TRISH
James opens his arms and holds me. His hands are warm and strong, and I savor the embrace. If he’s to leave me, I want to remember this moment and the sensation of being in love with him. He’s awkward and uncharacteristically clumsy, unsure whether to respond to my advances. I pull his hand, tugging him toward the bed while simultaneously undressing him button by button of his flannel pajama top. I slip a Viagra tablet into his hand, and he looks at it dubiously. He’s never outright needed these types of pills, but I’ve sensed his frustration at himself for not being as young and virile anymore. Pushed by the excitement of experiencing the pill’s vaunted effects, he will want to make love to me. I brush one of my chemise’s spaghetti straps off my shoulder and then the other, and as the chemise shimmies onto the floor, he inhales a breath and places the pill on his tongue. Elation surges through me. I am giving myself to him. I guide his hand to my chest. He squeezes my breast. “Harder,” I say. There’s only so much one person can do to keep hold of another person, and I’m doing everything I can.
I wake shivering with intestinal cramps, my whole body on fire, slivers of morning light shining upon me through the windows. It’s late, maybe nine or ten o’clock. James is long gone for his office, his musky scent lingering behind on the pillows, and I remember dreaming how comforting it was to walk Anne Elise around the maternity ward yesterday. Because of my KISS bracelet, I strolled through the whole hospital with her, unimpeded. Now, when I step out of bed, nausea wrenches up from my intestines, roiling over me. I crawl to the bathroom feeling light-headed, and after I throw up, I stay on the floor, the cool ceramic bathroom tiles hard on my knees, and listen to the whoosh of the toilet’s automatic flush. Water is what I need, something to wash the acrid taste out of my mouth. I can hear everything going on within me: the thump-thump of my heart, the grumble in my stomach, the crinkle of my skin as I scratch a dry patch on my wrist. Glimpsing myself crouched at the toilet in the bathroom mirror, I see a desperate, pathetic woman . . . a woman much like my mother had been. I don’t want to become my mother. I don’t want to be pathetic. I vow to fight for James so that I don’t end up like her. And then, pulling myself to an upright position, I’m startled: just like that, I feel better, clearheaded and optimistic about my place in the world. No longer do I feel sick. How can this change have happened so quickly? My breasts feel tender. Looking at the mirror, I’m displeased at the bloating in my face, my arms, but ecstatic at how my face glows with unnatural warmth.
And then I get it.
I must be pregnant.
How else can I account for the nausea—morning sickness—and the peachy glow that lights my face?
Just as Laurel must have known the moment of her conception, now I do too. We made love last night, James and I, clutching and grasping each other like raccoons and howling sweet nothings, a near-bestial experience unlike the whispers and normal soothing motions of all our previous lovemaking. I was aflame with jealousy, wondering if James’s newfound animal-like rambunctiousness owed to Laurel’s coaching, but as we progressed, I gave in to the same spirit, responding in kind, biting, scratching, flipping him onto his back, crawling on top of him. James laughed, riotously. We hadn’t laughed in bed since shortly after we married—on a spring afternoon I remember well for how we opened the apartment windows and let raindrops blow upon us during the act. I found myself thinking of Debauve et Gallais chocolates—James had always talked about bringing them to my maternity suite when I became pregnant. Even then, lying in his arms, I felt warm and achy, a postcoital drowsiness coming upon me. Never having been pregnant before, I didn’t identify these symptoms as the signs of conception, but now, after experiencing my first bout of morning sickness, I know.
Downstairs, the robust aroma of a fresh pot of coffee fills the kitchen. James, ever considerate, cleaned up after himself before going to work, his coffee mug and oatmeal bowl both washed and rinsed and drying in the bamboo dish rack. A note lies on the breakfast table.
Didn’t want to wake you this morning, but thank you for last night. Again you amaze me. I am so lucky to have a wife who accentuates the positive so well!
A little red heart lies below where James signed his name. He’s never embellished his notes this way before. I feel special, knowing that he enjoyed himself. I wonder if he feels it too: our conception. Might he have awoken to an intuitive ping? A moment of startling clarity when, while snapping on his gold cuff links, he bolted upright with the glorious suspicion that we finally conceived?
I dress quickly. Much of the morning is already lost to me. Although I’m riding a mellow high, I pop a Valium and walk out of the house in a full-length down-filled black bubble jacket. The day is bright and bracingly cold, the February sidewalks sheeted with ice. I’m walking for two right now, taking small, slow steps and being careful not to slip, especially because my knee-high black leather boots are more suited for a fashion show runway than a treacherous sidewalk. Turning onto Wisconsin Avenue, I find a shoe store and buy a pair of fleece-lined snow boots with thick rubber treads on their soles that are guaranteed not to slip even on the iciest of surfaces. The salesgirl boasts that her boutique is the sole distributor of these boots in the metropolitan region. “Are they really good?” I ask. She flips the boots over and shows me the high-tech-looking hexagonal treads on the boots’ soles. Paying for them at the register, I lean in and tell her I’m pregnant. She’s the first person I’ve told, and since I’ve hoarded this secret to myself for the last hour, it’s an exciting relief to share my good news.
“I want to be a good mom. I don’t want to risk harming my child should I slip.”
This salesgirl, a smart-looking college student with a fresh face and beads in her hair, wishes me well. She hands me my receipt. “I never would have guessed you’re expecting. You’re not showing or anything.”
I assume she means this as a compliment. “Thanks.”
Ever since ingesting my first Valium tablet, I’ve been jittery and prone to wild bouts of fancy—exactly the conditions I thought the pill would prevent. Everything feels different, charged with excitement—but then I wonder if it’s the Valium or the pregnancy that’s doing this to me. Do all mothers-to-be experience rickety thoughts, ecstatic emotions, and clammy palms?
With the new boots on my feet, I walk across Wisconsin Avenue to a drug store whose seasonal aisles are optimistically stocked with gardening supplies and suntan lotions, even though last week the groundhog predicted six more weeks of winter. The pharmacist is a large African American woman who has the calm, happy disposition I’ve always associated with midwifery and a wholesome diet of organic foods. I ask her about home pregnancy tests, if they’re reliable and which brand she’d recommend as having the best early-detection ranking. She tells me all the kits are about the same despite the wide price differences.
“Save a few dollars and go with the cheapest one. How many days late are you?”
“None yet.” Thinking backward, I count the days since my last period. I’m one of the few women who are 100 percent regular. “My next period won’t be for another week.”