“No.” Ty grasped my arm. “I need to talk to you about something.” He smiled kindly at Roberta, said see ya later, and hustled me on down the sidewalk.
“Sorry,” I said, “I just thought you might like to visit with your friend.”
He looked askance at that but said nothing.
At my building he walked into the vestibule with me and pulled me to him. He kissed my neck, my cheek. My mouth.
“I’ll see you tonight, right? You’re on the list. We play about ten thirty. You can hang out backstage. It’ll be great to look off and see you there.”
“Okay.” I pressed my face into his shirt.
“And don’t even think about bringing Todd,” he added.
I nodded, breathing in his warm, wonderful smell.
“Todd. That’s a stupid name.”
I nodded.
“Everything okay?”
“Mm-hmm.” I wanted to stay right here, just like this, until I keeled over dead at age ninety-nine. It felt so good to not think, to just be with him, close and quiet. I knew that thinking would inevitably start when I went upstairs, and I vaguely dreaded it.
He kissed me again, gently disengaged, and went out the door. Then he leaned back in.
“Grace.”
“Hm?”
“I’ll do ‘Bell Bottom Blues.’ And ‘Feel It.’ ”
“Okay.” I smiled.
He kissed the tip of my nose. “ ’Bye.”
I went upstairs. Peg wasn’t home. Of course she wasn’t; there would be a matinee this afternoon.
I sat on the end of my bed, staring at the celadon wall, running through the blur of events of the past three days. I got quite warm all over again at some of the mental pictures. I lay back on the bed and touched myself through my jeans. I was a little tender, but I didn’t mind. It felt like I had a very nice secret. I curled up on my side and hugged a pillow.
I thought about the ferocity of the first time we were together, yesterday morning. And the slow, sleepy tenderness of this morning.
And then I felt a knot in my gut. What had I done? I made my living teaching people not to do what I had just done. Unprotected sex.
Twice
.
I talked myself down pretty quickly about the possibility of sexually transmitted infection, having seen his test results. And maybe he really did always use a condom. Maybe he really only forgot to be careful with me, in the heat of the horny moment. Anyway, how could I get mad at him about it? I had blown it off as much as he had.
But.
I got my agenda out of my bag and searched the calendar for the first day of my last period. I remembered it well. I’d been at lunch with Julia at a Portuguese restaurant in Park Slope, eating fava beans with spicy chorizo. Just mentally noting the Hannibal Lecter-like glaze that came over her eyes as she described the ruthless legal vengeance she’d wrought on an unlicensed drunk driver, when I felt the first warm trickle and excused myself to go to the bathroom.
I counted the days up to today. Fifteen.
My hands tingled. I closed the agenda and lay down on my bed and willed myself to stay calm. I breathed slowly and lay there until I was clearheaded enough to figure out my plan. Then I got up, grabbed my wallet, and went to the drugstore.
I can give the spiel about emergency contraception in my sleep. It’s a little white tablet, available at most pharmacies over the counter, for about forty dollars. It’s up to ninety percent effective, but you need to try to take it within seventy-two hours of having unprotected sex.
This was my first time buying it for myself.
I knew that the odds that I was pregnant, even having had unprotected sex twice, were relatively small. I also knew that emergency contraception would not end an existing pregnancy, if I had conceived. It would only prevent conception if it hadn’t already happened, by thickening up my cervical mucus and making it hard for any little swimmers to get through to the egg. Ideally, I should have taken it yesterday. But it still might work if I took it today.
My chest hurt. In my perfect dream life, I would make a baby with Tyler Wilkie. I loved him. I imagined the delight of loving a child with him. But that child’s father was my dream Ty, who would never have said it was stupid that he had come inside me. Who would not own my heart and body so intensely for several days and then abruptly and easily leave for half a year.
I wanted to joyfully, hopefully let the possibility of the dream baby just
be
. But knowing that I would continue alone, and now more profoundly than ever, I swallowed the tablet. With tears dripping off my chin.
I did not go to Roseland.
I did not want to talk to him or see him again before he left. When I knew he would be onstage Sunday night, I left him a message. “Hey, it turns out I needed to stay home tonight. Just not feeling great. Probably the antibiotic. Have a great tour, okay? Be safe.”
I didn’t sleep much. He called and left a message at about two in the morning. It sounded like he was at a party.
“Gracie.” Fumbling sounds, then laughing. He was at least a little drunk. “Hey. Sorry. I dropped the phone. Hey.” He lowered his voice. “What are you wearing? Just kidding. I know this is a message. . . . Grace. Susannah Grace. Barnum. You taste like . . . warm . . . candy. Can I come over? If you’re still awake and you get this, call me.”
Monday afternoon Lakshmi had an emergency dental appointment, so I taught her group of thirteen-year-olds up in the Bronx. I timed their giggling, blindfolded, put-the-condom-on-the-banana races with a stopwatch and wondered if they could tell just by looking at me what a hypocrite I was.
After class, on my way to the subway, I checked messages.
“Hey, I know you’re at work.” He sounded brusque and preoccupied. People were talking in the background. “Can we get together tonight? I leave really early in the morning. Call me.”
It would have been so easy. He was on speed dial. But I was caught in a descending spiral of heartbreak and my fingers would not cooperate.
He left a final message after midnight.
“I leave in a few hours. The bus pulls out at four. I wanted to see you.
Shit
, Gracie, why are you doing this?”
I didn’t trust how my voice might sound if I talked to him, but I couldn’t let him go like this. I sent him a text.
I wanted to say:
I love you
.
I will miss you.
