UnConventional

by Chie Alemán

  “Come for me,” I whisper, slipping my hands between his arms and body so I can use the bed to help push myself back and forth against him.

  This extra force seems to be enough to bring him right to the brink. His hands relax but don’t drop, as he lets me take over, his eyes shut in concentration. He looks so delicious right now, eyelashes fluttering, tiny beads of sweat collecting in the creases of his forehead. I can feel his stomach beginning to spasm beneath mine.

  Santiago regains control, pressing me down in quick, forceful jerks until I finally feel him shudder and his warmth fills me, his hands sinking to his sides, his chest rising and falling heavily as he recovers. We’re both slick with sweat as I roll off him and snuggle close, resting my head in the nook of his arm.

  “Was that love?” I ask before I can think not to.

  His eyes remain closed, but a smile tilts his cheeks. “I’d love to do that every day if you’d let me.”

  His breathing shifts, his body relaxes, and I can tell he’s on the threshold of sleep.

  I snag the blanket with my toe, tossing it up to my hand so I can drape it over us. Contentment seems to hover in the room as if it were a component of the air, and I think it wouldn’t be so bad to do this every day, to fall asleep each night in his comforting, warm embrace.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I wake to the sun filtering in through the blinds of my office, draping the room in slats of pale yellow light. Reflexively, I reach out on the futon: empty. I blink my eyes a few times to clear the sleep from them, spying Santiago’s chair, pushed off to the side, but both he and his crutches are gone.

  Stretching, I notice he took the time to lay out my clothes from last night—including my necklace—on my desk. My smile is bittersweet as I rise and dress, remembering the morning after our first night together, back in New Orleans, the way he woke early and took the time to fold and hang my clothes.

  Once dressed, I stumble out of the room to the sounds and smells of breakfast, leading me toward the kitchen. The brightness takes me a moment to adjust, coming from both the overhead lights and through the large window over the sink. The microwave clock announces the time: 6:30, meaning I actually slept in. Santiago stands at the stove, supporting himself with one hand on the counter; the other grips a spatula. His crutches lean against the island a few feet away.

  He doesn’t notice me immediately, and I find myself, as I do so often, simply watching him, feeling that pleasant full-body sensation I can only describe as happiness, for a fleeting moment imagining how wonderful it would be to wake up to him every morning. I cut around the island so I’m behind him, slipping my arms around his waist in a hug, leaning my cheek against his back. He’s always so comfortably, delightfully warm.

  His left hand shifts from its spot on the counter and cradles my arms to him, his thumb caressing my wrist. “Morning,” he says, and I hear the smile in his voice, the soft, unconscious sigh of contentment. I know he could get used to this too. Early mornings together. “I read online that you can eat whatever you want before the test, so I thought I’d make you something.” Ear pressed against his back, I feel the rumble of his voice through his chest, pleasant, deep. He takes his hand away, replaces it on the counter, and although I don’t want to leave him, I pull away.

  I’m shocked he was able to find enough food to make anything decent; I didn’t really stock the fridge for his visit, and I didn’t realize we had anything you could actually manufacture into a meal.

  “Sorry. You probably had to play a bit of Chopped,” I say, referring to my favorite Food Network show, in which the contestants have to make a meal from a collection of random ingredients. “Just promise me you didn’t use any of last night’s leftovers.”

  He laughs, shakes his head. “I made coffee,” he says, pointing toward the machine with the spatula.

  As I walk around him toward the coffeemaker, I try to peek at the stove to see what he’s making. “And what did the Great Santiago manage to whip up for me?”

  “You had eggs, milk, flour, sugar, and even some baking powder, so… I hope you like homemade pancakes.”

  Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever had pancakes that weren’t from a mix in my entire life. My mom cooked, but her culinary skills were limited. Like me, her philosophy was, “La Boulangerie and Betty Crocker exist for a reason.”

  “I don’t think we have syrup,” I say automatically, then cringe. I hope he doesn’t think I’m ungrateful. I’m not.

  He chuckles. “That’s all right. Growing up, we actually ate ours with jam, and I know you have some of that.”

