by Ana Simons
“And then they start to give you a tiny flicker of a smile, squeeze your finger with their little hands or do any other most endearing thing and it hits you. Like a wrecking ball. They’re the bright spot in your life and you can’t live without them anymore.
“That’s when everything starts to fall back into place... But then, of course, you can’t sleep again because you become an obsessed loony who needs to check every thirty minutes if they suddenly stop breathing. And you won’t let anyone with a cold come near! And if they didn’t put you away in a mental institution, you’d soak every stranger in antiseptic gel sanitizer too. Yeah, we all go crackers! But it will pass. Someday. Eventually...”
36 Meant-to-be stories
“Hey, you shouldn’t kick with your toe, mate!” I tell Josh as I approach the goal post in the back garden. He’s getting ready to take a penalty kick. “It’s always with the laces, remember that! Come on, let Grandpa rest for a little while, I’ll play with you!”
My father nods in agreement and, with some effort, leaves the improvised football field and sits on the deck.
I position myself in the middle of the goal and look sideways, out of the corner of my eye. My father is watching us, smiling, and the sight of him, so weary and vulnerable, shakes me to my very core.
Suddenly a lot of words start to swirl in my head. Ball in and out of play. Offside. Score lines. Sidelines. Wall pass. Wing-back. Midfielder. Centre forward. Winger. All words I’d already learned by Josh’s age.
On Saturdays, sometimes Sundays, I always sat with my father to watch every Arsenal match. And, sure, he also did a good job teaching a few tricks to me. We played together for quite a long time—at least until I began to beat him.
“Come on, mate, give Uncle Goalie your best shot!”
He doesn’t comment. His eyes are focused on the ball.
“So, how’s it going to be? Want to strike with power or place it in the corner?”
He glances up at me and narrows his eyes.
“Good. Take a good look before you get the ball, check where I am!”
He gets ready…
“Keep your head down, Josh. Focus.”
And he kicks as best as he can and scores. With a little help from his friend here.
Four or five goals later, he’s absolutely thrilled and begins to jump like crazy and run around the garden yelling, “Josh McReary just scored the winning goal and the whole stadium is chanting his name! What a striker!”
“Well done, mate!”
He high-fives me and asks out of nowhere, “So you finally got it, huh? How the rubbing thing works?”
Here we go again.
“Mate, you’re as red as a tomato!” And mucky and with sweat trickling down his face. “Why don’t you go inside, rest a little and let me chat a bit with Grandpa?”
“No! First, you tell me!” He takes my hand and pulls me to the swing set. “But at least did you do it right?” he asks, swinging slowly, his big inquisitive eyes fixing mine.
“What do you mean?”
“Did you ask for a baby boy like I told you?”
“Well, you see, it was a buy-one-get-one-free deal, so I don’t know. They didn’t let me choose.”
His nose crinkles up in a frown and then he kind of pouts. “Oh man, I bet they got you another pair of cracks, I know it already.”
Dear God.
“You know, your sisters were sharing the same bag, that’s why they look alike. But Olivia has two little bags in her tummy, one for each baby, so we may even get a girl and a boy!”
The possibility seems to settle him.
“You know Jane? The ginger-haired girl from my class? The one we used to meet in the swimming pool? They’re saying she’s pregnant.”
I arch an amused eyebrow at him. “Oh really? But how on earth did that happen?”
Looking away, he shrugs. “How would I know? But I hope it’s not mine. This family has enough babies already.”
I almost choke on laughter. “You’re right, mate. You should wait until you grow up.”
He stops swinging and looks up at me, on his face a sad, almost compassionate look. “I’m really sorry for Olivia.”
“Why? Why’re you saying that?”
“Come on, I’m not a baby anymore. I know it already.”
“What then?”
“Duh! To make babies you have to rub straight in the bagina!”
What? What happened to the goddamned storks or whatever crap-story you tell kids these days?
