I checked the clock again, then reached for the test tube. This, I
realized, is the most incredible moment in any woman's life. Is your
world going to go on being the same, or is it never, ever going to be
the same again?
When I pulled out the stick, it was a bright, beautiful pink.
"Steve. I love you. It's--"
"Max." He didn't realize it, but his voice had just gone up an octave.
"What?"
"That's my dad's middle name. I want to name him Max. It's an old
family tradition."
"And what if it's a girl? Don't say Maxine or I'll divorce you before
you even make an honest woman of me."
"Nope. If it's a girl, then you get to pick."
I couldn't believe I was finally having this conversation. It was
something I'd dreamed of for years.
It then got too maudlin to repeat. He was coming home in eleven days,
and we planned the celebration. Dinner at Le Cirque and then an evening
at Cafe Carlyle. For a couple of would-be New York sophisticates, that
was about as fancy-schmancy as this town gets.
I was crying tears of triumph by the time we hung up. By then it was
late enough I figured Arlene would be home from her exercise class, so
I decided to call her and break the happy news once more. Who I really
wanted to call was Betsy, on the Coast, but I knew she'd still be
driving home from her temp job. Arlene would have to do. Telling her
would be the equivalent of sending an urgent E-mail to the entire
office, but I wanted everybody to know. Two birds with one stone.
I looked down at my body, all the curves and soft skin, and tried to
think about the miracle of a baby finally growing inside it, life
recreating itself. God!
Arlene was going to break my mood, but for some reason I had to call
her. If only to bring me back to reality.
I reached over and clicked open the cordless again. I was punching in
her number when something made me pause. It was a nagging thought that
I'd managed to repress for a while. Finally, though, it wouldn't stay
down any more. There was something I had to check out.
I slowly put down the handset, climbed out of the tub, dried off, then
plodded into the bedroom to dig out my private calendar, which had long
since become a record of everything relevant to my and Steve's baby
project.
It was buried at the bottom of the desk's second drawer, in amongst old
bank statements. It was also, figuratively, covered by two months of
dust, since that was how long it'd been since I'd bothered with it. I
guess my attitude had been, what's the point?
I placed it on the desk, trying not to get it wet. Then I wrapped the
towel more firmly around me, switched on the desk lamp, and sat down. I
think I was also holding my breath.
I counted all the days twice, but there was no mistaking. The night
Steve and I had spent so gloriously together in the Camino Real wasn't
a fertile time. Not even close. I suppose that by then I'd become so
despairing of ever getting pregnant, I hadn't even given it any
thought. It was enough just to see him and hold him.
I just sat there for a long time staring at the white page, unable to
move, random thoughts coming too fast to contain inside my tangled
brain. Finally, though, I managed to get up
and numbly put the calendar away. Order, I needed order. I then worked
my way into the kitchen to fix myself something. I had a glass of
water, then pulled down a bottle of Red Label and poured myself half a
tumbler. Okay, somewhere down deep I knew it was the worst possible
thing I could do, but I wasn't thinking, just going on autopilot and
dismay.
I drank off a shot of the foul-tasting scotch, then realized how
thoughtless that was and dumped the rest into the sink. Next, I moved
into the living room and put on a raga, "Malkauns," concert volume, the
one where the first note goes straight to your heart. Finally I
collapsed onto the couch, the room now gloriously alive with all the
spirituality and sensuality of the raga, notes piling on exquisite
notes. For a while I just lay there numbly, enveloped in its lush
eroticism. . . .
Eventually I started to think. Alex Goddard had planned to take from
me, but had he also given? Had his "proprietary" ovulation drugs . . .
causing all those hundreds of eggs to mature simultaneously . . .
inadvertently let me get pregnant?
Then I had a dismaying counter-thought. Could he have done an _in
vitro_ while I was under sedation, when he harvested my ova? The
ultimate link to _Baalum_. Was my baby Sarah's too? One of those last
frozen embryos in his . . .?
Then I leaned back and closed my eyes.
No, surely not. This baby was Steve's and mine. Ours. Had to be. His
unintended, beautiful, ironic gift.
Surely . . .
Uh-uh. Go for a second take. Embrace life. Be Molly Bloom and shout it.
Yes!
_Yes_!
* * *