by Nina Lane
“And she never knew about your first marriage?”
“No.” I shove away a flood of bad memories. “We lost touch for a few years in grad school. Reconnected through a mutual friend when we both started looking for tenure-track positions.”
“She’s lucky to have you.” Liv pulls her hands through her hair and yawns. “So am I.”
“Not as lucky as I am to have you.”
We give each other a couple of goofy, cornball grins. My unease settles. For now.
“So you’re about eight weeks, Liv?” Dr. Nolan, our family physician, takes a circular calendar from her desk and twists it around. “When was the first day of your last period?”
“Um, November seventeenth or eighteenth, I think?” Liv glances at me from her perch on the examination table. A flush colors her cheeks. “Actually, I know the date of conception.”
A combination of heat and guilt goes through me. I know the date too. December first. Explosive as it was, it hadn’t been a night of hearts and flowers. Anything but.
“December first,” Liv tells the doctor.
“We prefer to figure out the date based on your last period.” Dr. Nolan checks the calendar again, unconcerned with our sexual history. She’s an older, gray-haired woman with a no-nonsense attitude that both Liv and I have always appreciated. “Okay, so your due date is August twenty-fourth. You’ll be eight weeks on Saturday.”
She punches a few keys on her computer. “Let’s get some medical questions answered, then we’ll do a physical exam. My nurse is getting a prenatal information package for you. Afterward you can go downstairs to the lab for blood and urine samples.”
“Do you need me to leave?” I ask.
“Only if Liv would be more comfortable alone,” Dr. Nolan replies, her fingers moving with brisk efficiency over the keyboard.
Liv shakes her head at me. She looks a little nervous, but Dr. Nolan is so matter-of-fact about the whole procedure that her anxiety seems to ease. We both answer a host of questions about our medical and family histories. Dr. Nolan gives Liv a physical exam and asks about her current symptoms.
“Do either of you have any questions for me?” Dr. Nolan swivels her chair to regard me through her glasses. “Dean?”
“A few, yeah.” I pull a notebook from Liv’s satchel and open it to the list of questions I’ve written out.
Liv rolls her eyes at the doctor, who cracks a smile.
It’s been fifteen years since I last knew anything about prenatal care, so I have a lot to learn. I won’t let any stone go unturned.
I review my list and ask questions Dr. Nolan hasn’t yet answered—do we need a prescription for prenatal vitamins, what kind of exercise is off limits, what should we do if Liv gets sick, how often should we come in for prenatal visits, if it’s okay for Liv to travel, how much folic acid she should take.
Dr. Nolan patiently and thoroughly answers everything. I take notes.
“What about sex?” Liv asks when I’m done.
“What about it?” the doctor replies.
“Well, we’ve been having it.”
“Good.” Dr. Nolan grins. “Sex is entirely safe during pregnancy, Liv. You’re healthy, very low-risk. As long as you’re both up to it, it’s fine. In fact, many people find sex during pregnancy even more enjoyable.”
I glance at Liv. She winks at me. If sex with her were any more enjoyable, I’d lose my mind.
“Why is that?” she asks the doctor.
“Women have increased blood flow to the pelvic region, more vaginal lubrication,” Dr. Nolan explains. “Hormonal changes influence their libido. There are no worries about birth control. A lot of women have an intense sex drive during pregnancy, especially during the second trimester.”
“That sounds promising,” Liv remarks as she gets off the examination table and disappears behind a curtain to get dressed.
After she’s done, the nurse comes in with a large packet of prenatal information. Dr. Nolan goes over it all and instructs us to make a twelve-week appointment and stop at the lab for samples. As we’re leaving, the doctor pats my arm.
“Don’t hesitate to call me if you have any other questions,” she says. “Everything looks great, so don’t worry unless there’s something to worry about.”
I thank her again and push the door open for Liv. Unless. That means there could one day be something to worry about.
It’s a dark fear, blacker than any I’ve known. I shove it down deep, not wanting to think about it, not wanting Liv to sense it.
She checks in at the first-floor desk and follows the attendant back to the lab. I sit in the waiting area and pull a loop of string out of my pocket. I cross it over my palms, then loop it around my thumbs and middle fingers. Thumbs tucked under. Lower index loop. Pull. Release. Twist. Loop.
I glance up to find a small boy across the aisle watching me. I pull my palms apart and hold up the web of string laced between them.
“It’s a rabbit,” I tell him. “See the two ears?”
He studies the pattern for a moment, then nods and gives me a gap-toothed grin. The woman beside him smiles.
I unravel the string and push it back into my pocket when Liv approaches.
“All done,” she says, slipping her hand into mine as we walk back out to the car. “Can you drop me off at the bookstore?”
“Sure. I have a few meetings on campus, but I’ll pick you up when your shift ends.”
I drive to Emerald Street where the Happy Booker bookstore is located. After walking Liv to the front of the store, I start toward campus and detour through a residential neighborhood close to the lake. Older homes and bungalows sit close to the mountain, then give way to larger houses as the streets wind toward the town.
