The Opposite of Maybe: A Novel (25 page)

Rosie and Tony cook each night now, and the four of them eat together just as they used to do, except now Soapie is easygoing and quiet, and the rest of them hover around her, cutting up her food, patting her hand, stopping to give her kisses. There is, Rosie thinks, a kind of surprising sweetness in the house that she never felt before, when she can be still enough to let it in. It’s the sweetness that comes when something can’t be permanent; it comes attached to an ache.

One day, eating at a Chinese restaurant, she gets a fortune that says: “Be happy in the middle because the end will crack you open.”

Greta, who is sitting across from her, says that’s the best description of pregnancy and childbirth she’s ever heard.

But Rosie knows that the fortune is really about Soapie, and that where they are now,
this
is the middle, and she is responsible for noting all the possible happiness while she’s passing through here. There are worse things.

At night, after dinner, they all still try to play Scrabble, but as she says to Tony, it’s Scrabble for Idiots, perhaps
bordering on Scrabble for Those in a Vegetative State. Nobody would dare come up with a hard word. They used to be so hilariously competitive, mostly because Soapie said they had to be, but now they only form baby words and they happily give Soapie loads of extra time when it’s her turn. Usually, that’s when Rosie goes and does the dishes, and Tony brings in another beer for him and George. People lie back on cushions, change the record from Mel Tormé to Michael Bublé. The plants get watered. E-mails are answered.

Then Soapie says, “Damn it, you people, you know I need that book,” and someone goes and gets the large-print dictionary that is sitting on the floor not two feet away, just where it was last night when Soapie needed it.

And then after another long time goes by, she yells, “Okay! I got it! Zak. Huge points for that.”

“But what is a zak?” says Rosie.

“Oh, hell, Rosie. It’s one of those big hairy animals,” says Soapie.

“That’s a—never mind.” She sees Tony and George frowning at her and shuts up.

“They’re in the north,” says Soapie. “The big north maybe. You’ve probably never seen one.”

“Great word!” says George, and Tony’s eyes crinkle up as he pats George on the back. They both start humming “The Way You Look Tonight,” which was playing an hour ago on the stereo, both of them probably not even realizing they’re doing it. And then George breaks into song as he leans down and studies his tiles for his next turn.

“Someday … when I’m awfully low … la la la la la.”

Rosie looks up at the table, and for a moment she sees the scene before her go all blurry, as if it were an Impressionist painting. She’s like the cameraman on one of those
movie cranes, looking down and backing up at the same time. There is the brightly lit living room with its rows of bookshelves and its low-slung modern birch-colored furniture, the butter-colored walls, the dramatic color of the red geraniums in blue pots near the French doors. The dark of the night just beyond, and the reflections of all of them right there, bending over their tiles, frowning or smiling. Oh, these faces. All this feeling.

We’re all such pitiful wretches
, she thinks: Tony battered from his trips to Fairfield, where he still goes a few times a week to stealthily watch Milo talk to him on the phone; Soapie, fading away so fast, like some big cosmic eraser is following her around, disappearing her life; and George, dear, placid, adorable George, who just keeps plodding along with the wet, sad smiles behind his eyes.

How is it ever going to be bearable? And what is she doing, bringing a baby into this world? Are these people glad they were born? Is there anyone who says, “No, I wish it hadn’t happened to me”?

“I’ve got to go to sleep. I’m exhausted,” says Rosie. It’s not true, but she’s always the first one who wants to turn in these evenings, since just looking around the living room at the lined, sad faces of the old people, and at Tony’s strong arms and hands, makes her want to weep—and how can she, when everyone else is smiling instead.

Grief is always such a surprise.

“I’m going a little crazy here,” says Tony one night, two weeks after Soapie comes home. “Let’s celebrate October by
going out and seeing a flick or something. Once we put the old people to bed.”

