The Night We Met (12 page)

For a nine-year-old, my son was pretty smart. He'd already figured out that I'd set myself up to deflect his father's anger.

And if he was mature enough to figure that out...he was right. He should be the one to tell Nate what he'd done.

"Okay," I said. "Come on down."

Keith's step was slow. Heavy. And my heart went out to him. He was a little boy dealing with a kind of frustration—a kind of fear—that had broken grown men.

"What's going on?"

Nate, his voice patient, stood in front of Keith.

The boy looked his father straight in the eye. "I broke your piano."

"Broke it how?"

"With your screwdriver and hammer."

Nate didn't move, but I could see the muscles in the back of his neck tighten.

"Maybe you'd better show me."

Looking as though he'd been sentenced to death, Keith led Nate into the living room, around to the piano, and pointed.

"See?"

Nate stared for a solid minute. I loved him so much for taking the time to collect himself, to handle the worst of his anger, instead of exploding on the boy.

"Why?" That was all he said.

"I was mad."

"At the keys?"

"At my hands." Keith's voice wobbled, his chin against his chest.

"Then I guess we need to get you some physical

therapy—see if we can stretch and strengthen what tendon you have left, huh?"

Keith's head jerked up, his eyes wide. "Can they do that, Dad?"

"I don't know, but I suspect there's something they can do. We'l call the doctor tomorrow."

That night, when the boys went to bed, my husband sat down at his piano and without hesitation began to play—just as he always had. The notes sounded perfect.

Chapter 10

In November, fifty-two Americans were taken hostage in Iran. Our country was in shock. We couldn't believe such a thing could befall any of our own. We were protected, weren't we? Wasn't that what being American meant?

But the world was changing, and America was, too. Anytime I started to feel secure in my life, something happened to remind me that the only protection any of us had was loving and being loved.

ABC launched a nightly "Iran Hostage" program that, in the spring of 1980, was renamed Nightline.

We watched it every evening. And in May, our little family traveled to Washington, D.C. to see Lori graduate from law school. We took the boys to see everything—the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, the White House. We visited the proposed site of a Vietnam Memorial.

And I met Holly.

I'd expected the occasion to be fraught with tension (everyone's) and jealousy (mine). The worst part was the anguish I put myself through before it took place. The woman was still lovely at forty-five, slim with blond hair that curled around her shoulders. A little taller than I was, maybe a bit heavier, she was elegant, confident and so in love with her husband, Todd, that there was no doubt in anyone's mind that she and Nate had made the right decision when they'd ended their young marriage.

Nate's face was stiff at first, but he managed not to express his anger at his ex-wife for keeping Lori from him all those years. He and I took a long walk the night before we met Holly to talk about the way he felt.

And we found a private corner in the grounds of the hotel and necked for a while. Even after almost twelve years of marriage, that stil seemed to do the trick. For both of us.

Lori had accepted a job with a private firm and would be staying in D.C., at least for now. Nate had been hoping she'd find work with a firm out west, closer to us, but he was proud of her accomplishments—and the honor bestowed on her with such a prestigious offer.

I was proud—and disappointed—too. I'd found a true friend in Lori Gilbert and had been looking forward to having her around for more than a visit. I'd been hoping to share the next phase of her life.

Still, the trip was good. Nate and I enjoyed our boys on a whole different level. Instead of having to constantly watch over them, caring for their physical safety every second of the day, we were starting to debate with them, to challenge their thinking. In spite of the climate of the world in which we were living, we spent a lot of time laughing.

I was sorry when our vacation came to an end. Keith would be eleven that summer, going into sixth grade in the fal , and I knew my life would be changing again. He'd want to spend more time with his friends than with me. And my opinions were going to be challenged more than they were blindly accepted. Slowly but surely my boys were growing up—and away from me.

On January 20, 1981, the day of President Reagan's inauguration, $8 bil ion in Iranian assets were released by the United States and the U.S. hostages were freed after 444 days in captivity—giving us al a sense of renewed hope. And on November 13th, almost two years later, the Vietnam Memorial was final y dedicated. The Wall had 58,027 names on it, the names of all the U.S. servicemen and women who'd lost their lives in the Vietnam war.

Keith's was among them.

I was sitting in the doctor's office that afternoon, watching the dedication on TV with the rest of the women waiting their turn—keeping my mind focused on bigger matters than my missed period. I was only thirty-three. Too young for menopause. But I couldn't possibly be pregnant.

It'd been eleven years since I'd had a baby. Eleven years without birth control. My sons were in junior high. My husband was three years away from fifty.

Pregnancy and babies no longer fit our lifestyle.

I prayed to God I didn't have cancer.

"Congratulations, Eliza! You're pregnant!"

Well, of course, she was kidding. Dr. Eleanor Brown was just lightening my tension. But... She wasn't laughing. In fact, she seemed completely serious.

"How far along am I?"

"About two months."

I did the math—backward. Nate and I had run away to Las Vegas for a weekend after the boys started school. I'd been having a hard time dealing with Jimmy's departure from elementary school.

I did the math again. In the other direction. A June baby.

"You're sure?"

"One hundred percent."

I should be doing something besides sitting there, but I was too shocked to figure out what.

My heart pounded with excitement. And dread. What if... I couldn't live through a second...

"What...um..." My lips were dry and I ran my tongue across them. "What happened to...Sarah... What are the chances of..."

Dr. Brown hadn't been my doctor then. But she knew my history. Had al my records.

"Next to none," she said. "Anything can happen, of course, but it's extremely rare for one woman to suffer two separate cases of crib death. It's not genetic, nor does it have anything to do with how you care for your child. It's just one of those inexplicable flukes of nature that are nearly impossible to understand— or accept."

I wouldn't ever understand it. I wasn't sure I'd even get to the point of acceptance. But' whether I liked it or not I was going to be a mother again.

