though their nonpregnancy had fragiled their marriage. Both wore large sweaters, like they were already pregnant and making room. When they saw me their eyes filled with so much expectation, I had to look down and pretend to examine a stain on my coat.
They liked that I had blue eyes (she had blue eyes) and had scored high in math on my SATs (he had been an economics major at Penn). I stopped drinking, for a month injected shots into my hip, shots that would make me produce more eggs, until the doctor told me I was carrying twenty-five.
"No wonder I have a stomach," I said, jokingly. The doctor looked at me, puzzled.
Thirty-six hours before the operation I was supposed to inject a final shot into my behind. I called Sarah over—this was months before we graduated and she moved to Ireland. She downed four shots of Ketel One and then gave me the injection. "On the count of three," she said. She had to count to five before she could summon the courage.
The chances for success were slim, but it worked. They got pregnant and I went to Lisbon. A clause in the contract I signed stated that I would never try to contact the child.
Sometimes I thought I saw her. Why did I always imagine her a girl ? It was impossible to think that eggs inside me could carry the blueprint for a boy. But whenever I looked at girls and thought they might be her , I'd have to remind myself of the math. No chance an eight-year-old could be mine, no matter how much she looked like me, no matter how close to her bottom lip her freckle might be.
. . .
The representative of the world comes out of the bathroom with fresh breath. He crawls into bed and I get in next to him. I have to pry loose the sheets, the bed's been made so tight.
Old Texas Monthly magazines are stacked on the bedside table, and next to them are photos. In one picture, he's on a beach with family. His mothers wearing a bikini.
"Your mom's hot," I say.
He takes the picture and turns it around so it faces the lamp. The price tag is still on the back of the frame.
"Oh, wait," he says.
He gets up—he's wearing the same funny British underwear, but this time it's blue. He goes into the living room and comes back with something in his palm: a lighter. His back is to me, and when he moves away, a candle on the dresser glows. The candle is red and blue and turquoise, a mosaic pattern. It's burned halfway down in its glass votive.
"I understand," he says, "if with everything that's happened you don't—"
"Thank you," I say. I don't want to hear the rest of what he's going to say. I don't want to be there, in the park. "That is so sweet." I kiss him hard and with meaning. He didn't smoke through dinner, or after, I realize. "That is so, so sweet," I say.
My affection is nonspecific, too. I've swallowed all the longing and loneliness that's been thrust upon me and it streams out of my sweat, my saliva, my words, onto and into those I touch.
Afterward, in the dark, he pulls away from me to sleep. Something starts clanging, loud, and still he sleeps. I wake him up.
"What's that sound?" I say.
"It's the heater. It's an old building and the pipes make that sound." "All night?"
"Yeah."
I wonder if I'll ever fall asleep. "It sounds like someone's in the basement, trying to get out," I say. "Listen. The clangs are like Morse code."
"Who would be in the basement?" he says.
In my mind the taps are spelling out "H-E-L-P." "I don't know," I say.
He gets up to go to the bathroom and when he comes back into the room he sneaks down to the foot of the bed and grabs my ankles. "Boo," he says, and I scream and then giggle. The representative of the world tickles me all the way up to my armpits. I writhe and turn and he ascends until his head is above mine. I haven't laughed like this in days, in weeks. When I finally turn my head into the pillow for sleep, the pillowcase is wet with tears of relief.
I've been sleeping when the phone rings. It's still dark in the room. A
They liked that I had blue eyes (she had blue eyes) and had scored high in math on my SATs (he had been an economics major at Penn). I stopped drinking, for a month injected shots into my hip, shots that would make me produce more eggs, until the doctor told me I was carrying twenty-five.
"No wonder I have a stomach," I said, jokingly. The doctor looked at me, puzzled.
Thirty-six hours before the operation I was supposed to inject a final shot into my behind. I called Sarah over—this was months before we graduated and she moved to Ireland. She downed four shots of Ketel One and then gave me the injection. "On the count of three," she said. She had to count to five before she could summon the courage.
The chances for success were slim, but it worked. They got pregnant and I went to Lisbon. A clause in the contract I signed stated that I would never try to contact the child.
Sometimes I thought I saw her. Why did I always imagine her a girl ? It was impossible to think that eggs inside me could carry the blueprint for a boy. But whenever I looked at girls and thought they might be her , I'd have to remind myself of the math. No chance an eight-year-old could be mine, no matter how much she looked like me, no matter how close to her bottom lip her freckle might be.
. . .
The representative of the world comes out of the bathroom with fresh breath. He crawls into bed and I get in next to him. I have to pry loose the sheets, the bed's been made so tight.
Old Texas Monthly magazines are stacked on the bedside table, and next to them are photos. In one picture, he's on a beach with family. His mothers wearing a bikini.
"Your mom's hot," I say.
He takes the picture and turns it around so it faces the lamp. The price tag is still on the back of the frame.
"Oh, wait," he says.
He gets up—he's wearing the same funny British underwear, but this time it's blue. He goes into the living room and comes back with something in his palm: a lighter. His back is to me, and when he moves away, a candle on the dresser glows. The candle is red and blue and turquoise, a mosaic pattern. It's burned halfway down in its glass votive.
"I understand," he says, "if with everything that's happened you don't—"
"Thank you," I say. I don't want to hear the rest of what he's going to say. I don't want to be there, in the park. "That is so sweet." I kiss him hard and with meaning. He didn't smoke through dinner, or after, I realize. "That is so, so sweet," I say.
My affection is nonspecific, too. I've swallowed all the longing and loneliness that's been thrust upon me and it streams out of my sweat, my saliva, my words, onto and into those I touch.
Afterward, in the dark, he pulls away from me to sleep. Something starts clanging, loud, and still he sleeps. I wake him up.
"What's that sound?" I say.
"It's the heater. It's an old building and the pipes make that sound." "All night?"
"Yeah."
I wonder if I'll ever fall asleep. "It sounds like someone's in the basement, trying to get out," I say. "Listen. The clangs are like Morse code."
"Who would be in the basement?" he says.
In my mind the taps are spelling out "H-E-L-P." "I don't know," I say.
He gets up to go to the bathroom and when he comes back into the room he sneaks down to the foot of the bed and grabs my ankles. "Boo," he says, and I scream and then giggle. The representative of the world tickles me all the way up to my armpits. I writhe and turn and he ascends until his head is above mine. I haven't laughed like this in days, in weeks. When I finally turn my head into the pillow for sleep, the pillowcase is wet with tears of relief.
I've been sleeping when the phone rings. It's still dark in the room. A
Similar Books
