The Big Bang (32 page)

Hope nodded. “Or the stress of having him gone when I need him around.”

“It all has a way of working out how it’s meant to in the end,” the nurse said, wrapping the blood pressure cuff around Hope’s arm and sealing the Velcro fasteners.

“I’m not worried,” Hope said over-brightly as the nurse pumped air into the cuff.

As the cuff squeezed her arm, her lungs began to feel almost as tight.

“No need to get into a gown.” The nurse wrapped the stethoscope around her neck. “The doctor will be in to see you in a minute.”

***

“I’m sure the nurse noted my husband is working out of the country until the end of the year. I’m trying to stay relaxed because it will help the process, and really, otherwise, I’ll lose my mind, but I came in today so maybe we can figure out what’s the highest safe dosage of Clomid, or whatever you think will work best to make sure I’m ovulating on schedule for the visits back and forth.” Hope paused to take a breath. “I’ve been researching on the Internet and…”

The doctor smiled as though he was about to pat her on the head.

Hope’s blood began to pound in her ears. “I know I sound intense, but you promised that if I didn’t get pregnant in three months and it’s been three months and now I’m dealing with the additional issue of having to time things accurately as though that’s possible. The thing is, my husband wants to try and be relaxed about all of this, which I’m trying to do, but I don’t want to have to approach him about artificial insemination or in vitro until—”

“Hope,” the doctor put a hand on her shoulder. “There’s no need for Clomid now.”

“But I…”

“You’re already pregnant.”

“What?”

“Urine tested positive for HCG.”

She leaned back against the wall alongside the examination table. “I’m pregnant?”

The doctor nodded.

“But, my husband and I just had sex—”

“Once is all it takes.”

“But he’s been… We couldn’t even try until—”

“Apparently the right night.”

“I can’t believe it.” She leaned back against the cool wall of the exam room, closed her eyes, and tried to control the racing, spinning feeling. “What do I do?”

“I presume you’ve continued to take the prenatal vitamins?”

She nodded, rubbed at the goose bumps suddenly lining her arms.

“Set an appointment three to four weeks from now.” He stood and started toward the door. “We’ll do the initial prenatal blood workup and maybe even hear the heartbeat.”

The sound of her own heartbeat filled the room.

P
regnant.

Hope set the rec center elliptical machine for the doctor-recommended max of thirty minutes and the intensity at seven to keep her heart rate and painfully tender breasts in check.

She ran her fingers lightly across her belly.

Baby on Board.

She was dying to share the unexpected bliss with Jim every time they’d talked, texted, or e-mailed. She couldn’t wait for them to marvel together over how, with all the testing and planning, they’d somehow managed to time her fertility incorrectly for so long. She could barely stop herself from slipping up, but there couldn’t be a more poignant, unforgettable moment than telling her husband he was going to be a father, face-to-face, in London, over a romantic dinner.

A romantic vegetarian dinner.

The thought of consuming chicken, beef, or anything that once sported a face sounded utterly revolting.

Knocked up.

Hope smiled, and set her iPod to the new playlist she’d created by typing
baby
into iTunes search. Dave Matthews, Ludacris, U2, Lyle Lovett—everyone seemed to have a song to contribute about their baby, infant or otherwise.

Mommy to be.

She warmed up to “Isn’t She Lovely,” Pharrel and Nelly’s “Baby,” and was humming along with Britney to “Baby One More Time,” when she spotted someone in the cardio room doorway.

Her heart-rate monitor blipped upward.

Will Pierce-Cohn.

Whether it was the exercise funk that hung thick in the air, or the nonmemory of him tucking her into bed, which hung even thicker, Hope felt queasy.

She pretended to look at her workout stats display.

He looked around for a minute and then disappeared.

She took a deep breath to make sure she stayed below 140 beats per minute.

He reappeared.

She lowered her resistance to 6 and took another deep breath.

He headed in her direction.

She paused the music.

He stopped in front of her machine.

“Oh,” she said tugging out her ear buds and hoping she looked more surprised and casual than she sounded. “Hi!”

“Hey.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Finishing up a workout?”

The slightly ashen, first-awkward-meeting-since-that-night base beneath his holiday tan gave way to a hint of color. “I was just about to get started.”

“Thought you might have jogged over here or whatever.” She could only imagine the cast of her own skin. “No Sarah’s class today?”

“More into cross-training lately, I guess.”

“That’s good.”

“You didn’t go, either?”

“Felt like a shorter workout today.”

Across the room, a barbell clunked.

“I was planning to catch spin class, but I got here too late.” He grinned wryly. “Unless I wanted to ride that one bike without a seat.”

Her forced giggle evaporated into the hum of cardio machines.

“So.” He pulled at the ends of the towel wrapped around his neck. “How’re you doing?”

“Great,” she said too quickly. “How was your trip?”

“Really great.” He eyed a row of treadmills. “Just trying to readjust to life as usual.”

“I’m doing the same in the opposite before I leave for London end of next week.”

“Meaning you and Jim have gotten things worked out with schedules and stuff?”

“We have.” Her smile felt natural for the first time since she spotted him standing in the doorway. “He’ll be here or I’ll be there for ovulation day until the end of the year.”

And the best part, which she couldn’t say, was that the timing didn’t matter at all.

“That’s great,” Will said.

“It really is.”

An overlong moment passed between them.

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” he said.

She took a sip from her water bottle. “Me too.”

They looked past each other.

“Don’t know what happened that night,” she finally said. “I barely ever have more than one glass of wine.”

“Pretty much seems to be the common sentiment all around,” he said. “But, like I said,
no worries
.”

“I guess I was just so angry and frustrated about the whole pregnancy thing, I—”

“No need to explain. As you know, our twins were in vitro.”