"You're young. Everything looks good. I see no sign of anything but a perfectly normal pregnancy."

Dr. Brown was concluding our meeting. I'd have to get up and go soon.

I'd have to leave this little room where my secret was safe. Go back to my life—and the men in it—

who'd be wanting their dinner. Expecting me to behave just like I did every other night of their lives.

"I won't need to see you again for another month We'll schedule an ultrasound for the month after that."

I rose to my feet, but didn't move. "I thought you said there wasn't a problem."

"There's not."

"Then why the ultrasound? I didn't have them with my other pregnancies." If there was any chance she suspected something amiss, I had to know. Immediately.

Dr. Brown smiled. "Miracles of modern medicine," she said. "It's been, what, ten years since you had a baby?"

I nodded. "Eleven."

"Technology has come a long way since then, and with it, more affordable equipment. Ultrasounds are as common as physical exams nowadays. They tel us a lot more, too. Not only will we be able to see the baby's placement, which will al ow us to prevent possible birth complications, but we can watch his growth rate, predict delivery dates and even, if you're lucky, find out his— or her—sex."

"In two months? I'll know all that?"

"Most of it." The doctor pul ed open her office door. "You'l only know if it's a boy or a girl if the baby's lying right. And even then, we can't always tell."

"Bring your husband next month," the kindly, middle-aged woman said. "I'd like to meet him."

"I don't know...."

We stopped just inside the door. "What?" the doctor asked. "You don't think he'l want to be involved?"

Nate? Of course he would.

"I'd rather not tell him yet. Not until we're sure I'm not going to miscarry or anything."

Not until I could figure out how to break it to my forty-seven-year-old husband that instead of our lives getting easier now that the boys were more self-sufficient, we'd be starting midnight feedings and the terrible twos all over again.

* * *

I'd passed the point where miscarriage was a worry. Had my three-month checkup. And was just weeks away from finding out if I was having another son or a daughter.

For Christmas Nate had given me airline tickets to Hawaii. A real honeymoon, he'd said, just the two of us. To make up for the trip I'd been unable to take thirteen years before.

He'd misinterpreted my tears for joy.

Just before the close of 1982, Time magazine named their Man of the Year—the computer.

Technology was taking over our lives. And our doctors' offices. As the date for my ultrasound loomed closer, now only two weeks away, I knew I had to tell Nate we were going to have another baby. Too much longer and he'd start noticing, anyway. I'd already gained a couple of pounds. I just prayed he wouldn't be too upset. Or worried.

Or wish he didn't have such a young wife. A woman his age would not have been in this predicament.

Lori called to say she wouldn't be able to make it out for New Year's like she'd hoped.

Nate was really disappointed.

His buddy Arnold, who hadn't visited us since his marriage years before, had also been planning to come and had to cancel.

I began the last day of 1982 the same way I'd started every morning of that week—bent over the toilet. Three pregnancies and I'd had no morning sickness. This one was making up for it.

I retched, waited, sitting on the floor in front of the toilet with my head against the wall, retched a second time and got up. Face washed and teeth brushed, I'd be okay for probably twenty-four hours.

More if I was lucky.

Opening the bathroom door, heading for my closet and the first pair of jeans and sweater I could find, I figured I could just about make it downstairs before anyone missed me.

Deciding between bologna and turkey sandwiches to put in the boys' lunches for their all-day sledding trip with friends, I took one final look in the mirror to make sure there was no evidence of my recent activities, and plowed right into Nate.

He was standing outside the door, hands on his hips, and not a hint of a smile on his face.

"Hi!" I squeaked. Damn it.

A stern look was al I got in response. I crossed to my closet, and he fol owed.

"Did you run out of oatmeal? I'l be down in a second."

"Eliza."

Jeans held in front of me, as though for protection, I turned slowly to face him.

"When were you going to tell me?"

Not now. Not like this. I'd been thinking more along the lines of a quiet dinner for two—me in a negligee I could still wear with pizzazz and a little wine for him. Or a lot.

Or maybe on the ski slope. After a great run. He'd feel ready to take on the world then. A baby might not seem so overwhelming.

The thoughts raced through my brain.

"Tel you what?" I asked in a shaky voice.

What if he didn't want the baby?

"You've been throwing up for at least a week that I know of. You're pale. You've lost your appetite.

You've been preoccupied, obviously worried about something. When are you going to tell me what's wrong with you?"

The breath I'd been holding came out in a rush. He hadn't figured it out, after al .

"Wrong?"

"Come on, Liza." He pulled me down to the bed with him, kept my hand firmly in his. "We do things together, right? Everything."

"Yes."

"So when were you planning to tell me you're sick? I've waited—and worried—for days, but this can't go on. I don't care what it is, we'll fight it. But I have to know what I'm fighting."

My dear, dear Nate. I stroked his cheeks, the lines at the sides of his mouth.

"I'm not sick, Nate. And I'm so sorry I made you worry. I had no idea you'd noticed anything."

"I notice everything about you."

Not quite everything.

"But if you're not sick, then what's—"

I hadn't suffered from morning sickness with the other three, but that didn't mean Nate was unaware of that particular side effect of pregnancy.

He stared at me, mouth open, and I knew he understood. What I couldn't tell from his deadpan expression was how he felt about the news.

"We're having a baby, Nate," I told him, just because it felt like the words had to be said. To lie there between us so we could deal with them.

"A baby."

There wasn't even a hint of elation in his voice. None of the excitement I'd been feeling on and off since I found out.

"In June."

That would mean three summer birthdays.

"You're not sick." "No."

"Thank God." Nate's shoulders sagged and I saw moisture on his lashes as he scooped me into his arms. "I was so scared, Liza," he said with a shudder. "So scared."