"It's certainly more frustrating."
Doris stared at him. "I take it you're still not writing."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me," she said, her voice soft. "You aren't writing. That's who you are; it's how you define yourself. And if you can't do it... well, it's kind of like Lexie's pregnancy in that it amplifies everything else."
Doris was right, Jeremy decided. It wasn't the cost of the new house, plans for the wedding, the baby, or the fact that he was still adjusting to life as a couple. Any stress he felt was due largely to the fact that he couldn't write.
The day before, he'd sent off his next column, leaving only four prewritten columns left, and his editor at Scientific American had begun to leave messages on Jeremy's cell phone, asking why Jeremy wasn't bothering to keep in touch. Even Nate was beginning to get concerned; where he used to leave messages about the possibility of coming up with a story that might appeal to television producers, he now wondered whether Jeremy was working on anything at all.
At first, it had been easy to make excuses; both his editor and Nate understood how much had recently changed in his life. But when he offered the standard litany of excuses, even Jeremy realized they sounded exactly like that: excuses. Even so, he couldn't figure out what was wrong. Why did his thoughts become jumbled every time he turned on the computer? Why did his fingers turn to mud? And why did it happen only when it came to writing something that might pay the bills?
See, that was the thing. Alvin e-mailed regularly; Jeremy could pound out a long response in only a few minutes. The same thing happened if his mother or father or brothers e-mailed, or if he had to write a letter, or if he wanted to take notes about something he found on the Internet. He could write about the shows on television, he could write about business or politics; he knew, because he'd tried. It was easy, in fact, to write just about anything... as long as it had nothing to do with topics he had any expertise in. In those instances, he simply went blank. Or worse, he felt as if he would never be able to do it again.
He suspected his problem was a lack of confidence. It was an odd feeling, one he hadn't ever experienced before moving to Boone Creek.
He wondered if that was it. The move itself. That's when the problem started; it wasn't the house or the wedding plans or anything else. He'd been blocked from the time he'd rolled back into town, as if the choice to move here had come with a hidden cost. That suggested that he would be able to write in New York, however... but could he? He considered it, then shook his head. It didn't matter, did it? He was here. In less than three weeks, on April 28, he'd close on the house and then head off to his bachelor party; a week later, on May 6, he'd be married. For better or worse, this was home now.
He glanced at Doris's journal. How would he start a story about it? Not that he intended to, but just as an experiment....
Pulling up a blank document, he began to think, his fingers poised on the keyboard. But for the next five minutes, his fingers didn't move. There was nothing, nothing at all. He couldn't even think of a way to begin.
He ran his hand through his hair, frustrated, wanting yet another break, wondering what to do. There was no way he was going to the house, he decided, since it would only put him in a worse mood. He decided instead to kill some time on the Internet. He heard the modem dial in, watched the screen load, and scanned the main page. Noting that he had two dozen new messages, he clicked on the mailbox.
Most of it was spam, and he deleted those messages without opening them; Nate had sent a message as well, asking if Jeremy had noticed any of the articles concerning a massive meteor shower in Australia. Jeremy responded that he'd written four columns about meteors in the past, one as recently as last year, but he thanked him for the idea.
He nearly deleted the last message, which lacked a subject heading, but thought better of it and found himself staring at the screen as soon as the message appeared. His mouth went dry, and he couldn't turn away. Nor, suddenly, could he breathe. It was a simple message, and the blinking cursor seemed to taunt him: HOW DO YOU KNOW THE BABY IS YOURS?
Seven
HOW DO YOU KNOW THE BABY IS YOURS?
Jeremy knocked back his chair as he rose from the desk, still focused on the message. Of course the baby's mine! he wanted to scream. I know because I know!
Yes, the message seemed to ask, you say you know. But how do you know?
His mind raced for the answers. Because he and Lexie spent a wonderful night together. Because she told him it was his baby and she had no reason to lie. Because they were getting married. Because it couldn't be anyone else's. Because it was his baby....
