UnConventional Page 12

  So much for that.

  Every p reminds me of pregnant, every a, adultery. After several minutes, I give up, shutting down my computer and shoving my things in my bag. I’ll beg my boss for the rest of the afternoon off—as ill as I feel right now, I’m sure she won’t have trouble believing I’m sick—stop at the pharmacy for some pregnancy tests on the way home, and find out if I really have a reason to freak.

  * * * *

  I don’t think I can imagine a situation in which waiting for a pregnancy test isn’t agony.

  Over the years, I’ve become a bit of an expert of peeing in a cup, of waiting for little plastic sticks to finally display their verdict. No! You’re not ovulating. No! You’re not at your most fertile! No! You’re not pregnant. The last one is always the worst. I’ve been in this situation before, days, even a week into a missed period, little hints—my breasts are fuller than normal, my appetite is different, my mood shifted—all act like fertilizer to the seed of hope for a positive pregnancy test.

  And every time, a single line has greeted me, or worse, just when I convince myself it’s simply too early, that perhaps it’s a false negative, my period would come, crushing that little sapling that maybe, this time was real.

  That maybe, this time, I had another life inside of me.

  Now I stand in my kitchen, staring at a row of pregnancy tests, laid out in a dismal line on the island in front of me. How is it that the one time I may actually see that second line, that text that says pregnant, instead of being filled with the joy I’ve longed for all these years, I feel only hollow?

  I pace, alternating between glancing at each plastic stick every ten seconds and trying desperately not to look, instead focusing on the clock, feeling crazy and dizzy and more lost than ever.

  For a moment, I wonder if I should simply scoop them all into the trash before they can reveal their verdicts, live a little longer in depressing denial. But I lay a hand on my belly and realize: I need to know.

  I start to see stripes appearing. A few minutes remain on the clock, but there’s no doubt as twin lines begin to reveal themselves, one by one.

  My throat goes dry.

  My heart stops.

  Santiago’s smile, his warm embrace, his comforting, masculine smell surge forward in my memory.

  The timer sounds.

  I take one last deep breath, force myself to check the tests.

  Positive.

  Positive.

  Negative.

  Positive.

  These tests aren’t foolproof; I know that. But it’s hard to argue with a 75-percent positive rate. I hold up one, a fancy, expensive brand that displays text instead of flimsy lines, leaving less room for doubt.

  Pregnant.

  My hand wavers as a sob escapes my throat.

  Somehow, hope feels more like a choking, poisonous vine than the beautiful plant I’ve cultivated all these years.

  I have to call my ob-gyn, get her to confirm this, even though I know three tests can’t lie.

  Unlike me.

  Apparently I’m pretty good at that.

  Chapter Twelve

  A few days later, I’m sitting in my ob-gyn’s office, perched on the exam table, fingering my St. Anthony medal and swinging my feet as if the movement will somehow release my anxiety. Every time I hear a voice or a shuffle of feet outside the door, my entire body tenses, feet freezing in midair, bracing for the door to open and my doctor to enter.

  The minutes pass; I know they do, yet I can’t sense it, feeling frozen, in some kind of time warp in which the world moves around me, yet I’m somehow not part of it. A disconcertingly familiar feeling.

  When the door finally does click open, I jump. Either from nerves or the bizarre idea that the person on the other side is a threat. A moment later, my ob-gyn enters, shutting the door behind her, smiling.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she says, still smiling, and although I return the expression, I want to lean forward and rip hers right off her face. She clears her throat and takes a seat. “I’ve got your lab results back, and there’s no question. You’re definitely pregnant.”

  My entire body seems to deflate, as if the weight of uncertainty was all that was holding me up.

  My doctor’s eyebrows furrow, and she eases closer. “This is good news, Di. I know you’ve been waiting a long time for this.” She leaves the rest, the unasked what’s wrong? out.

  She lays a hand on my leg, as if her touch will make things better. Is this something she was taught in medical school? I imagine the med students practicing, maybe even counting how long to leave their hand in place before removing it.

