One Week

by Roya Carmen

  “Please, John,” I beg.

  John slides his fingers along the heel of my shoe, and the silky fabric of my stockings but he doesn’t take them off. He undoes his fly, and presses into me. I close my eyes, knowing that he’s not going to make me beg much longer.

  It feels just like it used to when he finally sinks into me. I close my eyes and melt into him. I moan quietly, struggling not to be too loud. I feel my release coming closer and closer as he pounds into me, as he touches me just right — he knows exactly how to make me come.

  Finally, we both reach our climaxes together, perfectly in sync, like it used to be, like we were never apart.

  We both collapse onto the bed, and he holds me tightly in his arms. “That was amazing,” he whispers in my ear — we’re still trying to be quiet. “Next time, we’ll have to try it without our clothes on,” he jokes. “It’ll be even better.”

  “Yeah,” I say quietly, and see Eli’s face. It’s all I can see. I miss him so much.

  John tightens his hold around me. “I love you.”

  “I love you too,” I say absentmindedly. My body feels him still, just as it always did. But my heart just doesn’t anymore.

  Life goes on, no matter how you feel inside. You put on a brave face for those around you. Your kids fill their days at school and at play, and you envy their innocence. A part of you worries about them. Will their precious little hearts be broken too one day? You smile when they show you something they’re excited about, you play their favorite games, and you make them their favorite meals. You contain your sorrow.

  It’s not much different with John… I make him his coffee just the way he likes it, first thing in the morning, and he kisses me on the cheek. We chat a bit here and there about his latest project or mine — small talk. We share dinner as a family, and share our days. And we might watch a silly sitcom or drama in the evening. We pass each other a hundred times a day, it seems.

  He can’t see it. He can’t see that I’m broken inside. The plastic smile on my face hides it so well. He never asks me if I’m okay. If he did, would that change everything?

  I lock myself in the various rooms of our massive extravagant home, places where John doesn’t venture often; Emma’s bathroom, the guest bathroom, the butler’s pantry, the storage room in the basement, and my studio, of course. It seems like between adult-ing and pretending, I spend my days crying in small rooms.

  I tell myself that this is insane. I’d promised myself that I would stop thinking about him. I haven’t looked at the pictures, and haven’t let myself stand still long enough to remember, yet…

  I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor of Emma’s bathroom — she’s at school. I’m sobbing quietly into a hand towel. Actually I’m slobbering — it’s not a pretty sight. I know what will come after this — I’ll wash my face with cool water, reapply my makeup, walk downstairs, and act like everything’s just fine. I tell myself that the reason I’m so emotional must be PMS. I always get a little weepy this time of the month, and this month has definitely been a whirlwind. I dig into my bra and wrap a hand around one of my breasts, and sure enough, it feels tender. It’s coming… and after a day or two, I’m sure I’ll feel much better, and perhaps I’ll even feel normal again.

  I wash my face, touch up my makeup, let down my hair. I run up to my studio and check my calendar. I want to know when I’ll stop feeling like this. My Vincent Van Gogh calendar hangs over my desk. I grab it, and flip to March.

  My stomach drops.

  I quickly do the math. I sweep a hand across my forehead as I struggle to add it up. I’m about two days late. I’m never late. My cycle is always thirty to thirty-two days, without exception.

  It’s been thirty-four days.

  My body is trembling when I head back downstairs. I don’t want to believe this. It doesn’t make sense. Eli and I were always safe. We weren’t stupid… not even once.

  I hurry, and grab my jacket and purse. I tell John that I’m going out to run some errands. I’m numb as I get into my car. I start the engine, back out of my driveway, and my hands have minds of their own. The car takes me to the nearest pharmacy.

  When I get there, I can’t seem to move. I’m afraid to go in there, afraid to face the truth. My pulse races as I venture into the same pharmacy I’ve been in dozens of times. The faces are familiar, but no one knows me here. Our city is not huge, but it’s not one of those tiny quaint towns where everyone knows everyone. Yet, I study my surroundings and make sure there’s no one here I know. Occasionally, I do run into people I know, at the grocery store, downtown, or at the pharmacy. Thankfully, it’s a weekday, and very quiet.