Wasn't it?
Had he been anyone else, had his history been different, had he known Lexie for years, the answer would have been obvious; but.
That was the thing about life, he knew. There was always a but.
He shook the thought away, focusing on the message, trying to get control of his emotions. There was no need to get worked up about this, he told himself, even if the message not only was offensive, but bordered on... evil. That's how he viewed it. Evil. What kind of person would write such a thing? And for what reason? Because he thought it was funny? Because he wanted to start an argument between Lexie and Jeremy? Because...
He went blank for an instant, fumbling, his mind racing, knowing the answer but not wanting to admit it.
Because...
Because, the little voice in his head finally answered, whoever sent it knew that deep down, there was an instant when you wondered, too?
No, he suddenly thought, that was a lie. He knew the baby was his.
Except, of course, that you aren't able to get a woman pregnant, the little voice reminded him.
With a flash, it all came rushing back--his first marriage to Maria, the difficulty they'd had getting pregnant, the trips to the fertility clinic, the tests he'd taken, all culminating with the doctor's words: It's highly unlikely that you'll ever be able to father a child.
It was a kind choice of words: Jeremy had learned during that visit that for all intents and purposes he was sterile, a reality that eventually led Maria to ask for a divorce.
He remembered the doctor telling him that his sperm count was low--almost negligible, in fact--and those he did produce showed very little motility. Jeremy recalled sitting in the office in shock, grasping at any option. How about if I wore boxers? I've heard that helps, or How about treatments? There was nothing they could really do for him, the doctor explained. Nothing likely to be effective.
That day had been one of the most devastating of his life; until that point, he'd always assumed that he'd have children, and after the divorce, he'd reacted by becoming someone else entirely. He had more one-night stands than he could count and assumed he would lead the life of a bachelor forever. Until he met Lexie. And the miracle of her pregnancy, a child created out of passion and love, made him realize how pointless those years had been.
Unless...
No, scratch that, Jeremy thought. There was no unless. Of course the baby was his. Everything--from the timing, to Lexie's behavior all along, to the way Doris treated him now--assured him that he was the father of the baby. He repeated those thoughts like a mantra, hoping to drown out the reality of the doctor's words so long ago.
The message continued to taunt him. Who sent the e-mail? And, he wondered again, why?
Years of investigative research had taught him quite a bit about the Internet, and though the sender used an address Jeremy didn't recognize, he knew that all e-mails could eventually be traced. With a bit of persistence and the right phone calls to a few contacts he'd made over the years, he could trace the e-mail back to the server and, from there, to the computer from which it had originated. He noticed that the message had arrived less than twenty minutes earlier, right around the time he was getting back to Greenleaf.
But again, the question was Why? Why would someone send it?
With the exception of Lexie, Jeremy had never told anyone--
not his parents or his friends--about his inability to father children, and though there had been an instant when he'd wondered how the pregnancy had happened despite the odds, he'd shrugged that thought off. But if only Maria and Lexie knew--and neither one, he was sure, had sent it--then again, what was the reason? Was it a prank?
Doris had mentioned that some people had begun to suspect that Lexie was pregnant--Rachel, for instance. But he couldn't picture Rachel being responsible for the e-mail. She and Lexie had been friends for years, and this wasn't the sort of prank friends played on one another.
But if it hadn't been meant as a prank, the only conceivable reason to send the e-mail was to cause trouble between Jeremy and Lexie. But again, who would do that?
The real father? a voice inside whispered, suddenly making him remember Lexie and Rodney holding hands.
Jeremy shook his head. Rodney and Lexie? He'd gone over that a thousand times, and it simply wasn't possible. It was ridiculous even to consider it.
Except that it does explain the e-mail, the voice whispered again.