  I laugh as I pull two mugs out. “Can’t say I’ve ever tried that, but I’m willing to taste anything once.”

  He glances over at me, flashes that paralyzing smile, that smile I’ve decided would be his superpower if he were a comic-book hero. At least if its effect on me is any indication, making me weak, dizzy, temporarily frozen.

  He flips the pancake, and I manage to uncaptivate myself long enough to pour coffee.

  “What’s your family like? I mean, other than Genie.”

  He sighs, focusing on the pancake, nudging the edge with the spatula. “Big. Loud. Crazy. Cuban.”

  I add sugar to each of our mugs and stir them.

  “I want you to meet them, but…” His voice trails off as he scoops the pancake onto a plate. As if on autopilot, he sprays the pan and pours more batter into it. I hear the sizzle as I turn to the fridge for the milk and butter.

  “Yeah,” I say. I’m not that experienced with this whole adultery thing, but I’m pretty sure it isn’t customary to bring your mistress to Sunday dinner.

  As if reading my mind, he adds, “You heard my mom the other day. Things haven’t been great between me and my family. The past couple years especially. Genie’s the one exception.”

  “Because you left the firm?”

  He sighs, stares at the pancake. “It’s complicated.”

  I finish adding milk to each of the mugs and stir. I can see the pancake bubbling nicely.

  He flips it easily, despite it filling the pan. “My parents are having a dinner next Sunday. It’s kind of a monthly tradition. Everyone goes, including all my sisters and their families. I haven’t gone to one since…” I notice his left hand grips the counter tighter, his shoulders tense. “It’s been years. But I told Genie to let my parents know I’ll be there.”

  I put the milk away, staring into the fridge so I don’t have to worry about his seeing my face. The cold air feels good on my flushed cheeks. Even though I know I’m reacting prematurely, the idea of meeting a couple dozen people all at once is overwhelming. Genie was one thing, but if Santiago’s been avoiding everyone for years, what will they think of me? Even if I left Stephen, I’m still the strange woman carrying his bastard child. Yeah, I’m sure they’ll welcome me with open arms.

  I try to force myself to relax, taking a few slow breaths, grabbing the strawberry preserves and doing my best not to look green when I turn around.

  The plate of pancakes is full beside him, and he’s shutting off the stove. His face shifts into a reassuring smile when he sees me; I guess there’s a reason I never pursued acting.

  “Don’t worry. I’m going alone. I figure, depending on the test results…” His smile wavers, his eyes darken, although I can’t quite read his face. He has a habit of doing that, of pulling on an indecipherable, multifaceted mask. I want to learn how to unlock all his secrets so that no expression will be foreign to me. He shakes his head, as if clearing his mind, manages to grin. “I figure I should do my best to make amends on my own before submitting you to them.”

  I’m about to offer to help him with the pancakes, but he manages fine, the space between the stove and the island small enough he doesn’t have to go far, and he’s able to use his other hand for support when he needs it. He sets the plate on the island, across from the counter chairs, then, carefully balancing, pulls out two knives and forks from a drawer on the first try.


  “Your kitchen has everything where I’d expect it to be,” he remarks, leaning forward to set the silverware near the chairs.

  “Oh. Well, Stephen’s very particular about that kind of thing. Everything has to be in its logical place.” I carry the mugs to the other side of the island.

  Santiago studies me for a moment, then nods toward the coffee. “I read online you need a full bladder for the test. So it’s easier for them to see the baby.” He’s blushing. So cute and endearing, especially since he took the time to research the test to know what to expect.

  He hasn’t moved from his place on the opposite side of the island, so I join him, sneaking a sideways hug. “Thanks for doing this for me.”

  “I need to eat too,” he says, but his laugh tells me he knows what I mean.

