Book of Jo: When bad things happen to almost good people
Parts 3 & 4: One more surprise
Start with Part 1. Or read a quick, spoiler-free synopsis.
September 19, 2016
Monday, 1:30 pm
I’m hiding in a bathroom stall, clutching a plastic pregnancy test.
Wolf and I have been trying for just one month. I keep telling myself there’s no way it could be that easy. The fact is I’m thirty five. I may look a little younger, but my eggs, I’m assured, are old and withered. Every time I visit the gyno, she delivers a stern lecture on the hubris of women who wait too long to have children.
“You should be talking to my husband,” is my usual reply. Wolf loves children, but he believes the world is wildly overpopulated. It took him a full year to reconcile himself to the essential selfishness of procreation.
I hear water running and two associates chattering excitedly about their bonus. I hold my breath until the door closes behind them with soft whoosh. I think I’m alone now. I hold the stick over the bowl and allow urine to run over the absorbent tip for exactly five seconds.
I lay the stick flat on the toilet tank and start the stopwatch on my iPhone. In just three minutes, everything could change.
One minute and twenty seconds. My heart is pounding, and I remind myself to be realistic. The gyno said that many women my age need fertility treatments and rattled off a terrifying list of medications, procedures, and side effects. Clomid and gonadotropins. Intrauterine insemination and in-vitro insemination. Hot flashes, nausea, blood clots, strokes, insanity, and fatal disappointment.
Two minutes and fifteen seconds. My mother desperately wants to be a grandmother. She’s sixty five and worries that time is running out. Nonsense, I say. She’s strong and healthy and believes in the healing power of plants. She’s always trying to get me to try acupuncture and Chinese herbal remedies. She’s also given up Catholicism for a vague sort of belief in universal connection and occasional visits to a psychic. “The universe is trying to tell you something,” is one of her favorite sayings.
Two minutes and thirty five seconds. I don’t think the universe is trying to tell me anything. It’s mineral and vegetable and inert and indifferent. And that’s fine with me.
Two minutes and forty eight seconds. Almost there. I bet the test will be negative, and I’ll feel mildly foolish. I’ll keep trying for several months, and then present myself to the doom-saying gyno, who will cluck and scold and prick me with needles. She may even want me to drag Wolf — or, at least, a sperm sample — in for testing.
I’m worrying that Wolf will take a hard line against in-vitro fertilization when I glance at the stick and see two pink lines right next to each other. I’m pregnant.
September 19, 2016
Monday, 6:30 pm
My worries and doubts have dissolved into joy. I’m ecstatic by the time I open the door to my townhouse. A huge bonus and a positive pregnancy test. I have everything, and I’m just going to make myself believe that I somehow deserve it. More than anything, I’m looking forward to telling Wolf and then my mother. I expect Wolf will be quietly pleased. My mother will be delirious.
I pass the doorway to my parents’ downstairs apartment and head up to the space I share with Wolf. He occasionally feels guilty that we have five whole bedrooms with ocean views and a stunning roof garden all to ourselves. “It’s just too much for two people,” he says sometimes, as he lounges on the roof, watching cargo ships pass in the distance. A child — or two or even three — will make our beautiful home seem less self-indulgent and more necessary.
I open the door and call to Wolf.
“Honey? Are you home?”
“Joanna! You’re here early!”
He appears at the end of the hallway, and I run into his arms. He is tall and muscular, and smells like freshly cut grass. He endures the hug, rather than melting into it. I step back and scan his face for clues. His face is blank, the way it gets when he’s thinking hard about something.
For just a second, I try to hold back my momentous news. But it can’t be contained.
“Oh my God! You won’t believe it! I just got a hundred thousand dollar bonus! And I’m pregnant!”
I look at Wolf’s face and he’s flushed and frowning, as if he’s angry or embarrassed. I’m suddenly crushed. I worry that Wolf has been having second thoughts about getting pregnant that he can no longer ignore.
“What’s wrong? I thought this was the best news ever.”
Wolf points in the direction of our cavernous living room, and I turn my head.
“Come out already, before she says anything else!” he calls to what is, at first glance, an empty room.
