“Okay,” I laugh, “then what do you want to do?”
His gives me one of his trademark charming smiles. “It doesn’t really matter. We can do the locks tour. As long as we’re together, I’m happy.”
I smile back in response, and then snuggle again into his embrace. I’d like to believe that’s all I’m doing—that I’m not, in fact, clinging to him. Because as Obama has notoriously said, clinging leads to bitterness. Or is it
I’m in over my head.
June
“…so I told them we have to check with the American embassy in Nigeria about it, and they had the nerve to be surprised. Like I was just springing it on them, you know?”
I look out at the ocean. Boats are rocking on the waves, and clouds are gathering. It’s dusk, but it will be dark soon enough. I shiver at the thought.
Monty tugs my hand. “Lucy? You okay?”
“Huh?”
Monty stops walking. We’re on one of our post-dinner strolls; this time we ate downtown, and afterwards we wandered down to Ocean Avenue.
“Have you heard a word I just said?”
“They’re surprised that you need to contact the embassy in South Africa?”
“Nigeria.”
“Right, sorry. Just how many embassies do we have in Africa? Is there one for every country?”
Monty steps away from me, and he leans against the railing that separates the sidewalk from the path down to the shore. “You’ve been distracted all evening. What’s up with you?”
“Nothing.”
Monty straightens the black button-down shirt he’s wearing, but it’s blowing in the wind, so he’s going to look unkempt no matter what. I can’t help but think that it suits him. I shiver. The wind is cold this close to the sea. I brush a strand of my hair out of my face. “I’m not distracted about anything.”
“Okay.” He shakes his head and gives me an affectionate smile. “But you’ve got that line over the top of your nose that you get when you’re thinking too hard.”
“When I’m thinking too hard? Like I’m simple or something?” I huff out a deep breath, and cross my arms over my chest for warmth. “And isn’t it a little early to know what all my looks mean?"
Monty gives me a look of his own, his squinty-eyed, chin-out, challenged-lawyer look. “You don’t have to get defensive. Sorry I brought it up.”
I tilt my head down, so my gaze is on my shoes instead of his face.
“Do you want to keep walking?” He holds his arm out to me, a peace offering that should be easy to accept.
I shake my head. “I’m cold, and I’m tired. I think I’d rather head home. I kind of need an evening to myself.”
Monty shrugs his shoulders. “Fine.” His voice sounds airy, but now he’s wearing his nonchalant-but-actually-annoyed look. I can tell by the way he furrows his brow and bites the inside of his lip.
Maybe we are way too familiar way too soon.
We walk back to his car. He drives me home and drops me off, planting a kiss on my cheek before I get out.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I say.
He taps his fingers against the steering wheel. “Enjoy your evening to yourself.”
When he drives off I don’t go inside. Instead I walk to the drugstore.
The plastic stick has two pink lines, not one. Two lines equals pregnant. I don’t need to look at the box again to confirm that, but I do anyway. Two lines equals pregnant.
Who accidentally gets pregnant at thirty-seven?
We never used condoms. Our first date in Seattle was only supposed to be a drink, so I didn’t buy a new box of condoms to store in my medicine cabinet. As inactive as I’ve been lately, it seemed like a waste of $12. But Monty didn’t have a condom in his wallet, or in his pockets, or anywhere he could easily access. Since we’d both been tested recently, we forwent the jog to the drugstore.
“It’s fine,” I had assured him. “I’m on the pill.”
Only two days ago, one day after I was supposed to get my period, it hit me: the antibiotics for my sinus infection. They can cancel out the pill. How could I have been so stupid as to forget that?
Now I’m huddled up on my bathroom floor, knees to my chin. I close my eyes and burry my head in my arms. I need to figure this out.
I sit on my discovery for a whole day, weighing the options, trying to pick which one I want before I call Monty. But I can’t pick, because there’s this constant buzzing inside my head, a high-pitched ring that only gets louder if I make an effort to quiet it down.