  * * * *

  We get to the hospital early and stop at the lab so Santiago can give his DNA sample. It’s not long before they call him back. I offer to go with him, but he insists I stay, because it’ll be quick. The waiting room is full, since this lab processes all the outpatients for the hospital and its associated clinics. As Santiago pushes to his feet and crosses toward the back where a nurse waits, holding the door open, I realize how much people stare at him. It’s something I haven’t really noticed since ECAC. A few try to be subtle, but others are blatant, shameless. I guess you rarely see someone with forearm crutches nowadays, so in some ways, they’re more attention grabbing than a wheelchair. It still annoys me, and I can’t help glaring at the worst offenders until they look away, embarrassed.

  I fiddle with my medal, suddenly nervous. This is the closest to home—and in public—I’ve ever been with Santiago, and as the gawkers have clearly indicated, he isn’t exactly inconspicuous. There’s a real possibility I could run into a neighbor, or someone else who knows me, who might wonder why I’m here and who Santiago is. I close my eyes, trying not to think about it. If, heaven forbid, I find myself in that situation, there’s a good chance Santiago will think of something witty and disarming to say.

  The thought forces a smile to my face, and I open my eyes. Santiago’s already finished, emerging from the back, characteristically flirting with the nurse. Although I know he has his insecurities, that comfortable confidence he exudes is something I admire most about him. As sexy as his crutches are, I’m the type of person who likes to blend in. And now, especially so close to home, I’m feeling even more self-conscious than normal.

  “It’ll be okay,” he says as soon as he’s standing near me, noticing the way I’m clutching St. Anthony. “I’ll be with you the entire time. I promise.”

  * * * *

  Upstairs, we’re led to a small room with a standard exam table and an ultrasound machine. I’m relieved when the nurse tells me I don’t have to strip, but she does ask to make sure my bladder is full. And is it. Probably the reason I’ve been so jittery and anxious, even more than I would be otherwise.

  I notice the passing look the nurse gives Santiago just before she exits, an ugly, judgmental scowl, incredibly unprofessional. It pisses me off, but I don’t say anything. If Santiago noticed, he’s let it roll off his shoulders.

  “I hate the way people look at you,” I say suddenly as I climb onto the table.

  He slips off his crutches and props them against the wall, bracing himself with one hand on the cushion while he offers his other to help me get settled. “It comes with the territory,” he says with a slight shrug. “You’ll get used to it.”

  I look up, and our eyes meet, both of us realizing what he just said.

  After a moment, I clear my throat, nudging my chin toward a chair in the corner. “You can sit if you want.”

  Following my gesture, he glances back, shakes his head. “I’d rather stay with you.” He shifts his weight, palms pressed against the exam table, then offers me his hand again.

  I accept it gratefully, squeezing a little too tightly. He checks his balance, then uses his other hand to smooth my back, a gentle, comforting gesture, moving his palm in small circles. I take a few slow breaths, trying to relax.

  “Are all your sisters married?” I ask, hoping to distract myself.

  “Yes.”

  “They all have kids?”

  He drops his hand from my back, returning it to the table. “You saw the photo,” he says. “Genie has three kids, Amélia has five, and Rosita has two. Susana, the youngest girl, doesn’t have any kids yet.” I notice, except for Genie, he pronounces all the names in Spanish: ah-MEH-lee-ah, roh-SEE-tah, sue-SA-nah. “She’s not sure if she…” He hesitates. “She’s a carrier, like Genie, but…”

  “She doesn’t want to risk having a son like you,” I say, surprising myself with my bluntness.

  He inhales a deep breath, nods. “Genie and her husband were willing to take their chance—it’s only 25 percent—but Susana…” He sighs. “None of my nephews have it. Everyone’s been tested.” He drops his head. “To the great relief of my parents in particular. One cripple’s more than enough for them.”

  I frown. I’m not used to hearing Santiago talk like this. My mind returns to the conversation I overheard between him and his mother the other day. How it sounded as if she were criticizing him for using his crutches. It seems impossible to believe, but has his family not accepted his disability? Do they think less of him because of it?

