Shatter My Rock (2 page)

I
cannot think, the chaos in my body overriding all else. I glance ahead at the
hotel and then back at the conference center, barely registering the
consequences of what I am about to do. This presentation is a big deal; they’ve
trusted me. But all I can focus on is the saggy mattress in room two fourteen.

My
feet seem to turn on their own, deciding for me.

But
then I hear it. “Claire-bear!”

I
have not been so glad at the sound of something so noxious in my life. I will
my feet to turn back, embrace the enemy. “I’m sick,” I tell Eric bluntly.
“You’re going to have to take over.” I shove the soggy hardcopies at him, but
he resists, the cigarette between his manicured fingers struggling to stay lit.

“What’s
wrong?” he asks sincerely, and for the first time, I believe him.

“Migraine.”
I force the papers into his free hand. “We’ll go over everything later. Good
luck.”

I
have been asleep for a sufficient number of hours as to lose track of my orientation
in time and space, my very identity in question. That’s what headaches like
this do: wipe the slate clean; reboot things.

My
eyelids peel apart to reveal nothing more than the blood-red glow of an LCD
clock. Eleven fifty-nine. It must be p.m., because the dark is deep; it
suffocates.

I
search my mind for whatever it may offer: A name? A place? Someone’s phone
number? Synapse by synapse, the details spark, slow to fire but as ever-present
as the hand of God.

The
marketing presentation.

An
irrational wave of panic rolls from my scalp to the soles of my feet. It’s that
dream where you’ve forgotten to study for the big test or shown up for church
in your underpants.

I
feel my way along a wallpapered surface in the direction of what I believe to
be the hotel bathroom. This much has begun to gel. But before I can cast my
suspicions in stone, a door swings open, drowning the entryway in artificial
light.

It’s
Eric.

“Oh,
good,” he says. “You’re up.”

I
am too disoriented to know if he has entered my room just now or has been here
all along. “What are you…?”

He
toggles the switch of a wall lantern, blanketing half of the room in a warm
glow. “I was worried about you.”

Something
is off in the way he speaks to me. Too personal. I fear for a moment that
Claire Fowler is but a product of my desperate imagination, a frantic escape
from my life as Mrs. Eric Blair.

He
tilts his head and smiles. “I talked to Tim.”

It’s
as if some kind soul has strapped an oxygen mask to my blue lips. “Tim?”

He
advances on me, and I retreat, stopping when the backs of my knees hit the bed.
“I told him you’re mine now.”

I
can’t tell if he’s serious, so I say nothing.

He
continues, “The presentation killed, by the way. Genius stuff. They lapped it
up.”

My
mind begins to clear. “I’ll tell Bob. Thank you.”

We
sit.

“How’s
your head?”

“About
the same,” I say, the migraine intensifying at its mention.

He
shoves his hand into his trousers and pulls out a clenched fist, which he
dangles over my lap with a delighted grin. “Then you’ll love this.” He jiggles
his fist as if he’s about to drop something, so I cup my hands and wait.

A
single, cross-scored pill. Small. White. Boring. I hope for a moment that it’s
Imitrex, but then I realize it’s the wrong shape. Round when it should be triangular.

I
pinch the pill between my fingers and ponder, “What’s this?”

“Muscle
relaxer. Great for migraines. My sister swears by ‘em.”

I
have taken muscle relaxers for neck spasms. “Where’d you get it?”

“Tweaked
my back on a ski trip,” he tells me. “Didn’t use ‘em all.”

I
wonder why he has a stash of prescription pills at the ready, but something
tells me not to ask. If I’m too curious, he might take this one away.

“Thanks,”
I say, eager for him to leave so I can down the thing and get back to bed. I
give him what I think he wants: an appreciative smile. “You saved me again.”

“I
told Tim you’d be out of commission for the night,” he says in a satisfied tone.
“You can call him tomorrow.”

I
have not considered contacting my husband until just this moment, my gaze
falling on the desk where my cell phone inexplicably rests.

He
catches me staring and, as if he’s read my mind, nonchalantly says, “He called
while you were sleeping.”

