UnConventional

by Chie Alemán

  * * * *

  I wake up the next morning—a Saturday—to a text from Stephen, informing me he left. He’s gone in to prepare for his lectures so he doesn’t miss any work during the week. That’s Stephen. Or maybe he’s still mad about last night. I realize I don’t care.

  Still lying on the futon, I scroll to Santiago’s number, thumb hovering over the Call button. I hesitate only a moment before hitting it, pressing the phone to my ear.

  It rings and rings and rings. I realize six is early—for a Saturday, anyway—but Santiago’s an early riser like me. I hold my breath, hoping I’m just catching him away from his phone. Because, God, I really need to hear his voice right now.

  I want to leave a message, but I don’t. How pathetic am I? As soon as I hear the tone, I hang up. Sigh. Sit up. I feel congested, my head heavy, and I know it’s from crying. Although I’m no stranger to tears, I’m not usually the melodramatic type who cries herself to sleep. I didn’t even do that the first night after I realized I cuckolded Stephen, so it’s been a long time since I’ve woken up with a cry hangover.

  The prospect of a long day alone makes my head ache and my stomach churn, but I suppose tears are always a good recipe for writing. I could try to finish my novel—the ending of which I haven’t been able to find yet.

  But I can’t manage to summon the energy to stand. It’s not exactly weariness, just maybe the hint of depression. Hormones, probably. Who am I kidding with this pregnancy, anyway? I bite my lip, fingers flying to my medal. The past few weeks, with Santiago, I haven’t missed my mom as much. But today, right now? Realizing in a few months I’ll be a mother, maybe with Stephen by my side, maybe with Santiago, maybe—it cramps my stomach at the thought—alone, but either way, without her.

  A stray tear drops, and I wipe it away as my phone buzzes and rings in my hand. A powerful rush of relief and happiness surges through me when I see Santiago’s name on the display.

  He’s a little out of breath when his voice comes over the line, and I love the way he sounds when he says my name. “Di? Sorry. I didn’t have the phone handy.” He pauses, waiting for me to answer, but my voice seems trapped in my throat, in the place where my tears wait to spring back. “Everything okay?”

  No, it’s not. Everything hasn’t been okay for a long time. Maybe ever. Fresh tears bubble up, and though I try to suppress them, I’m crying. I can’t help it. It’s the fucking hormones.

  “Di? What’s wrong? Did something happen with Stephen?” His voice is comforting yet alarmed, and I have a feeling he’d rush to my rescue if I needed him to. It makes me feel a little better.

  I sniffle. “I don’t want to be alone,” I say first, instinctively; I cover my mouth and take a few deep breaths to keep myself from sinking back into sobs.

  “Di—”

  “I mean…Stephen has this thing at Rice next week, so he’ll be gone. And you know my amnio is right in the middle of… I shouldn’t…” I take a few more deep breaths. “They told me I shouldn’t be alone for a day or two after the test, just to make sure I’m okay. Would you…would you stay here with me while he’s gone? I want to be close to my doctor in case anything happens.”

  “Of course,” he says without hesitation.

  I smile, a warmth bubbling up from deep within me. His voice is so soft, deep, comforting. I can almost feel his arms around me. “Just one problem,” I say.

  “Okay?”

  I sigh, push myself to my feet finally, shuffle out of the office, staring across the living room at the steps I never thought twice about until a few weeks ago. “All our bedrooms are upstairs.”

  “Oh,” he says. “I’m guessing you mean more than a couple stairs.”

  “Yeah,” I say, heading for the kitchen, realizing how famished I am.

  “I’ll figure something out. I’m pretty resourceful, you know,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice.

  I know, even though he hasn’t said it, based on what I’ve read from other guys with BMD, that he could probably manage the stairs, but it’s better for him if he doesn’t. I remember how challenging it was for him to pull himself up into the streetcar, and that was only a couple steps. Too much stress on his muscles can damage them, and I know he needs his shoulders to get around. I don’t want him to hurt himself on my account.