But I said this:
Have a great tour, Ty. Be safe.
xo Grace
As usual, I had a plan. I would call and talk to him briefly, cheerfully, in a couple of weeks, as soon as I got my life back on track and felt okay again about the reality of how things were between us.
But there’s this thing that John Lennon said about making plans, and you’d think by now I’d have realized the truth of it.
Life happened, instead.
my angel returns
The third time I went out to teach at the Ethel J. Merman Retirement Village in Flushing, Queens, we had a party, complete with little penis- and vulva-shaped cakes ordered by the workshop organizer, my most ardent elderly admirer, Mr. Shapiro. He was only about a half-inch taller than me and had dense thickets of hair growing out of his nose and ears. He had taken to calling me Gracie a long time ago and liked to be shocking.
“Gracie, when will you come back and teach us about anal sex?” We were in the common room where I’d taught the class, standing by the punch bowl. He had a thin pink mustache from nibbling his cupcake.
“I already told you all you’re going to get from me on that subject. Put on a condom and use lots of lube. Go slowly. If anyone says
stop
, stop.”
“Telling is great, but I think I need a demonstration.”
“You have Internet here, don’t you?” I asked, looking over at the computer center.
“They suspended my privileges.”
“Well,” I said, patting his back. I had devoured my chocolate willy with brown buttercream icing and was ready to go. “Good-bye, Mr. Shapiro. Good-bye, everyone!”
All who were ambulatory gathered around to hug me. Mr. Shapiro, who had waited till last, took my hands and asked, “Are you absolutely sure there’s no possibility of cunnilingus?”
“None whatsoever. Maybe Mrs. Benson? I’ve seen her looking at you.”
He waved a hand. “I’ve had her.”
His hug was emphatic. Boob-squishing. I gasped and pulled away, reflexively crossing my arms beneath my breasts.
“What’d I do? I’m sorry!”
“No! Nothing, Mr. Shapiro.”
“Did I hurt you?”
“I’m fine.”
When I got home I gingerly touched myself. My breasts were unbelievably tender, like my usual PMS soreness times ten. That sudden, large dose of progestin in the contraceptive had likely knocked things out of whack.
I went to bed early that night, exhausted. Woke the next morning to a message from Ty. He’d left it at 1:47 a.m.
“Hey, Grace. We just left Austin, Texas. It’s a pretty great place, from what I hear. I didn’t actually see much of it. I wish I knew why you won’t talk to me. I guess you’re mad about something. I thought we were finally getting somewhere, before I left. Anyway . . . I probably won’t call you again. You call me. . . . Call me.”
God, I loved hearing his voice. I replayed the message four times and saved it. However, I was just a wee bit freaked out about the sore boob thing. Rather than call, I texted him.
Got your msg. Will call soon. xo Grace
Over the next few days smells started to bother me. I avoided the subway.
Sunday morning I woke to the aroma of frying bacon, which meant Peg’s boyfriend Jim had spent the night and was cooking for us. He was into meat for breakfast. Usually, I was too. Today, it was like something dead was being cooked.
Oh . . . yeah.
I lay there trying to stifle the rising nausea, but ended up bursting from my room and pounding on the bathroom door. Peg opened almost immediately, got out of my way, and held my hair while I retched.
And retched.
Retch-o-rama.
Until retching became a violent exercise in futility. And then I retched a tiny bit more, just to dot the i.
I collapsed over the toilet and laughed.
Then I cried.
Then I laughed.
Then I cried.
Peg looked worried. “Why don’t you go back to bed,” she said. “I’ll send Jim out for some ginger ale. And an antipsychotic.”
“Peg,” I said, “I’m pregnant.”
She touched my arm, wide eyed. “Are you sure?”
I nodded.
“On purpose?”
I shook my head.
“Does the guy know?”
I shook my head.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to have a
baby
.” I burst into a storm of weeping and laughing.
Jim knocked on the door. “Everyone okay in there?”
“We’re fine!” Peg said.
“Breakfast is ready.”
“Be there in a minute!” She squeezed my shoulder. “Is it Todd’s?”
I shook my head and laughed and cried even harder. I lay down on the floor.
“Oh, Goddess. You finally scratched the mother of all itches.”
I nodded.
She wet a washcloth and blotted my face. Over the next few minutes I calmed down considerably.
“How are you feeling now? Still sick?”
“Not as much.” I sat up slowly.
“Maybe you should wait awhile to eat.”
“God, yes.”
“When are you going to tell him?”
“Pretty soon. He’s busy, you know. On the road.”
“So what?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll tell him.”
She helped me stand up and hugged me, a long time. Smiling.
Three weeks later I had my first OB appointment.
It was a mellowly lit, Upper East Side, multi-physician practice, with comfy chairs and abstract art on the walls in the waiting room. Lots of paperwork.
When I opened my wallet and pulled out my insurance card, the pocket angel fell out with it, bouncing off my knee and onto the carpet. Mystified, I leaned over and picked up the little pewter medallion. Then I figured it out. Ty must have found it in his guitar case at some point over the past year and a half and passed it back to me during the ER-strep episode.
I tossed the angel into my open purse and ruthlessly pushed down the emotion that threatened to bubble up. I was not going to go there.
My doctor was a pretty, youngish woman with an old-fashioned name: Myra Goldstein. Her hands were warm and gentle.
“Listen,” Dr. Goldstein said, rolling a microphone thingy around in a slick of KY jelly on my still-normal-looking tummy. There was an amplified sound like tiny fingers drumming steadily on a table-top.
“Oh!” I said.
She smiled. “I think there’s somebody in there.”