh,” Ethan says, genuinely confused. “The guacamole?”

  “Smell it,” I say. “It smells funky.”

  “It does?” He dips a chip in, brings it to his nose, and eats it. “It’s fine. It tastes great.”

  I smell it again and can’t stand it. I hold my stomach.

  “Are you OK?” Ethan asks.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I just need to get away from that.”

  “You look really pale. And you’re sweating. On your forehead a bit.”

  Just like last night, a wave of nausea runs through me. My throat constricts and turns sour. I’m not sure I’ll be able to hold this in very long. I run at full speed to the bathroom, but I don’t make it to the toilet. I puke in the sink. Luckily, it’s a private bathroom.

  Ethan comes in and closes the door behind us.

  “This is the ladies’ room,” I tell him.

  “I’m worried about you,” he says.

  “I’m fine,” I say, although I am seriously starting to doubt that.

  “You said you puked last night, too,” he says.

  “Yeah,” I tell him. “And this morning.”

  “Do you think maybe you have the flu? Should you see a doctor? I mean, why else would you be puking all the time?”

  The minute he asks the question, I know I don’t have the flu.

  I understand perfectly now why everything in my life has been going so well. The universe is just lining everything up in perfect order so that I can roll through and ruin it the way I always do.

  Classic Hurricane Hannah.

  I’m pregnant.

  I wake up to the sound of someone fumbling around in the dark. But I don’t see anyone. I only hear them.

  “Henry?” I ask.

  A figure pops up from the floor.

  “Sorry,” he says. “I can’t find my cell phone. I thought I might have dropped it in here.”

  “It’s weird to think that you’re here, hovering over me when I’m sleeping,” I tell him.

  “I wasn’t hovering,” he says. “I was crawling.”

  I laugh. “Much worse.”

  “You didn’t see it, right? My phone?” he asks me.

  I shake my head.

  “Dammit,” he says, and I watch as he absentmindedly pulls at a few hair ties around his wrist.

  “You told me you’d explain the hair ties,” I say. I point to my own head. The one he gave me is the one I’m still using to keep my bun together. Luckily, I can now do it myself with little fanfare. But I still don’t have a mirror, so I can’t be sure it looks good.

  He laughs. “Good memory. A lot of car accident patients struggle to remember basic details.”

  I shrug. “What can I say? I’ve always been ahead of the rest.”

  “I started finding hair ties all over the hospital where I worked back in Texas,” he says. I find myself smiling as he sits down. I like that he sits down. I like that he is staying. “And I didn’t want to throw them away, because they seemed like they would be useful to somebody, so I started collecting them. But then no one ever asked for one, so they just kept piling up. And then, one day, my boss asked me to do something, and I didn’t have a piece of paper to write on, so I put a hair tie around my wrist to remind me, sort of like someone might do with a rubber band. Then I started to do it all the time. And then I started to do it for more than one thing at a time. So if there were four things I needed to remember, four
hair ties. If I had two things to do and someone gave me a third task, another hair tie.”

  “How many times have you stood staring at your wrist trying to remember what one of the hair ties was for?”

  He laughs. “Listen, it’s not a perfect system.” He bends down for a moment. I assume he thinks he sees his cell phone.

  He stands back up. He must have been wrong. “Anyway,” he says, “that’s my hair tie organizational system.”

  “And the plus is, you have a hair tie for any woman who needs one.”

  “Right,” he says. “But no one has ever asked for one but you.”

  I smile at him.

  “How are you feeling?” he asks me. “OK? No more spasms?”

  “No more spasms.”

  “Good,” he says as he looks around the room some more for his phone.

  “We could call it,” I offer. “Your phone, I mean.” There is a hospital phone next to me, on the bed table. I pull it toward me and pick up the receiver. “What’s the number?”

  I can’t quite interpret the look on his face.

  “What did I do?” I ask him.