  “I have a futon in my office. That’s downstairs.” I spy the hook on the side of the fridge, return my keys, my fingers lingering a few extra moments—however silly it may be—on the voodoo doll.

  “I’m sure it’ll work out. I’m more worried about you. Are you okay?”

  The concern in his voice is so sincere it almost makes me want to cry again. I smooth my hand over my stomach, wondering if I begged him to come up here, would he drop everything to console me? I know he would. It feels like so long since I last saw him, and I really don’t want to be alone today. It wouldn’t hurt just to…I don’t know, have lunch, or see a movie together? Stephen will be gone all day.

  “Di?”

  I’ve been so quiet, my name comes out almost panicked. He’s never struck me as the clingy type; when I’ve told him I needed space, or we couldn’t meet because of my schedule or Stephen’s, he’s respected that. Do I really seem that upset? I guess I did burst into tears before I said a word.

  “Could you…could you come up here today?”

  He sighs heavily. When he speaks, his voice is low; it’s hard to determine his tone. Sad? Regretful? “I’m sorry. You know I would, but…I’m actually on my way to pick up Gusto. He has this cross-country thing in Dallas today, and I promised I’d take him and we’d make a weekend of it.”

  I suck in a harsh breath, squeeze the charm in my palm, trying to hide my disappointment. “Oh. Yeah. I understand. I’ll be fine.”

  It takes him a moment to respond, and I can hear in his voice, by his hesitation, that he’s not convinced I’m okay. “I’ll have my phone with me the entire time. Call me. Text me. Anytime. Even if it’s three a.m. Okay?”

  “Yeah, of course,” I say, and my voice is thick with the tears I’m about to start shedding again.

  “Di…” His voice is pained, and I hate myself for making him feel so torn. “Gusto’s dad is a critical-care doc and he works crazy hours, so I always fill in, do these types of things… But if you really need me, I—”

  “No,” I say, cutting him off. “It’s just pregnancy hormones. Have fun with your nephew. I’ll see you soon for the amnio anyway.”

  “Okay,” he says. “I’ll see you next week.” Santiago seems to hesitate, as if he wants to say something else. I think I know what it is, and while part of me hopes to hear it, the rest of me is terrified. But he doesn’t, hanging up. And that same emptiness sweeps over me again. Especially as I rub my belly, realizing how much Santiago must care about his nephew to give up a whole weekend, to drive five hours to Dallas, because the kid’s real father is too busy.

  I know Santiago would be a great father to this baby. Stephen outright admitted he doesn’t know anything about fatherhood—and it seems as if he doesn’t want to—whereas Santiago comes from a big family and has acted paternally before to his nieces and nephews, particularly Gusto.

  Stephen may have saved me in the past, but now I need to worry about more than myself. Whatever I decide, when the time comes, I need to consider not only what I want, but what’s best for both me and my baby.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Even though I’m really, really nervous about the amniocentesis, I don’t think I’ve ever been happier to say good-bye to Stephen in the entire time we’ve known each other. Of course, I try to channel that into happiness for him about the lectureship. It’s early Monday morning; his lecture isn’t until the afternoon, but Stephen wants to make sure he gets there with plenty of time to settle into his room and prepare.

  “This is such a great opportunity,” he says cheerfully. “This might be what edges me over the competition for that promotion.”

  “Promotion?” I’m pourin
g him a to-go cup of coffee, black with one sugar, the way he’s always taken it.

  “You know. I mentioned it weeks ago. The international position.”

  I don’t remember, but then I have been distracted by the whole being-pregnant-but-keeping-it-from-my-husband-because-it-might-not-be-his thing. ”Oh,” I say, stirring his coffee and capping it.

  He kisses me on the cheek, a little too forcefully, and grabs the cup. “I have lectures all this week, plus functions on Saturday and Sunday morning. So I probably won’t be home until Sunday evening. I’ll text you.”

  “Drive safe,” I manage to say, watching him disappear into the garage. I sigh. I really don’t want to go to work. In fact, I haven’t felt much like going to work since I got back from ECAC. I know I could quit, find something else, or freelance full-time from home, but especially now, the idea of spending even more time alone in this empty house… It’s just…depressing.

