Heads or Tails (18 page)

I sat on the couch with GiGi next to me, my arm around her tiny shoulders as if we were teenagers on a date at the movies. My lungs expanded with deep, satisfied breaths. She repeated “cak cak” to Gavin and I stared into nothingness. Taking the baby for Jean and being the best friend I could be to Margot was both exhilarating and costly. I wondered what I could truly manage, how far I could take this precious task. What would I risk? My job? My financial security? My identity?

As GiGi leaned into me, I grew unsettled as I realized that perhaps I’d gotten myself all wrong. That I’d spent my whole life feeling absolutely certain about something that perhaps wasn’t entirely true or maybe not even true at all. It was frightening to realize that I’d lived so utterly sure of my mind, but blindly unaware of my heart.

Forty-five minutes later, I couldn’t sit still or settle down. The thrill of GiGi’s milestone surged adrenaline through me and waiting for Jesse to arrive home grew almost painful. I was downright amped, more excited and puffed with pride than I’d been when Curtis Construction landed the coveted Painted Lady project. Then, Frank and I had treated ourselves to an afternoon off and beers at The Triangle. For practical reasons alone, that simply wasn’t how I was going to bask in GiGi’s development. Yet energy seeped from my pores. I considered trying to catch up with Jesse and the tri group midway through the training run by somehow estimating their location through a route/minutes-per-mile calculation. But it was too complicated. Plus, I didn’t have a proper jogging stroller for GiGi anyway.

Instead, I did something unbelievable. I texted Abe. It felt very juvenile, texting instead of calling. But my enthusiasm over GiGi’s speech mixed with my confusion about what, exactly, I even wanted from Abe propelled me to write instead of call. I figured I could avoid the over-blabbering that inevitably resulted from nerves. Writing also spared me some of the humiliation if he blew me off.

“Hi, neighbor,” I wrote. “It’s Hillary. The baby’s due for a walk. Truly too? If so, I’ll be headed towards Kezar in about 10.”

I hit send, then placed the phone upside down on the bed as I changed myself out of Jesse’s robe and the baby into warmer clothes. I took my time in a bizarre effort to give Abe plenty of opportunity to read the message and decide to join us. I’d just buttoned GiGi up in a Sacramento State onesie handed down from Sarah when my phone chimed.

“Catch U on the corner of Frederick & Cole in 5.”

My heart thudded in my ears and I began to sweat. I felt like a teenager whose invitation to the prom had been heartily accepted. I decided to leave the umbrella stroller at home and wear GiGi in the front carrier. I’d finally begun using it after Mercedes showed me how to secure all the buckles and closures. Wearing her on my body was like a comforting armor of protection, from what, though, I wasn’t quite sure. I pulled knit caps over our heads and together we stood in front of the full-length mirror. I carefully guided a few curls forward to refine my look. GiGi tilted towards the mirror and slapped at our reflection.

Minutes later, we were walking alongside Abe and Truly towards Kezar Stadium, the athletic arena built in the 1920’s at the southeast corner of Golden Gate Park. He was wearing faded jeans and a navy North Face fleece. As soon as we met up, I relayed her thrilling “cak, cak” moment, struggling to reign in the tide of my words, which otherwise would have spewed from me in a fast and fevered pitch. I was still blown away by what she’d said, how she’d actually responded to me. When Abe smiled at me in the moonlight, I noticed for the first time that his left incisor was charmingly twisted a quarter turn from the rest of his otherwise perfect teeth.

Once inside the stadium, we walked the track clockwise, against the tide of the nighttime joggers. Technically, dogs weren’t allowed on the track, but at that hour, no one minded. Plus, Truly was one of those dogs who elicited a constant stream of admiring comments. Golden Retrievers, it seemed, were universally adored.

At one point, we passed a man running with one prosthetic leg, which led to Abe telling me about his cousin, a veteran who’d lost an arm in Afghanistan. That triggered a riff on politics, which then morphed into a discussion of how I’d come to be named Hillary and he, Abe.

One of the things I loved most about my husband was that from our earliest days together, we didn’t need to talk. Not only were we comfortable with silence between us, but we were so in tune with each other that we were able to communicate in more subtle ways — shorthand, facial expressions, gestures, even one-word scribbled notes. But that night with Abe, I was reminded of the satisfaction of easy banter. Our conversation didn’t have the forced nature of small talk either. Tell-me-about-your-family prompts were entirely unnecessary. It just flowed. He laughed genuinely and enthusiastically, making me feel like the most engaging person he’d encountered in weeks. It’d been a long time since someone made me feel like that.

