All of It (38 page)

He sighs and rolls over on his back, releasing his hold on me and looking at the ceiling in mock defeat, “There is also that I suppose.” He looks at me and winks. “Where do you want to go first?”

The next five days are a whirlwind of unforgettable sights during the day and unforgettable experiences during the night.

We recount it all on the plane ride home: the Eiffel Tower (kissing at the top under a full moon), the Seine (walking hand in hand at twilight when the air was still warm), Notre Dame, the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe, the Champs-Elysées, the Jardin du Luxembourg, the Sorbonne, the Panthéon, the patisserie in the 7th (I think Dimitri is addicted to pistachio macaroons), and the hotel. God, I’ll
never
forget that hotel.

I loved every moment of Paris, but I’m so glad to be home. Our home.
Mr. and Mrs. Glenn’s
home. I’m so happy to share it with him. Sometimes it feels like he literally gives me the world. Even though I know money isn’t important to him, the scales are extremely out of balance. I don’t want to be a burden, but I know I’ll never make the kind of money he does. So it gives me some satisfaction that I’m able to provide us with a home, albeit sparsely-furnished.

Sunny remodeled the kitchen while we were in Paris, our surprise wedding gift. And over the weeks following the honeymoon, we manage to purchase all of the items we’d been lacking. Our house looks amazing. I guess that’s what happens when your mother-in-law is an interior designer though. I swear she’s half fairy and uses pixie dust or something; she’s magical. Over the next few weeks, Dimitri converts half of the garage into his art studio and office and can now work from home full time—except for when he’s traveling. The gallery remains at Sunny’s for obvious reasons, but the walls of our home slowly become covered with paintings. Some are permanent (gifts to me), and others are on rotation; I’m sad to see them go when they’re sold, because I get attached.

My birthday comes in October, and I’m reduced to tears when I come home from work to find Dimitri sitting in the front room playing “Happy Birthday” on a brand new upright piano—
my
piano. He’s serenading me with a cheesy rendition of the song, singing loudly and finishing with “you look like a monkey and you smell like one too.”

“Why are you crying, baby?” he asks, laughing, when he finishes. “I was only joking.” I walk over to the piano bench, where he pulls me down to sit on his lap. “You don’t really smell like a monkey,” he says softly, wiping my cheeks with his thumb.

I laugh through the tears. “You didn’t have to do this.” It’s been months since I’ve shed a tear and I seem to have opened the floodgates. “Thank you. I’m sorry I’m crying. It’s just overwhelming to see a piano sitting here again. I didn’t realize how much I missed it.”

He strokes my hair. “I know. But you’re twenty years old today. I hear that’s the perfect age to start taking piano lessons. Twenty’s the new ten,” he says, smiling sheepishly. “Or something like that. And I know this incredibly handsome, and talented, and patient piano teacher who works for next to nothing. Did I mention he’s really handsome? I know that may be a little distracting, but you’re a married woman and would never be tempted by such—”

I interrupt him with a kiss. “Thank you. It was really thoughtful. And I would love for you to teach me.”

He acts playfully shocked. “What? Me? How’d you know?”

There are two small pieces of paper folded over and safety pinned to his shirt. I flip the one on the left with my finger. It says: “Incredibly handsome, talented, patient piano teacher for hire.”

He rolls his eyes mockingly. “Oh, I completely forgot I was wearing that.”

Then I flip the other one. “Can I work off a tab or do you demand payment at the time services are rendered?” It says, “Will work for sex.” I laugh. Sex is still new and exciting for us,
really
exciting for him—to the point of near preoccupation. But what can I say, he is a boy, and he waited a long time for me.

He’s still in character. “I’m glad you noticed. I try to be upfront. It’s a bit embarrassing when my clients aren’t privy to my terms ahead of time and then there’s this whole, ‘Oh my God, what are you doing?’ reaction when I take my clothes off at the end of the lesson. Believe me,” he says, shaking his head and exhaling dramatically. “It’s much more enjoyable for everyone this way.”

“It’s come to prostituting yourself in return for piano lessons? For shame, Dimitri. Clearly we need to find you a hobby.” I pause, and then kiss his temple. “Really … I mean it, thank you.”