  “This is probably a shock, even if it’s welcome,” she attempts. “I know a lot of women who struggle to conceive, and when they finally ‘give up,’ it happens. Stress can play a huge role in fertility.”

  I shake my head. “Everything we discuss, the results of my test… It’s all confidential. Between us,” I add as if the clarification is necessary. I feel trembly, but not sure if it’s my imagination.

  “Of course,” she says, removing her hand.

  I close my eyes for a moment, listening to the sound of my breathing, my pulse echoing in my ears, hands clenched tightly on the edge of the table. “This baby may not be my husband’s.”

  “Okay,” she says, her voice completely neutral, as if I’d told her I hope it’s a girl. Not a trace of judgment in her tone; this must be something else she learned in med school, I think. Or perhaps sticking to a single word helps her moderate her inflection.

  I force myself to look up at her. She’s smiling, but it’s not the flight-attendant smile; it’s softer, more sympathetic. Of course she’s likely gone through all of this before, I realize. I can’t be the only woman who’s gotten pregnant with another man’s baby.

  “Do you know who the other possible father might be?”

  I nod. “I haven’t seen him since, but…yes.”

  “Okay,” she says, looking at me, her eyes reassuring. “You’re about seven weeks along right now. In about another seven weeks, we can do a test called an amniocentesis.”

  The word seems familiar, but I feel confusion flood my face.

  “Usually we do this test when we’re concerned about genetic or chromosomal abnormalities or disease…”

  Oh God. I’ve been so swept up in the chaos of finally being pregnant, of not being able to tell Stephen, I hadn’t even thought… “What if one of the possible fathers has a muscle disease? A degenerative muscle disease,” I say, repeating what Santiago told me that seemingly forever-ago day, waiting for the streetcar. My face heats; my stomach churns. “Do I need to worry about the baby?”

  “That depends. Do you know what disease he has specifically? Not all neuromuscular diseases are hereditary or even congenital.”

  I sigh. Shake my head.

  “If we know what disease we’re concerned about, it may be possible to test for it when we do the amnio to check paternity.” She pauses, her gaze fixed steadily on me. “The procedure is safe, and I’m very experienced with it, but there is a small chance of miscarriage, if you don’t want to take the risk.”

  I let this sink in a moment, my hand on my stomach. After so many years, do I want to chance losing my baby? It would be difficult, but I could wait, if it was only a matter of finding out which man is my child’s father. But not even knowing if he or she will be healthy would have me worrying incessantly.

  “I need to know,” I say firmly.

  She nods. “We can schedule the test now, but I suggest you get in contact with this man as soon as possible.”

  Seven weeks. Seven more weeks of knowing I’m pregnant and not telling Stephen. Seven weeks of not knowing if this baby is even his.

  * * * *

  I stumble out of the clinic, into the parking lot, holding my hand up to block the sun. Everything is suddenly too bright. I’m nauseated, and I’m not sure if it’s morning sickness or simply the swirl of emotions—guilt, fear, anger, u
ncertainty—churning in my gut. The parking lot seems vast and daunting. I want to cry, but no tears come, as if they’re trapped inside me.

  Finally I find my car, my feet seemingly leading me there against my will, and brace myself against it. I pull back with a wince; the sun isn’t only bright, but hot, and I carefully pull the door open and sink into the driver’s seat.

  A quick turn of the key and the engine’s running, my music pumping out of the speakers on full blast: Fall Out Boy’s “Thnks fr th Mmrs.” The warm air of the not yet cool AC blasts me in the face. Turning the temperature, fan, and volume down, I sit, grasping my St. Anthony medal. No saint can get me out of this mess, but now, more than ever, I wish my mother were here to guide me, support me. I’m not sure what’s worse: the fact that this baby may not be my husband’s, that it could be Santiago’s (and I have no idea if his disease is heritable), or that—assuming I keep this baby—I’ll be bringing it up without my mother’s help.

  I extract my phone and scroll through my contacts until I hit Melanie’s number, hoping her invitation to call her wasn’t an empty promise. She’s not my mother, but maybe she can counsel me. After her confession in my hotel room, maybe she’ll have some advice. At least be a friendly voice.