There
is no rational explanation for why a coworker of the opposite sex has entered
my hotel room without invitation, so I don’t bother asking. Instead, I lead
Eric to the door. “See you in the morning,” I say, as he slips out.

Behind
him I clunk the deadbolt to its locked position and test the door just to be
sure. It’s as secure as I have any right to expect in a place like this.

My
head still throbs after twelve-plus hours of sleep, which prompts me to consider
the possibility of a brain tumor. But without the Imitrex, I can’t be sure.

I
scuff into the bathroom, coax a disposable cup from its wrapper and load up on
lukewarm tap water, the only kind this faucet agrees to deliver with regularity.
Then I give the muscle relaxer one last chance to convince me of its
gratuitousness before I gulp it down and retreat to bed.

I
have one female friend, Jenna Dearborn, a fellow VP at Hazelton who, like me,
has worshiped career over all else. She is forty-one. Disappointed. Alone.

We
sit across from each other in the cafeteria at work, our table by the windows
overlooking the comings and goings of the parking lot below.

“I
bet you’re glad to have that over with,” Jenna says, referring to the marketing
conference, her celery-green eyes studying me in a way that makes me squirm.

I
take a bite of my salad and wait, wonder what she hopes to find. “It wasn’t
that bad,” I say, the fiasco already a distant, weeks-old memory. “I spent most
of it in bed.”

“Bob’s
back, you know,” she tells me.

“I
heard.”

“Was
he pissed?”

“Not
really,” I say. “I gave Eric all the credit.”

She
stares harder. “Can I ask you something?”

I
hate sentences like this, their sole purpose to preface a bald-faced intrusion.
But I say, “Sure.”

“Are
you pregnant?”

Not
even Tim would ask such a thing so bluntly. “What makes you think…?” I have
made a point of keeping our most recent attempt at parenthood a well-guarded
secret.

She
shoots me the kind of cocky smile Tim gets when he’s sure of the
Final
Jeopardy!
question. “It’s just that…something’s different.”

I
consider letting her in on everything. A cheerleader in our corner couldn’t
hurt. But her emptiness spurs guilt in me over Tim and Ally. “I don’t think
it’s in the cards,” I say. And I believe it.

She
shakes her head. “Well, something’s going on,” she persists, unwilling to let
go of whatever nuanced tidbit she has latched on to.

I
humor her. “How so?”

“You
seem really calm.”

“And
that translates to pregnant?”

“It’s
like you’ve let go of something,” she says confidently. “Stopped striving.”

She
may be right on one point: The IVF has taken its toll; I’m not sure I want to
continue. “I don’t see another baby,” I say, the personal nature of the
declaration emphasizing its awkwardness in the lunchroom. “It’s too late.”

The
gravity of what I’ve said reverses her course. “It’s probably something else,”
she now claims. “Did you color your hair? It looks so shiny.”

“I’ve
noticed that too,” I admit, running a hand over my unusually silky locks. “Tim
put in a water softener.”

Jenna
glances around the cafeteria, in search of something more interesting than the
vacuous conversation we’re drifting toward, and I don’t blame her. Eventually,
her gaze settles on Eric Blair’s profile as he swipes his payment card for
lunch. “He didn’t try anything, did he?” she asks, sopping up the last of her
soup with a chunk of French bread.

The
question catches me. “Huh?”

“You
know, at the conference. Did he make a move?”

“No,”
I say, as surprised as anyone. “He didn’t.”

She
shrugs. “First time for everything, I guess.”

I
say, “Guess so.” But Jenna’s inquiry leaves me wondering: Why didn’t the most
prolific letch on the east coast try to get his rocks off with me when I was
compromised and defenseless? And why has said letch taken such pains to avoid
me since the moment our plane touched down from Cincinnati?

My
stockpile of pregnancy tests is due for replenishment, but I’m considering
letting it run dry. Something tells me it’s about to outlive its usefulness
anyhow.

Tim
points at the computer screen and, referring to a pack of EPTs we normally buy in
bulk, asks, “Should I put these in the cart?”

I
have just sloshed my way inside from an hour and twenty minutes on the highway,
hemmed in by a snowplow and a salt truck. “Sure,” I say, lacking the energy to
initiate a conversation on the subject. If I thought we’d need them, I’d want
them too. But I don’t.

