Recipe for a Happy Life: A Novel (29 page)

Nate has created a pregnancy-friendly plan for our evening by consulting with his older brother’s wife. His thoughtfulness tickles me pink, and I find myself giggling nonstop as he tells me what he has in mind.

“So, sushi was out,” he tells me, “that much I could figure out on my own, but my sister-in-law also told me that we should stay away from things like bowling, because you wouldn’t want to strain your tummy muscles.”

“You were going to take me bowling?” I ask, a smile playing on my lips.

“Yes,” he says, looking very serious. “That was on my list of things.”

“Well, maybe we could go to the drive-in instead,” I say. “And save bowling for next time. And then after that, we can share a milk shake.” It dawns on me that I seem to have learned how to flirt.

Nate has made reservations at a seafood restaurant, reporting that white flaky fish is really good for my developing fetus, but I have other ideas about what’s good for me and my pregnant body. We end up at La Parm, ready to gorge ourselves on pizza and pasta.

We grab a table in the back, behind the deli, and order. The place is packed, with various share house kids, straight off the beach, picking up pizza pies to enjoy before they hit the clubs. Our salads arrive, and out of the corner of my eye I can see a guy with a baseball cap in the front of the restaurant. He’s exactly the sort of guy I thought Nate was before I got to know him this summer: a rich, entitled brat who still thinks he’s in college. I’m so glad I was wrong about Nate. I turn and look over at him. He’s mixing up his salad, reaching for the olive oil, and he catches my eye.

“What?” he says.

“Nothing,” I say, suddenly embarrassed for staring at him.

“You were looking at me,” he says.

“I’m not allowed to look at you now?” I ask, trying to be playful.

“You can look at me all you want,” Nate says, taking a sip of his soda. (He refused to order wine, since I couldn’t have any.) “Looking at me is good. Look at me all you like.”

He begins to lean into me, slowly, and I lean into him, too. We meet in the middle and he gives me a peck on the lips. When I open my eyes, I see the guy with the baseball cap again.

“That’s the sort of person I thought you were,” I say, motioning to the guy in the baseball cap. “The type of guy I went to school with.”

“Who? Him?” Nate says, looking at the guy in the baseball cap, who is looking toward our table. “He looks awful.”

“Sugar!” the baseball cap guy calls out in our general direction. And then I realize he’s coming toward us. “Hey Shuge!”

Nate gives the guy a wave.

“Hannah, this is Todd. One of my fraternity brothers.”

Todd reaches over the table and gives Nate a huge bear hug. He then turns to me and shakes my hand.

“Really nice to meet you, Hannah,” he says, looking me in the eye when he does. “Any friend of Sugar’s is a friend of mine.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” I say, but my voice is a bit smaller than it was before.

“Hannah thinks you remind her of someone she went to high school with,” Nate says, smiling, trying to hide the laughter in his voice.

“I went to Fieldston,” Todd says. “Are you from the city?”

“I went to Pearce,” I say.

“So, we’re practically related,” Todd says, and we all laugh.

“See that, Hannah,” Nate says. “We’re all practically related here.”

“Yeah,” I say, and just have to giggle despite myself.

Nate and Todd catch up for a few moments, and I smile as I listen to them speak. What strikes me about the whole thing is that I don’t even mind Todd coming over to the table, screaming out “Shuge” like, well, a fraternity boy. I can’t help but think, how did I get here? How did I get to this place? When I came out to the Hamptons for the summer, that sort of thing would have driven me crazy. Would have proved to me that my feelings about Nate were one hundred percent dead on. When I came out here, I hated Nate. And now, not only am I sneaking around with him behind Jaime’s back, I’m actually enjoying a conversation between Nate and one of his old fraternity brothers.

Our food arrives and Todd excuses himself after promising to call and make plans with Nate.

“Man, that guy was terrible,” Nate says.

“You’re terrible,” I say, and Nate gives me a peck on the lips.

“So,” Nate says, “what do you want to do after dinner? Go to the beach to relax? Or we could catch a movie. Or rent one, if you’d be more comfortable hanging out at home. I just don’t want to exhaust you too much. My sister-in-law told me that when she was pregnant, she used to go to bed at nine o’clock, so I want to make sure we don’t overexert you in any way.”

