Expecting: A Novel (4 page)

Laurie ran her finger across her upper lip. “Hmmm. I doubt it. The baby will always come first. Sorry.”

She was kidding; he knew she was kidding. He hoped she was kidding. But it scared him—he was used to being the person she loved most.

***

With no more pregnancy, no baby to bring home, has he lost his chance to learn how to share? He’s never been good at sharing. After growing up as the youngest of five and a lifetime of hand-me-down toys and Levi’s, now he likes things that are his. New, unused. Like his love for Laurie. He can’t imagine loving someone as much as he loves her. Of course he’ll love his baby, but does that happen right away? It’s a
baby
. At least for a while. Not exactly a person, somebody you can have a conversation with. More like a puppy. No, that’s not right. A baby isn’t
anything
like a puppy; it’s a human being, the product of love between two people, the history of life repeated over and over, like his mother says—the thing that’s left.

He sounds like a dick. He’s thinking about a puppy. Yeah, that’s what he’ll tell Laurie to cheer her up about the miscarriage: “Hey, it doesn’t really matter. Why don’t we get a puppy instead?”

“Thanks, hon,” she’ll say. “Now I’m all better.”

He doesn’t suggest a puppy; instead, he calls Laurie at the Hidden Valley office and suggests they drive up to Ojai for the weekend.

Ojai is exactly what they need. An hour and a half north of L.A., tucked into a small valley between mountains that glow pink in the sunset, the town is quiet and charming, with art galleries and great restaurants. No freeway sounds or smog, and they can smell jasmine outside their window. They have a wonderful time and even though their room at the B and B is tiny and the bed is old and creaky, they don’t care and have sex before dinner. And then again in the morning before breakfast. They take long walks and eat dinner outside at a restaurant under a canopy of tiny white lights that look like stars.

As for birth control, they don’t mention it. If it happens, it happens. If not, oh well—the weekend reminds them there’s a reason they’re together in the first place. And sex isn’t only about procreation.

***

Life returns to normal. Weeks turn into months. Alan and Laurie go to Lake Arrowhead with friends, investigate yard sales, eat too many deviled eggs at a Palmer-Boone picnic. They paint their front door red after Laurie saw an article in
Real Simple
magazine that explains how your house needs to make a good first impression. When they are done, Alan nods and says, “Okay, but it looks like we live in a firehouse.”

Laurie loves her job with Grace. “I’m like a Valley detective,” she tells Alan. “Tracking down the old, the new, the bizarre. Grace calls me an urban explorer.”

“Do you need a pith helmet?”

“Yuck, who wants pith helmet hair?”

“Matching pith helmets, that’s what we need,” Alan says. Laurie laughs and she is the girl in line from Staples, the woman he married. When she’s not looking, Alan will go on Amazon and track down pith helmets. He can already hear her laugh when she opens the box.

***

Laurie’s car is in the driveway when he comes home from work. He thought she’d told him she and Grace were going to meet a man who runs an accordion school in Atwater Village. When he walks inside the house, he smells onions and garlic and peppers. In the kitchen he sees a pot of chili on the stove. No Laurie.

He heads to the bedroom, but Laurie is sitting on the floor in the yellow room, surrounded by pieces of the crib.

“Chili for dinner tonight,” Laurie says. “Before I’m felled by the curse of morning sickness.”

Chili, morning sickness, crib pieces. It takes a few seconds for Alan to process everything.

“I know, crazy. Here we go again,” she says. And looks down at a screw in her hand, as if she hasn’t figured out where it goes yet. He sits on the floor beside her and pulls her into his arms.

He wishes he could remember her name. He thinks it’s Megan. He watches her sleep. She’s smiling, and he wonders what she’s dreaming about. She makes little puff sounds and he’s pretty sure her name is Megan.

Unless Megan was the girl in the bar wearing a tube top and dancing on a chair. No, that girl was Kerry. Jack closes his eyes and he’s back at the bar in Westwood—loud and crowded and hot, and he’s thinking of leaving until he notices tube-top girl. Naturally, Danny knows all about her.

“Scary Kerry,” Danny tells Jack.

