Expecting: A Novel (5 page)

“Yeah, I’d love to come.”

“It starts Friday. Opening night’s too crowded, so Saturday? I’ll leave a ticket for you at the box office.”

Another moment of hope. Maybe her name will be on it.

“Want my phone number, just in case?”

“Sure.” He pulls out his phone, but the girl grabs it and begins to tap on the keys. A wave of relief washes over him. She’s typing in her number herself. He won’t have to ask for her name. Everything’s fine; he’s saved.

“Here you go,” she says. “My turn.” She hands him her phone and he adds his number.

After breakfast—no
upma
; they have stale Thomas’s English muffins with peanut butter—he walks her out to her car.

“It was fun. See you next week.
Jack
.” She winks, gives him a quick kiss on the lips.

“Yeah,” he says. “Same here. See you next week.”

Whatever
your
name
is.

***

When she is gone, he goes into the den and notices Carter semiconscious on the sofa. He has a trail of vomit on his shirt. “Cute girl,” Carter says, but Jack ignores him.

Jack pulls out his phone and goes to Megan. But it’s not there. Oh no. He was
positive
her name was Megan. Suppose her name doesn’t start with an M at all? He goes to the top and scrolls down.

Notices a new number in the Ms. Right beside a new name.

Medea.

Shit.

According to Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, there are five stages of grief. Laurie wonders if Elisabeth Kübler-Ross invented stages for everything. For example, at a party, if someone asked her what drink she’d like, did Elisabeth Kübler-Ross reply, “There are five stages of a drink. Number one, select the beverage. Number two, pick the glass. Number three, put in the ice…” Laurie could ask Grace what she knows about Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, but she’s out of breath from hiking up a steep path in the Santa Monica Mountains.

“No wonder nobody knows about this trail,” Grace says, panting heavily. “You need a goddamn
machete
.”

***

Stage one. Denial. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross got that right. “Wait a minute,” Laurie wanted to tell Dr. Liu. “The first time was an anomaly. I couldn’t possibly have
two
miscarriages in a row. There must be a mistake.”

No mistake. A second blighted ovum, another pregnancy that didn’t progress. As they were driving home after the D & C—a
second
D & C—Laurie told Alan not to worry, she’d be fine.

“Are you sure?”

“I didn’t have as many expectations about this time, so it’ll be easier.” She’s lying. She expects Alan to realize she’s lying. It won’t be easier; it will be as lousy as before. Why wouldn’t it be?

But Alan didn’t pick up on that. “Good,” he said. Once they were in the house, he asked if she wanted him to stay or should he go to work, and she told him of course he should go to work. She
insisted
. Didn’t she already tell him she was okay?

And naturally, when he left, she got into bed and wished he hadn’t gone. Wished he was there to hold her, bring her a heating pad for her cramps, stroke her forehead. He should have
known
she needed him. Even though she sent him away.

But she can’t blame Alan for the miscarriages. Unless…is there something wrong with his sperm? It isn’t sticky enough, or he’s got some freaky-ass chromosome that instead of dividing into cells, his
un
divides and causes blighted ovums. Ova?

No, not Alan. It’s her stupid eggs. Stupid, badly functioning eggs. Why did Alan’s sperm have to pick
that
particular one, an egg clearly better suited to being part of a period, ending up on the end of a tampon. Alan’s sperm had to meet up with a
dysfunctional
egg. Laurie’s probably got two ovaries filled with dysfunctional, flawed eggs.

Rotten eggs. Hilarious, maybe the name of the book she’ll write about her miscarriages. Because nothing says bestseller like a funny book about miscarriages.

***

“I used to imagine Troppo growing inside me,” she tells Alan later. They’re sitting on the patio after dinner, occasionally looking over to watch the neighbors behind them who are working out on their second floor balcony to a Zumba dance DVD.

Alan refills Laurie’s wineglass. Laurie puts her hands against her stomach. “I’d think how Troppo could feel the warmth of my palms. Idiotic.”

“Not idiotic,” he says.

“At least this one didn’t have a name. That makes it better, doesn’t it?”

Alan nods at her. “What do you want me to do with the crib?” he asks in a gentle voice. He is trying, she realizes. He wants to say the right thing.

“I’ve got an idea,” Laurie says. “Let’s put it in the backyard, douse it with gasoline, light a match—
whoosh
—all gone.”

“Won’t work. We’d need a permit or our Zumba neighbors will get pissed at us for burning something outside and there’s probably a terrible fine.”

“You’re right,” Laurie says. “Too bad.”

The crib goes back into the garage. Neither of them talk about another pregnancy. Or a next time.