He
happily clicks his way to the checkout, while I don a ratty sweat suit, comb my
hair into a ponytail, and run a warm washcloth over my face.

As
I pass Ally’s room, I lean in and tell her, “Dinner’s ready.”

My
daughter relaxes cross-legged on her bed, knitting. Since Tim’s mother taught
her how, she hasn’t put those needles down. While I spent my tenth year nursing
Ricky through a series of worsening seizures, Ally spends hers in the throes of
a love affair with colors and patterns, museum-quality textiles spilling from
her fingertips.

“Hey,
Ally,” I say, stepping over the threshold. I realize she is wearing earbuds and
can’t hear, so I snap my fingers under her nose, disrupting her hand-eye
coordination.

Without
looking up, she whines, “Mom!”

No
matter how imbued with teen angst it becomes, I never tire of that lilting voice,
its melody tattooed on my DNA.

Ally
yanks one of the buds from her ear and stares.

“Your
dad made spaghetti and meatballs,” I say, as I rake my nails through her
tangled mane.

My
daughter is a tomboy, a softened version of her Uncle Ricky. Older now than he
was when he died.

“I
know,” she says. She gives me an eye roll I’d better start getting used to. “I
helped.”

A
pang of loss jabs me. It was supposed to be me at home with Ally, braiding her
hair and teaching her to swim. A million tiny moments lost forever.

I
nudge her knee. “Let’s eat.”

In
the dining room, Tim has the table set and the wine poured. It took him all of
three minutes to master the stay-at-home dad thing once he quit his civil
engineering job, my maternity leave winding to a close. Now he’s a gourmet chef,
the local chauffeur, and a topflight cleaning machine. All the mothers in the
neighborhood are jealous. And so am I.

“This
looks delicious,” I say. After such a taxing day, I’m eager for Tim’s home cooking.
With a broad grin, I ask Ally, “You make meatballs now?”

Before
Ally can answer, Muffin lumbers over and plops his bowling ball of a head in my
lap, hungry for affection and whatever table scraps I may be willing to part
with. A Great Dane was Tim’s idea, which he sold me on by singing the praises
of the breed’s majesty and protective prowess. But instead of taking to Tim,
Muffin has claimed me as his own.

As
I stroke Muffin’s ears, Tim spots an opportunity. “Don’t be mad.”

“What?”
I say. But somehow I know.

“It
wasn’t his fault.”

Muffin
pokes his nose into my thigh, as if I’ve already punished him.

“Where
is it?” I ask, my gaze darting to the empty alcove, where the fertility idol
belongs. I wonder why I haven’t noticed its absence before.

“It’s
getting fixed. There’s an antiques restorer in Providence who could resurrect
King Tut.”

Tim
sounds so sure of himself that I almost believe him. And I hope he’s right.
When our ob-gyn, Dr. Patel, returned from her honeymoon with a select few of
these god-awful talismans, I almost refused the one she offered us. But Tim
thought it would work; he said:
This might be the thing that tips the scales
in our favor.
From our next embryo transfer, I got pregnant with Ally.

I
plunge my fork into a meatball and say, “Bad dog, Muffin.” And that’s the end
of it.

My
dry cleaning is the one thing not included in Tim’s job description as Master
of the Universe. In the last decade, he has seldom had the occasion to don
anything more elaborate than a polo shirt and a pair of khakis; hence, the
management of my tailored, color-coordinated work wardrobe falls to me.

“Good
afternoon,” I say to Mrs. Tran, the stooped Cambodian woman who owns The
Laundry.

She
scurries over to the counter, a look of scattered bewilderment fixed on her
face. “Ticket?” she grunts, not one to foul a perfectly good exchange with
useless pleasantries.

We
have done this dance the second Tuesday of every month for as long as I can
remember. I push the paper across the counter. “Here.”

She
gives the stub a scowl and disappears behind a heavy canvas curtain. The
humidity in this place clogs my pores, coats my lungs. I slip out of my blazer
and drape it over my arm.