So I go for a run after work, pushing myself to go faster and breathe harder than I have in years. When I get home I’m exhausted. I look at the clock, and it’s been two hours since I left. No wonder I’m so tired.
It’s almost 8:00. I’ll figure out what I want after I take a shower. I stand in the shower until the water runs cold, and I’m forced to get out. Even then, I stand there, drip drying, cocooned in a towel to keep from shaking.
At 8:45 I wander into my kitchen, looking for something to eat. I know it’s a bad idea to skip dinner when you’re pregnant. I make a sandwich, and promise myself I’ll write a baby pro/con list as soon as I’m done eating.
The sandwich goes down slowly. While I’m eating my phone rings, but my mouth is full so I don’t pick up. Afterwards I check for a message, and there is one. From Monty.
“Hey, Lucy. Just wanted to check in. Umm…did we have our first fight last night? If so, can you fill me in on what it was about? I’m feeling a little lost here. Give me a call.”
I delete the message and put the phone back in its cradle.
Maybe I’ll just watch a little TV before I do anything. It will help me relax.
On MSNBC they’re talking about Obama’s speech earlier this month. He finally clinched the nomination, and after he spoke, he bumped fists with Michelle. I guess a Fox newscaster called it a “terrorist fist bump.” Wow. I’d be livid if it wasn’t so ridiculous. But the story distracts me for a few minutes, and I convince myself that waiting until tomorrow to call Monty is a good idea.
The next day I wake up feeling guilty for not calling. He’s got to be wondering what’s going on.
But if I call, and tell him, that’s it. One way or another we have to deal with it. There will be no going back.
Unless I don’t call. Don’t tell him. Take care of it on my own.
I pace around my apartment and look at the clock. Could he already be at work? I shouldn’t call him at work. But I need to call him now, before I let this new idea take root, because it’s dangerous. It will grow like a weed and smother all the other, healthier options until they’re dead. Then I’ll never tell him, and I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.
I dial his cell. He picks up on the first ring.
“Hi,” he says. “What’s up?”
“I’m pregnant.” The words just fall out of my mouth like a bomb. I wait and listen for the devastation and the impact.
“I don’t get it,” he says. His voice is hesitant, and softer than usual. “You said you were on the pill.”
I wipe away tears with the back of my hand. “I was. I am. I just forgot that I was on antibiotics earlier this month. I guess that messed everything up."
“Oh.” He sighs, and I imagine him, collapsed in his office chair. “We should have used a condom too, huh? It was careless not to get some.”
“Careless? That’s it. That’s all you can say?”
He laughs a little, but it’s not a friendly sound. “What do you want me to say?”
“Nothing specific. But how about focusing on what we’re going to do now, rather than on what we didn’t do then?”
At first he doesn’t respond, but I can hear his breathing; it sounds practiced, steady and even. “How about giving me a minute? You’ve had time to absorb this. I haven’t.”
I do as asked. While I wait, I realize it was a mistake to call. Maybe this is unfair, but I’ve already grown tired of this conversation. It needs to e
nd, now. “How about you call me back after you’ve had some time to think?”
His breath catches, but he responds. “Sure. That sounds good.” Pause. “You’ll be okay?”
“Of course. Call me in a day or two, and we’ll talk then.”
Again there’s silence. “Lucy…”
But his voice trails off. “Monty,” I say, “I have to get ready for work. We’ll talk later, okay?”
“Yeah.”
Then, after two or three seconds, I hear the phone click. He’s gone.
Two impossibly long days later, he calls.
“How are you?” He asks.
“Okay,” My voice may be too soft for him to actually hear, but he doesn’t ask me to repeat myself.
“Of course you should keep it,” he says, “If that’s what you want to do. Is that what you want to do?”
“I think so,” I tell him. “Yes. I want to keep it.” I wasn’t planning on saying that, but as I do, I realize it is what I want.