No, he thought, this time more adamantly. Lexie wasn't like that. Lexie wasn't sleeping with someone else that week; Lexie wasn't even seeing someone else. And Rodney wasn't the kind of man who would write an e-mail; he would have confronted Jeremy in person.
Jeremy pressed the button to delete the e-mail. When the screen flashed the confirmation, however, his finger seemed to freeze. Did he really want to delete it now, without finding out who had sent it?
No, he decided, he wanted to know. It would take some time, but he'd find out and speak to whoever sent it, make him see how tasteless it was. And if it was Rodney... well, not only would Jeremy confront him, but there was no doubt that Lexie would give him a piece of her mind as well.
He nodded. Oh, he'd find out who did it all right. He saved the message, with the intent to begin the search immediately. And once he learned anything, Lexie would be the first to know.
Spending the evening with Lexie assuaged any doubts he had that he was indeed the father. At dinner, Lexie chatted away as usual; in fact, over the next week, Lexie acted as if nothing was bothering her at all. Which, in all honesty, Jeremy considered somewhat strange, considering that the wedding was now only a little more than two weeks away, they would close on the house a week from Friday--though it was still a long way from being habitable--and Jeremy had begun to wonder aloud where he was going to work in Boone Creek, since he'd obviously forgotten how to write an article. He'd sent another prewritten column, leaving only three left to submit. He hadn't been able to trace the e-mail yet; whoever had done it had covered his tracks well. The address was not only anonymous, it had been routed through a series of different servers--one offshore and another that was unwilling to divulge information without a court order. Luckily he knew someone in New York who thought he could hack in, but it was going to take a little time. The guy freelanced for the FBI and they kept him busy.
On the plus side, aside from another teary episode in the middle of the night, Lexie seemed far less stressed than he was. Of course, that didn't mean she was exactly the woman he'd imagined her to be. She was, he'd come to realize, completely in charge of the pregnancy. Granted, she was the one carrying the baby, she was the one with the crazy mood swings, and she was the one who read all the books, but it wasn't as if Jeremy were clueless. Or that he was bored with the details she seemed to find so intriguing. On the following Saturday morning, with the bright April sun coming down hard, Lexie jingled her keys as they were about to leave to go shopping, as if giving him one last chance to back out of his fatherly duties.
"Are you sure about coming with me today?" Lexie asked.
"Positive."
"Wasn't there a basketball game on television that you want to watch? You're going to miss it."
He smiled. "I'll be fine. There are more games tomorrow."
"You do know this is going to take some time."
"So?"
"I just don't want you to get bored."
"I won't get bored. I love shopping," Jeremy promised.
"Since when? And besides, it's just baby stuff."
"I live to buy baby stuff."
She shook her head. "Suit yourself."
An hour later, after arriving in Greenville, Jeremy entered one of those warehouse baby stores and suddenly wondered whether Lexie might have been right. The place was unlike anything he'd ever seen in New York. Not only was it cavernous, with wide aisles and towering ceilings, but the choice of items on sale was dizzying. If buying things proved how much you loved your children, this was obviously the place to go. Jeremy spent the first few minutes wandering around in disbelief, and wondering who had come up with all this stuff.
Who knew, for instance, that there were literally thousands of different mobiles a parent could attach to the crib? Some with animals, others with colors, some with black-and-white geometric shapes, some that played music, others that spun in slow circles. It went without saying that each mobile had been scientifically shown to stimulate the intellectual development of the baby, and he and Lexie must have stood in the aisle examining the choices for nearly twenty minutes, during which time Jeremy learned that his opinion was usually no help whatsoever.
"I've read that babies respond mostly to black and white," Lexie said.
"Then let's go with this one," Jeremy said, pointing to one with black-and-white designs.
"But I was going to go with an animal theme, and I don't think it'll match."
"It's just a mobile. No one's going to notice."
"I'll notice."
"Then let's go with this one. With the hippos and giraffes."
"But it's not black and white."