  My stomach feels heavy as I grab a small shopping basket. I throw a few random things in; bottles of shampoo and conditioner, a can of shaving cream, a tube of toothpaste, some tampons, and finally I quickly reach for a home pregnancy test, so fast, I’m a blur. I hide it under the bottle of shampoo.

  My heart is still pounding as I make my way to the cashier. I feel ashamed. And scared. I throw a random magazine into the basket. The cashier is a young sullen woman who doesn’t even make eye contact with me — she has no idea how thankful I am for that. I pay cash. There’s an elderly man behind me who also couldn’t care less about what’s in my basket.

  Finally, the cashier hands me my bag with a forced smile.

  “Thank you,” I say and let out a long breath. I crumple the receipt, and throw it out on my way out the door. My nerves ease as I walk back to my car. I sit for the longest time, and stare at the bag on the passenger seat.

  I can’t do this. I can’t go back home and take this test. I’m already thinking about this baby — my child, Eli’s child. I’m already picturing a little boy with Eli’s eyes, or a little girl with his smile.

  Chapter Forty-One

  I DRIVE OUT OF THE LOT, and my hands take me to the only person who might understand. Maeve is a little too good and too naïve. She might just be shocked speechless. Corrie can be a tad judgmental, and too cynical. Kayla might just be the best one to ask for advice. She always seems so centered and together.

  I haven’t called her. I’m not even sure she’s around — she might be at work. I know for a fact that she doesn’t teach any yoga classes in the afternoon.

  I’m still trembling as I buzz the intercom. I’m not sure if it’s the chilly weather or my emotions.

  “Hello,” she answers promptly.

  “Hi, Kayla… it’s Gabbie,” I say. “Sorry to pop in like this.”

  “No worries, come on up.”

  She buzzes me up, and I pad up the stairs to her apartment on the second floor. As soon as she swings the door open, I throw myself into her arms. I feel instantly soothed — her apartment is so calming. It’s where we meet every once in a while for movie night. We watch rom-coms and drink wine, and sometimes have a sleepover.

  She closes the door behind us. “What’s going on?”

  I ease out of my jacket, hang it by the door, and take a seat on her orange sectional. Her place has a rustic bohemian vibe; natural woods, boho patterns, and lots of candles. The wall colors are soothing, and everything is so Zen. My pulse slows down.

  “Can I get you a tea?” she asks. As far as Kayla is concerned, a good cup of tea and a good talk can solve anything.

  “Sure, thank you,” I say. ‘You know what I like.”

  I still can’t believe this is happening. How could this happen? My life is set: the husband, the two adorable children, and the perfect house. My friends, my art. Why would I want anything more? Why do I want this baby?

  Kayla makes small talk as she prepares my tea. I know she’s giving me time, letting me ease into it. This is what’s nice about Kayla. Corrie would be all over me like white on rice. She’d be all, “tell me what’s going on, woman! Now!”

  Kayla talks about her new next door neighbor who is a total hottie, but she kind of hates him. I think there’s something going there, but she won’t admit it.

  She hands me
my cup of tea with a kind smile. Kayla has the sweetest smile and the prettiest brown eyes. She’s the kind of caring person you want to spill all your secrets to.

  I take a sip, and instantly fall into tears. “I think I might be pregnant.”

  She’s speechless and slack jawed. She knows John can’t be the father because she knows all about the vasectomy he had a few years back.

  “Crazy, right?!”

  “What are you going to do?! Are you sure?”

  I shake my head. “I’m not sure,” I tell her. “It’s just that…” I set my cup of tea on the rustic coffee table, and reach into my oversized purse for the pregnancy test. “I’m late… just a few days, but I’m never late,” I tell her. “I just got this test at the pharmacy, but I just couldn’t go home to take it… John’s there.”

  “I get it…” she says, her eyes still wide as saucers.

  “I don’t know how I feel,” I go on. “I’m freaking out, but a small part of me is thrilled.” I turn to her. “Is that crazy?!”

  She scoots closer and hugs me. “It’s not crazy… you love this man,” she says. “It’s obvious. And I think you just want to hold on to him.”

