The Girl in the Mirror(56)
Adam screws up his face. “Seems like a waste of money to me,” he says, “paying for someone to look after our kid while you sit at home missing him. Besides, you’re the one who says preemies should stay home with their mothers.”
God, I hate it when he plays the preemie card. Tarquin has to have the best of everything—homemade food, useless “natural” cleaning products, a crib made of beeswaxed jarrah—because he was premature.
“But that was my ignorant opinion,” I say, “and we hardly need to worry about the money—”
“Let’s not count our chickens until they’re hatched,” Adam interrupts. He seems allergic to any mention of the Carmichael fortune, seldom joining in my fantasies about spending it, as if we might jinx our future by talking about it too much. “And it wasn’t your opinion, babe. You said Walter and Michael and Catherine all told you preemies should stay home.”
I nod as though I know who these people are. Their names sound frighteningly authoritative. Doctor names. God, I must look up the names of all the doctors and nurses at the neonatal unit and memorize them. My old colleagues. I might run into them in the supermarket. And is Tarquin due for a checkup?
“You swore you would never hand Tarq over to a stranger,” Adam continues. “We agreed on this. You persuaded me we should homeschool him, so how does day care fit into that?”
We should homeschool him. Oh my God. What was Summer thinking?
But how can I argue? Adam is right about one thing, more right than he knows. We can’t count a chicken that might never hatch.
Two weeks after we get to Australia, I plonk Tarquin in his high chair for afternoon tea, set him up in front of the TV, and open a kiddie pack of strawberry yogurt. The smell hits me like a wave of cloying death. I run to the bathroom, fighting the urge to throw up.
Am I coming down with something? The pregnancy test I took this morning is already in the outside bin, and I’ve promised myself never to take more than one a day. But those yogurts are fresh, and they smelled good yesterday. It’s me that’s changed, not them.
I reach into the bottom of the bathroom cupboard. There are three tests left. I’ve crumpled the boxes so that they look like they’ve been lying around here for ages. Just this one time, I promise myself. Then back to one a day. I rip open the packet, dropping the wrapper on the vanity, and scoot over to the toilet to pee on the stick. My hands are trembling so much I can hardly hold the sensor strip in the right place, and I forgot to bring my phone in here, so I don’t have a timer. I close my eyes and start counting to sixty, forcing myself to go slow. How many times now have I heard that smug beeping and opened my eyes to a blue minus sign?
Noah always stayed with me when I took a test, back when he and I were trying to conceive. He waited outside the bathroom while I peed, he timed it for me, he looked at the stick first. He broke the news gently. He held me afterward and whispered that we would try again.
I count so slowly that I decide I can open my eyes at fifty-five.
The result is faint, but it’s there.
I’m pregnant.
The air around me is full of golden bubbles. Shiny and joyful, they bump together and froth like spindrift or champagne. I have won the race. I have everything that Summer had. I am truly Summer now.
In the closet, I trail my hand over Summer’s luscious gowns, diaphanous silver, radiant gold, but I’m drawn to a white dress adorned with red roses. It’s a simple sundress; Summer probably wore it with sandals and a straw hat, but I pair it with her highest red heels. I paint my lips red and drench myself in apple perfume. I twirl, and the dress flares, full and round. I feel ready to float away.
Downstairs, Tarquin is still watching TV. I pluck him from his high chair, strap him into the back seat of the BMW, and drive him and his portable crib over to Annabeth’s hotel. I’m so entranced by that blue plus sign, I can barely keep to the speed limit. Outside the car window is sunshine and bright colors.
“Adam and I need a date night,” I tell Annabeth, dumping the kid in her delighted arms. Her room is strewn with half-finished knitting projects, booties and beanies in pastel pink and baby blue. I don’t rush away as usual; I don’t care now if she asks nosy questions about my pregnancy. She can even moan about Iris for all I care.
She doesn’t, though. She’s already molding her memory of Iris into a more comfortable shape. She tells me that they “never argued,” slipping the comment between equally delusional remarks about me “blooming” with pregnancy and Tarquin being “very advanced for his age.”
I stay a generous half hour. I ask her lots of daughterly questions about her boring hobbies and boring friends. Then I head for Romain Travel. “Come on,” I say to Adam, “knock off early for once.”
We saunter down the main street hand in hand. I can’t help but imagine telling Noah my news. Noah thought it was my fault that we didn’t get pregnant, and now I can never tell him that I wasn’t infertile, he just gave up too soon. We just needed to try to conceive for a little longer—or perhaps he was sterile.
I can barely stop myself from skipping into a cozy Malaysian café. Perhaps Adam is curious about my high spirits, but I doubt it. I’ve never felt more like Summer in my life. Happy, kind, spontaneous. It’s good to be alive.
When Adam queries my choice of meal—the spiciest item on the menu—I blame it on the pregnancy. The only sour note of the evening is my realization that I can’t drink wine now. I’ve been sneaking a glass or two most nights before Adam gets home, but now that I am pregnant for real, that has to stop.