  The AC still hasn’t chilled, and the heat is intense. I crack a window, hoping for relief and figuring I can duck my head out the side if the nausea becomes overwhelming.

  I dial Melanie’s cell. It rings once. Then I hear a tone. My stomach sinks.

  “We’re sorry, but the number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please check the number and dial again.”

  This day just can’t get any better, can it? If it weren’t for Melanie, I wouldn’t be in this situation. After all, she was the one who pushed me to talk to Santiago in the bar, forced me to ditch seminars to go shopping, persuaded me to accept his dinner invitation. I sigh. Melanie wasn’t involved in breakfast; she didn’t tie me down and pour alcohol down my throat. And she certainly didn’t make me go up to his room and fuck him.

  No, I can’t fault Melanie for my infidelity.

  I stare at the voodoo doll keychain. It spent a few weeks dangling from the hook where Stephen left it that night I returned from New Orleans. On a whim one day I reattached it. Maybe I jinxed myself. Recuerdo, right? I think as I lay a hand on my stomach. Only one person left to call.

  I thumb to the D’s, grateful now I could never manage to delete his info. Santiago Durán.

  The phone rings once. Twice. Three times. Though the AC has finally cooled down and I’m being blasted by cold air, I’m hot and sweaty. Not to mention anxious, my heart racing, not sure what I’ll say if he answers.

  “Hello? Di?” He sounds surprised but happy. At least I hope that’s how he sounds. The fact that he immediately knew it was me also means he never deleted me from his phone.

  “Santiago,” I manage to say, the word barely forcing its way out of my mouth.

  “Wow. Uh, I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”

  God, I’m such an idiot. “I’m sorry. If this is a bad time…”

  “No, no. Just surprised. It’s…nice to hear your voice. How are you?”

  Suddenly the tears hit me hard, and I can’t answer him.

  “Di? Di? Are you crying? What’s wrong?” His voice is low, concerned, soft and deep, just as I remember. I picture his eyes, golden flecks catching the light.

  “I need to talk to you. In person. Can you meet me?”

  He inhales a sharp breath. “Of course. When—”

  “This afternoon? In an hour or so?”

  “Okay. What part of the city were you thinking?”

  I realize I don’t know where his office is, where he lives, but I figure anywhere far from my own home or office will do. “How about Rice Village,” I say, intentionally picking a part of the city at least an hour from my house, to ensure I’m plenty far from home. “Could we meet there?”

  He sighs, although he’s kind enough to shift the mic so I don’t get the brunt of it in my ear. “There’s a coffee shop next to the half-price bookstore, across from the main mall. Do you know it?”

  “Yeah. The Grind,” I say quickly.

  It’s been a long time, but when Stephen and I were first married, I used to frequent the café. After Stephen came to my rescue, it wasn’t long before he found a job opportunity in Houston he couldn’t pass, and so he convinced me to transfer to Rice—his alma mater—to finish my degree. Because we lived up north, it meant I hung out in the Village a lot, killing time between classes, and the Grind was one of my primary hangouts.

  “I’ll meet you there in an hour.” He pauses, and I’m about to hang up when he adds, “It’ll be okay, Di,” as if he even knows what’s wrong. Then again, maybe he does. I remember how his face paled that morning in his room when he realized I wasn’t on any kind of birth control. His voice is shockingly calm and reassuring, though. And somehow I find it easy to believe things really will be okay.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It took me less than an hour to get to the café, so I’ve been sitting in the far back for the last five minutes, cradling my coffee, my mind reeling. The Grind has remodeled since the last time I was here, shifting from the eclectic furniture that looked like it had been gathered from years of antiquing and flea-market diving to a coherent, “franchise-esque” look, with uniform colors, tables, and seating.

  The dining area is roughly square, the perimeter lined with booth couches, tables and chairs tucked in front of them. A clear pathway passes through the other tables and chairs, dictated by a different color tile, like a cross. At the very end of this line, on the wall opposite the entrance, staring at the door, I sit, waiting.