  She lets go, and fetches me a box of Kleenex — I’m a mess. “I guess that makes sense,” I say. “But can you imagine what my life would be like?”

  She smiles. “I know how much you love babies.”

  I blow my nose. “I know… I miss those years,” I admit. “But I’m not sure I can… not like this.”

  She rests a hand on my shoulder. “Well, there’s no sense in freaking out until we know for sure. Why don’t you go in my bathroom, and take the test right now.”

  I swallow hard. “Yeah, I’ve had to pee for the last hour.”

  She slaps me on the shoulder. “Well, off you go then.”

  I’m sitting on the toilet with my eyes closed. I don’t want to look. I carefully place the pee stick on two squares of toilet paper on the counter, and wash my hands. I stare at my reflection. Can I do this? I’m thirty-five. I’m not too old — my mother had me at forty-two. I’m healthy and have the energy. But this would destroy my marriage — there’s no question about that. Yet, I can’t imagine ever wanting to terminate this pregnancy.

  I check my watch. It’s time. I don’t want to look.

  I read the directions once more — a plus sign means pregnant, and two straight lines means not pregnant. Pretty simple.

  When I finally venture a look, my heart shatters, it smashes to bits. It hurts so much. It hurts more than I could have imagined. I fall into sobs, and kneel on the ground.

  I’ve cried so much these past few weeks — I’m convinced that I’ve cried more these past few months than I have in my entire life. I wish I’d never met Eli. I wish John had never met Amanda. We were so happy.

  Kayla knocks on the door, just two quick taps. “Are you okay, Gabs?”

  My voice cracks when I tell her I’m okay.

  “You don’t sound okay.”

  I stand up slowly, and reach for the door. I open it, and as soon as she sees me, she hugs me tightly.

  “It was negative,” I say. “I’m not pregnant.”

  She pulls out of my hold, and eyes me with a confused expression. “But that’s good, isn’t it? It’s what you wanted, right?!”

  “It’s what I should want,” I say, “but it’s not what I wanted.”

  She takes my hand and leads me to the sofa. I reach for my tea but it’s cold. I set it back on the table.

  “You’re not thinking clearly, Gabbie,” she says, her tone soft, not scolding. “This is for the best,” she goes on. “Think about it… you’re married with two great kids. I know John hasn’t been perfect but he’s a good dad and good husband. It was one mistake, and he owned up to it.”

  I don’t say a word. I let her talk some sense into me – it’s the reason I came here, after all. I need someone to talk some sense into me.

  “Eli sounds like a great guy, but he’s not real. He’s not part of your reality, Gabbie. He’s a starving artist who lives in Copenhagen. Sure he’s hot as hell, has the most adorable dog, and can cook like a gourmet chef, but c’mon… he’s not real.”

  Then why does he feel more real than John?

  I try not to remember his touch, his smile, the way he made me laugh. What we shared was real. It felt so true.

  “Maybe the test was wrong,” I say with sudden hope.

  Kayla’s gaze falls to the table. “Those tests are pretty accurate, Gabbie.”

  “But I’m never late,” I argue.

  “You were probably stressed this month,” she points out. “Stress can affect your menstrual cycle. And you have to admit that April was quite the month for you. Even travel can throw off your cycle, and your body. It’s why I always take probiotics. It helps when I travel, keeps things moving smoothly.”

  “You’re probably right,” I say before she sets off on one of her lectures about the benefits of organic food, natural supplements and vitamins.

  She bounces off the sofa. “Here, I’ll make you another tea… Raspberry Leaf Ginseng,” she says. “It’s good for stress, and also PMS, and apparently it can get things going if your period is sluggish.”

  I smile. “How do you know these things?”

  She grins. “It’s what I do.” She fancies herself a natural health practitioner. I honestly don’t know what that means, or if she has any clients, but her natural and healthy glow makes me want to follow in her footsteps.

  The tea is actually delicious, and I drain my cup while we talk about Eli. Kayla is convinced that Eli was a midlife crisis of sorts, an adventure, and my way of leveling the playing field in my marriage.

  She’s not entirely wrong.