  “I can’t give you any personal contact information,” he says. “It’s against the rules.”

  I am feeling ever so slightly embarrassed. I put the receiver back in the cradle to save face. “Oh, OK. Well, you can dial yourself,” I say. “I’ll close my eyes.”

  He laughs and shakes his head. “It won’t do much good anyway,” he tells me. “The ringer’s off.”

  I can tell that both of us want to change the subject. We just aren’t sure how.

  “I tried that Find My Phone app,” Henry offers.

  “Oh, that’s great!” I say.

  “It said the phone is located at Angeles Presbyterian.”

  I laugh. “How helpful,” I say.

  “Well,” he says, “if you see it . . .”

  “If I see it, I’ll ring my little nurse bell.”

  “And I’ll come running,” he says.

  Neither of us has anything left to say, and yet he doesn’t leave. He looks at me. We hold each other’s gaze for just a second longer than normal. I look away first. I’m distracted by a dull blueish light that starts flashing in a slow rhythm.

  “Eureka!” he says.

  I start laughing as he ducks down. When he pops back up with his phone, he’s not at the foot of the bed, where he was before. He’s by my side. “I knew I’d find it,” he says.

  Instinctually, I find myself reaching out toward him, to touch him the way I might a friend. But I quickly remember that he’s not my friend, that to touch his arm or hand tenderly might be weird. So I pretend I’m going for a high-five. He smiles and enthusiastically claps my hand.

  “Nice work,” I say.

  For a moment, I wonder how things would be different if I could walk. And we weren’t in a hospital but in a bar somewhere. If I’d worn my favorite black shirt and tight jeans. I wonder how this all might be different if there was a beer in my hand, and the lights were low because people were dancing, not because people were sleeping.

  Is it crazy to think he would say hello and introduce himself? Is it crazy to think he would ask me to dance?

  “Anyway, I should be going,” he says. “But I’ll come check on you soon. I don’t like to go too many hours without making sure you’re still breathing.” And he leaves before I can say good-bye.

  I don’t know. Maybe, just maybe, if Henry and I met at a dinner party, we’d spend the entire night talking, and when the night wound down, he’d offer to walk me to my car.

  What is it?” Ethan asks me. “What’s the matter? Are you going to vomit again? What can I do?”

  “No,” I say, slowly shaking my head. “I’m totally fine now.”

  I got my period before I left for L.A. I remember getting it. I remember thinking that I was glad it ended a day sooner than normal. I remember that. I remember that.

  “Totally good,” I tell him. “I think maybe those brussels sprouts are still messing with me.”

  “OK,” he says. “Well, maybe we should head home.”

  I shake my head. “Nope,” I tell him. “Let’s hang out until we can go talk to the vet about Charlemagne.”

  “You’re sure?”

  I look at my phone. I want to run out of here and buy a pregnancy test, but there is no way I could just up and ditch Ethan without him asking what is going on. And I can’t share this with him. I can’t even bring up the possibility until it’s no longer simply a possibility.

  “All right,” he says. “If you really are feeling OK.”

  “I am.” The lying begins.

  “I’ll head out first,” he says. “Just so no one thinks we were doin’ it in here.”

  His joke catches me off guard, and I find myself laughing out loud. “OK,” I say, smiling.

  He ducks out, and I stay in the bathroom for a minute.

  I breathe in and out, trying to control my brain and my body. And then I pick up my phone and Google the one thing that could convince me I’m wrong about this. The one piece of evidence I have that maybe I’m not pregnant.

  can i be pregnant if i got my period

  “You cannot have a menstrual period while you are pregnant . . .” My heartbeat slows. I start to calm. This might all just be OK. “But some women do have vaginal bleeding during pregnancy.”

  I click on another one.

  “My cousin didn’t know she was pregnant for four months because she got her period all during her pregnancy.”

  I click again.

  “You may still get your period at the beginning of your pregnancy due to what is called implantation bleeding when the egg implants in the uterus.”

