Lost You Page 14

  “How’s dinner coming?” she asked, stepping into her new dress.

  “Should be ready by the time everyone gets here,” he said. “Say, about thirty, forty minutes.”

  Libby pulled the dress up over her thighs, over the artificial belly, and slipped her arms through the holes. She turned her back to Mason and said, “Zip me?”

  He crossed the bedroom and did as she asked, then leaned in and kissed her neck. His breath warmed her ear and made her tingle in a way she hadn’t felt in some time. But that happened, didn’t it? Women’s hormones go crazy when they’re pregnant, and they get horny, right?

  Libby caught herself in that thought and felt suddenly foolish and ashamed. I’m not pregnant, she reminded herself. Am I?

  She turned in front of the full-length mirror, viewed her body side-on. She ran her hands over her breasts, her fingers unable to discern the padding in her bra, and over her rounded stomach.

  “Yes, I am,” she said.

  “What?” Mason asked.

  She smiled at him and said, “Oh, nothing.”

  * * *

  —

  “YOU’RE NOT DRINKING?” Shannon asked as Libby topped off her glass of Prosecco.

  The four women stood at one end of the kitchen while Greg watched Mason at the stove, admiring his work. She’d known Shannon since Greg—then still her fiancé—had been an usher at Libby’s wedding. Diane had been their neighbor at their first home together, and tonight she’d brought along her new girlfriend, Meadow, who Mason thought was far too young for her. They huddled around now, all of them glancing at Libby’s figure, but none of them ready to come right out and ask.

  “Nope,” Libby said, raising her glass of cranberry juice. “Not for a few months, anyway.”

  Shannon’s eyes widened while Diane and Meadow shared a glance.

  Libby feigned exasperation. “Oh, come on and ask me already!”

  “Are you?” Diane asked. “For real?”

  Libby grinned and said, “For real.”

  Shannon squealed and threw her arms around her. “Oh, thank God, I was so worried you’d just gained weight.”

  “Congratulations,” Meadow said with the polite reserve of a new acquaintance.

  “Let me in there, dammit,” Diane said, squeezing her way into the hug.

  The three of them shared the embrace, Meadow on the periphery, until Greg piped up from the other end of the kitchen.

  “What’s going on over there?”

  Libby managed to extricate herself enough to say, “Mason, tell him.”

  Her husband turned away from the bubbling pots and pans, blushed, and said, “We’ve got a baby on the way.”

  “Really?” Greg said, pointing at Libby. “You’re pregnant?”

  Before she could reply, he took Mason in a back-slapping hug. “Oh, man, I’m so happy for you. I know you guys have been trying for so long.”

  Mason returned the embrace, thanked him, while his eyes met Libby’s. She saw the doubt there for the first time in a month, and it stung like a needle in her heart.

  * * *

  —

  DINNER PASSED TOO quickly for Libby. It had been so long since she’d seen her friends, and their joy for her news made her glow inside. Even when she exchanged glances with Mason and saw that same unease in his eyes, it didn’t dilute the happiness she felt. Greg and Shannon shared war stories of their own parenthood; they had two boys and a girl, aged five, seven, and ten. Tales of bodily functions and household chaos reduced everyone to tears of laughter. All except Mason, who politely smiled along.

  By the time their guests had left, all of them loose with alcohol, it was past midnight. Libby walked back to the kitchen to find Mason loading up the dishwasher.

  “Leave that for the morning,” she said. “Let’s go to bed.”

  “It won’t take long,” he said, keeping his back to her.

  She approached, slipped her arms around his middle, feeling his warmth, the soft and firm of him. He smelled of faint cologne and wine. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his neck, just as he had done hours earlier.

  “Leave it,” she said. “Come to bed.”

  He turned inside her arms so their bodies met. She kissed his mouth, at first unyielding, then his lips parted and their tongues met. As their torsos pressed together, she became aware of the prosthesis beneath her dress. She pulled away from him and took his hand.

  “Come on,” she said.