“She’s hot,” Jack says, watching as Scary Kerry dances and tugs at her tube top to keep it from falling off.

Danny makes a gagging sound. “You know that plant? The one that catches flies and looks amazing on the outside, but inside it’s got like razor teeth.”

“A Venus flytrap?”

Danny nods. “Scary Kerry’s vagina.”

Scary Kerry doesn’t look like the kind of girl with a razor vagina. But you never know, so Jack decides to head off, and when he’s almost at the door, he sees an attractive, dark-eyed girl sitting by herself at a table in the corner. “You get stood up?” he asks her.

“That’s your pickup line?” she says.

“No. It was just a question.”

She looks him over. He returns the favor: big brown eyes she’s made darker by lining them in black, blond hair with deliberate black roots. He bets she has a single tattoo—a butterfly on the small of her back.

“Are you a smart-ass?” she asks him.

“Maybe.” He wonders if he should sit down or if she’s waiting for her boyfriend, a big guy who’s going to show up and beat the shit out of him.

“Are those your friends?” She nods toward the clump of guys at the bar. Surfer-handsome Danny surrounded by drunk, flirty girls; heavy-eyed Carter is dangling a spoon off the end of his nose.

“Fraternity buddies.” Jack nods.

“Oh, you’re in a fraternity,” the girl says. “I should’ve guessed. Which one? Phi Delt. No, that’s not right. Sigma Nu? Wait, I got it. SAE. Hipsters.”

Jack frowns. She says
hipsters
like she means
pussies
. “What do you mean, ‘hipsters’?”

“I’m right?”

Jack doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction—but what’s the point of lying? “Yeah, SAE.”

“Your rep’s that you’re super straight. You know,
bor
ing.”

“Are you in a sorority?” he asks her. She doesn’t look like a UCLA sorority girl.

“The whole Greek thing is overrated.”

Jack grins. “You went through pledge week and didn’t get a single bid.”

“Fuck you,” the girl says, but she’s smiling. “I’m in the theater department; I don’t have enough time. And that’s fine, I’m happy.”

“Except you got stood up.”

The girl shakes her head. “Theater people are flaky. You get used to it.”

They talk about UCLA, what they like (lots of different people, a beautiful campus, living in L.A.), what they hate (terrible parking, too many students, living in L.A.). He tells her he’s a senior; right now he’s majoring in history, but since that’s his fourth major in three years, he won’t have enough credits to graduate until next year.

“What’s the big deal about graduating on time?” she asks him.

“My parents expect it.”

“It’s
your
life. Duh.”

He doesn’t want to talk about his parents. He’s in a good mood. Why ruin it?

She tells Jack about the play she’s doing,
Medea
. “It’s an awesome story. This woman gets revenge on her cheating husband. Jason, the Golden Fleece guy, dumps Medea for Glauce, King Creon’s daughter. So Medea decides she’ll get even by killing Glauce and her father, and she has this genius idea of sending them golden robes covered with poison. And if that doesn’t make Jason crazy enough, she’ll kill her own children.”

“Whoa,” says Jack.

The girl nods. “The poisoned robes trick works; Jason shows up, gets pissed about Medea killing Glauce, and then he finds out she’s killed the kids too—he goes
apeshit
. Medea tells him he’s an asshole, you know, you reap what you sow; she curses him and takes off. The end.”

“Kind of depressing,” Jack tells her.

“But Medea’s an amazing part for an actress.”

“So you’re Medea?”

“No, I’m the understudy.”

“Why didn’t you get the part?”

“I’m not that good. Plus, the girl who’s Medea is sleeping with the director. You want another beer?”

***

They go back to his room at the SAE house; they listen to music and make out and she volunteers to do a scene from
Medea
. She wraps a sheet around her body, Greek style, and begins to speak.

“And if these ornaments she take and put them on, miserably shall she die, and likewise everyone who touches her; with such fell poisons will I smear my gifts. And here I quit this theme; but I shudder at the deed I must do next; for I will slay the children I have borne; there is none shall take them from my toils; and when I have utterly confounded Jason’s house I will leave the land, escaping punishment for my dear children’s murder, after my most unholy deed. For I cannot endure the taunts of enemies, kind friends; enough! what gain is life to me? I have no country, home, or refuge left.”