An
attractive young guy, one of those pretty-boy, Brad Pitt types, swaggers in and
queues up behind me. On the off chance he wants to make chitchat, I pretend to
be occupied with the jagged cracks in The Laundry’s ceiling.

Eventually,
Mrs. Tran emerges with a mountain of plastic-wrapped garments, but this time
she does something she’s never done before: look me in the eyes. And when she
does, an unmistakable spark of recognition dawns. Her gaze travels from my eyes
to my abdomen and back again, wearing a path in the air between us. “When your
baby coming?”

I
open my mouth and close it again without saying a word.

“Baby
good for you,” she pronounces with a toothy grin.

I
now understand why she has treated me with disdain for so long: From the money
I spend in her shop, she’s concluded I’m a materialistic black hole, devoid of
the warmth and femininity that compose a woman.

I
resist the urge to prove myself with a Christmas card-worthy photo of me, Tim,
Ally and Muffin. Instead, I laugh nervously. “No, no baby.”

She
tallies my dry cleaning and, as I pass her my credit card, declares, “You
wrong.”

There
is a convenience store three blocks from our house that sells the most heavenly
sausage sandwiches, mounded with onions, peppers, and mushrooms. I shouldn’t be
eating them while we’re trying to conceive—and Tim would have my head if he
knew I was—but I can’t resist; they’re calling me.

I
place my order and begin browsing. Maybe there’s something here we need. I tuck
a box of Ho Hos into the crook of my arm, grip a loaf of Wonder bread by its
neck, wrestle a can of tuna from a tipsy stack. And when I round the corner,
something unexpected catches my eye: the family planning section. I can hardly
believe this hole-in-the-wall has such a thing, but here it is: condoms,
lubricants, pregnancy tests. I feel as if someone has placed these items to
taunt me. Or perhaps they are a mirage. If nothing else, they are a coincidence
too unlikely to ignore.

After
multiple failed attempts to conceive, Dr. Patel now allows me to administer the
pregnancy tests at home, to save myself and everyone else the humiliation and
disappointment of yet another squandered opportunity.

I
run my fingers along the edge of the EPT box, deciding. I’m sure the embryo
transfer has failed; it has been almost three months, and I have no symptoms.
Weeks ago, I told Tim and Dr. Patel that the test was negative. But now I must
know for sure.

I
wrap my fingers around the box and proceed to the checkout, where a teenage
girl—maybe a mother already herself—bags my items with a stone face.

The
owner of this store is a slow cook, so my sandwich is not nearly ready. And the
bathroom is unoccupied. I set my bag on the warped floor, slide the pregnancy
test into my purse and head for a scuffed door, to which someone has taped a
sheet of notebook paper with the word “restroom” written in thick, black
permanent marker.

I
clunk the door shut behind me and shove the hook through the eye, locking the
world out. It’s clear this place is more utility closet than anything else,
stacks of toilet tissue, paper towels, and cleaning supplies cluttering every
corner.

For
a moment, I am ambivalent about taking the test here, an inauspicious place to
receive such life-altering news, one way or the other. But I hike my skirt over
my hips anyway and tear the flimsy wrapper from the predictable plastic stick,
which I have come to refer to as the Oracle of Life.

As
I wiggle my skirt back into place, I wonder if I am the only woman to have
asked such a serious question in this convenience store bathroom—or any convenience
store bathroom anywhere, for that matter.

I
balance the stick precariously across a rusty soap dish and concentrate on the
test window, praying for a miracle. Just one sibling for Ally would be enough,
but there is always the possibility of multiples with IVF; twins are common.

A
vertical blue line quickly takes shape in the control window, which at least
means the test isn’t a dud. Then something breathtaking: the shadow of a
vertical line in the test window too. The vital half of a plus sign. I know
from experience that a negative result is a simple horizontal line. A minus
sign. But now I see a cross. The sign of life. 

The
early years were happy ones, our mother referring to us as the Rhode Island
Kennedys.
Until I was six, I had little doubt of this invention, its
proof no more elusive than the fact that I was born the day John F. Kennedy
died.

Our
father, George Ross, was a lawyer and a politician, a two-term senator for the
Grand Old Party. There were limos and yachts, dignitaries and soirees. More
money than anyone knew what to do with.