It’s actually wonderful being out. They go to the Cineplex, not even knowing what’s playing, and decide to watch a thriller because the only other films are romantic comedies, and she refuses. “I don’t believe in all that stuff, and I don’t want to be made to laugh at it,” she says.

“What do you mean, you don’t believe in it?” he says. “Of course you do.”

“No, I don’t. I think romantic love is just some kind of bullshit Hollywood tries to make us believe so we perpetuate the species.”

He laughs and pays for the tickets to one of the Bourne movies. Car chases and Matt Damon, maybe. “Who do you think you’re kidding?” he says as they walk to the theater, right past the snack bar, without even stopping. “Look at you, all pregnant and having a baby! That’s romance right there. You have to believe in romance to have a kid.”

“What? They come repossess the baby if you don’t?” she says. “This baby didn’t come from romance, it turns out. It came from somebody forgetting to put a condom back on and now he’s very, very sorry about that lapse.”

“Aww,” says Tony, and he follows her up the steps of the stadium seats all the way to the back row, which is where she always likes to sit, so people don’t kick her seat. “Really? This was a condom fail situation?” he says when they’re settled.

“Yes. Failure to have one on in the first place. Possibly due to a kind of premature senility.”

“You know what they say about those babies. Meant to be, then.”

“No. Not according to him.”

He laughs. “Oh, Rosie, Rosie! When did you get to be such a hard-assed cynic?”

“I believe it was back in May.”

“But you’re not fooling me one bit,” he says, grinning. “How could we not believe in romance when we get to see Sophie and George every night acting it out for us, even through all the trouble and sickness?” He rests his hand lightly on the back of her seat.

“Soapie and George?” she says, moving slightly forward to avoid his touch. “They’re another tragedy.”

“Well, that’s what romance is sometimes. But they’re the real deal. George told me they’d been at this for forty-something years. But she was tied up with raising you, and he’s Catholic so he couldn’t get a divorce.”

“What? He’s been seeing her all that time? That is such a waste.”

“Well, maybe not
seeing
, like you’re thinking. But he loved her.”

“Jesus. What some people do to themselves! And you call that romance?”

“Sssh. The movie’s gonna start. But yes. It is.”

“It makes me mad,” she whispers. “All that wasted energy. And here’s something else: all those years, she never told me about it at all. She always acted like she didn’t need men or sex or fun or any of it. She told me
nothing
. Nothing that could help me with life or men or anything! Do you know how much I hate that?”

“She’s a pipster, that’s for sure.”

A pipster. That makes her smile. “I’m going to sit here and try very hard to forgive her.”

“Okay. You do that. And I’m going to sit here and try to forgive my ex.”

After a moment, she leans over to him and whispers, “Don’t even tell me that she still won’t let you see Milo.”

“Sssh!” says a man down the row.

They’re quiet for a bit, watching the fourth and fifth trailers.

“I’m going to go get some popcorn,” says Rosie. “I’m starving.”

“You shouldn’t eat that. Popcorn has too much fat.”

“I won’t get it with butter. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Even without butter. You know what they pop that stuff in? Pure grease. Lard.”

“But it’s fiber. Fiber wins over lard. Like rock wins over scissors.”

“Would you please be quiet?” the man says again.

“It’s just the trailers,” Tony says to him.

“I don’t care. I
like
the trailers!” says the man.

“I’ll be right back,” says Rosie.

“I’m coming with you. I’m paper. Paper wins over rock.”

“No. Stay here. Save our seats.” She stands up, facing him, and slings her purse over her shoulder.

“Oh my God!” he says out loud. “Look at you! You’re really, really pregnant!”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” says the man. “Maybe you two shouldn’t have come to the movies. Go out to dinner if you want to talk. Or go back home and make another baby.”

“We already ate dinner, and you can’t make another one, sir, when one is already in the oven,” Tony tells him, and Rosie says, “Come on, Tone. Let’s go get the popcorn.”

But once they’re out in the hallway, he says, “I didn’t want to see that movie anyway. Not with people like that in there. They ruint it for me.”