  She led him upstairs to their room, guided him to the bed, and sat him down. Gently pushing him back down onto the bed, she straddled him, felt his hardness against her. She leaned down and they kissed again. As she unbuttoned his shirt, he reached around and unzipped her dress. She slipped it over her head, tossed it to the floor, then reached around her back to undo her bra. As it fell away, he kissed her there, and she sighed, grinding her crotch against his.

  He moved his hands around her back, and she felt a tugging, heard the sound of Velcro unfastening. Without thinking, she twisted her body, slapped his hands away.

  “Stop,” she said.

  He stared up at her, confusion on his face. “I was just going to take it off.”

  “No,” she said. “I have to keep it on. It needs to be a part of me.”

  He shook his head, his brow creasing. “Even just for—”

  “No,” she said.

  Mason reached up, gripped her at the waist, and moved her aside. As she lay down on the bed, he got up, redoing his shirt buttons.

  “I’ll finish clearing up downstairs,” he said. “Get some sleep.”

  He left her there, alone, and she cursed him.

  27

  THE FIRST TIME ANNA CONSCIOUSLY felt the baby move, she was in a semi-doze on her couch, watching Friends reruns on TV, the remains of her breakfast still on the coffee table. She had experienced odd sensations for a week or so before that, like tiny bubbles popping inside her belly, but she’d put them down to gas, her stomach settling as the sickness became less frequent, less severe. But this was different. There could be no mistaking it. Like a butterfly taking flight inside of her.

  She put a hand over her mouth as she giggled, then sat quite still, waiting for the feeling to return. And it did. Little butterfly wings beating, ready to ride the breeze. She laughed again and lost the sensation. Thirty minutes passed while she sat motionless, hoping for it to come again. When it didn’t, she reached for her cell phone.

  When Betsy answered, Anna said, “I felt it move.”

  She heard her friend’s breath against the mouthpiece and wondered if it was a sigh of sadness or joy.

  “You better get used to that,” Betsy said. “Couple months, the little so-and-so will be kicking the hell out of your bladder.”

  “You want to come over before your shift?”

  A pause, then, “Maybe for a half hour. I’m on lunch duty today. I guess I’d better get ready to go.”

  “Thanks,” Anna said, meaning it. “You’re a good friend.”

  “I know,” Betsy said. “See you soon.”

  Anna set the phone down and began clearing up. Since Mr. Kovak’s surprise visit, she had become fastidious in her housework. Of all the things that bothered and scared her about that intrusion, it was not the implied threat that weighed heaviest: for some reason it was the idea that he might have considered her a slob. Therefore, she washed up after every meal, vacuumed every day, even made her bed each morning. She would not be found lacking again.

  Mr. Kovak had visited once more since that day, this time giving her an hour’s notice. Anna had rung Betsy immediately after hanging up on him, and begged her to come over. She had arrived at almost the same moment he did, and the two were rigidly polite with each other for the thirty minutes he stayed in the apartment. He asked after Anna’s well-being, if she had everyth
ing she needed, was she taking care of herself. You don’t have to worry, Betsy had said, I’m keeping an eye on her. With a cold smile, Mr. Kovak expressed his appreciation.

  When he’d gone, Betsy had said, “I don’t like him.”

  “Me neither,” Anna had said.

  Neither of them had elaborated on their reservations, only that Betsy insisted she be present the next time Mr. Kovak called to visit. Anna couldn’t argue with that.

  Betsy arrived at a quarter of eleven, and they embraced on the doorstep.

  “How you been sleeping?” she asked.

  “Okay,” Anna said. “I have to get up to pee more than I’d like, but other than that.”

  She poured them each a glass of sparkling water and they sat in the living room, talking a lot about not much of anything. Betsy had learned quickly that Anna simply wanted the company, to see a friendly face, to not be alone, even if it were only for a few minutes.