Within seconds, people are popping up from behind couches and chairs and streaming out of the kitchen. I realize that I have shared my precious news — information meant for Wolf and my parents — with my entire circle of acquaintances. My elation is gone. I feel frightened and exposed, like a crab without its protective shell.
A few people call out “Surprise!” and “Congratulations!” Others smile and bring out trays of food and bottles of wine. Cedar runs to me and gives me a hug.
“What’s going on?” I ask, a little breathless from her tight embrace.
“Your boss told Wolf about the big promotion, and he decided to throw a little party for you!”
Cedar is beaming. Her eyes are sparkling and her cheeks are rosy. I worry just a little. She always looks wonderfully alive when she drinks too much. She takes my hand and pulls me towards my friends Kat and Lulu.
“I can’t believe you’re knocked up,” she whispers. “Too bad we got that cabernet you love.”
I’m baffled for a moment, and then I remember that pregnancy is nine months of Prohibition. I notice that Kat and Lulu are staring at me with wide eyes. Kat is tall and spare, an architect with a dry sense of humor. Lulu is a short, dark sprite with an air of naughty fun. She’s an actress, an artist and a part-time dominatrix.
“Congratulations,” says Kat, taking my hand. “You’ll make a great mom.”
Lulu just pulls me into a jasmine-scented hug.
“So how long were you trying?” asks Kat. Her voice is light and casual, but the question is anything but. She and her husband have been trying to get pregnant for an exhausting three years. She’s gone through four rounds of in vitro and four miscarriages. Now she’s looking into adoption.
“A little while,” I hedge.
“How long?”
“A month,” I say.
“You know, if you weren’t my good friend, I’d probably hate you,” says Kat with a wry grin.
“I just said that same thing this morning!” exclaims Cedar.
This conversation feels surreal, and I’m uncomfortably aware that there’s something I’m forgetting to mention. Something important. I’m still struggling to remember what it is when my mother appears by my side and grabs my hand. She’s wearing a bright pink sari she picked up on a trip to India last year. Her hair is a silvery gray, and hangs past her shoulders. People say that she’s striking.
“I’m going to steal her away,” she says, winking at my friends.
My mother is tall and walks with long, purposeful strides. She pulls me down the hall and into the downstairs guest bedroom. The bed is covered in light jackets and sweaters. Tears are streaming down her elegant, lined face.
“I knew one of you would finally come around!” she says. I have two younger sisters and one older brother, none of whom have children. “And it’s so wonderful you got that bonus. You should invest it right away in a nice index fund. College is so expensive!”
She stops to catch her breath and rubs her temple. I hope she’s not getting one of her ferocious migraines.
“Let’s just try to get through the first trimester,” I say. “I wasn’t exactly intending to announce this to the whole world.”
“It’s not the whole world. It’s just your family and close friends,” she says, still rubbing her temple.
Of course, she’s right. But my close friends have Facebook accounts, and, collectively, thousands of connections, including some of my office mates. One post could expose the news of my newly formed early pregnancy to harsh, judgmental eyes.
Now I know what had been so important to tell the girls. I pull my phone from my pocket and logon to Facebook. The first item in my news stream is a status update from Cedar: “OMG. Joanna is preggers. I’m at her party, drinking for two.” There are about twenty comments, including one from Margo Han, the head of human resources of Anderson Brooks Communications.
“Mom, look at this,” I say, passing her my phone. “Now people at work will know. This a disaster! I love Cedar, but she has no filters, especially when she’s been drinking.”
I think about posting my own update, telling everyone that I’m not really pregnant, that it was all a misunderstanding. But I hate lying, and I can’t imagine myself maintaining a lie for twelve weeks or more.
My mother smiles and strokes my hair like she did when I was little.
“Don’t worry about it, my dear. The universe loves you! Everything’s going to be fine.”
Book of Jo is a homeless novella that is going to crash on Medium for a few months. I will release new parts on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, until the whole story has been posted.
Read Part 1.
Read Part 2.
Read Parts 5 & 6.
Read Parts 7 & 8.
Read Parts 9 & 10.
Read Part 11.
Read Parts 12 & 13.
Read Parts 14 & 15.
Read Parts 16 & 17.
Read Parts 18 & 19.
Read Parts 20 & 21.
Read Parts 22 & 23.
Read Parts 24 & 25.