***

Grace and Laurie have reached the top of the trail, a loose-gravel spit of ridge with a view that looks down over a new housing development, a tiny slice of blue ocean in the distance.

“You’re kidding,” Grace says, popping open her water bottle. “We climbed Everest for this?”

Finding material for Hidden Valley is interesting work, but at least half the tips turn out to be duds, like this trail. “The article I saw online called it ‘The Trail of Secrets,’” Laurie says as she opens her own water bottle. The houses in the development are big, with red-tile roofs, but squeezed too close together.

“‘Trail of Tears’ is a better name.
Damn
, now we have to go down.” Grace turns to Laurie. “How are you doing? With the miscarriages. Are you okay?”

Laurie shrugs. “I’m going through the stages of grief.”

“How far are you?”

“Stuck between one and two, denial and anger.”

“That sounds fun. How’s Alan?”

“Fine.” She corrects herself. “Probably fine.”

“It’s bad for him too. Maybe worse because it’s harder for him to articulate how he’s feeling. Hal would be the same way.”

“I don’t think so,” Laurie says. “Hal is more open than Alan. Alan tends to retreat, go quiet.”

“Alan needs some time to deal with this. Both of you lost babies, you know. How many more stages of grief are there?”

“Five total.”

“Sheesh. Let’s see if you can knock ’em off while we hike our sorry asses back down this canyon. Assuming we survive. Why didn’t we hire Sherpas?”

***

Stage two. Anger.
Why
me? What did I do to deserve this?
And if she can’t blame Alan, how about God? Laurie is torn between her faith that wavers between God is responsible for everything around us—bad drivers, an especially good latte from Starbucks, a zit on the end of your nose—to God is
way
too busy to be concerned with every bad driver, latte, or zit, no matter how big or omnipotent he is.

She’d grown up going to church—her family was Methodist—but since moving to L.A., she’d sampled a few other churches: Presbyterian, Unitarian. On one of her early dates with Alan, he asked how she felt about religion.
Uh-oh
, she thought,
a
trick
question
. Some people get nervous when you talk about faith or God. Suppose Alan was an atheist?

“I go to church sometimes,” she said. “One day I’d like my kids to go too. You know, so they have something—values, a moral center. But nothing freaky, like speaking in tongues.”

She’d
really
blown it. Sweet, funny, sexy Alan,
not
an atheist, but now he was about to reveal he’s a snake handler and speaking in tongues is his favorite thing in the world. She waited for his answer.

“I go to church sometimes too,” he said. “I was raised Episcopalian. There’s a great church in Pasadena, All Saints. I go there sometimes. You could come with me one Sunday if you want.”

“I’d like that.” Hooray, no tongues.

They’d gone to All Saints, married at an Episcopal church in Reno (Laurie’s hometown), and, when they moved to Sherman Oaks, found another Episcopalian church close by. But these days Laurie’s relationship with God is on serious hiatus. For how long? At least until she gets past the anger stage.

The only way she’s found to avoid anger is by sleeping. Work for Grace, come home, nap. When she’s asleep, she’s pregnant again. Waking up is the worst time of the day, the slow slide of dream state to reality. Nope, not pregnant. A look at the clock.
How
long
before
I
can
go
back
to
sleep?

***

Stage three. Bargaining. “If I get pregnant again, I’ll be a better wife. And a better friend,” Laurie tells Grace. “I won’t say
fuck
anymore.”

Grace nods. “You could join the Salvation Army, stand in front of a kettle, and ring a bell at Christmastime.”

“Maybe.” Laurie sighs. “If only there weren’t so many children
lurking
out there. I hate that.”

At the mall it must be Discount If You Bring a Stroller Day. Laurie hurries to Bloomingdale’s, past the play structure. Mothers, nannies, a few dads, a
thousand
children. She watches a child sneeze on the nose of a plastic cow and another child runs over and gives the cow a kiss.
When
I’m a mother, I won’t let my children play in a germ-infested, unsanitary place like this
, she vows.

And she realizes, hallelujah, she’s ready to move on to the next stage.

***

Stage Four is depression. Laurie doesn’t like that; it seems like a step in the wrong direction. She could ask Alan what he thinks, but he’s been spending a lot of time at his office. At his office so he can avoid coming home, Laurie suspects. Not that she’s a joy to be around. She wears the same pair of jeans every day, thinks about touching up her highlights, decides there’s no point.

When she sees Alan, she waits for him to say something.
A
dumb
joke
would
be
okay
, she wants to tell him. But she doesn’t say that. And he doesn’t make a joke. And their lack of connection and communication, shared baby loss dance continues.

