cupped hand.
“Oh dear.” They hugged, the full length of their bodies pressed together.
“This is all really stressful,” Ines said, “it finally happening and then not knowing—” Ines was a believer in unambiguous answers, clear test results. She was the salve, the one with finite answers for Veronica’s constant wavering. Ines pulled away to gain composure. She blew her nose heartily on a dish towel. “I wish I could drink with you. Here,” she said, handing Veronica a bottle of red to open. Veronica poured a small glass and toasted Ines.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you. I’m cautiously optimistic, but we’ll see.” Ines turned and began peeling a clove of garlic.
“Two-point-six doesn’t sound far off at all.” But Veronica knew it could be. The numbers could be dreadfully wrong. Veronica’s amniotic fluid had been too low: four-point-something when it was supposed to be at least five. Two-point-six, whatever that meant, could be terrible . “How’s Art doing? He must be ecstatic.”
Ines sat down at the table across from her. “He is—my God, he’s so happy he’s speaking with a Long Island accent! You know how he does that when he’s excited?”
“I do.” Outside, it had started to snow again. The lights of the avenue blurred in the purple evening. She wanted to fly right out into it, link arms with Ines, and go drink hot sake around the corner. “You shouldn’t cook. Let’s go out instead. It’ll be easier. What do you think?”
“It’s just that Arthur … He should be here any second, then we could leave. I need to talk to him first.”
“Call him.”
“He’s in transit. Anyway, where’s John?”
“In Irvington, with Clara, actually. He let me sleep in this morning and then left this cryptic note—I haven’t heard from them all day. I may have to go up there tomorrow.”
“How will you get Muriel to stop?” Ines said. John’s mother was a lanky former kindergarten teacher in her sixties, who “loved” public radio and always spoke to Veronica in a hushed voice of her many miscarriages between her two children. Muriel was trying to connect with Veronica, but Veronica, raised to keep her chin up, was embarrassed by her frankness.
“Usually Muriel stops talking about the trials of women of reproductive age when we focus on Clara. She’ll be so involved with the baby, it will be fine . But what’s weird is that John didn’t even talk to me about this.” Veronica pulled open the fridge and peered into it. She lifted a jar of giant capers and examined the label. For a moment she wished she’d called Adele, who was childless and always going out.
“Huh? You all right?”
“Yes. No. I’ve had this amazing energy today. I’m taking these new meds, which might be starting to work.” A new energy presided, but it was shaky, shifting. “Maybe it’s hormonal, I don’t know.… Sometimes I wish we could just disappear in the dark auditorium, watching slides of Giottos.… I just want—”
Ines smiled at the memory. Art history their freshman year. With Ines next to her in that dark room, Veronica had savored Giotto’s blues. The pigments made with egg yolk and their incredible longevity, a revolutionary nuance in expression and gesture. Ines, too, understood the miracle of those colors. They’d become art lovers together. Now they were mothers.
She felt Ines’s steady gaze, the clear, direct vision of her friend who never looked away. Damon! Adele! These undeniably exciting people who had nothing to do with her current life were populating her mind; they came like djinnis, smiling, offering. Here’s a message from the outside world, they seemed to say. There was Adele’s gallery on 25th Street and Damon in war-torn places, photographing Taliban. The world was big and affecting. Where had she been? Inside a cocoon. “See, I wish I missed John, but I don’t.” Instead, she thought of the true hurt in Damon’s gray eyes as she’d run from the
“Oh dear.” They hugged, the full length of their bodies pressed together.
“This is all really stressful,” Ines said, “it finally happening and then not knowing—” Ines was a believer in unambiguous answers, clear test results. She was the salve, the one with finite answers for Veronica’s constant wavering. Ines pulled away to gain composure. She blew her nose heartily on a dish towel. “I wish I could drink with you. Here,” she said, handing Veronica a bottle of red to open. Veronica poured a small glass and toasted Ines.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you. I’m cautiously optimistic, but we’ll see.” Ines turned and began peeling a clove of garlic.
“Two-point-six doesn’t sound far off at all.” But Veronica knew it could be. The numbers could be dreadfully wrong. Veronica’s amniotic fluid had been too low: four-point-something when it was supposed to be at least five. Two-point-six, whatever that meant, could be terrible . “How’s Art doing? He must be ecstatic.”
Ines sat down at the table across from her. “He is—my God, he’s so happy he’s speaking with a Long Island accent! You know how he does that when he’s excited?”
“I do.” Outside, it had started to snow again. The lights of the avenue blurred in the purple evening. She wanted to fly right out into it, link arms with Ines, and go drink hot sake around the corner. “You shouldn’t cook. Let’s go out instead. It’ll be easier. What do you think?”
“It’s just that Arthur … He should be here any second, then we could leave. I need to talk to him first.”
“Call him.”
“He’s in transit. Anyway, where’s John?”
“In Irvington, with Clara, actually. He let me sleep in this morning and then left this cryptic note—I haven’t heard from them all day. I may have to go up there tomorrow.”
“How will you get Muriel to stop?” Ines said. John’s mother was a lanky former kindergarten teacher in her sixties, who “loved” public radio and always spoke to Veronica in a hushed voice of her many miscarriages between her two children. Muriel was trying to connect with Veronica, but Veronica, raised to keep her chin up, was embarrassed by her frankness.
“Usually Muriel stops talking about the trials of women of reproductive age when we focus on Clara. She’ll be so involved with the baby, it will be fine . But what’s weird is that John didn’t even talk to me about this.” Veronica pulled open the fridge and peered into it. She lifted a jar of giant capers and examined the label. For a moment she wished she’d called Adele, who was childless and always going out.
“Huh? You all right?”
“Yes. No. I’ve had this amazing energy today. I’m taking these new meds, which might be starting to work.” A new energy presided, but it was shaky, shifting. “Maybe it’s hormonal, I don’t know.… Sometimes I wish we could just disappear in the dark auditorium, watching slides of Giottos.… I just want—”
Ines smiled at the memory. Art history their freshman year. With Ines next to her in that dark room, Veronica had savored Giotto’s blues. The pigments made with egg yolk and their incredible longevity, a revolutionary nuance in expression and gesture. Ines, too, understood the miracle of those colors. They’d become art lovers together. Now they were mothers.
She felt Ines’s steady gaze, the clear, direct vision of her friend who never looked away. Damon! Adele! These undeniably exciting people who had nothing to do with her current life were populating her mind; they came like djinnis, smiling, offering. Here’s a message from the outside world, they seemed to say. There was Adele’s gallery on 25th Street and Damon in war-torn places, photographing Taliban. The world was big and affecting. Where had she been? Inside a cocoon. “See, I wish I missed John, but I don’t.” Instead, she thought of the true hurt in Damon’s gray eyes as she’d run from the
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