The Empty Jar(21)

But this… Could this be? Or is this nothing more than the last act of a desperate mind? A waterfall fantasy conjured from the dry earth of despair?

There is only one way to know for sure. And the concierge has to help me find out.

My consciousness tilts and twirls with questions and theories, puzzling pieces and unchanging facts. A tempest rages within the confines of my skull, whipping around. Circling, circling. But as I mull and think, the picture becomes clearer. Or at least I think it does.

I sit numbly on the edge of the plush white chair in the dressing room, staring at the serene paintings that adorn the creamy walls. As I await the concierge, I agonize over every second that passes. Each one seems like an hour, and my patience grows increasingly thin. When the knock at the door finally comes, I pounce, nearly pulling the knob off in my haste to twist it.

A short, thin man with ebony hair, olive skin, and wise blue eyes stands in the hall. He is the picture of poise—chin up, spine straight, feet together, hands clasped behind his back. I passingly estimate him to be in his early forties, old enough to be able to understand my distress, surely.

“Hello? Yes, are you the concierge? Please tell me you’re the concierge. I’m Lena Grant. Were you called here for Lena Grant? I need to speak with the concierge. Please tell me you’re the concierge.”

I’m vaguely aware of repeating myself. I’m also vaguely aware that my words are like brightly colored blocks, tumbling out of my mouth and falling clumsily to the floor. But what I’m most aware of is my frantic need.

The man seems unaffected by my rapid speech. He only smiles and nods once. “Enzo Sabbadin, at your service. How may I help you today, Mrs. Grant?”

“I need something from a local pharmacy. Is there a way you could help me with this?”

“I can.”

As delicately as I can, I explain what I want, smiling and describing it as a surprise for my husband.

Boy, won’t he be surprised?

The concierge assures me of his discretion and promises to have the package delivered before I leave the spa. I hand him one hundred Euros and thank him again before he leaves.

“I hope congratulations are in order, Mrs. Grant,” he says, bowing his head and pivoting on his heel.

Congratulations.

If this is true, if I am pregnant, that’s what everyone who doesn’t know us will say. Congratulations. Everyone who doesn’t know I’m sick will congratulate us. They’ll smile and shake our hands. Some will tell stories of their own children, some might ask if we’ve picked out names or if we know the sex yet. Everyone will have something nice to say.

Because none of them know.

None of them know I’m dying.

It’s long after Enzo is out of sight that I finally mutter a weak “Thank you” as if he will be able to hear me. Then, dazedly, I close the door on the empty hallway and return to my solitude.

To my thoughts.

Robotically, I begin removing my clothes. When I turn to hang my shirt on one of the white velvet hangers provided, I catch sight of myself in the full-length mirror affixed to a graceful mahogany stand in the corner. I finish undressing and then approach my reflection slowly, almost skittishly.

For weeks, I’ve looked at my body as a traitor, unable to see past the intruder, the killer that’s growing inside me. I feel disgust and despair, anger and bitterness, but never pleasure. Never happiness.

Not anymore.

Not until now.

Now when I look at my stomach, fluttering my fingers over the little bulge that has been there for at least five years, I feel an excited wonder about what else might be growing within me. What good thing I might be nurturing.

In a future that, just a day ago, had zero possibilities, I’ve managed to find one. And as it gives rise to purpose and optimism and energy, I can’t help wondering if this is what kept Daddy going.

Me.

His child.





Eight Backdoor to Heaven Lena

Ican’t relax for my massage or my facial. All I can think about is how long it will take for the concierge’s person to get back from the pharmacy and what the test will reveal when I take it.

What my spa time does achieve, however, is to give me enough time to think about my condition in conjunction with a pregnancy. An unthinkable combination, but I have to think about it.

Is it even possible to get pregnant? And if so, is it advisable? Will I, will my body and the disease I fight pose a risk to the baby? Will my condition impair me physically before I can deliver? And if so, will it affect a growing fetus?

All of those unanswered questions bring me back to the present. To the next step.

What will that be? What should that be?

Obviously, if the test is positive, I’ll have to see an obstetrician. And a whole slew of other specialists, I imagine. Or will it even come to that? Will this tiny life be nothing more than a blip on the radar of existence? A life rapidly extinguished by the monster I’ll have to carry alongside it?

If that was to be the case, how cruel would it be to involve Nate? To get his hopes up, to give him what we’ve always wanted and then take it away just as quickly?

By staying with me, he’s already signed up for heartbreak. Could I, in good conscience, risk giving him even more? Would I be better off waiting, waiting until I’m a little further along? When the odds might be better? Shouldn’t I wait until I get back to the States and talk to some doctors? Wouldn’t that be the best course of action?