He hugs me tightly and kisses me on the cheek. “You’re welcome, Ronnie. Happy birthday. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

The lessons begin the next afternoon, and we manage to fit them in at least twice a week, though Dimitri insists I practice every other day. I don’t mind; in fact, I enjoy it. It’s an escape. And to my surprise I’m good at it. It comes easy, just like Dimitri always said it would. Dimitri’s an excellent teacher. He’s talented and patient, just as advertised (he’s also handsome, and contrary to terms, he rarely demands payment on the spot. He’s taken to keeping a running tab on the back of my sheet music, though).

I also decide it’s time to start taking colleges classes. Dimitri is thrilled. He was understanding, but disappointed, when I let my scholarship to the University of Colorado slip away after my parents’ death, and I think the more time that passed, the more he thought I had resigned completely. I’ve decided to apply for my first two years at a community college near our home. Tuition is a fraction of the cost of a state university, and all of the credits will transfer. My goal is to finish up my degree at the University of Colorado eventually. I’m registered to start classes in January, and I’ve worked my class schedule around my work schedule. Sunny’s very flexible and encouraging, and it will allow me to continue working full-time for her while taking a full load of classes. I’ll be busy. But I like busy.

Come January, I realize that I’m not just busy. I’m
crazy
busy. But I guess I got what I wished for. Working and going to school is a huge commitment, but Dimitri and I adjust quickly and get into a routine. I take classes through the spring and into the summer, too, in hopes of making up for lost time. Dimitri travels a lot, showing his art at exhibits in several East Coast galleries. He’s even asked to display paintings at two contemporary art museums. He’s so humble and never makes a big deal of it, but it
is
a big deal. And if he’s not going to be outwardly proud, then I’ll be proud enough for both of us.

Dimitri also starts taking guitar lessons. He said he’s played for a long time, but he wants to improve. I’ve never heard him play, even though I’ve begged him to many times. He says he’ll play for me when he feels up to par. Knowing him, that will be at the point that he could easily join a rock band and tour the world. And I thought I was critical of myself. Dimitri is the real perfectionist.

We ramble on blissfully through our first year of marriage. God, I love him. He’s my best friend, my other half. He makes me happy like no one else can. We never argue. And aside from the fact that his clothes can never quite make it
in
the clothes hamper (it seems they always fall short … like two inches short … on the floor
next
to the hamper), there’s nothing irritating about him. I know no one’s perfect, but Dimitri’s perfect for me. We balance one another. And we’ve been through a lot. It feels so good to be at peace, taking care of each other day-to-day.

Our first wedding anniversary is low key, mainly due to the fact that I’m going to school non-stop and he’s buried in his work. When Valentine’s Day approaches months later, he insists we take a long weekend and get away from our obligations.

“Where do you want to go?” I ask, excited by the prospect of a reprieve, if only for a few days.

He wraps me up in his arms and says, “I would love to go back to that hotel in Paris. We saw all the sights last time, so this time we’d only need to concern ourselves with the—what did you call it—experiences?”

I confirm with a nod, “Experiences. I’d love too, but that’s a long trip for a weekend. I think we’d better settle on somewhere closer.”

“Damn time constraints,” he mutters under his breath. He stares off, thinking of alternatives.

I wink. “Experiences can be had just about anywhere,” I say, suggestively.

He smiles wickedly. “True. What about Jackson, Wyoming? We could stay at Mom’s house.” Sunny kept the house they lived in with Dimitri’s dad, and she uses it as a vacation home now. We’ve been there a few times, mostly over the holidays. It’s great, but it’s full-on winter in Wyoming.

“I’d really like to go someplace warmer, where we can be outside. I’m
so
over winter.”

He nods. “
Outside
experiences. I like the way you think.”

I roll my eyes. Though the idea kind of excites me, at the moment I don’t let on.

He’s deep in thought again. “Warmer, like beach-warm, or southern-states warm?”

“Umm … southern states warm would work.”

His eyes search mine. “Ever been to the Grand Canyon?”

I smile. “You would be safe to assume that if I haven’t been there with you, I haven’t been there.”

“The Grand Canyon it is then. It’s so impressive; I think you’ll love it.”