“Mum said it hurts a lot to get the babies out of there, so my guess is it can’t be fun to put them in there either.” He heaves a deep sigh and lets his shoulders sag before he concludes, “That’s why I’m so glad I’m not a girl. That’d really suck!”
There’s a horrified expression in his eyes and, seriously, after listening to my sister today, the topic doesn’t make me laugh either.
“But when are the babies coming out?”
“Around May. That is, if they don’t decide to come a little bit earlier, like your sisters did.”
“When’s that?”
“Just in time for Emma’s birthday, Champ.” I stroke his hair and let him know I’m going to sit with Grandpa now.
*
“Dad. How’re you feeling?”
He adjusts his back to the chair. “Fine. Just a bit tired. But it’ll pass.”
It won’t. Pain and nausea are being controlled and managed, but fatigue has been the worst and most distressing symptom of his condition. There have been days I feel he’s already tired of being tired and it’s so difficult to watch him wither.
“You cold? Want me to get a blanket?”
“I’m fine.” Forcing a smile, he taps on my leg. “Look at you, my boy is going to be a Dad! That will be one heck of an exciting ride, you’ll see.”
But he won’t. And since we broke the news earlier today, sure he was happy about it, but he’s also been quieter than usual, probably trying to cope with his own frustration. The awareness that he won’t be around to meet them is tearing him apart, we all know it.
“Hey!” He raises a finger. “Don’t forget to ask her to marry you! Ask her nicely, think of something special. They all love those things, she’s no different!”
“I can’t do that, Dad. We just got back together.”
He nods in agreement, with a mocking glint in his eyes and his mouth twisting with irony. “You’re right, if it’s becoming a bit of an issue for you, don’t ask her. After all, you just met her, you might not even adore her since as far back as you can remember. And, of course, it’s not like you knocked her up or anything!”
He cracks a loud laugh and then stops suddenly, to lay his hand over mine and look at me with a serious stare I’m not used to. “Only ‘when it’s gone, you’ll know what a gift love was. You’ll suffer like this. So go back and fight to keep it.’ McEwan. He’s absolutely right. But you know that already, don’t you?
“Listen, it might be the last piece of wisdom you get from your old man: life takes many twists and turns and you two have been on this winding road for such a long time now. So maybe it’s about time you jump in with everything you’ve got and do everything within your reach to keep what you have now. Do ask her. Make her feel special. Because she’s that already. No buts and ifs—life’s too short for that.
“And then, in the end, you might even have a great love story to tell your kids. You know why? Because sometimes, even if life makes you drift apart for a while, there are stories that are just meant to be. And yours might well be one of those.”
I smile, a forced pained smile. “But I almost screwed it all up, Dad. I need her to trust me again.”
He waves his hand, minimising it. “Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself.”
“I did lie to her.”
“Bugger off, that wasn’t even a decent lie! And let’s just cut the crap, everyone lies. Every day. The thing is, sometimes we lie, not because we’re bad people, but because we’re
trying to prevent a bigger problem, just that. It’s always a tough call, I know, but the intention is what really counts. Now, did you lie because you planned on cheating on her?”
“Course not, but still. It’s not quite right and you’re–”
“Yeah, tell me that I have a twisted sense of morality, like I care at this point! Listen, if we always told the truth, all the time, where would that take us? If you said the exact words that come to your mind, what would the consequences be? That’s easy: you would end up alone or dumped, maybe even injured in the hospital or locked up in prison.”
He snorts and continues with a funny voice, “‘Morning, Jake.’ ‘Morning boss, you sodding idiot!’ / ‘Thanks, Millie. Great work. Wait, why do you look like that? You do it on purpose?’ / ‘Thanks, dear. You’re the love of my life—but what the fudge have you done to your hair this time?’ One last one, especially dedicated to your loving grandmother: ‘So nice to see you, Martha, you old nag. Why are you always nosing around?’ Bugger me, if it wasn’t so dramatic, it’d be hilarious!”