I stop in front of a newer, Colonial-style house with a columned front porch and painted white shutters. It has a large yard bordered by trees and sits above a hill overlooking Mirror Lake. Well-maintained, expensive homes line the entire street.
A woman is waiting on the front porch. She waves at me as I approach.
“Dean? I’m Nancy Walker. Thanks for contacting me.”
“Sure.”
We shake hands. She gestures me to follow her into the house. It’s a huge, four-bedroom place with gleaming hardwood floors, cherrywood cabinets, and stainless-steel appliances. There’s a redwood deck overlooking the backyard with a view of the lake, a three-car garage, and a great room with a picture window. A study lined with built-in bookshelves sits just off the living room, which is dominated by a marble fireplace.
Nancy gives me a complete tour and discusses all the amenities of the house. The school district is excellent, she says, with the highest test scores in the county, and the owners recently landscaped the front yard.
“If you’d like to make an offer, I can write it up this afternoon,” Nancy tells me as she opens a door to show me the laundry room with a state-of-the-art washer and dryer.
“My wife needs to see it first,” I reply. “But it looks great.”
She beams. “It’s really a perfect family home.”
Yes, it is. Reminds me of my parents’ perfect family home.
I shake off that thought. My family will have nothing but the best.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I tell Nancy as we walk back to our cars.
She gives me her card and we discuss a potential offer strategy before parting ways. I head to the university and walk to my office in the history department.
“Hello, Dean.” Frances Hunter, professor of American history and chairperson of the history department, stops next to me. With short, gray hair and a charcoal-colored suit, Frances wears her role as one of the most respected historians in the country with ease.
“Afternoon, Frances.”
“I just sent the a
nnouncement about your IHR grant to the university newspaper,” she says with a smile. “It’ll come out in next week’s issue, so expect a lot of phone calls and emails, both of congratulations and from prospective students.”
“Thanks.”
“You deserve this, Dean. You’ve done great things for this department in a very short time.” She hands me a file folder. “You have a light class load this semester, but you’ve already got waiting lists, especially for the undergrad course. That’s your current list of students.”
She continues down the hall. I go into my office and leaf through the lists—one lecture course and one seminar, plus my continued planning of the interdisciplinary Medieval Studies conference King’s University is hosting.
I open my briefcase to take out my papers. There’s a note resting on top of a folder:
I never knew before now that Liv has a talent for drawing. I wonder if she even realizes she’s a good artist.
“Professor West?” One of my grad students, Sam, knocks at the half-open door. “Hey, didn’t know you were back yet. Have a good Christmas?”
“I did, thanks.” I tape the note to my computer, which faces away from the rest of the office. “You?”
“Yeah, went skiing up on the Point last week.”
“Come on in.” I clear a pile of folders off a chair so he can sit down. “How was the snow?”
“Powder, but thick. Beat my own speed record. You get out this year?”
“Not yet.”
“Bunch of us might head out again for a weekend before the semester starts, if you’re up for it.”
“Too busy, but thanks.” I don’t want to leave Liv even for a weekend now. I eye Sam’s backpack. “So what’s going on? You get any work done yet?”
“Believe it or not…” Sam digs into his backpack and removes a sheaf of printed-out paper. “First chapter outline.”
“Really?” Impressed, I take the papers.
“I focused on the medieval city structure and guild system,” Sam explains. “I found a great essay about how the power structure of the guilds affected city planning.” He pulls another paper out of his backpack and passes it across to me.
We spend the next hour discussing the outline of his thesis, the further research he needs to do, the narrowing of his hypothesis. I loan him a couple of books and promise to email him copies of my own papers on medieval city planning.
After he leaves, I organize my notes for the Words and Images conference, which will involve over three thousand scholars. Between presentations, dinners, seminars, poster sessions, banquets, and an exhibition of medieval manuscripts, we’re booking venues all over the university and in town.
A second knock sounds at the door. Another graduate student, Maggie Hamilton, looks in. There’s a guarded expression on her face.
My jaw clenches. “Hello, Maggie.”
“Professor West.” She shifts, jerking a thumb over her shoulder. “I just saw Sam at the library, and he said you were here. Can I… can I talk to you a minute?”
“Come in. Leave the door open, please.” Wariness floods me as she walks in.
Maggie was a masters student at King’s before I was hired. When the previous medieval history professor retired, Maggie became one of my students. I learned soon that she had been admitted to the program because her family has strong ties to the university, and her father continues to make large donations. Maggie’s lack of scholarly aptitude manifested itself in her poorly written thesis proposal, which she and I have argued over for the past year.
Last semester, Maggie approached Liv to ask for help getting me to approve her proposal. When Liv refused, Maggie made some slanderous implications about my integrity. I wrote Maggie an email telling her I could no longer be her advisor. She never responded.
Until, I assume, now.
“I… er, I wanted to apologize, you know, for last semester.” Maggie’s face gets red. “It was really inappropriate for me to approach your wife like that.”