“Thank you,” I say. “That is so incredibly thoughtful.”

“I try,” Nate says, the sides of his lips curling into a shy smile. “So, what’ll it be?”

“Let’s go dancing.”

*   *   *

An hour later, we pull up to an old boathouse somewhere between North Sea and Sag Harbor. We valet park the car—Nate’s taken his mother’s SUV in lieu of his usual Jeep, which is “too bumpy for a pregnant person”—and walk right in. There’s no bouncer, a rarity for a Hamptons club. This place is so hard to find, so hidden in the woods, that I guess they figure that if you’re able to actually find the place, you should get to go in.

We walk through a crowded living room into the main part of the boathouse. The entire inside is just like a big barn—no walls, incredibly high ceiling—and the back door to the outside is swung open. Nate and I grab a table, and from it, we can see the people sitting outside, on oversized couches, just looking at the water. But we came here to dance, so we stay inside.

A waiter comes over to our table and Nate asks him for one milk shake, two straws. The waiter’s a bit confused, but I smile, thinking about how I teased Nate before. Most people don’t really listen to what you say to them, but Nate does. He listens to everything I say.

I haven’t heard much dance music this summer—anything that doesn’t entail a twelve-piece orchestra isn’t really my grandmother’s speed—and I feel it pulse through me. It’s loud, really loud, and it takes me out of my head. I can barely hear Nate as he asks me to dance, but I let him take my hand and lead me out to the center of the dance floor.

The room is crowded and sweaty, but there’s a cool breeze coming in from off the water, so Nate and I gravitate toward the edge of the dance floor.

The breeze blows in, and Nate grabs me close. We’re dancing as if it’s a slow song, even though it’s fast, but I don’t care that everyone’s staring at us. I don’t think about what will happen later when I get back to my grandmother’s house and have to face Jaime. I’m living in the moment. Living in this moment.

Nate pulls back and spins me around, and my dress twirls as I twirl. The song changes and now we’re dancing fast, in time with the music. Nate’s still holding my hand, and I feel myself getting hotter the more we dance.

I see our waiter set sodas and bottled water onto our table, but I don’t want to leave the dance floor. I just want to keep dancing. I want to dance harder. I want to dance until my feet hurt and the sun comes up and it’s tomorrow.

And then I feel it. It comes on suddenly, and I don’t know what’s hit me at first. One moment I’m dancing along to the music, and the next, I’ve got a sharp pain just below my belly. I’m not really showing yet—my stomach’s a bit rounder than it normally is, but no one would know I’m pregnant just from looking at me. Still, I’m very aware of where the pain is. My hand instinctively flies to my stomach, and I pause for a moment.

“Are you all right?” Nate asks, leaning in so he’s right by my ear.

“I’m fine,” I say, straightening up. The pain goes away just as quickly as it came, and I smile at Nate. He grabs my hand and we continue dancing. I take a deep breath and look out the window to the water. Nate grabs my hand and I turn to face him. We’re dancing, holding hands, and I can’t stop smiling.

Seconds later, the pain is back. Only now, it’s sharper, stronger.

“I think I need to sit down.”

Nate ushers me over to an empty table and we sit down. Nate motions to a waiter, who brings over a pitcher of water. I feel better for a moment, but as I reach to grab the glass of water Nate has poured for me, the pain hits me again.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I say.

“What does it feel like?” Nate asks. His voice tells me he’s trying to be calm, but I can see panic forming in his eyes.

“My stomach,” I say. “It’s sharp pains in my stomach.”

“Okay,” Nate says. “I think we should go and maybe swing by the hospital. Get you checked out. I’m sure nothing’s wrong, but just to be on the safe side.” He says it like he’s suggesting we stop in town for some ice cream at the Fudge Company.

The valet picks up Nate’s car quickly—more people are coming into the club than leaving—and Nate opens the passenger door for me.

“Is it better when you sit up, or do you think you should lie down?” he asks.

“I guess I should lie down,” I say. Nate opens the back door without a pause, and helps me in.

I climb into the backseat and curl up into the fetal position. Nate gets into the driver’s seat and asks, “Should I call Jaime?”

“Yes, please,” I say. And then: “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Nate says as I call out the number. “He’s the father of this baby. If it was me, I’d want to know.”