“Then I’ll help.” He sounds all choked up, like he’s as sure of this connection he now has to me, as Obama is of his connection to Jeremiah Wright.
But perhaps I’m misreading the signs. One person’s terrorist fist bump is another person’s gesture of love. Somehow, I need to stay clear-headed enough to figure out which is which.
July
I’m playing hooky from teaching today. On a day like today, nobody is going to class. People hardly ever go to summer classes anyway.
I’m on my computer, trying to distract myself from my nausea and the heat. Not even the ocean breeze helps cool things down. So I read news story after news story about how negative this campaign has become. The story I’m reading right now is about Obama stating that he makes people nervous because he “doesn’t look like all those other presidents on the dollar bill.” People are accusing him of playing the race card.
I guess race is one of the verboten topics. Whatever you say about it should be said so quietly that you’re not really saying anything at all.
I get up and look out my window. Bikers and walkers pass by, and they all look so healthy and out-doorsy. I thought Seattle was supposed to be a city. Why do I feel like I’m living in a Land’s End catalog?
My phone rings. I look at the caller ID and smile. I pick up the phone.
“Hey, Sharon.”
“Now that is not a happy voice.”
I move over to the couch and plop down. “Oh, you’re wrong. This is the happiest I’ve sounded all day. Thanks for calling me back.”
“Sorry it took me so long. Life has been crazy lately.” Sharon is often too busy to talk.
“How are Raul and the kids?”
“Good. They just sap all my energy.” Sharon has been married with children for several years. After a long, angst-filled romance with her married co-worker Tony, she finally cut it off. The next day, Raul, a guy at her gym, asked her out. She said yes because she figured a rebound relationship wouldn’t be a bad idea. Ten years and three kids later they’re still together, and Sharon has admitted that Raul is more than just a fling. They still live in Minneapolis, and Raul stays home with the children while Sharon works in finance.
“Did you just love them automatically? Or did it happen over time?” I twist my hair into a knot, trying to capture all the stray tendrils. On a day like today, it’s too hot to have hair on your neck.
“Automatically, I guess. Why? Are you worried you won’t love your baby?”
Sharon is the only other person besides Monty who even knows I’m pregnant. I call her at least twice a week with my insecurities.
“What if I don’t?” I ask. “What if I’m just an awful person?”
“Oh, Lucy. You’re going to love motherhood. Trust me, it’s the greatest.”
I sit on the floor and stretch, trying to ease my tension. “I hope so, because so far it’s been awful. I just feel tired and nauseous and crabby. It has to get better, right?”
“Of course. The first trimester is difficult. Things will improve.”
“Okay.”
I get up and walk toward the kitchen. Talking about pregnancy has made me crave saltines. I rip into the package of saltines and shove one in my mouth.
“So have you and Monty talked any more about it?”
“Hold on,” I say, my words muffled by my chewing. I finish my cracker and take a sip of water before I answer. “No. We’re still avoiding the subject. It’s like the elephant in the room.”
She pauses and I hear the sound of static combined with her soft breathing. “How do you think he’s doing with his impending fatherhood?”
I don’t know the answer to that.
“Lucy?”
“He’s fine.”
“Really?”
“Really.” I take another drink of water and try to steady myself. This conversation feels like exercise; it’s work but it’s also a release. “It was just such a surprise, for both of us. And after what he’d been through…”
“You mean the malaria?”
“Yes, and Evelyn leaving him for his doctor, and just everything, I don’t know. It took him a couple of days to get on board. But we’re fine now. We’d only been dating for three weeks when I found out I was pregnant, but we’re fine.”
“Well, that’s good.”
My stomach turns. The term “morning sickness” is such a lie. It lasts throughout the day, and on bad days I’ll throw up several times. Like today. I’m home on a Thursday, because if I was working I’d need a bucket by my lecture podium.
“Sharon, I’m sorry, but I have to go.”
And with that, I drop the phone and race to the toilet.