“Any math exams or research papers due at the Grand Canyon?”

He smiles. “I haven’t been since I was a kid, but no, not that I recall.”

“Perfect.”

• • •

The Grand Canyon is impressive, to say the least. The colors are so vivid. The formations so vast they seem to go on forever in the distance. It looks like a painting. We spend the first day hiking and are famished by dinnertime. After consuming stupid amounts of food we return to the hotel where we immediately fall into a state of sleep so near comatose it’s almost scary. We are exhausted. I’m definitely out of shape.

The second day is Valentine’s Day. The first half of the day is spent on a long drive around the canyon taking lots of pictures. Dimitri informs me this is the “sightseeing” portion of the day.

The “experiences” portion of the day is spent at a five star hotel in Phoenix that evening. That particular evening may go down in history as one of my favorites. There’s Champagne, pink lilies, candles—lots of candles. And Dimitri—lots of Dimitri.

The trip ends all too quickly, and a couple of weeks later I’m lost in school and work. One morning before a test, I wake up with something tugging at my memory. It’s heavy. Like there’s something I’ve forgotten. I scan my brain for clues but just feel an overwhelming sense of urgency. For the life of me, I cannot figure it out. Even after my test, the feeling follows me through the day. I try to shrug it off, but it clings to me. It makes me feel uncomfortable, like I’m walking around without pants, or like I’ve lost something without knowing what the thing is.

I’m unlocking my car (I finally broke down and bought one this past summer. Her name is Hazel, because she’s not at all “sexy” but more “reliable” and “solid”) after finishing up from work when I feel a sudden knot in my stomach. And then I feel incredibly dizzy, like I’ve just stepped off a roller coaster. I open the car door and take a seat behind the wheel, digging through my bag for my phone. I open up my calendar, it’s my lifeline, and look at today’s date, tracing back one day, two days, three days … panic begins to gnaw at me. I continue to count: four days, five days, six days, seven days …

“Shit!” I say to myself. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. My period is a week late. I’m
never
late. But, I can’t be pregnant; I’ve been on The Pill since just before our wedding. And I take them faithfully …

Except
when I forgot them at home when we went to Phoenix.

“Shit!”

This cannot be happening, I think. We haven’t talked much about having kids. I know he thinks getting pregnant is a long shot. When we first discussed birth control over a year ago he mentioned he had some fertility concerns due to a childhood illness, but he never went into detail about it. Which was fine with me, I always assumed, though I never vocalized it, that we’d adopt if it wasn’t possible for me to actually get pregnant. He knows I want a child, but I want one when it’s time, after I’ve graduated from college and started a career. When I’m a real grown-up and prepared for the responsibility.

I sit for several minutes trying to decide what to do. After some intense internal dialogue, I decide it’s best not to worry Dimitri until I know for sure. I stop at the drug store on my way home and buy a home pregnancy test. I feel self-conscious buying it. I know nobody’s paying attention and nobody cares, but I feel like everyone is staring, judging me, like I’ve done something wrong. I want to scream at the top of my lungs. “I may be knocked up, but I’m 21 years old and I’ve been married for over a year, for Christ’s sake!”

Dimitri is home when I arrive, so I put the box in my bag and try to act normal.

He’s washing paint off his hands at the kitchen sink when I walk in the back door, but makes a point to stretch his neck out for a kiss as I walk past him. “Hi baby, how was your day?”

“Great,” I say, in an unnaturally high-pitched tone. He looks concerned. I clear my throat. “I mean, it was good. You know.” Desperately, I point to the hall. “I really need to use the bathroom. I’ve been holding it all the way home.”

He nods, but eyes me suspiciously. “By all means, go ahead.” He knows something’s up.

Once out of the kitchen, I run to the bathroom and lock the door behind me. I read the instructions; because this is important … actually I don’t think important covers it. Momentous, serious, life-changing … there isn’t a word readily available in my vocabulary, possibly the English language, to describe the significance. I’ve never been so nervous in my life to just pee. I take a deep breath and remind myself of my mother’s mantra: “Everything happens for a reason.”

And I pee.

And I wait.

It’s the longest five minutes of my life.

Life is sometimes … a waiting game.