The two of us can’t contain ourselves and chuckle quietly. Then he concludes, “In the end, we’re all a bunch of hypocrites, that’s what we all are. We lie to everyone’s faces but we call it ‘filter’. Such a fancy label, isn’t it?
“But, hey? I’m not telling you to lie to the mother of your children, are we clear? Omitting silly things to protect the ones we care about is one thing, keeping secrets that could tear them apart is a totally different story!”
I nod silently.
“Now, make your father proud and be a good man, will you?”
I will.
We both lean back, with eyes closed, and remain silent for quite a while. I lift my head to the cold soft wind that flutters across my face and blows my hair a little. It feels good.
Eventually, I find myself looking at the leafed branches of the weeping willow tree that are flowing in the wind and thinking about what he’s just told me. Maybe he’s right, maybe I should ask her to marry me. It doesn’t have to be now, it can be next year, in a couple of years, it doesn’t matter. But she should know that’s what I wish for us.
Now I have to come up with something special.
But what?
37 Proposals
Six weeks later…
“Gee, that was so romantic! That’s everything I’ve ever dreamed about all of my life!” Olivia angles her head at me, on her face an impatient, sullen frown. “Oh, crap! Here it comes again…”
She throws her head back into the toilet bowl and my heart falls into the pit of my stomach. I’m on my knees too, half awake, half asleep, already waiting with a bottle of cold seltzer water by my side.
Why the hell people call it morning sickness, I don’t know, because it’s just past midnight and we are already here, in the land of nausea and vomiting. And it’s been like this for almost a month now. What a bummer.
She comes up again, looking as pale as if she was about to pass out.
“Here, sweetheart.” I hand her a towel. “Liv, for crying out loud, look at you! It’s not easing off. How can you–”
“But it will. We just have to give it some time.” Her voice sounds strangled as it passes her lips. A few instants later another wave hits her.
I come closer to hold back her hair. “Still, that’s very stupid. Romantic or not, you’re not going anywhere. What kind of crazy idea is that? It doesn’t make any sense that you–”
“Wait. You’re wearing that cologne again? Go away!”
“No, I’m not. I’ve also made sure no one in the neighbourhood is wearing it either.” God, everything makes her queasy, including me. “Maybe if I get you something to nibble...”
“Oh, Christ no. No food.”
And that sets it off again. Crap. Why isn’t she like my sister, who could ward off any nausea simply by shoving a cracker down?
A good half hour later everything seems to have calmed down. Leaning her head back against the tiled wall, she looks exhausted and kind of green.
“Here, Fiona. Have a few sips.” I hand her a glass of water.
She smiles a little. “Looking like an ogre again, huh?”
“Yeah. A cute ogre, though. A cute and very stubborn ogre. Come here.” I pull her gently and sit her between my legs, her back against my chest so that I can soothe her a little. And get back to the conversation I was trying to have before: I want her to move in with me, but she’s reluctant to accept that’s the best option for everyone.
“I just hope I don’t develop hyperemesis. That’d be terrible.”
Hyper–what?
My guess is that I should know already what the hell that means. It’s probably in that book she gave me, the one I’m still reading. Slowly. Very slowly.
That thing is a drag.
Pregnancy Sucks for Men, that’s what I’ve been secretly checking. I borrowed it from Mark. It was his holy bible and, apparently, served its purpose just fine. And Being a Great Dad for Dummies, too. They’re probably not very scientific, but who the fuck cares when they explain you in English what’s going on here? It’s the crazy pregnancy hormones messing up with her and it feels as if she was being held upside down while having a hangover and being seasick at the same time.
“Yeah, that’d be awful. For goodness sake, why won’t you take the goddamn meds? I’m certain that if you do, the babies won’t come out ugly, will they?” I improvise and go along with the context.
