“No, but I wanted to.” He whispers in my ear. “?‘I like your body. i like what it does.’?”
I see the words the way they appeared on the page. I see Jacob handing me the paperback copy of E. E. Cummings erotic poems. An early birthday present, he says. The gift was charged with meaning. I’m flushed all over now. Flushed and flustered. I reach under the coffee table, grasping for a distraction, for the powder-blue baby album. I flip through the pages labeled, first words, first steps, weight, personality, handprint, footprint, and on and on. Empty pages, waiting to be filled. Inside the front cover, Jacob wrote in his neat script: The story of our child. He places his warm hand over mine. “We don’t have to look at this now. We have plenty of time.”
A tight ball of panic forms in my chest. “I want to know what we were planning. For a family. You say we tried to get pregnant.”
His lips turn down, and he looks off into the distance. “For several months.”
“But we didn’t succeed. I couldn’t, or you couldn’t?”
“There’s nothing physically wrong with either of us, if that’s what you mean.” Us, as if we are one person.
“When did we make the decision to try?”
“A couple of years ago. We talked about it a lot.” He smiles, and an endearing dimple appears in his right cheek. “We talked about everything. We both loved our jobs, so we decided to compromise. We figured I would work from home at least three days a week.”
“But how would that have been possible?”
“I’m the boss. I can make anything possible.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“I was so ready to be a stay-at-home dad. I love children. I was so ready to . . .”
“What?”
“To make a baby with you.”
I can’t deny the electric charge every time he touches me. But I was also drawn to Aiden. I don’t yet understand the implications, or where the attraction went, if anywhere. But the photograph burns into my mind.
“I don’t remember.” My breathing is fast and shallow, and the tingling returns to my fingers.
“Hey, just breathe.” He takes the album from me and puts it away. “I knew we were rushing this.”
“I’ll be okay.” I take deep breaths.
“You should take up yoga again. You were good at it.”
“Yoga.” Here, let me show you the downward facing dog, I said to Jacob. He tried to imitate me, but he couldn’t push his heels down on the floor. “I remember teaching you a pose.”
He squeezes my hand. “That’s amazing. We should celebrate. What else do you remember?”
“Nothing else right now.”
He lets go of my hand. “I’ll make your favorite mushroom omelet. How about that? Go and take a long, hot shower. Forget about any worries.” We’ll go away and forget about all this, he whispered in my ear, long ago. Forget about all what?
In my room, my refuge, my breathing slows. The seashells I gathered on beach walks are lined up on the windowsill. They bring me comfort. Finger limpets, the elongated shell of a bivalve, the Northwest ugly clam. Entodesma navicula. The Northern slipper snail, which resembles a slipper when turned upside down. These are the former exoskeletons of living beings, remnants made of mostly calcium carbonate and only a little protein. These mementos hold silent reminders of my past, as does my purse in colorful printed seashells on pleated cotton fabric.
As I’ve done before, I turn the purse upside down and empty the contents on the bed. Sometimes I forget what I’ve found inside. Maybe I’ll discover a new clue to my past. The objects in a woman’s purse reveal a lot about who she is. Where did I hear that, or read it? I find natural lipstick. A small hairbrush. A tiny tube of lotion. A small bottle of hand cleanser. A gel pen. A keychain with no keys attached. The logo reads, Not all stars belong to the sky, with an image of a sea star. A slip of paper with a list: Haircut, Lingerie, Print ticket, Get you know what . . .
Why would I be so cryptic?
Inside my wallet, I find my driver’s license, three twenty-dollar bills, a debit card, some coins, a local library card, and my PADI Open Water scuba diving certification card. The logo on the bottom right shows a blue globe with a red diver swimming across the bottom in scuba gear. Birth date, certification date, and diver number. I’ve successfully completed the training to become an open water diver. Jacob, on the other hand, is a Master Diver. He’s qualified to teach.
I slip my fingers into the pocket behind the card holders. There’s another pocket, one I missed, hidden behind the first pocket. I reach inside and touch a flat, square package. It’s difficult to extract. But when I pull it out, I stare at it for a minute, confused. It doesn’t compute in my mind, and yet here it is. The shiny blue package is a Durex brand ultrathin latex condom.