“I don’t think I did know that.”

“I mentioned it to you when… when I was helping you get settled in upstairs.”

“About that.” She felt herself blush. “Thanks for being there for me.”

“My pleas—” he said. “No problem.”

Across the room, two unfamiliar women standing beside the weight rack looked over in their direction and began to whisper.

“Listen,” they both said simultaneously.

“Thank you,” he said first.

She shut off her heart rate monitor before he could hear it blip out of control. “For?”

“For everything you said that night.”

Did she tell him she didn’t remember a word? That the evening was nearly a total blur? Sweat broke out at the nape of her neck and rolled down her back. What had she said?

“Especially about the playground land.”

“The playground land?”

“Too marshy to support…”

“It was.” Cool relief rushed through her.

“I really appreciated your candor,” he said. “Meant a lot.”

Her heart rate plummeted back down toward normal. Had she said or done anything more troubling than whatever it was she’d admitted, likely that she’d jumped on Frank’s bandwagon in large part because of the advice of an eerily accurate roadside psychic, there was no way the playground would be the first thing on his mind. “No problem.”

No problems at all.

L
aney reclined on the therapist’s ultra suede chaise and tried not to break down the cost of his Roche-Bobois furniture in $175-an-hour, can’t-submit-to-insurance increments. “So depending on who you ask, I’m sick with the crazy or—”

“Or allergic to mold,” the therapist said.

“According to the naturopath I’m so full of it, I not only needed $250 of herbal snake oil but a referral to yet another specialist.” She had to be crazy thinking she’d get answers from a “doctor” that specialized in practically every form of pseudo-medicine. “At least the
full of it
part of the diagnosis seems consistent across the board.”

“But the good news is your health checks out with your MD.”

“I guess.” Laney reached for a Kleenex from the art glass tissue dispenser on the cocktail table beside the chaise.

The therapist leaned into the arm of his zebra-print chair. “What exactly feels bad?”

“I don’t know, everything. I’m achy, foggy, forgetful, tired.”

“Feelings of worthlessness or guilt?”

“Of course—I’m a wife and mother.”

“How do you sleep?”

“Great until I actually lie down and try.”

“Sleeping pills?”

“Make me feel like I’m in the
Wizard of Oz
poppy fields.”

The therapist noted something on his pad. “How’s your appetite?”

“Depends.”

“Weight loss?”

“Eight pounds,” she may have said with a little too much pride. “And counting.”

“Are you able to enjoy hobbies, pastimes, and social activities?”

“When they make money.”

“Do you enjoy sex?”

“Not with my husband,” slipped out before she could stop it. “I mean, he has chronic fatigue, so he’s not really ever in the mood lately, anyway.”

“And how do you feel about that?”

“I make the best of it.” Any meaningful discussion of extracurriculars was probably best left to a later conversation, imminent, judging by the way he began to scribble.

“You’re on a hundred twenty-five milligrams of Zoloft?”

“Is that enough?”

“Getting the right dosage is key to optimal mental well-being.”

“Clearly, I’m not optimized.”

“I also think a course of talk therapy is key to getting to the root of some of the physical manifestations of your mental state.”

“As in I have hypochondria?”

“As in it’s worth talking over.”

Laney gazed at the glass reproduction of
The Thinker
. “Like maybe once a week?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of three times a week.”

N
erves.

Hope set one of the matching gift baskets down, took a deep breath to relieve the jittery feeling, and rang the doorbell. Had to be nerves about the good news she couldn’t yet share.

Tim opened the door with a sleeping baby nestled in each of his arms.

“Oh my God,” she said. “They’re absolutely gorgeous!”

His face was pure joy.

Picturing Jim with the same blissful expression over his son-or daughter-to-be had her blinking away that jumpy feeling.

“This is Mackenzie.” Tim rocked just enough so the baby pursed her little rosebud mouth. He turned to the sleepy beauty in his right arm. “And this is Kayla.”

“Blond curls,” Hope said.

Tim twisted a tiny ringlet with a free pinkie. “If I wasn’t cradling her while Theresa delivered her sister, I’d have sworn there was a mix-up at the hospital.’”

Kayla yawned.

“And this one looks just like her momma when she sleeps.” Tim smiled down at the baby. “Come on in.”

Hope picked up the second of the rain-dampened raffia and cellophane baskets she’d set below the doorbell and followed him into the house.

“I’d take those from you,” he rocked one of his double blessings, “but—”

“I wouldn’t put those little dolls down for anything, either.” Hope stepped into the front hall and set the baskets on a table. “They’re just beautiful.”

“Speaking of beautiful, life seems to be agreeing with you,” Tim said. “You look great.”

She felt her cheeks color. “Thanks.”

“Happier than last we talked.”

“I feel good.” It was far too early in the process and she’d been too nauseous to attribute any change in her appearance to
the glow
, but the fact he’d recognized something, even if unknowingly, had her glowing all the more. “I’d probably be happier if I hadn’t volunteered my yard, garage, and now front hall for Maryellen’s extravaganza, but everything’s so well organized…”

“Ya think?” He looked at a box marked
yard sale
by the back door and shook his head. “I can’t believe she actually has people delivering their crap to different houses by category.”

“Maryellen’s nothing if not organized.”

“And about to pull off the most anal retentive rummage sale of all time.”

They both laughed.

“Considering our last community event, I suppose I sort of understand her need to keep things under control,” he said.

Hope took a deep breath to quell a sudden wave of the queasies. “Still can’t believe we ate those brownies.”

He winked. “Relaxed you, though, right?”

She remembered drinking vodka, eating brownies, and talking pregnancy, psychic predictions, patience. Was there, couldn’t possibly be, the haziest memory of a kiss? “You know…”