She reads constantly. As long as the books don’t involve pregnancy. World War II novels about Anzio or Guadalcanal. Nonfiction about the sinking of the
Andrea
Doria
, the fire on the
Morro
Castle
.

***

“Are you sure you want to go to Kristi’s baby shower?” Grace asks Laurie.

“Yes,” Laurie says. Grace and Kristi and Laurie met a few years ago in a book club that lasted three months when one of the women insisted on only reading Maeve Binchy. Kristi is Laurie’s age. “Plump and proud,” she calls herself. Her husband is as round as Kristi is. “Well-rounded,” he says, patting his tummy.

Laurie thinks she’ll be able to manage a baby shower; she’s been okay around Grace and Emilie. Grace’s husband, Hal, brings Emilie by the office sometimes, and Laurie only occasionally feels a catch in her throat, like when she watches Hal and Grace squeeze Emilie between them and make “an Emilie sandwich.”

Kristi’s baby shower is held at a house in the Hollywood Hills with views of downtown L.A. “On a clear day, you can see Catalina,” a woman says to Laurie as she hands her a mimosa. There are dozens of blue balloons everywhere, a three-tiered cake with
Monsters, Inc.
characters on top and “It’s a Boy Monster!” piped around the side. Kristi is hugely pregnant and squeals each time she unwraps another adorable, infant-sized sleeper or baby blanket. She oohs and ahhs over Laurie’s gift: a matching sweater and hat set with a friendly bear print. “Ben is going to look like a little bear cub,” Kristi says as she holds up the hat with tiny round ears.

Laurie smiles at Kristi and doesn’t tell her the gift was sent to her by a Chicago cousin for her first pregnancy. Laurie couldn’t stand having it around the house, and regifting doesn’t count if you’ve had multiple miscarriages, right?

She makes it through silly shower games that involve sipping wine from baby bottles and trying to diaper dolls while blindfolded. But she’s not unhappy when Grace announces it’s time to leave.

“I think you handled that most impressively,” Grace says in the car. “How many mimosas did you have? Eight?”

“Two. I’m not sure I can deal with another shower for a while.”

“You were super brave to show up for this one.” Grace nods at Laurie. “Unless…you could always go to a shower and give a wildly inappropriate gift.” Grace thinks. “A grenade. Or a switchblade. Every baby needs a switchblade.”

Laurie laughs. “A hot melt glue gun. A bow and arrow set—baby’s first eye patch.”

Grace is laughing too. “Razor wire. A big bag of buttons. Straight pins.”

“A pit bull.”

***

Laurie’s feeling better. It helps to have a sense of humor about loss.
I
can
beat
this
, she tells herself. She runs into a friend at the dry cleaner and Laurie’s put on a clean pair of jeans today and made a hair appointment. Her friend asks if she’s heard the news—their mutual friend Rachel is having twins.
Twins!
Can you imagine?

Laurie smiles, feels her lips sticking to her teeth, tells the friend she can’t wait until the baby shower.

Lightning rods. Surgical scissors. A bottle of yummy antifreeze.

***

Stage Five. Acceptance. Not easy—acceptance feels remote, light years away, but she’ll try. Look toward the future, not dwell on the past. She’ll comfort herself with clichés, like toasty warm blankets on a cold stormy night. And sure enough, her depression begins to lift.

Alan is still quiet. Quiet at home, quiet at a visit to Dr. Liu’s office where Dr. Liu talks about recurrent pregnancy loss and tells them they could keep trying the old-fashioned way—he smiles here—or they could see a fertility specialist.

“What do you think?” Laurie asks Alan when they get home.

He doesn’t answer right away. “A test-tube baby?” he finally says. “Is that what we have to do?”

“I expect the fertility doctor will tell us. And I’d rather have a test-tube baby than no baby at all, wouldn’t you?”

Alan hesitates. “Of course. Sure. But the idea that we’re not in control of this anymore, that we have to depend on outside people, it’s just…” He trails off.

“I know.”

“I want it to be normal,” Alan says.

“Fertility treatments are normal. We’re lucky they have them now. What did they do thirty years ago?”

Alan doesn’t say anything and Laurie wonders if Alan would be happier living thirty years ago. He wouldn’t have to change his wardrobe.

He is looking at Laurie. “But is it okay if we keep trying the other way?”

“The other way?”

“A roll in the hay. Bouncy bouncy. A little meat injection—” Alan begins to grin. And Laurie realizes she hasn’t seen him smile like that in weeks.

“Meat injection?” Laurie laughs out loud. “Okay,” she says.

“So right now. We’ll show ’em we don’t need any stinking fertility doctors.” Alan wiggles his eyebrows up and down.

“What? Right now? I have to make dinner.”