  Crap.

  “Typically, the bleeding will be lighter and shorter than a normal period.”

  I turn off my phone and slump down on the floor.

  Despite every piece of common sense available to me, I got pregnant. And it isn’t by the handsome, charming, perfect man I’m starting to believe is the one.

  It’s by the asshole with a wife and two kids in New York City.

  I get hold of myself. No good comes from imploding or exploding right now. I breathe in. I open the door. I walk out of the bathroom and join Ethan at the table.

  “How should we kill the time?” he asks. “Should we get away from this horrible guacamole and go find you a cinnamon roll?”

  He’s going to leave me. My perfect person. The man who jumps at the chance to get me a cinnamon roll. He’s going to leave me.

  I shake my head. “You know what?” I say. “Let’s just order some burritos and chow down.”

  “Sounds like heaven,” he says as he flags down a waiter.

  We order. We talk about his job. We make jokes. And we eat tortilla chips.

  With every chip I eat and every joke I make, I push the news further into the recesses of my mind. I bury my problems and focus on what is in front of me.

  I am great at pretending everything is fine. I am great at hiding the truth. I almost believe it myself for a minute. By the time our burritos have come and gone, you’d think I’d forgotten.

  We head to our cars and plan to meet up at the vet.

  “You’re perfect,” Ethan says as he shuts my car door for me. “You know that?” When he says it, it becomes clear just how much I haven’t forgotten.

  “Don’t say that,” I tell him. “It’s not true.”

  “You’re right,” he says. “You’re too pretty. I need a girl less pretty.”

  When we get back to the animal hospital, the vet is ready to talk to us.

  He pulls us into an exam room, and one of the vet techs brings out Charlemagne. She runs right to me.

  “There you are!” I say to her. I pick her up and hold her in my arms.

  “So you are the ones who found her?” the vet asks us.

  “Yeah,” Ethan says. “Running through the street.”

  The vet looks dismayed. “Well, she’s not chipp
ed. She is also not spayed. And she’s undernourished. She should be about two or three pounds heavier,” he says. He is tall, with a thick gray beard and gray hair. “That may not sound like a lot, but on a dog this size . . .”

  “Yeah,” Ethan says. “It’s a considerable deficit.”

  “Any idea how old she is?” I ask.

  “Well, her teeth aren’t fully in yet, so she’s still a puppy.”

  “How young, do you think?”

  “No more than four months, maybe five,” he says. “My guess is that she lives with someone who isn’t paying too much attention . . .”

  “Right,” I say.

  “Or it’s possible she’s been on the street for a while.”

  I find it hard to believe she’s been on the street for a while. Dogs that live out on the street wouldn’t run into the middle of the road. That seems to defy the very concept of survival of the fittest. If you are a dog that runs into the middle of the road, especially in the dark of night, then you are probably not going to last long on the mean streets of . . . anywhere.

  “A lot of times, people don’t spay their dogs,” the vet continues, “and are surprised when they end up pregnant.”

  Ha!

  “Caring for a nursing dog and a litter of puppies, when you don’t expect to, can be overwhelming.”

  I’ll say.

  “Sometimes people keep them until they can’t deal with it anymore and put the puppies out on the street.”

  Good God.

  I look at Ethan, who, not knowing how uncomfortably close this man is hitting the nail on the head, seems disturbed by all of it. Which makes sense. I am, too. I know that people are awful and do terrible things, especially to things that are helpless, especially to animals that are helpless. But when I look at Charlemagne, it’s hard to comprehend. I barely know her, and I’m starting to think I’d do anything for her.

  “So we have no real recourse,” Ethan says. “In terms of finding out who she belongs to.”

  The vet shrugs. “Well, not through this route, at least. You could put fliers up around where you found her or go door-to-door. But either way, if you are at all considering keeping her, I might recommend you do that instead of tracking down an original owner, if there is one.”