Grace Grows (31 page)

She calculated that the baby would be born in early June. She gave me a prescription for prenatal vitamins and, noting the lines I’d left blank on the forms, tactfully asked who would be supporting me at the baby’s birth.

“My roommate, maybe,” I said. “And my mom.”

She made a note about that in my chart. “At twenty weeks we’ll do an ultrasound. You can schedule it at reception before you leave today.”

I was tired and often a little sick to my stomach. It helped if I didn’t let myself get too hungry.

My bras got too small. My nipples, previously a pale pink, turned light brown, and my breasts looked like roadmaps, the veins became so prominent.

I longed for Ty, the way you long for your best friend when you want to show them something interesting. I wished he could see what was happening to my body. I tamped down the powerful urge to call him; I didn’t want to do it when I was feeling at all irrational or in a state of heightened emotion. Which was pretty much all the time.

In November Peg took the weekend off from the show and we took the train to Boston. Edward and Boris were getting married.

It was a small wedding, lovely and uncomplicated, at a historic Unitarian church. I watched Ed and Boris together and marveled that two lifelong-commitment types had found each other in New York City, of all places.

I missed Ty, so much. I wished things could be different between us.

I touched my belly, aware that it wasn’t just me sitting there in my particular bit of space. There were two of us.

I had never cried at a wedding before. But there was a reading, “On Love,” from Kahlil Gibran’s
The Prophet
, that for some reason gave me a little pang of tearful anxiety. Peg handed me a tissue.

On our way to the reception line, she hooked her arm through mine. “Why don’t you call Ty already?”

“I don’t know what to say to him.”

“Just tell him he’s going to be a dad.”

“Peg, it’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I’m scared, I guess.”

“Scared of what?”

“It’s hard to explain. And telling him won’t change anything. He’ll still be on his tour, and I’ll still be where I am.”

“Regardless of all that, he needs to be told. He has a responsibility.” “I know! Let me figure it out, okay? I’ll call him when I start to show.”

“Promise me.”

“All right.”

When we came home I did what I said I would never do again. Looked at his Internet fan forum. I wanted to try to get a sense of what was going on with him on tour, before calling him.

The gist of the gossip was that he was doing great shows, but not partying as much as he did during his time in L.A.

Was he unwell? I wanted to call him, to ask. I refrained.

Thanksgiving. Peg and Jim went to spend it at his mother’s house in Westchester. I spent the day with my dad and Tori. She brought sushi but I stuck with the turkey; raw fish was risky for pregnant women.

On my way home that night in a cab, Ty called. My fingers itched to open the phone, but I let him go to voice mail. After I’d had my bath and settled in bed, I listened. He sounded kind of glum.

“Hey, it’s me. I know I said I wasn’t gonna call again. I guess I lied. Happy Thanksgiving. Who did you spend it with? We ate at this big fancy house in Taos. This guy who’s an investor in the record company. You wouldn’t believe the view of the mountains from his living room.

“Anyway, I wrote a song, it might be my best ever. I started it this summer right before I came home and I just finished it. Pretty sure you’re gonna hate it. Especially when other people hear it.” His tone became defiant. “Which they probably
will
. Because this is what I
do
.”

I rolled my eyes. Great. Whatever.

“So I mailed it to you. Just a demo. When I get back you can yell at me about it or give me a titty twister or something. Okay, well. Happy Thanksgiving. See ya.”

Crap. I wanted to talk to him. He was with strangers on Thanksgiving. But it just didn’t seem like the right day to blurt the big news.

An envelope came by FedEx the next day. There was a CD, on which Ty had scrawled “A Breath Away” in black Sharpie. There was a sheet of lyrics that I quickly refolded without reading. I shoved everything back in the mailer and put it in the bottom drawer of my desk.

I’d check it out eventually, when I felt a little less vulnerable.

December came, and the nausea went away. Overnight, it seemed, a firm bump appeared where I used to have a normal, slightly chubby little belly.

“Oh, hey,” I said, running my hand over the bump. “I guess this means you’re really, really in there. Hey! Hello, little tiny human. Hello . . . my child.”

My child
.

expectations

I had seen Ty’s tour schedule online and knew that he had the evening off. No show. So I reasoned that I might reach him by phone then.

I came home that night from work, ate a bowl of Peg’s homemade minestrone, and took a warm bath. Sat on the couch in my nightgown and robe, and watched a little
Andy Griffith
on TV Land. Andy would have been a great dad for my baby.

At the end of the episode I muted the TV and speed-dialed number four. Got a recording: number not in service.

Well. That was that. I tried.

He probably changed his cell phone service. I could call his parents and ask them how to get in touch with him. I could call them at their flower shop, if I couldn’t get their home number from directory assistance. I resolved to do that tomorrow afternoon from work.

Tomorrow came. Peg called me, late morning, and caught me on my way out to teach a workshop. “Have you heard the news?”

I always hate when people start a conversation that way. “No,” I said cautiously.

“About Ty.”

“What is it?”

“Get on
CNN.com
and look at the entertainment page.”

“Peg, just tell me!”

“He’s a Grammy nominee! Two times! Best Male Pop Vocal Performance and Best Pop Vocal Album! Are you there?”

“Yes.”

“We have to call him!”

“I . . . I tried to call him last night. His number isn’t working.”

“So can we get it from his manager or something? What about his parents?”

“I was going to call them today.”