  But her words sting a little. Eli means so much more than that to me. He wasn’t just an escape. He wasn’t a revenge plan.

  My brain is buzzing as I drive home. Why was I so upset about the pregnancy test? Why did I want this baby so badly? Did I just want to hold on to a part of Eli? Did I want to see his eyes reflected in my child? Did I really want his baby? Or did I just want an excuse to end my marriage. Did I just want a fresh start?

  Chapter Forty-Two

  MY PERIOD FINALLY COMES the next day — three days late. I spend the day watching reality TV and eating ice cream. John cocks a brow when he walks past once or twice. I don’t care what he thinks — yes, I’ve given up on life.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  “I’m fine,” I tell him. “I have cramps, and I’m having a lazy day. Is that against the law?”

  He’s just had his workout, and is sipping one of his green kale smoothies — he’s so perfect and together, it makes me sick. “I can’t believe you watch that trash,” he says.

  I scowl at him, and he doesn’t dare say another word.

  The thing is that I’m not really watching — it’s just noise. My mind is full of so many other things — my life, my marriage, my kids, the future… and Eli. This whole pregnancy scare really shook me, and it’s making me think harder than ever before.

  My life just doesn’t feel right anymore.

  Emma and Theo’s faces are precious. Both of them are smiling so wide, their faces are practically broken in two. I smile, tears in my eyes.

  Emma sets the breakfast tray down on my lap. “We made you toast with butter and raspberry jam, like you like.”

  “And scrambly eggs, orange juice, and coffee,” Theo adds.

  John, who is standing behind them, smiles down at me. “Happy Mother’s Day.”

  “Happy Mother’s Day,” the kids echo.

  I feign a smile. “Thank you.” I’m sitting up, leaning back on our upholstered silk headboard, tucked under a thick duvet. “This looks delicious,” I say and dig in, but I’m not hungry at all.

  I used to love Mother’s Day — a long time ago. When I was a kid, I used to love making things for my mother; pretty boxes, bookmarks, jewelry, and all kinds of crafts. I’d put so much effort into th
ese gifts; every detail was executed perfectly, and my teachers would always marvel at the final products, which were so much better than my classmates’ — I suppose that was the artistic side of me coming to fruition. My sister and I would get so excited, quarreling over who got to carry the breakfast tray to Momma’s bedroom.

  When I finally had children of my own, I loved being spoiled and fussed over; breakfast in bed, opening gifts, a nice dinner at my favorite restaurant, and a whole day to just be lazy. What’s not to love?

  The year my mother died four days before Mother’s Day, was the first Mother’s Day in my life I didn’t enjoy. It was a horrible day. There were no celebrations since we had to travel to my hometown, and deal with the wake and funeral arrangements. John and the kids did get me a few gifts which I opened hastily.

  Ever since, I’ve hated this day. I miss my mother. Not too many people understand what it’s like to lose a mother. I wasn’t ready to lose her. And the way it happened, so unexpectedly, and four days before Mother’s Day. We hadn’t spoken for about two weeks, and I’d planned to bury the hatchet on Mother’s Day — it was the perfect excuse to call her. I’d even ordered flowers to be delivered that day.

  I never cancelled the flowers — I just couldn’t bear it. The flower company left a message the Monday following Mother’s Day to let me know that the flowers could not be delivered. They were very sorry, offered apologies, and credited my Visa account. They never mentioned my mother’s passing. I imagined the flower delivery man knocking on her door, only to be told by a neighbor about her recent death.

  I’d told Eli all about my mother, but never did tell him when it had happened. I wonder if Eli hates this day as much as I do. I so desperately want to talk to him, it aches. It physically aches. I miss him as much as I miss my mother. I can’t go on like this.

  I spend much of the day in bed, attempting to read, but I keep reading the same paragraphs over and over. I just can’t focus. John tells me it’s a beautiful day, and suggests we go for a walk. He makes a lunch of canned soup, toasted bagels with butter, and cut up apples. For dinner, we venture to one of my favorite restaurants, a Mexican place. The restaurant is packed and loud. The conversation is stilted, and by the time we leave, I have a throbbing headache.