I can hear the ringing on the car’s speaker phone, and Jaime’s cell phone just rings and rings until it finally goes to voice mail.

“Do you know the numbers of any of his bandmates?” Nate asks.

“No,” I say.

Nate calls information to get the number for the club where Jaime’s performing.

“Are you feeling any better?” he asks while the operator gets the number for us.

“The sharp pains have become dull aches,” I say.

“That’s good,” Nate says. “Dull is better than sharp, right?”

Information connects us to the bar where Jaime’s playing, and the bartender asks us to hold on while he goes to look for Jaime.

“I can’t find him anywhere, mate,” the bartender reports back a few minutes later.

“Okay, thanks for checking,” Nate says. And then, to me: “We’re here.”

We pull into the hospital parking lot and all I can think is that God is punishing me. And why shouldn’t God punish me? I’m pregnant with one man’s child and out with another.

The next call Nate makes is to my grandmother and mother. They’re both at home. My grandmother tells Nate that they will meet us at the hospital. And then, under her breath: “We are spending an inordinate amount of time at the hospital this summer.”

Forty-nine

The one advantage to going to the emergency room is that it seems to have brought my mother and grandmother together. When there’s an emergency, you hardly have time to entertain the various grievances you have with someone. When there’s an emergency, you just get into the car and go.

My grandmother and mother gather around the emergency room bed where I’m stationed, and Adan grabs my hand without saying a word. I squeeze his hand and see a smile play on his lips. In his eyes, I can see that I am his granddaughter. He loves me as if he’s been my grandfather all along.

“Are you all right?” my grandmother asks, putting her hand on my cheek.

I look across the small hallway at Nate, who’s seated in a chair directly across from my emergency room bed. I’m certain he can hear every word we’re saying to one another, but I say it anyway.

“I think God is punishing me,” I say, my voice almost a whisper. “I was out with Nate while Jaime was out at a gig.”

“Thinking like that is not the recipe for a happy life,” my grandmother says. “What’s next? God will then punish Jaime because he was at a gig when something happened to you and couldn’t be here at the hospital? The cycle would never end.”

“I really don’t believe God has quite as much time on his hands as you think,” my mother says. I wonder for an instant whether my way of thinking has angered my mother, as if she thinks that I’m suggesting God is punishing her for something by making her sick.

My grandmother and Adan go to find the doctor on call and I’m left with my mother at my side.

“Everything’s going to be okay, you know,” she says matter-of-factly. “And if it isn’t—which it will be, but just in case it isn’t—then it wasn’t meant to be, and this is the way it was meant to happen. No one’s punishing you, least of all God. No amount of worrying is going to change it, so for now, we’re going to sit tight, and breathe, and just know that whatever happens now will be the right thing.”

I regard my mother.

“What?” she asks. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

“It’s just that you’re actually giving me good advice,” I say.

“You’re surprised?” she says.

“Giving me appropriate advice?” I say with a slight chuckle. “Yeah, I’m a bit surprised.”

“Appropriate?” she says, feigning insult. “I’ve always just tried to be honest with you.”

“But sometimes a kid doesn’t need complete honesty,” I say. “Sometimes a kid needs sugar coating. Hugs. Support.”

“So, now I didn’t hug you enough?”

“Sometimes you just need a mom to be a mom.”

“I think you’re going to be just fine,” my mother says, and pushes back the hair that’s fallen onto my forehead.

Over my mother’s shoulder, I see my grandmother walking with Adan and the doctor. I explain the pain to the doctor, and he has a nurse begin to take my blood pressure.

“Has there been any blood?” the doctor asks. “Cramping?”

“No,” I say.

“What were you doing when the pain started?” the doctor asks.

“Well, I feel really guilty about this,” I explain.

“Why is that?” he asks calmly as he tells the nurse to draw some blood.

“I was dancing,” I say.

“This isn’t
Footloose,
” the doctor says, smiling. “You can dance in the Hamptons.”

I force a weak smile.

“Look, don’t be so hard on yourself. Let’s just take a peek at your baby, okay?”

Another nurse wheels over a large machine. The doctor adjusts my gown so that my belly sticks out, and he squirts some gel onto my stomach.