“Yes, it was. Have you turned in the paperwork to change advisors?”
She turns a beseeching gaze to me. “I don’t want to change advisors, Professor West. I can’t! I’ve already done all the coursework for Medieval Studies, and you’re the only medievalist on faculty right now.”
“We talked about this last semester, Maggie. Given our disagreements—”and your damn lies “—I can’t advise you any longer.”
“But my father is expecting me to graduate this year so I can start law school next year! I’m already scheduled to take the LSAT. If you stop advising me, I’ll have to go to Professor Hunter, and she’ll make me take a whole semester of coursework, plus summer school.”
“Professor Hunter won’t make you do anything, Maggie. This university has specific requirements for graduation. No one is exempt from them. Not even you.”
Her head jerks up. She glares at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what it sounds like. No one is exempt from the requirements.”
“I never said I was!”
“Good, then you know what you need to do.”
“Look, Professor West, I don’t think I have a free ride because of my father.” Maggie steps closer to the desk. Anger flashes in her eyes. “I’m here because of him, yeah, and because he’ll cut me off if I don’t graduate this year and get into law school, but I’m not Daddy’s little girl.”
“Maggie, I can’t help you anymore. I’m writing a letter to Professor Hunter, as department chairperson, explaining we’re at an impasse and you should seek another advisor.”
“Can’t we start over? Let me go back and review the research, and I promise I’ll—”
“Maggie, it’s too late. I won’t advise you any longer.”
She heaves a sigh and steps back. “All right, look. What will it take?”
Unease hits me. “What do you mean?”
Her gaze meets mine. There’s a calculating gleam in her eyes that I don’t like.
“Your predecessor wasn’t above allowing a student a little extra credit,” Maggie says. “I’m sure you’re not either.”
We stare at each other. Anger simmers in my blood, but it’s not directed at her. Suddenly, against all reason, I feel sorry for her.
“Maggie, don’t.” I stalk to the door and pull it open the rest of the way. In case anyone happens to be in the corridor, I keep my voice professional and courteous. “Stop by the registrar’s to get that paperwork taken care of. You’ll hear from Professor Hunter within a week.”
She doesn’t move. She crosses her arms and looks at me, as if she’s trying to figure out another angle.
“Good-bye, Maggie.”
For a second, I think I might have to be the one to leave, but then she grabs her backpack and brushes past me out the door. I breathe a sigh of relief. Then I sit down at my computer and type up the letter to Frances Hunter. Only after it’s printed out and in Frances’s office mailbox do I feel somewhat better.
I take out my cell phone and call Liv.
“Hi, professor.” Her voice, smooth as silk and laced with affection, dispels some of my unease.
I swivel my chair to stare out the window. “Still at the bookstore?”
“Still here. Allie has a bunch of returns to deal with, so I’m staying to help. I thought I’d make spaghetti tonight, okay?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll walk home so I can stop at the store. Anything you want me to pick up?”
“Can’t think of anything.”
“So... why’d you call?” Liv asks.
“Just because.”
“Oh.” She pauses, obviously trying to work that one out since I’m not the type of husband who calls just because.
“Everything okay?” she asks.
> It’s a question I don’t know how to answer.
I take a breath. Two things. My wife and work. Nothing else matters.
“Yeah,” I finally say. “Everything’s okay.”
“Good. I’ll see you tonight, then.”
“Don’t lift anything heavy.”
“They’re just picture books.”
“I mean it, Liv.”
“I know. I’m being careful.” She sounds a little exasperated, as if she thinks I don’t trust her judgment.
“Humor me,” I suggest.
“Why else do you think I married you?” she retorts, then disconnects.
A few seconds later, a text message from Liv buzzes on my cell.
U & me 2gether 4ever. Signed with a little heart.
I respond with OK & R2D2.
I switch off the phone and toss it onto my desk. Ice crusts the edges of the window. My office is on the seventh floor and overlooks the snow-covered quad and bare trees. The frozen lake is in the distance. Dusk has fallen.
I turn from the window. I keep a framed picture of Liv beside my computer. I’d taken the photo when she stayed with me during winter break of the first year we met. She’s sitting on an old plaid sofa, her hair loose and messy, an unguarded smile lighting her face. She’s wearing a white, buttoned-up shirt too big for her slender shoulders, but no one else looking at the picture would know that it’s my shirt and that she’s naked underneath. Only I know the reason for that look in Liv’s brown eyes.
Only I know that when I took that picture, I’d already fallen hard for her.
I drag my hands through my hair, turn off the computer, and pack up my stuff. I head home and park on the street in front of our apartment. Cold scrapes my face, bites through my coat. Lights shine against the balcony windows. A gust of warmth hits me in the foyer. The smell of marinara sauce fills the air.
I step inside, all my unease disappearing at the sight of my wife. Her hair is pulled back into a messy knot as she stands over the stove, stirring a pot of sauce. She’s wearing a red pullover sweater, a white shirt, and jeans that hug her curved ass. I drop my briefcase and coat. Move to haul her into my arms.