“Ruint? Is that what you said? Ruint?” She laughs. “That guy thought it was our baby. Did you catch that?”

“Yeah. That happens. Not a lot of pregnant women go out on dates with another guy. Come on. Let’s go play the video games.”

“Video games? You’re kidding, right?”

“No, this is better than a movie because I’m gonna beat your ass on these machines. I’m the champ.”

“I don’t care. What I want to say is, the time has come to invite Milo to come and stay with us.” She stops walking.

“Stay with us? Are you crazy? Annie and Dena are never going to go for that,” he says.

“For a weekend,” she says. “Who knows? Maybe they’ll like having some time to themselves.”

“They’ll say no.”

“I’m on to you,” she says. “You’re a wimpasaurus of the highest order if you continue to let Dena keep you from getting to bring your kid down here to visit us. You are no threat to Dena and Annie’s relationship, and it’s time they let your kid out of their sight.”

“Wimpasaurus?” he says. “Did you really just call Superman a wimpasaurus?”

“I believe I did, Mr. Clark Kent. Give me your phone,” she says. “Come on. Punch in Annie’s number and hand me your phone.”

“Rosie, Dena is a freaking child life specialist. She knows stuff. And also I don’t want to hurt them.”

“Tony, you are three thousand kinds of a nice guy. We get that about you. Now give me the phone. This is too important.”

“What are you going to say?”

“I have no idea. I’m going to explain that I’m also a nice person, and that everything will be okay. I’m going to talk in
my teacher voice, maybe. Just give me the phone, and then disappear. Go buy some popcorn.”

He punches the number into the phone, and then he hands it to her. And goes outside. She can see him pacing in front of the theater, hands jammed in his pockets, walking back and forth amid the teenagers, looking over at her with a hopeful grin every now and then.

“Annie?” she says. “This is Rosie Kelley. You don’t know me …”

Milo comes the next Saturday, and he is adorable—with Tony’s glossy dark hair and huge brown eyes and a smattering of Annie-given freckles across his nose. He looks both sturdy and frail somehow, Rosie thinks, in his khaki pants and blue striped polo shirt. He clambers into the back of her Honda, where Tony has put his booster seat. She admires his SpongeBob Band-Aid, but he brushes off the compliment.

“This is a baby Band-Aid,” he says. “I hafta take it off before I go to school on Monday.”

“Why?”

“Kids laugh.”

“Oh,” she says. “That’s too bad.”

He shrugs. There are more important matters to discuss, apparently. “Did you know that you can make diamonds out of peanut butter?” he says. “My mom says you can’t, but this guy at school says his uncle did it.”

“Huh,” she says to him. “No, I didn’t know that.”

She also didn’t know there was going to be a conversation about childhood cruelty followed immediately by a science exam right off the bat. Also, there seems to be another kind of exam going on, too: how to get the damn car seat installed in her car. She is leaning over him, stretched beyond all comprehension, reaching so hard her belly is far into the backseat—why, why, why does she have a two-door?—to thread the seat belt into the little plastic slots of the car seat, which would be difficult enough for any normal nongymnast
to do, but is nearly impossible for a normal nongymnast who’s also twenty weeks pregnant. Plus, Milo, already in the car seat, is about two inches from her face, and is studying her solemnly, disconcertingly. He breathes through his mouth, directing a stream of little boy-breath as well as the smell of his pancakes-and-bacon breakfast right at her.

“Are you my dad’s girlfriend?” he asks.

“No,” she says. “We’re just housemates.”

“Housemates? What the heck is that?”

“We’re friends, and we live in the same house.”

“Did you know he used to live at my house?”

“I did know that.” She smiles at him, and he looks back at her solemnly.

“Now I live with Mommy and Dena. S’posed to be two mommies.”

“Nice,” she says.

He shrugs. “It’s okay. But Rachel says you can’t really
have
two mommies. Only one person can be your mommy, and one person can be your daddy. That’s the way it is.”