We’d trotted about a mile on the track when Abe paused to clean up after Truly. I snuck a glance at my phone.

“I’d better be getting the baby home to bed,” I said, reluctant to end our walk but aware that Jesse would be returning soon.

“Let’s hit it,” he agreed.

“When did you move to Cole Valley?” I asked as we trudged up the stadium stairs towards the neighborhood. I didn’t let on that I’d actually researched his house purchase online.

“About six years ago. I first rented a flat with a buddy. Liked it here so much that I decided to make it permanent. The house is a little big for just me and Truly, but…” He nodded towards the baby and I knew what he was saying: he planned to grow into it.

“Hey,” he said, stopping on the corner. “Can I treat you to some ice cream?” He pointed a half-block up to the Ice Cream Bar, Cole Valley’s new millennium answer to the old-fashioned ice cream shop, complete with hipster, artisanal flavors like goat cheese with cherry. I paused, suspended, holding GiGi’s soft hands in each of mine. It really was getting late and Jesse was due back from training. But being around Abe was so pleasurable, I just wanted it to continue.

“What are you, an ice cream pusher?” I teased as I continued my internal debate about whether to prolong our meeting. “You offered me Ben & Jerry’s the other night outside your house.”

He laughed, remembering. “What can I say? It’s what addicts do. Join me?” His tone was so warm and inviting, I couldn’t say no.

“A quick one,” I agreed.

He tied Truly’s leash to a parking meter. Inside, we fought our way to the front of the line amidst high schoolers taking study breaks and twenty-somethings on dates. Normally, I’d have ordered some kind of mocha flavor. But GiGi had enjoyed her ice cream at the zoo so much that I knew I’d have to share. So I ordered child-friendly strawberry instead.

The only available table was in the back, which was a relief. Otherwise, if someone I knew passed by, how would I explain my late-night ice cream date with a man who wasn’t my husband and a baby who wasn’t my child? We traded bites (his, butterscotch) amidst a continued stream of chatter. I learned that Abe’s recent ex-girlfriend, the one who’d prioritized shoes over him, was already onto her next relationship — with one of his college roommates.

“Ah,” I said, waving my spoon dismissively, “she wasn’t good enough for you.” My boldness surprised me. After all, I hardly knew him.

“You don’t know,” he protested. But his cheeks flushed behind his dark five o’clock shadow.

“I
know,
” I flirted.

For the first time, the dialogue faltered and I wondered if I’d said too much, gone too far. The baby began to fuss, which, for the first time, I welcomed. She was my built-in excuse to leave. I took a last bite and stuffed napkins and my short wood spoon in the cup.

Abe sighed, following me to standing. “All good things must come to an end.”

I hung my head, pretending to adjust the baby carrier buckles so he couldn’t see the smile that had involuntarily emerged on my face.

Outside, he untied Truly, who’d been waiting patiently, accepting pats from passers-by. “Can I walk you home?”

“Oh, no, no,” I said, pointing to my street. “I’m just right there. I gotta get this girly to bed.”

I silently praised myself for bringing GiGi in the front carrier. Should there have been any inclination on either of our parts towards a hug, she made it simply out of the question.

“Thanks for the ice cream,” I said, walking backwards and tossing an awkward wave that was in sharp contrast to the ease of our conversation. “And for joining me. I mean, us.”

“It was,” Abe said, bending forward to cup Truly’s regal head in his large palm, “our pleasure.”

I woke of my own volition Sunday morning for the first time in three weeks. The night’s sleep had been solid and felt uncharacteristically long. I glanced one-eyed at the clock — it was nine-thirty-five.
How in the world had this happened?

I propped myself up on my elbows and noticed that I was alone in the room. Jesse was gone and the Pack ’n Play was empty. The room was darker than normal for the morning. My heart climbed quickly up my esophagus as I panicked. But then I heard GiGi laughing in another room. I placed my hand to my throat and exhaled.

Still, I remained confused. Sunday mornings were prime workout times. Jesse was supposed to be at Aquatic Park for a swim. Had he forsaken his workout to voluntarily assume the dreaded early shift with the baby? Then I heard rain and a crack of thunder, which always sounded to me like the snap of a tarp at a construction site. Only general contractors thought that thunder sounded like a construction tarp, when most people thought the other way around.