  Santiago’s promised to come straight from work, though, so I suppose I do have that to carry me through the day. I’ve taken Tuesday through Friday off; my test is tomorrow, and the doctor said I might be feeling crampy and yucky for a day or two afterward, although I’m hoping I’m not so I can enjoy some time with Santiago, who’s taken the rest of the week off to be with me.

  As I return upstairs to see if I can motivate myself to squeeze in a short workout, however pointless it feels nowadays, I find myself hoping more and more that this baby is Santiago’s. I imagine the three of us as a family—me, Santiago, and our baby—walking together in Hermann Park. No, Santiago would probably use his chair, our baby in a harness on his chest, sleeping. The sun streaming down, pulling the red from his hair, and he’d look up at me, flashing that brilliant smile.

  I console myself with the image until it hits me how crazy I’m being. I’m married. My life would be so much simpler if Stephen turns out to be the father. I can cut off Santiago, bury him in the deep recesses of my memory, move on with my life. Stephen never has to know.

  But why is it that this “ideal” scenario makes me feel so empty inside?

  * * * *

  The problem with leaving work early is I get home early, and since Santiago’s coming from Montrose, it means it’ll be at least an hour, maybe two, until he arrives at my front door. Which means I have time to kill.

  I’ll be honest. I’m not exactly neat. I’m not dirty—I’m all about hygiene, not leaving soiled dishes out, that type of thing (kind of a must in New Orleans with cockroaches)—but when it comes to being tidy…not so much. I try. It’s not like I don’t. It just seems like—kind of with my weight—I’m running in a hamster’s wheel. A never-ending cycle. Which puts me at odds with Stephen, who’s practically OCD when it comes to making sure everything is organized and in its place. Take my office, which I decide could probably use some sprucing up, since we’ll be staying down here, or at least Santiago will.

  About every six months I manage to get it looking like something out of Real Simple magazine, with all my papers filed, my desk clear and organized, the floor neatly vacuumed, and then it transforms—sometimes within only weeks, like nature reclaiming an abandoned city—into its usual state of chaos.

  For one thing, I decide I should probably clear the floor around said futon if we’re going to use it. As I shove papers and books and other miscellaneous items into the closet, praying Santiago doesn’t open it, I realize I have way too much junk. Other than my computer and a few books and CDs, I don’t need anything in this room. I could just stick my hard drive in my bag and leave and not look back.

  * * * *

  I have my music pumped so loud—currently Sum 41’s “The Hell Song”—while I’m cleaning, I don’t hear the doorbell. It isn’t until my music’s interrupted by my cell phone ringing that I even break my stride. I grab it, answer, survey the room. I’ve made a lot of piles, but at least the floor is clear, and there’s room to open the futon now.

  “Crank that music any louder and your neighbors are going to call the police,” Santiago says with a laugh.

  Was my music really that loud? I flush and dash out of the room toward the front door. “I’ll be right there!” I say, hanging up, shutting off my music, and tearing the door open.

  Santiago stands on the porch, looking incredibly sexy, a strap across his chest, the bag resting against his back. He’s wearing a very flattering light-pink dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, black pants with a black belt, and black shoes.

  I’m frozen, taking him in, and he laughs. “As lovely as your front porch is,” he says, “you going to invite me in?”

  “Oh,” I say, laughing, stepping back to allow him space to enter. “The office is this way if you want to set your bag down.”

  I lead him to the office, through the open hall. On one side is the living room, on the other, the kitchen, with stairs off on the end of the family room, leading to the second floor. My office is on the other end of the room, just off the kitchen.

  “This is nice,” he says, and I know he’s just trying to be polite.

  “It’s comfortable, I guess,” I say with a shrug, entering the den, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “This is my sanctuary,” I say, blushing. “I tried to tidy up.”

  He laughs, surveying the room. It’s not large, but I’ve tried my best to move things to make sure he has enough space. I watch as he shifts his weight, left hand firm on its grip, slides out of his right crutch, and lifts the bag over his head, letting it sink onto the futon in front of him before slipping his crutch back on.

