Chapter 3
This is for real.
This is it.
Over three years of checking cycles, planned sex and hoping and praying and crying and this is it.
Over three years of wondering what is wrong with us. Of having doctors tell us there’s nothing wrong and still not believing them.
Over three years of taking this out on each other.
And this is it.
From the moment we see that second blue line show up, we cycle through five stages of excitement.
First, there is denial.
We want to believe it so bad. And yet, we are skeptical. We immediately have her take the other test in the box. Just to be sure. And there it is looking back at us. Two blue lines. A second peed-on stick broadcasting that there is a human life inside my wife.
The second stage is shock.
We wrap our arms around each other silently. And we don’t let go. I’m not sure what Lara is thinking, but I don’t have anything to say. There was always a part of me that thought this day would never come, even if I wouldn’t admit it. There is a part of me that still can’t believe it.
Then comes acceptance.
“I’m pregnant. We’re really pregnant,” she says.
“We’re going to have a baby! Can we call our parents?”
The fourth stage is jubilation.
Here we are. Screaming and jumping and acting so stupid it would probably make you sick. A weight had been lifted and we are the happiest people you’d ever seen. We are so happy and we can’t stop crying. No, it is so sappy, it would definitely make you sick.
The last stage is moving forward. This is real. It’s finally real. The clock has already started. She’s already a week or two pregnant. In less than nine months, we’ll be parents.
Oh my God.
This is real.
We need a nursery and a crib and we need to paint it blue or pink or yellow or with superheroes or animals or clowns, not clowns — clowns are scary — and we need food. Do they still make mashed bananas, they do, right? Kids still eat that. And green ones. Peas or asparagus or whatever green foods they can mash up and fit in those little jars.
And bottles of formula, but they say breastfeeding is best, but can you always breastfeed? I mean, what if it’s not convenient. What if she’s in surgery? I think they make pumps for that, like you make it ahead of time. We still probably need some formula, at least for emergencies. We won’t be bad parents if the kid has formula once, right?
What about diapers? Should we get cloth diapers, or are those just for hippies and treehuggers and the poor? I mean, if it’s good for the environment, maybe we should, God, disposable diapers are expensive. How many do we need? 100, 200? Do we need to go to Sam’s or Costco? I bet we do. I bet we should just buy a membership to Costco right now. Start buying granola bars in the 50-count boxes. You can never have too many granola bars.
And strollers and mobiles and car seats — oh my God, the car seats. We should be in the store right now.
“So do you believe me now? Do you think those dreams were a sign?”
Lara is lying down next to me, with her hands on her belly. It’s funny, you can’t tell she’s pregnant by looking at her stomach. But you can tell by looking at her face. She’s smiling in a way that I’ve never seen before. After all these years of living and talking and being with her, I’m finding new things inside her. New features. New emotions.
Lara says, “Of course I believe you. I never really doubted you. You were the one that didn’t believe you could receive signs.”
“So that does mean that everything is planned out for us? That we were supposed to get pregnant now, and we didn’t have a say in it?”
“I don’t think your dreams, or any signs, are a definitive glimpse into the future. It’s up to us, to make our future.”
“Yeah,” I pause. “It’s just weird to me. Like once I had those dreams, the future was decided, and that’s what’s going to happen.”
“Well, have you had any dreams since then?”
“Um…”
Lara clarifies her thoughts. “I mean, I know we dream every night, but you haven’t remembered any dreams since then?”
“Nope.”
“You’re right, that is weird.”
We only remember what we want to remember.
A tumbleweed catches an eastern wind and rolls into my legs. I’ve a feeling we’re not in Chicago anymore.
In front of me is a landscape of rolling plains. Greens and yellows dance on the horizon. My dreaming mind is constructing a beautiful impressionist representation of the grain harvest at the end of summer.
If I had my wits about me, I might recognize that it’s not that dissimilar from Wheatstacks (End of Summer), a Monet that just happens to be hanging in the Art Institute. I might raise the possibility that my subconscious is recalling the painting from one of my many walks through the gallery. But I don’t.
I’m walking through the greens and the yellows, stepping through the grains of wheat strewn in the tall grass. My body knows where it’s going, even if my mind doesn’t. In my right pants pocket, there’s an old-fashioned key, bronze or pewter, maybe. My feet fall naturally into footprints along the path I’m walking. The path I’m on leads to a red house over yonder.
It’s a simple wooden house, painted with a red that has dulled through the years. My footprints tell me that this must be my house, so I believe them.
I creek across the wooden porch and reach for the metal doorknob. The knob sticks and clicks and doesn’t budge. I give it another twist, just to make sure. But it’s not rusted over or broken, it’s just locked.
Through the wood I hear a sound. The same sound I heard on the other end of a seashell. It’s not just any baby crying — it’s my baby crying. Even before I see the infant, I just know.
I fish the heavy key out of my pocket. It grinds and slides into the lock but it won’t turn over. I press harder, trying to force the metal into the right grooves.
Either this isn’t my house, or it’s not the right key. Or something’s really wrong.
My baby’s cries grow louder. I’m twisting and pushing that stupid key into the old lock. I can hear my child in pain through the door. And now I’m jamming that fucking key into the worthless lock.
I hear another sound from inside. Another cry. This time it’s from Lara. My wife is shouting and screaming and now I know something’s wrong.
I pound on the wooden door, sending splinter shrapnel into my bare fists. I’m trying to break the door down, trying to rip the heavy oak off its hinges.
Lara’s shrieks of agony get louder and louder. The baby’s crying pierces the air. I give up on the door and run to the side of the house, looking for a window or another door. I circle to the right side, passing red wooden wall after red wooden wall. I come around to the same front door with the same key and see that there’s only one way in.
I look up at the peach sky and scream. “What do you want from me? What can I do? There has to be a window!” I bury my face in my hands, unsure what to do.
I look at the lock and the key is gone. I yell again, “Give me a fucking window!” I run around the house again and on the back wall there is a single pane, vintage window where there wasn’t one before.
Without thinking I shatter the window with one swing of my right elbow. Big pieces and tiny shards fall to the wooden floor, creating sounds like a xylophone. When the pieces of glass settle on the floor, I can only hear one person crying out. My wife is still in pain — my baby is silent.
I hurriedly climb through the window, cutting my arms and legs on the jagged glass. There in the next room is my wife, crying and screaming and shaking. Her hands are covered in blood.
End of Chapter 3. Read Chapter 4 here.