“Oh, great!” She was quiet a moment. “So, I’ll let you talk to him first, obviously, and then I’ll give him a call in another day or so to congratulate him.”

“Okay.”

“All right. Well. I’ll get that number from you tonight.”

Jean was as friendly as ever, told me that Ty had changed cell providers a while back, and gave me his new number. She said she hoped to see me again sometime.

“Oh, you probably will,” I said.

I hung up and, before I could psych myself out, dialed Ty.

He answered.

“Hello, it’s Grace.”

Long pause. “Grace. . . . Hey.”

My brain seized up at the sound of his voice. And from everything I wanted to say.

“Are you there?” he asked.

“Sorry, yes.”

He was silent.

“I’m sorry. That I didn’t call. Before now.” My speech was hitching like a car with hair-trigger brakes. “Are you well?”

“I’m good, yeah. Are you?”

“I—yes, I am.”

Quiet.

“Congratulations. On your nominations.”

“Thank you.”

“I hope you win.”

He laughed a little. “We’ll see.”

“Well. Take care.”

“Okay, you, too. Hey—are you still at Peg’s?”

“Uh-huh. Where are you?”

“Minneapolis.”

“Oh, Minnesota.”

“Yep.”

“Those are Native American names, don’t you think?”

“Uh . . . probably.”

“Well, ’bye, Ty.”

“Okay, Gracie. ’Bye.”

I hung up.

Peg was going to kill me.

I bought a couple of large sweatshirts and wore them the whole two days I spent at my mom’s for Christmas. It worked; she just thought I was getting fat.

“Well, this is better than how thin you were,” she said, examining me when I first arrived. “But be careful, hon. You’re looking a little
swollen
.”

She made me fat-free eggnog and nodded approvingly when I refused the shot of whiskey. “Right, empty calories.”

By now José had moved in, so he was there with us for all the festivities. Out of earshot of my mother, who had washboard abs, he tried to say encouraging things like “men like women with a little belly” and “this is better, last Christmas you looked like you were dying.”

My mom must have snuck out and done some supplemental shopping after I went to bed early on Christmas Eve. Because my gifts the next morning included an Abercizer, a balance ball, stretch bands, and the book
YOU: On a Diet
, by Dr. Mehmet Oz.

“Thanks, Mom,” I said dryly.

“You just don’t want to let this get away from you. Get to work now and you’ll be back in shape in a couple of months.”

“Right, okay. I really appreciate this.” I wasn’t lying, I did plan to use it all. Next summer.

I was doubtful that the sweatshirt ploy would work with my dad, but I tried it. Upon my arrival New Year’s Eve, he took one look at me and said, “When are you due?”

“June. How can you tell?”

“Your face is more full. And the quality of the light around you has changed. Like you’re in soft-focus. I noticed it at Thanksgiving, but I wasn’t sure what it meant. A couple weeks ago, I dreamed you were in a rock quarry, looking for just the right piece of stone to sculpt. You found it but had to smuggle it out under your shirt.”

“Of course, a rock quarry. The common dream metaphor for pregnancy.”

“And is the father who I think it is?”

“Yes. Mayor Bloomberg.”

“How is he taking it?”

“He’s out of town. I’ll probably tell him in the next few weeks.”

My dad looked at me.

“It’s really not a big deal,” I said. “I’m doing fine.”

“Really?”

I nodded.

My dad held up five fingers.

I sighed. “I’m a little scared.”

“That’s four words.”

“Freaked out, then.”

He put an arm around me and led me to the kitchen island. “Did I see that he got a Grammy nomination?”

“Yes.”

“When do they do that show?”

“February.”

“So he’ll be back in town next month?”

I shook my head. “The awards are in Los Angeles this year.”

My dad was unusually quiet while we ate the meal he’d made for me, an awesome onion and goat cheese pie with asparagus. There was chocolate mousse for dessert.

“What’s up, Dan?”

“I want you to be happy.”

“I am. I will be. Please don’t worry about me.”

“You know I’m here for you.”

I set down my spoon and blotted my eyes.

“I have to go to Japan in late April with the doll paintings. But you have my number. Use it.”

“I will.”

“Does your mother know?”

I shook my head.

“I want you to tell her before I go out of the country.”

“Yes, I will. Thank you.”

“For what, my dear?”

“For telling me what to do. It feels so good not to have to figure everything out myself.”

“Okay, one more instruction, then. By the time I come back, before June, you will bring Tyler here for dinner.”

“If he’s around, all right.” The very idea gave me butterflies, but okay. I’d try.

After we ate he showed me a new painting. Or maybe it was a sculpture? It was on a big canvas, but very sculptural. He had built up a thick, uneven layer of stuff on the canvas and painted it the colors of a patch of dry ground. Embedded in the surface were bits of wood, dead grass, stones, feathers, bird’s nest, and, most amazingly, a tiny bird skeleton. It would have looked like something real that you might walk right over in a wooded area, except that he had covered it all with a glaze that elegantly heightened the drab colors and rough textures. I could picture it gracing the wall of some millionaire’s monochromatically taupe penthouse living room.

“I like it,” I said. “It feels poignant. It’s about death, right? The circle of life?”

He smiled sympathetically. “Nice try.”

Middle of January, I went for my ultrasound.

I lay on a table and pulled up my sweater and Dr. Goldstein squirted warm gel on my belly. She pressed and slid the probe thing all around my navel and lower abdomen, looking at the TV monitor. I couldn’t see the screen, so I watched her face.