  “Um,” I say, unexpectedly nervous. “I could give you the tour, but there’s not much to see. Just the family room, the office, the kitchen, the laundry room, the garage. Everything else is upstairs.”

  “Deep breath, linda,” he says, easing closer to me and leaning down to kiss the top of my head. “This is fine. I brought my chair too, but it’s in the car. We can get it later.”

  I try to remember to breathe, because somehow I seem to have forgotten. The air floods in, and my brain clears a little. He smiles at me.

  “You’re beautiful, you know that?”

  I duck my head; my cheeks heat. I feel the soft brush of his fingers on my face; the tip of his crutch bumps my shin.

  “You’re a dream I hope I never wake up from.” Santiago’s purple prose is the kind of thing that would have made me laugh, but I’m used to it now. Like it, even.

  My breath catches. My knees tremble. My blush deepens. My stomach feels like it’s tied in a tight knot; why does it do this every time I see him as if it’s the first time? I lay a hand on his waist; I can feel the way his stomach and back are tense, helping him keep his balance as he stands with only one crutch, petting my hair. How can he look at me, that piercing gaze as if the room around us didn’t exist, even in my rumpled work clothes and hair that’s falling out of the makeshift bun I tucked it into while I cleaned?

  My stomach roils, and I shift my hand to his chest. I shake my head, trying to clear it, sinking down onto the futon.

  He slides his hand back to its grip, redistributing his weight to both crutches. “You okay?” His face is soft and worried, his brows gently raised, his mouth dipping on its edges.

  Instead of waiting for me to answer, he turns, unlocks his knees, and settles in beside me, laying his sticks on his other side, against his bag, pulling me into a sideways hug.

  I realize it’s not fair of me, always looking to him for consolation and reassurance, but I need to ask. I need to know. “Why do you like me?”

  He doesn’t answer; he just hugs me, resting his head on top of mine.

  Several minutes pass, the two of us in each other’s arms, until finally he speaks again.

  “Why do you like me?”

  I freeze. I haven’t tried to tell him the truth about…well, how much his disability turns me on, since the other day at his apartment, after his sister left. I imagine he has to have some kind of inkling, but… My entire body seems tight, my heart beating furiously a
gainst my chest, as if it realizes we’re trapped and it’s trying to escape.

  I struggle to find words. “I love the way your cheek dimples, but only on one side. I love the hidden amber in your eyes that comes out when you’re happy or the light hits them just right. I love the way you hold me and make me feel like nothing bad can happen as long as you keep your arms wrapped around me.” I take his hand. Cradle mine in it. “I love your confidence, your sense of humor. The way you touch my hair with just your fingertips…” I take a few steadying breaths. “And I love the way those same fingers wrap around the grips of your crutches, glide along your push rims…”

  He squeezes my hand, meets my eyes. His face is unreadable, and I tense. “I love how you can be silly when you let yourself go. How you’ll sing along to songs in public even when you’re not drunk, because you just love music that much. The way your hair can never seem to stay in place so I have to smooth it away.” He reaches up and tucks a strand behind my ear, fingertips grazing on my skin, bringing up goose bumps. “How you were brave enough to go back to New Orleans, despite all its heavy memories. That you’re writing a book, even though you had no one to support you in it.” His eyes fall, then dart toward his crutches, before returning to me. “I love how easy things are with you.” He sighs, hesitates. “Sometimes it feels like I’ve spent my whole life trying to be what other people expect or want. But you never asked me to be anything other than myself.” He inhales, a deep breath, shoulders rising high before falling gently back down. “A while ago you asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I told you I didn’t remember, and I know…I know you thought I didn’t want to tell you. But the truth is, I’ve always felt like…like I was an actor playing the role of Diego, instead of being me—Santiago.”

  I force myself to meet those soft brown eyes of his.

  He places a hand on my cheek, and I grip his wrist; the tension there tells me he’s as nervous as I am. He doesn’t shift his eyes, but I can tell by his sigh, his hesitation, he wants to say more but is unsure.