  Anna had called her mother after the twelve-week scan, the first time she’d tried to contact her in five years. There had never been a real falling-out, no bitter explosion that had blown their relationship apart. Not like with her sister, who had screamed at her to never talk to her again. Instead, it had been a slow and unstoppable drift. Marie had always been her mother’s golden girl, Anna her maternal inconvenience. When Marie expelled Anna from her life, the fissure inevitably extended around their mother. There could be no other outcome.

  As Anna dialed her mother’s number that morning seven weeks ago, she sensed that same cold betrayal, but she pushed it aside, concentrated on the good news.

  “Hello?” her mother had answered, the hint of her Irish accent elongating the o. She had come to America with her family in the late ’70s and had never quite left the old place behind.

  “Mom,” Anna had said, “it’s me. Anna. How are you?”

  A sigh, then, “I’m fair. What do you need?”

  “I don’t need anything,” Anna said. “I have some news.”

  A pause, then, “Oh?”

  “You’re going to be a grandma,” Anna said.

  “I’m already a nannie,” she said, using her preferred nomenclature. “Twice over, in fact. Your sister has two now, not that you’d know.”

  “Oh yeah?” Anna said, feeling the sharp sting of knowing Marie had bested her. “What are they called?”

  “Do you care?”

  “ ’Course I do.”

  “Patrick’s the oldest,” her mother said. “He’s a good boy. Chelsea’s the youngest. After the Clinton girl. I didn’t like that, but sure, what can you do?”

  “It’s a good name,” Anna said. “I like it. When was she b—?”

  “So you’re pregnant,” her mother said.

  Anna placed a hand on her belly, thought of the ultrasound scan, the image already losing its detail in her mind’s eye.

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “Who’s the father?”

  The words I don’t know almost slipped from her mouth, but she caught them in time. She scrambled for an answer and blurted out the next clear thought to break through her confusion.

  “He’s an architect,” she said. She liked that idea. So much so that she said it again. “An architect.”

  “Did he marry you?” her mother asked.

  Lies beget lies. Honesty has no regrets. Anna knew these things like she knew the sun would rise in the morning, like she knew her own name. But she had started on this path. She had no choice but to follow it.

  “Not yet,” she said. “We decided to wait. Nobody should get married just because they got pregnant. We’ll see. I mean, we both have our careers, and—”

  “Your sister left her job,” her mother said. “She took a, what do you call it, a career break. She wanted to be at home with her children. She’s a good mother.”

  “Yeah,” Anna said. “I know she is. I think I could be too.”

  “Maybe. You could try being a good daughter first, and a good sister, see how it suits you.”

  “That’s not fair,” Anna said, unable to keep the swell of anger from her voice.

  “Fair’s got nothing to do with it. It’s just the truth.”

  Foul words threatened to burst from Anna’s mouth, but she swallowed them. Instead, she spoke with a chilly, smooth calm.

  “You know, I don’t think it’d matter if I was the best mother in the world, or if I had the best marriage since they invented wedding rings. It’d still be shit to you, wouldn’t it?”

  “Goodbye, Anna,” her mother said, and the phone died.

  Seven weeks ago, and the phone call still had Anna cursing into her pillow in the early hours. Thank God for Betsy. Without her she had nothing but four walls and a bald-headed man who scared the shit out of her.

  As she came back to the present, Anna realized she had no idea what Betsy was talking about. Some reality TV show, how someone was being an asshole to someone else, but the someone else didn’t even know it, and boy, the someone was going to get their comeuppance. Anna was about to interrupt and ask what the hell she was talking about when she felt those wings again.

  She giggled, placed a hand on her belly, and said, “Hey there, Little Butterfly.”

  Looking up, the grin still stretching her cheeks, she saw Betsy staring back at her.

  “What?” Anna said.

  Betsy held her gaze for a moment, a look in her eyes that caused Anna to ache, before she said, “I should go.”