  He’s staring at our hands, his thumb stroking mine, some of his hair falling on his forehead. I can’t really see his eyes. When he speaks again, his voice is low, a harsh whisper that seems to strain his vocal chords, almost as if he were speaking with a case of laryngitis. “My parents really, really wanted a son. I think they would have tried forever to have one. Obviously, they had one daughter after another—four—until finally, I was born. I was my parents’ dream come true.” I hear him swallow; he doesn’t lift his head. I offer him an encouraging squeeze. “They raised me to be the good, obedient Cuban son, to do what I was told and make my family proud, to not bring vergüenza on the Durán name.”

  “And that’s really working out for you,” I say, patting my stomach and laughing at myself, hoping to put him at ease.

  Santiago joins me, but it’s a controlled laugh. For the briefest of moments, he looks up at me; his eyes are glassy, dark and distant—I’ve never seen him look like this before. He quickly drops his head again. “So I did my best. I went to the schools they chose. Law school. Clerked at the best firms until my father’s made me an offer. Worked my ass off.”

  “But?”

  He sighs but doesn’t continue. I can see he’s biting his bottom lip hard. The silence is heavy; I can tell through his touch, by the weight of the air, that he has more to say but is struggling to do so. I reach over with my free hand and pet his forearm, a gentle gesture I hope will reassure him.

  He manages to look up and smile faintly. His eyes have a slight sheen to them that he hurriedly blinks away. A knock on the door draws our attentions. He adjusts his weight, turns his head, and rubs his eyes with his other arm before the doctor enters.

  “Mrs. Monroe? How are you doing?” my ob-gyn says cheerfully as she strolls in. “Ready to get this over with?”

  I’m grateful my doctor, someone familiar, is the one doing the test. “Yes. Definitely.” I squeeze Santiago’s hand, as much for my sake as his.

  “Okay, this shouldn’t take too long. First, I’ll check your belly with the ultrasound to get a good feel of where the fetus is so we can withdraw the cells without hurting it. That could take up to thirty minutes, depending on how camera shy your baby is.” She chuckles. “But the actual withdrawal shouldn’t take longer than a minute.”

  She pulls up my shirt and gestures for me to unbutton my pants. Then she prepares the ultrasound receiver with some gel and places it on my belly. It’s cold, and I shirk reflexively.

  “Sorry,” she says, shifting the monitor so we can see it. “I guess this’ll be your first time seeing the baby, huh?” she says, shifting the device over my belly, trying to get a good angle. />
  My heart jumps; she’s right. As grainy and black-and-white as the picture might be, this will be my first time actually seeing this baby, and I’m glad Santiago’s here with me. It takes her about fifteen minutes of moving the bar around my stomach until finally she says, “Ah, here we go.” She points. “Meet your baby,” she says with a smile, looking at us briefly before turning back to the monitor.

  Santiago squeezes my hand. This is real. There’s actually a real, live baby in there. I look up at Santiago, whose eyes are fixed on the screen, enraptured, amazed, before noticing me and glancing down to meet my gaze. He smiles this relaxed, genuine, sweet, happy smile that makes me want to hug him.

  “And this,” she says, hitting a button, the loud, quick rhythm of a heartbeat surrounding us, “is the fetal heart. That’s your baby’s heart beating,” she says.

  I clap a hand over my mouth, ready to cry, looking up at Santiago through misty eyes. He squeezes my hand enthusiastically.

  “Wow,” he says, his voice surprisingly full of emotion. “It’s a baby!” He laughs, amazed, and when I blink and clear my tears, our eyes meet. And God, I can see how much he wants this baby, regardless of its DNA.

  The sound becomes a backdrop as she hits a few other buttons on the machine and the volume decreases. She gestures, and a nurse swabs my belly with some antiseptic.

  “You’ll feel a slight pressure when the needle first goes in, but it’ll be quick, I promise. Try to stay as still as you can, okay?”

  I squeeze Santiago’s hand in preparation for the needle I can see being placed near my belly. I close my eyes so I don’t have to see it, and tense despite all my will when it enters with a painful pressure, just as she promised. I hear Santiago shift, and then his hand is on my forehead, smoothing it gently, lightly with his thumb, trying to comfort me. I’m ready for this to be over.