  I hear a chime, and Santiago enters, using one crutch to prop the door open as he maneuvers inside. He doesn’t see me at first, smiling and nodding a greeting to the barista at the counter—a tall, thin, tattooed guy with short dark tousled hair who took my order earlier—Mike, I think was his name—and approaching, presumably to order his own coffee. Santiago looks just as good as I remember, dressed for work in nice slacks and a button-down, neat yet still sexy. I watch as he laughs with Mike, slipping out of his crutches, leaning them against the counter. He grips the countertop with his left hand while he retrieves his wallet from his back pocket with his right. A moment of hesitation as he finds his balance, then frees his left hand to pull some cash out. As if on instinct, his left hand finds the counter again, and he waves off Mike’s attempt to give him change. Slips his wallet back, then his arms in each crutch and turns. I could watch him forever.

  I’m so mesmerized I’ve nearly forgotten why I’m here. It doesn’t really hit me until he’s standing in front of me, smiling softly. It’s not his full grin, a veil of solemnity in his eyes.

  “Hey,” he says simply.

  “Hey,” I echo.

  He shifts his weight, uses a crutch to hook the chair and yank it out. He carefully sinks into it, then, satisfied, removes his crutches and sets them aside. The minutes before he arrived, I kept asking myself how I got here, but sitting so near him I can just barely smell his cologne, his sticks only inches away, my stomach churning—but only partially from anxiety—I know.

  I still want him.

  We both look at each other, as if it’s been years instead of weeks, as if we’d known each other all our lives and are suddenly reunited after a decade apart. In the warm lighting of the café, I can see the faint lines of crow’s feet near his eyes, the shadow of his dimple. He’s studying me just as clearly, taking in a breath every so often as if he’s about to speak, but instead he remains silent. He knows why we’re here, and he’s giving me the chance to speak first.

  “Santiago—” I start to say the same time he says, “Listen, Di—,” our words overlapping. We laugh, try again, again cross words. After a few more failed attempts, I tilt my cup toward him. “Go ahead.”

  He nods, smiles faintly. “It’s nice to see you,” he says, his voice hanging, the rest
of the sentence unspoken. Even under these circumstances.

  I blush, return the weak smile. It’s nice to see him too. Funny, how if I hadn’t gotten pregnant, I may never have again.

  Silence descends once more. It’s not entirely uncomfortable; it seems impossible to feel unhinged with him nearby. Yet I’ve lost my resolution to simply spit out the necessary facts. It’s a lot easier to tell my steering wheel on the drive over, “I’m pregnant,” than to look into his brown and gold eyes and say those same words. How do I ask about his disease without seeming rude or callous? Without his thinking it’d be impossible for me to love my baby if it has…whatever he has?

  I’m fumbling for words when Mike arrives with a coffee and doughnut. “One latte, two sugars,” he says, setting Santiago’s drink in front of him, “and this is on the house.” He sets the doughnut between us.

  “Thanks, Mike,” Santiago says. “This is Di.”

  “Like the letter?” he asks, offering me his hand.

  We shake, and I blush. Maybe it would have been better to go somewhere the staff didn’t know Santiago. “Kind of,” I say, not wanting to go into the explanation of my nickname.

  Mike smiles at me, leans in to whisper. “Well, Di. He’s a keeper. Hold on to this one.”

  Mike disappears, back toward the counter, leaving me a little flustered.

  Santiago lifts his drink to his mouth. “Whatever he said, I didn’t pay him for that. Unless it was really, really good, in which case that tip was worth every penny.”

  I look away, staring down at the lid of my cup.

  “Shit,” Santiago says under his breath. “I’m sorry.” He sighs. “Honestly? Mike and I go way back. I’ve been coming here for years. He helps me out by delivering my order to my table or carrying it out to the car.”

  I glance up. He looks so cute right now, clearly not sure what to say or do, his eyebrows bent toward each other, eyes wide, nibbling subtly on his bottom lip. I reach across the table, slip my hand in his. I love the feel of his rough palm, the way he cradles my much smaller hand in his so naturally.