I got out of bed and instantly felt the storm’s chill. I threw a sweatshirt over my PJs and padded quietly out of the bedroom. I walked down the hallway, Jesse’s voice growing louder as I approached the living room.

“Who’s that?” he said. But in his baby-talky voice, it sounded more like, “WooDat?”

I paused at the end of the hallway, spying Jesse and the baby without being noticed. GiGi was on the couch and he was kneeling on the floor next to her, holding up his phone, showing her pictures on the screen. They were both in pajamas and GiGi’s black hair stood straight up on the left side. Jesse palmed a mug of coffee next to him on the floor. Behind them, the large living room window delivered a grey, pale light into the room.

“Ooook!” she said and giggled robustly.

“Cookie Monster! Good job!” Jesse lifted up the baby’s hand and high-fived her. “And how ‘bout this? Who’s this?”

She said, “Oooook!”

“No, silly! That’s not the Cookie Monster. That’s Jonathan Cheechoo,” he said in a serious voice. “Jonathan Cheechoo was one of the greatest players in San Jose Sharks history. Once, Cheechoo slipped his stick between his legs and re-directed a pass into the corner of the net past the Avalanche’s goaltender. I’ll show you the footage sometime. But for now, let's just say it was the sweetest goal in Sharks history. Can you say Cheeeee-choooo?”

“Oooook-eee!”

The scene astonished me. Jesse playing with a baby, the baby he hadn’t wanted here in the first place. Meanwhile, not only had I struck up a friendship with Abe — which Jesse may not have minded — but I’d hidden the friendship from him. He’d arrived home Wednesday only minutes after my nighttime walk with Abe. Bizarrely, I played it off like I’d been home the whole time. When Jesse patted GiGi on the head, he said, “Her face is all red.” Then he gently touched the backs of his fingers to her cheek. “And cold. Could she be sick?”

“Oh,” I said, my throat thick. I gulped from my nearby water bottle, though I wasn’t thirsty. “I just, um, took her outside. I had to throw something smelly from the fridge into the big trash bin outside. I didn’t want to leave her inside alone.”
What on earth was I doing? Lying — to
Jesse.

“Wise,” he replied, tapping a finger to the side of his head. “You, Stevens, are always thinking.” I turned away, my heart crunching inside my chest. Marigold, I thought, had probably never kept a single thought or feeling from Jesse.

With GiGi on the couch that morning, he hit a few more buttons on the phone. “Okay, now, who’s that?”

GiGi reached out her hand. He gave her the phone and she drew it closer, looking confused.

“Who’s that?” he asked again. She glanced up at him in question.

“It’s a mirror. So whooooo’s that? That’s
you
! That’s GiGi!” Then pressing yet more buttons on his phone, he occupied her by asking, “Where’s your nose?”

She smacked the center of her face with her palm, then fell to pieces with laughter. I could tell from his playful tone that Jesse was loving the game too. I dropped my chin to my chest. The scene was nearly too precious to watch. He held the phone up again.

“Who’s that?”

She flung her chubby arms up and down excitedly and emitted a delighted squeak.

“That’s Hilly!” he said, pronouncing it “Hiwwy.” “That’s your Hilly!”

It should have been a beautiful moment. But instead a rush of alarm and dread swept over me. Not having children had been a primary cornerstone of our marriage. And here I’d brought this delicious, maddening, delightful, exhausting baby into our lives, disrupting everything — our routine, our work, our mutual hobbies, our solid agreement about steadfastly remaining just a couple, just the two of us. It would have been bad enough if I’d become pregnant without his consent — but GiGi wasn’t even our child. And yet it was indisputably clear: he was falling in love with her. Soon I’d have to rip her from our life just as abruptly as she’d entered it. For many people, falling in love with a baby was inevitable. But in this case, it was terrifying.

“Thanks for letting me sleep,” I murmured softly, announcing myself. Jesse looked up and blinked, like he’d been startled out of an enjoyable day dream. “Doesn’t training just move to the pool when it rains?”

He swept a hand in front of his body as if to say, “It’s nothing.” What he actually said was, “Decided to rest my body — and yours too.”

I rubbed a hand through my hair and then smoothed down the front of my pajamas. To stop my nervous motions, I crossed my arms and leaned against the wall. My body was heavy. I was consumed by guilt and also a profound tenderness for my husband. I stood there, quiet for several moments. I was compelled to verbalize my internal conflict, but struggled against a thickness in my throat.