  28

  ANNA JUGGLED TWO PAPER BAGS full of groceries, balancing them on her swollen belly, as she turned the key in her apartment door. She almost dropped them as it swung open, but she recovered, letting only a few loose oranges spill and roll across the floor. Kicking the door closed behind her, she wrestled the bags over to the kitchenette and dumped them on the counter. When she went to retrieve the oranges, she saw the man on the couch.

  “Jesus!” she said.

  “Hello, Anna,” Mr. Kovak said.

  He sat with his arms draped across the back of the couch, one leg crossed over the other. Anna gathered up the spilled oranges and placed them on the counter alongside the bags.

  “I asked you not to let yourself in here,” she said, shock turning to anger.

  “That you did,” he said. “And yet here we are.”

  “You’re a real asshole, you know that?”

  He smiled as she set about unpacking the groceries. “Need any help with those?”

  “No, I don’t need help, and I sure as shit don’t need it from you.”

  “You’re irritable today, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, I’m irritable,” she said, opening the fridge. “Somebody sneaking into my apartment will tend to do that.”

  “It’s not your apartment.”

  “So you keep telling me. What do you want?”

  “Just checking in on you,” he said.

  She stashed the last of the groceries away, closed the fridge, and said, “You checked. I’m fine. Now you can go.”

  “I wanted a word first.”

  She looked him in the eye and said, “Fuck off. There you go, that’s two words.”

  Mr. Kovak remained still for a moment, staring hard at her, before leaning forward and lifting a sheet of stiff, glossy paper from the coffee table in front of him. Anna’s heart thumped in her chest, and her mouth dried. He turned the page so the image faced her.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  A perfect image of a perfect baby. She knew she’d left it in the drawer of the nightstand beside her bed. She had fallen asleep gazing at it last night and put it away this morning.

  “It’s a scan,” she said. “Of the baby.”

  “Why do you have it?” he asked.

  “The clinic, Dr. Holdsworth, she wouldn’t let me take a copy of the twent
y-week scan away with me, so I had one done someplace else. There’s places that do that, you go in, get a scan, and they print it for you. They even put it on a disc, or a memory card or whatever, and they do, like, 3-D scans. They asked if I wanted to know the sex, but I said no. It wasn’t that expensive, like a couple hundred for—”

  “Anna, there’s a very good and specific reason why Dr. Holdsworth won’t give you a copy of the scans. Come sit down, I want to talk with you.”

  “I’m fine here,” she said, staying behind the kitchenette counter.

  Mr. Kovak pointed at the armchair. “Come,” he said, his voice hardening. “Sit.”

  Anna knew an order when she heard it, and she obeyed, crossing the room to him in slow, fearful steps. She lowered herself into the armchair, easing herself down, managing the weight of the baby as she did.

  Mr. Kovak turned a little to face her, clasped his hands together, his forefingers pointing out. “The reason Dr. Holdsworth doesn’t give you a copy of the scan is very simple, Anna. We encourage all the women who sign our contracts to keep an emotional distance from what they’re doing. Of course you have feelings about what you’re doing, about what’s happening with your body, that’s only human.”

  “You don’t know shit about my feelings,” Anna said.

  “You’re right, I don’t,” he said, “and that’s the problem, isn’t it? How do I know you’re not invested in this baby beyond its birth? Normally, I’d take you at your word, trust you to be mature about this arrangement, but then I see something like this…”

  He placed the paper facedown, hiding the image.

  “You can imagine how something like this would give me doubts about your ability to honor your contract, can’t you? You can see why I’m concerned, yes?”

  Anna wiped her fingertips across her lips and said, “You have nothing to be concerned about.”

  “I wish I could believe you,” he said. “You’re well into the third trimester now. This is when the doubts most often kick in. You’re scheduled for an elective caesarean in, what, ten weeks? It’s my job to make sure this all goes smoothly, that you are given the best care, and the intended parents have a healthy baby delivered to them. If I feel like you’re going to impede the fulfillment of my company’s promise, then we have a serious problem. Now’s the time to talk it through. Not on the way to the clinic in ten weeks, not in the delivery room. Now.”