The girl grins at Jack. “I love that part, ‘miserably shall she die.’ Do you want to have sex now?”

They have sex; she is eager and bold, but not too bold, and doesn’t take it too seriously, which Jack likes. Sex is overrated, Jack thinks. It should be a good time, simple, and uncomplicated. Unlike idiotic Carter, who keeps a fuck journal in a drawer by his bed and makes notes. He made the mistake of mentioning his fuck journal on Tequila Shot Night and Danny went into Carter’s room and got the journal when Carter was passed out, took it back in the common room, and read excerpts aloud.

“Kendra. Two and a half stars. Average tits. Good BJ.

“Hillary. Two stars. Said she came, totally faking. Said I was too hairy. Should I wax?”

Danny put the fuck journal back into the drawer, and Carter never knew anything about it, although he might’ve suspected something when bottles of Nair and Veet suddenly appeared in the bathroom.

***

Jack looks over at the girl. One leg is visible from under the sheet, like a dismembered limb. Was Medea the one who served her children to her husband for dinner, or did he mix that up with something else? A
Saw
movie maybe? He’ll ask the girl in the morning.

If he can remember her name. Damn. He’s living in a
Seinfeld
episode. Bovary. Mulva. Dolores.

He is genuinely fucked. Except…her purse is on the chair. How hard would it be to slip out of bed, walk over, pull out her wallet, and check her driver’s license? He slides out from under the covers. Should he put his boxers back on? Might make too much noise.
This
is
a
bad
idea
, he tells himself, but he heads for the chair.

And steps on something sharp; it pierces the ball of his foot and he draws his breath in quickly. Looks down to see a high-heeled shoe. What are the chances she’s written her name inside? Slim to none, unless her name is Madden.

Could it be Madden? He thought it was Megan. What makes him think it starts with an M?

“Your butt is cute,” she says from the bed.

He turns around. She’s sitting up and smiling.

“Bathroom,” he says.

“I’ll be here when you get back,” she says.

Maybe some of the other guys know her name. He could ask them, realizes that’s a huge mistake, as stupid as Carter telling people he kept a fuck journal.

Maybe she’d have a sense of humor about it. Honesty, the best policy.

Which is bullshit. He tried that once on a girl he went out with. It wasn’t about her looks. Okay, it was sort of about her looks—fat ass, the hint of a mustache. After the date, he said he’d call. And he meant to but never got around to it. When he ran into her in his European history class, he thought he’d explain things—in a nice white lie kind of way.

“I know I said I’d call you,” he said.

“Yeah.” She looked at him, and he could see the mistrust in her eyes. And—this made it worse—a glimmer of hope. Was he going to ask her out again?

“But I didn’t because the two of us, we’re not…compatible.”

“How exactly are we not compatible?”

He didn’t think she was going to ask for specifics.
Oh, shit.
“You know, like…personality things.”

“You don’t think I’m good-looking enough.”

“No, it’s not about your looks.” Except for the mustache. And your fat ass. “You’re really pretty.”

“Just not pretty enough to keep going out with.” The glimmer of hope look was gone, replaced by loathing. “You’re right. We’re not compatible. Because I don’t waste my time on
douche bags
.”

For a minute he thought she was going to spit on him. But she walked away. She was wearing a short skirt, and he was surprised to see her ass looked good, not fat at all, but kind of sexy. He felt stupid.

So as far as honesty goes, it’s never worth it.

***

He could call the girl in his bed another name by mistake. She’ll correct him with her right name; he’ll laugh—
whoops, that was my
last
girlfriend.

Why won’t that work? She’s seen the
Seinfeld
episode; everybody’s seen it. She’ll be pissed.
You
had
sex
with
me
and
you
didn’t know my name? That’s
cold
.
Maybe she’ll call him a douche bag too.