Pregnancy jargon is tough, and experts’ advice in this situation would be to never tell them you have absolutely no idea what they’re talking about. They’re very sensitive as it is, and there’s no need to piss them off when they’re so emotional already. Instead, and if you wish to live, you cheat.
Yes, cheat. At one in the bloody morning, there’s no need to make things more difficult than they already are.
“You’re right, I can’t go on like this.” She sighs, agreeing.
I begin to rub her shoulders, trying to make her relax. “Yes, do that. And try to take a couple of sick days and stay home. I’d stay with you in the morning, we’d step out outside and go for walks together. The fresh air would do you good.”
“I don’t know, we’re already taking next week off. Maybe that’s pushing it too much, don’t you think?”
“Back to my question now.”
“Brian, please.” Again, the same note of irritation in her voice.
“Well, excuse me if I think that’s the biggest nonsense I’ve heard! Why should you have to go through this alone? Why don’t you just say yes and move in with me once and for all? Why do we have to wait until the birth? That’s ridiculous!”
“I’m not alone, my Grandma is there. And besides, that’s a huge step! And we agreed we’d take it slow.”
“Take it slow?” I shake my head incredulous. “Darling, the huge step already happened!”
“Keep rubbing, please.”
Which I do. “Olivia, think with me: you already sleep over most nights, half of your things are already here. Why are we complicating it?” I ask her, looking up at the mirror, where our eyes meet.
She doesn’t reply.
“Liv?”
She takes another sip and leans her head back against my shoulder. “Okay, I’ll think about it.” There’s a little smile on her lips but a sad expression in her eyes, which leaves me unsettled. “But for Christ’s sake, don’t ask me that again when my head’s spinning and hovering over a toilet bowl and I’m calling for Huey!”
“I promise, I won’t do that.”
Next time it’ll be different. So much different.
“How about Matthew? Can I add it to the list?” she asks in the middle of some breathing exercises.
It’s Isabella and Emily if we get girls. That was fairly easy to decide. But with the boys, I don’t know why, we haven’t reached an agreement yet. Now we’re trying to come up with a short list and will let Josh and Emma pick out the names.
“Matthew? Yes, I like
it. What about Julian?”
“Oh God no! It reminds me of the WikiLeaks guy. I hate his hair.”
I roll my eyes. These are the kind of rational arguments she gives me every time I suggest a different name. I might as well let her choose whatever she wants.
“But why not Charles and John?” she asks again, for the fourth or fifth time this week. It’s our fathers’ names.
“Can’t we really be a little more creative? With so many names out there, why can’t they have their own names? And if it’s a girl and boy, which granddad are you going to ditch, huh?”
“How about Archie?”
That one makes me cringe. “That’s the name of that cranky old neighbour that lives down the street, next to my parents. He’s such a wanker.”
She lets out a short puff of air.
Oliver, Jack, Harry, Jacob, Will... I can’t recall them all anymore, but I’m pretty sure we have already gone through the top 50 most popular boys’ names in Britain and there always seems to be a problem.
“Don! How about Donald?” I ask, enthusiastically.
She turns and looks at me with an expression of horror on her face.
“What now?”
“Trump, it reminds me of Donald Trump.”
“You’ve got problems with his hair too?”
She sighs. “It’s late. We’d better go to bed.”
*
“I can’t believe you’ve done this!” My sister snarls over the phone, the next day, after having had lunch with Olivia.
“What? What have I done now?”
“Excuse me? In the bathroom? Just like that? While she’s puking her guts out? You and that idiotic plan of yours will end up ruining everything! When you finally pop the question, she’ll be so bitter and disappointed, she’ll make you swallow the goddamn ring!
“Oh, come on.”
“Dammit, Brian! First, you can’t ask a woman to move in with you when she’s draped over a toilet! You crazy? It’s supposed to be a special thing, not some fucked up moment! Secondly, ‘why are we complicating it’? What kind of question is that? You’re inviting her to be your roommate or something? If I were you, I’d move my arse quickly and ask her properly!”