"Do you really think it matters? That if our baby doesn't have a black-and-white mobile as an infant, she's going to flunk out of kindergarten?"
"No, of course not," Lexie said. Still, she stood in the aisle, her arms crossed, seemingly no closer to a decision.
"What about this one?" Jeremy finally offered. "It's got panels that you can switch from black and white to animals, and it spins and plays music to boot."
Her expression was almost sad as she peered at him. "Don't you think she might get overstimulated by something like that?"
Somehow, they were able to select the mobile (black-and-white animals, able to spin, but no music), and for some reason, Jeremy made the assumption that everything would go more smoothly from that point on. And over the next few hours, some choices were easy--blankets, pacifiers, and, surprisingly, the crib itself--but when they hit the aisle offering car seats, they were flummoxed again. Jeremy had never imagined that it wasn't possible to make do with only one car seat; instead, there were the "less than six months old facing backward" car seat, the "easy to remove and lightweight" car seat, the "can be attached to a stroller" car seat, the "toddler forward facing" car seat, and the "heavy duty if there's an accident" car seat. Add in the endless patterns and colors, the ease or difficulty with which it could be removed from the car, and the buckling mechanisms, and by the end, Jeremy felt lucky that they ended up with only two, both rated as a "Best Buy" for safety in Consumer Reports. This Best Buy status seemed ironic in light of the exorbitant price and the fact that the infant car seat would more than likely end up in the attic only a few months after the baby was born.
But safety was paramount. As Lexie reminded him, "You want our baby to be safe, don't you?"
It wasn't as if he could disagree, was it?
"You're right," he answered, loading the two boxes atop the mountain of items they'd accumulated. Two carts were already filled, and they were working on the third. "By the way, what time is it?"
"It's ten after three. About ten minutes later than the last time you asked."
"Really? It seems later."
"That's what you said ten minutes ago."
"Sorry about that."
"I tried to warn you that you'd be bored."
"I'm not bored," he lied. "Unlike some
fathers, I care about my baby."
She seemed amused. "Good. But we're almost done here anyway."
"Really?"
"I just want to look at some clothes real quick."
"Great," Jeremy forced out, thinking that was an unlikely scenario if ever there was one.
"It'll only be a minute."
"Take your time," he said, as if proving his gallantry.
She did. All in all, he figured they spent nearly six years looking at clothing that afternoon. With aching legs and feeling something like a pack mule, Jeremy found a ledge to sit on while Lexie seemed intent on examining each and every baby outfit the store had to offer. One by one, she'd select an item, hold it up, and either frown or smile in delight, as she imagined their little girl wearing it. Which, of course, made no sense at all to Jeremy, since they had no idea what their baby was going to look like.
"How about Savannah?" Lexie said while holding up yet another outfit. This one, Jeremy noticed, was pink with purple bunnies.
"I've only been there once," he said.
She lowered the outfit. "I'm talking about a name for the baby. How about Savannah?"
Jeremy thought about it. "Nah," he said, "it sounds too southern."
"What's wrong with that? She is southern."
"But her daddy's a Yankee, remember?"
"Fine. What names do you like?"
"How about Anna?"
"Aren't half the women in your family named Anna?"
This was true, Jeremy thought. "Yes, but think how flattered every one of them will be."
Lexie shook her head. "We can't go with Anna. I want her to have her own name."
"How about Olivia?"
Lexie shook her head again. "No. We can't do that to her."
"What's wrong with Olivia?"
"There was a girl I went to school with who was named Olivia. She had a terrible case of acne."
"So?"
"Brings back bad memories."
Jeremy nodded, thinking it made sense. He wouldn't name his daughter Maria, for instance. "What are some of your other ideas?"
"I was thinking about Bonnie, too. What do you think of that?"
"No, I dated a woman named Bonnie. She had nasty breath."
"Sharon?"
He shrugged. "Same thing, except the Sharon I dated was a kleptomaniac."
At First Sight Page 9