Or she’s crazy. Although she couldn’t be as crazy as the last girl he went out with. Heidi was Hall of Fame Crazy. Jack’s friend Will was dating a girl at UCSB; her roommate, Heidi, loved the
Harold
and
Kumar
movies and Heidi had a major crush on Kal Penn. So when Heidi found out her roommate’s boyfriend knew an Indian guy—when could Jack come up to Santa Barbara?

Jack should’ve said no. Yeah, he’s Indian, but he doesn’t look like Kal Penn. At least Heidi turned out to be cute. She’s on the giggly side, loves beer pong and Kal Penn.

“That’s not really his name, you know,” she says to Jack when they’re alone at the table in the restaurant. “It’s Kalpen Suresh Modi. His parents are from India, but he was born in New Jersey.”

“I was born in San Francisco. My parents are from Mumbai,” Jack says.

“Kal worked for Obama. Have you ever met Kal?”

Jack shakes his head.
Heidi
thinks
everyone
with
an
Indian
heritage
knows
each
other? What a moron.
But he’ll let that slide because he can see the top of her bra peeking out from her tank top. And she has excellent boobs.

***

After dinner, Jack and Heidi head to her dorm room, where they watch some
24
episodes. Heidi explains that Kal Penn’s character, Ahmed Amar, works with Fayed, an Islamic terrorist, and he has to deliver a package, but it gets screwed up, like stuff always does on
24
, and there’s a gun battle and Ahmed is shot by Jack Bauer.

She begins to cry when Ahmed dies, and the next thing he knows, she’s got his arms around him and she’s kissing him, and what’s Jack supposed to do? Tell her to stop?

Afterward, he looks up to see a bulletin board above her bed and there’s a picture of Kal Penn—actually two or three pictures of Kal Penn, possibly more. He decides to stop counting.

When it’s time to drive back to L.A. with Will, Heidi squeezes Jack’s hand and leans close. “Bye, Kal,” she says. “See you around like a doughnut.” And she makes a little circle in the air with her finger. Then turns it into a gun and mock fires at Jack. “Look at me. I’m Jack Bauer and I’m killing you. Take that, Ahmed. Pow
pow
.”

Jack forces a smile and slides into the passenger seat quickly. On the road, Will asks if Jack had a good time. “Heidi’s wild,” Will says. “She’s a physics major and super smart. Talks all the time about how she almost built an atomic bomb in her basement when she was in seventh grade. Why did she call you Kal?”

***

Jack imagines asking his father about the situation with the girl in his bed. Except Jack’s father, Rakesh, doesn’t like to talk about feelings. “Do I look like Dr. Phil?” he’s fond of saying. His comment on Jack’s current dilemma? He’d blame Jack for being stupid.
How
do
you
get
yourself
in
situations
like
this? Your sister would never do something so foolish.

Of course not, because his sister, Subhra, is the ideal child, unlike underachiever, un-ever-going-to-accomplish-anything Jack. He tries not to hate his sister. It’s hard. Her nickname growing up was Princeton. Jack’s parents didn’t bother to give him a nickname.

The Girl With No Name is smiling at him again. GWNN. Gwnn, that’s what he’ll call her. “You talk in your sleep,” she says.

“Really? What did I say?”

“You said
upma
. What’s that?”

“It’s like oatmeal. My mother makes it.” Why did he say
upma
in his sleep? Was he thinking about his
mother
?

“Are you having
upma
for breakfast?”

“No,” he says.

“Good. Because I know what I want for breakfast.” And she kisses him.

***

Suppose the name thing never comes up? She’ll mention her name in conversation. Don’t people do that sometimes? Like they forget their keys and slap their foreheads and say, “Oh, Monica, how dopey was that?”

What are the chances Gwnn will suddenly slap her forehead and reveal her name? Slim. No, impossible. Jack’s parents are right—he’s an idiot. He didn’t deserve to have a nickname.

Gwnn checks the clock and says she’s got
Medea
rehearsal coming up. “Do you want to see it? It’s pretty good, except the girl who’s Medea sucks. But who knows? Maybe she’ll slip into a poisoned robe one night and I’ll get to go on.” Gwnn grins at Jack and he grins back, hoping she’s not serious.