Later, Monty comes over. I’m lying on my couch, staring sideways at the television, which is what I now do every evening. Monty is sitting several feet away, because when he first came in and gave me a hello kiss I pushed him away.
“Your cologne is way too strong,” I told him. Another symptom of pregnancy is that the weirdest odors bother me.
“I’m not wearing any cologne.”
“Whatever. The smell of your deodorant then. I can’t stand it.”
“I have to wear deodorant, Lucy. I’d smell even worse if I didn’t.”
So he’s pouting and I’m fighting to stay awake. Ah, the romance. When we began dating it was like a fairy tale. Now, instead, we’re living in a Lifetime movie.
Monty has declared his support of me and this baby like a politician endorsing a candidate who has just beaten him in a primary. I struggle to believe him, just like I struggled to believe that Hillary would actually support Obama once he clinched the nomination. Some things just don’t ring true.
The TV goes to commercial. I’m not even watching, I feel so crappy. Monty grabs the remote and presses mute. He sits closer to me, and lightly brushes my thigh with his fingers.
“Hey,” he says. “Did you hear about Obama saying that McCain has lost his bearings?”
I lick my lips and shake my head. “No.”
“It was in an interview. Somebody asked him his thoughts on McCain’s statement that Hamas wants him to be elected, and he said it was an example of McCain losing his bearings. Sort of an indirect way of being ageist, you know?”
“I don’t know if it’s that indirect.”
“Obama said he meant his lost his moral bearings. He didn’t mean it as an age thing.”
I adjust the pillow under my head and shift my weight towards Monty. “So McCain can be racist and Obama can be ageist, but neither can accuse the other of being so? It’s all so ridiculous.”
“It’s amazing, isn’t it? All the things we’re not allowed to say.” Monty kisses my thigh and presses his stubbly cheek against my leg. I run my fingers through his hair, but I don’t answer him. Someday, we’ll be ready to talk about the reality of what’s coming. We don’t have a choice. But for now, I’ll take silence.
August
McCain entered the race at a huge disadvantage. Technically he’s not the
incumbent, but people are so unhappy with George W. Bush that they’re willing to blame any Republican for Bush’s downfalls. The Obama camp has capitalized on this by coming up with the term “McSame” and drilling it into peoples’ head that Obama is a change we can believe in.
McCain’s only line of defense is to play up Obama’s inexperience. He was only in the U.S Senate for two years before deciding to run, after all. Does that qualify him to run the country? McCain says no. But other than being a natural born citizen, having lived in the U.S. for fourteen years, never being impeached by the Senate, and never taking part in a civil rebellion, there are no requirements for being president. Just like other than being fertile, there are no requirements for being a parent. I don’t know if that makes us qualified, though.
Monty and I are in the doctor’s waiting room, and he keeps tapping his fingers and shifting in his chair. I try to read my New Yorker magazine, but my eyes pass over the words without digesting any of the information.
“I can’t believe you bought that,” Monty says. He’s referring to the cover; it has a cartoon picture of Barack and Michelle Obama depicted as Islamic extremists, with grossly caricaturized features. I think it’s meant to be a comment on all the efforts from opponents to make the Obamas seem that way, rather than on the Obamas themselves, but people have raised quite a fuss over it.
I shrug my shoulders. “I have a subscription. You know that.” Monty exhales loudly as a response. “What’s the big deal?” I demand. “You know The New Yorker isn’t racist. I’m sure the irony they were going for isn’t lost on you.”
His finger tapping continues. “It’s not lost on me. But it’s lost on other people, and it’s a dangerous message they’re sending out.”
“So you’re saying that people are too stupid to understand the joke, and we should just boycott the magazine?”
“Yes.” He sits still now, looking at me, daring me to challenge him.
I adjust my shirt, which feels awfully snug. I should have worn something more oversized. “You’re such a snob,” I say, without meeting his eyes.
“I prefer liberal elite.”
November Surprise Page 13