The Lies That Bind(64)

Amy must sense that something is off because she says, “I know it’s overwhelming. I felt that way when I got engaged, anyway.”

“How so?” I blurt out, even though I really don’t want to know the answer, and all I can picture is Grant down on one knee. I can see his eyes looking up at her, and his big hands holding the emerald-cut ring that she’s still wearing. I can’t bear to look at it too closely, but catch constant glimpses of it, especially when she gestures while she talks.

    She sighs and says, “Just the Jewish-Catholic thing…and the fact that he didn’t want a big wedding…and his brother was being difficult….And let’s face it, weddings are stressful.”

“Yeah,” I say, still thinking about Grant.

As we make our way up Madison, Amy keeps talking, saying something about Prada. I try to listen, but can’t, suddenly feeling light-headed and nauseous. It gets worse with every step until I finally stop in my tracks.

“Are you okay?” I hear her ask me, but her voice sounds faraway and distorted.

“Yeah,” I say, my vision turning blurry. “I just…I just don’t feel well….”

“Oh my God, Cecily,” she says, grabbing my hand and putting her other arm on my waist. “You’re so pale. Sit down, honey. Sit down.”

I look around, but there’s nowhere to sit, so we take a few steps forward as she helps me down to the curb, next to a fire hydrant. It’s the second time I’ve collapsed to the ground in two months. For a moment, the awful feeling subsides, but when I start to stand up, it kicks in again, my vision getting even fuzzier, the buzzing sound growing in my ears, and my skin turning cold and clammy. I put my head between my legs, just like I did on the sidewalk after I saw Grant’s flyer. I feel Amy stroking my hair and hear her telling me to take deep breaths.

“Do you have a medical condition of any kind?” she says. “Diabetes? Epilepsy? Anything?”

“No,” I say. “Maybe it was something I ate.”

“But we had the same thing,” she says. “Did you go out last night? Are you a little hungover?”

“No…I don’t know what happened….I’m sorry,” I say, feeling embarrassed, but mostly just ill. “I just…It must be a bug….Something’s going around my office right now. I’m fine.” I try to stand up, but it’s a bad idea, my vision blurring again. And now there’s a commotion, a couple on the sidewalk, along with their dog, stopping to talk to Amy.

    “Is she okay?” I hear the man say.

“I don’t know,” Amy replies.

“What happened?” the woman says.

“She just got faint.”

“Should we call an ambulance?” someone else says.

“No. I’m fine,” I protest, picturing a huge scene on Madison Avenue with an ambulance and a paramedic checking my vitals as I’m forced to confess, to all those listening, that I’m pregnant. “I’m feeling better now. Don’t call an ambulance. It’s not necessary. I promise.”

“Well, then let me at least call Matt,” Amy says.

I don’t like this option much better, but I can tell by her voice that she means business, so I say okay.

“What’s his number?” she demands, her cellphone now in hand.

I give it to her as she dials, and I hear her say, “Hi, Matt. It’s Amy…Silver….Look, I’m with Cecily now. And don’t worry, she’s going to be fine…but she got a little faint while we were shopping….”

She pauses, and I can hear his voice on the other end of the line, but can’t make out what he’s saying.

“Uh-huh…yes…exactly…She says she doesn’t want me to call…but I wanted to check with you….Let me ask her.” Amy puts the phone down on her leg, then says, “Sweetie, can we put you in a cab? And take you to his place?”

“Yeah…that’s fine,” I say, as another passerby hands me a cold can of Coke and says something about my glucose level.

Amy thanks the stranger and opens the can, handing it to me. I take a sip, then another, the soda hitting my stomach and instantly helping. Meanwhile, I hear Amy tell Matthew that we’ll be right over before she hangs up and asks someone if they’ll please hail us a cab. She sits with me, stroking my hair again, and the next thing I know she’s taking my Coke and gathering my bag off the street and helping me stand up and walk a few feet to the taxi. She thanks all the Good Samaritans as we climb inside. She puts on my seatbelt, then tells the driver that we’re going to the Upper West Side. “What’s Matt’s address, hon?” she asks me.

    I say it aloud, and then say, “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be silly,” she says. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“But we were having such a nice time….I don’t know what happened there,” I say.

She hands me the Coke and tells me to take another sip. I do as I’m told, then slide the can between my thighs, taking a deep breath.

“Oh my God,” she suddenly gasps, reaching out to squeeze my leg. “Is there any way…you could be pregnant?”

Panicking, I look away—out my window—pretending not to have heard the question. Which of course is a terrible strategy because she only asks it again, more excited this time and shaking my leg.