A Hope for Emily

When I told James I wanted to start trying for a baby five months ago, he looked shocked and not altogether sure, which I’d kind of suspected would be the case, even though I pretended to myself that it wouldn’t be.

“A baby? Already? I mean…” He tugged at his collar.

“I’m thirty-six, James, and I want a family.”

“You never said you wanted children.” He sounded faintly accusing.

No, I hadn’t said it, because I’d thought it was obvious. Didn’t most people want children? Weren’t you supposed to say if you didn’t? And yet, even then I knew that wasn’t true. I hadn’t always wanted children; in fact, for a decade I definitely didn’t. And perhaps it was this ambivalence, or just my fear of this exact response of James, that kept me from bringing up the topic earlier.

“Do you want children?” I asked after a moment. “I mean, more children.” I felt guilty for forgetting about Emily, even for a second.

“I don’t know,” James said after a pause. “Someday, I suppose. I haven’t really thought about it too much yet.”

We’d been together for just seven months then, married for three. By some standards ours was a whirlwind romance, but as we’d said to each other, when you know, you know. Why wait around, waiting for things to get stale, making sure you agree on silly things like music choices or what toothpaste you use?

Yet looking at James’ uncertain expression then, I knew we should have had this conversation before we decided, on a whim, to fly to St Lucia for a destination wedding, no guests, just us. My mother was devastated.

We should have had it, but we hadn’t, and the truth was that part of the reason we hadn’t was because I’d been afraid. I’d rather hear nothing than no, and I told myself I could talk James around eventually. Of course he’d want another child, in time. He’d be a great dad. He was a great dad.

“Well, surely it’s something to think about now,” I said. “I know we’ve only been married for a few months, but I’m not getting any younger, and neither are you.” I smiled to take any sting from the words. “And just think how cute our babies would be.”

He tried to smile. “Definitely cute, as long as they looked like you.”

I smiled back, willing this to be easy even though it felt forced. “It might take some time, you know. It often doesn’t happen right away. And then of course you’ve got nine to months to wait.”

“Right.” He still looked discomfited.

I leaned forward, put my hand on his knee, wanting to remind him of what we had shared… all the memories, all the laughter.

At the start of our first date, I spilled a full glass of red wine all over his suit. I was mortified, and James looked stunned, and then, to my horror, I started laughing. Really laughing, the kind that makes your stomach muscles hurt. Maybe it was nerves; maybe it was just because it all seemed so ridiculous.

“You are never going to want to see me again,” I gasped out, half-joking, even as my heart had lurched at the thought.

“That’s definitely not the case,” James said. “But I think I need to change.”

He went to a Gap down the street to buy a pair of jeans, and came back while our starters were served, joking about how hipster he was, in a suit jacket and tie and jeans. And I think I fell in love with him right then, for taking it all in his stride, for being so easygoing, for making me laugh even more.

With my hand on his knee, I looked into his eyes, willing him to remember. “I want to be a mother, James. I want to be a family with you.”

He met my gaze, looking torn. Upset, even. “Eva… it’s just that I didn’t realize…”

Something in me prickled. “You didn’t realize? What did you think I wanted?”

“I don’t know.” He shifted away from me, so my hand slipped from his knee. “I mean, yes, I suppose, eventually. But it’s just, you’re very career-focused, Eva, that’s all. And I didn’t think… you don’t seem…” He stopped there, but the damage was done.

“I don’t seem? What? Maternal?” I meant to sound scoffing but I only sounded hurt. James ducked his head, apologetic.

“No, of course I don’t mean that,” he said, reaching over to touch my hand, giving me one of his lopsided smiles that I loved so much. The trouble was, even as he laced his fingers through mine, I knew he sort of did mean it, just as I knew I couldn’t really blame him. I didn’t seem maternal, and I was afraid that I wasn’t.

I’d focused on my career for the last fourteen years, with an almost grim determination to succeed. I made sure I had the right image—the expertly done hair, the perfectly threaded eyebrows, the gym-toned body. On the outside I looked like the stereotypical career woman who had no time for baby bumps or dirty diapers. But that wasn’t the real me, not anymore, and maybe not ever.

But is that blossoming, bump-bellied earth mama me, either? I don’t know. I haven’t had the chance to find out.

I just know that I’ve wanted a baby, with a desperation that has grown with every passing month and negative test. I want to feel that solid, pleasing weight in my arms, breathe in that sweet, milky scent. I want to kiss a soft, downy head and close my eyes and think at last, at last, mine.

I want it with a ferocity borne of a fear that it’s never going to happen, that it can’t, because maybe it shouldn’t. Yet another layer of complexity to my relationship with my husband, because I couldn’t even begin to explain any of that to James, and I certainly haven’t tried.

At the end of that painful conversation, he agreed to think about trying for a baby, and a few weeks later he brought home a bottle of wine and with a glint in his eye, he carried me to bed. Afterwards, we lay with our legs twined, our fingers laced together and resting on my belly, which he gave a little, meaningful pat.