A Hope for Emily

I tell myself this restlessness will pass; it’s to do with Rachel, and all that, and not how I actually view my career or my life. And yet the days slip past and I find myself starting to get touchy, a little short with my colleagues. I snap at a secretary, I make a mocking joke about the important of mineral-based eyeshadow, and Mara gives me a questioning lift of a single eyebrow, a precursor to a more formal dressing down. Not good.

I pretend I don’t see it, and I try to reign in my temper. This too will pass. I can’t risk my job, not yet, not until I’m pregnant, at least. If I can get pregnant.

But my peak ovulation time arrives and when I reach out to James, he rolls away, too tired. I don’t feel brave enough to point out now is a good time for baby-making, and so I lie flat on my back, staring up at the ceiling, sleep eluding me yet again as I wait to start another day.

One Thursday in late May, when James is at the hospital with Emily, I end up swinging by my parents’ house, even though I hardly ever surprise them with such a visit. I realize I am lonely; my nights feel empty along with my days.

“Diva!” My father looks thrilled I’ve shown up. I smile and hug him; I’ve never told him I disliked that nickname, because he’s the one who gave it to me. And there is a kernel of truth in it; when I was little, I was the spoiled princess to his rough and tumble sons. I flaunted that fact to my brothers, because even though my dad cossetted me, I was never part of the impromptu football games in the backyard; I didn’t go fishing upstate when they organized a trip one spring. That’s just the way it was—unthinking, impossible to ignore or combat. That’s the way it’s always been.

“Is everything all right?” my mother asks anxiously as she presses her cheek to mine and then bustles me back to the kitchen, the women’s domain. My father settles himself in the armchair, in front of the TV, having done his duty.

A gleam comes into my mother’s eye as she looks up at me from the ground beef she is frying on the stove. “Or is there news…?”

“No. No news.” I smile tiredly. If only.

My mother deflates. “Oh. I was hoping…”

“I know, Mom. So was I.” My period is due in a couple of days, and I know there’s no point in even using one of the pregnancy tests lined up in my underwear drawer, under a set of lacy thongs I never wear.

“You were?” My mother looks up, surprised, almost hopeful again. “Because you never say, Eva. To tell you the truth, I haven’t even been sure if you’ve wanted children.” Which is about the worst thing a woman could feel, according to my mother.

“I told you I do, Mom.”

“I know, I know, but you’re so quiet.” She shakes her head, half in annoyance, half in affection. “You keep so much in. I have no idea what you’re thinking most of the time.”

I’m not sure what to say that, because I know it’s true. I shrug.

“Well, you’re trying then?” Now she definitely sounds hopeful. “Because it can take some time, you know. With Steve we had to—”

“Please, Mom. No details.” I hold up a hand to forestall hearing about my brother’s conception.

My mother gives a girlish little grin. “Well, you know, trying can be fun.”

“Please.”

Thankfully my mother drops that line of conversation, although she’s not done with talking about conception. Far from it. “James doesn’t bicycle, does he? I’ve read that can limit sperm.”

This is why I have avoided this conversation. This, and a lot of other, more complex and painful reasons. “He doesn’t bike.” Not that much, anyway.

“And I hope you’re taking folic acid, because you know that’s important? Right from the beginning. Otherwise babies can get that horrible disease—the one where they have that awful bulge in the spine—”

“Spina bifida. And yes, I am taking

folic acid.” I have been for six months, so I’m definitely okay on the vitamin front.

“Well, it will happen then,” my mother says as she pats my hand. “But you know, you could always go the gynacologist? Get things checked out? Make sure it’s all working down there?” A faint blush touches her cheeks. My mother is the queen of euphemisms when it comes to a woman’s body parts. She didn’t seem to have the same kind of trouble discussing my husband’s sperm.

I nod, reluctant but not wanting to admit it. “Yes, maybe I’ll do that in another month or two.” But I’m afraid to see my doctor, afraid of what she might say, the bad news that will be the end of my hopes.

“It can’t hurt,” my mom says, ever philosophical.

“No,” I agree. “I don’t suppose it could.”

She smiles and pats my hand again. “Don’t worry, Eva. Not every woman can pop out babies the way Tiffany can. It can still happen for you.” I think that’s meant to be reassurance, but it feels like a jab. I nod and murmur something like agreement.

“And how is James?”

“He’s all right. He’s visiting Emily tonight.” I don’t normally mention Emily to my parents. It’s easier not to, and it’s not as if I ever have news to impart. I told them about her after James and I got married, because it felt necessary. They were sympathetic, anxious, a little bit horrified. And my mother continues to be all three as she shakes her head and gives me one of her looks.