One Good Egg: An Illustrated Memoir (8 page)

Steve’s street is lined with one- and two-story Australian-Victorian houses. Neat stucco cottages with wood trim, tiled roofs, and well-kept gardens on the other side of garden gates. I was able to pick his out before we parked.

The insides hadn’t changed much, although Gary was gone. The two of them had split up a couple years after I’d last seen him. The Greco-inspired murals they had talked about painting over were still intact, but the bedroom beyond the bathroom was empty.

“I just finished cleaning that out last night,” Steve said.

“Not for me, I hope . . . ”

“No, Mark is moving in the week after you leave.” Mark was Steve’s new partner.

“Good timing!”

“Yes, I think so. It’s a little full on.” He laughed. “He’s looking forward to meeting you tonight.”

After breakfast, we went back home so I could rest and Steve could pack up. We were heading to Fish Creek for our retreat the next morning. I stationed myself on the couch in the living room with an open book on my lap, which gave me the options of reading, napping, or talking while Steve crisscrossed the house, gathering up his belongings.

We talked easily, with the lack of urgency the beginning of a whole week alone together affords two people who haven’t seen each other in ten years, especially when one of them does not want to appear overeager. Steve made us toasted cheese and to-mah-to sandwiches in the afternoon. And I drank his homemade apple-carrot-fennel-parsley juice. A true testament to my open preconception mind.

Mark joined us for dinner. Steve met Mark when they were both working for the government. Steve was still working in the same office as a writer. Mark left to get a teaching degree and now taught elementary school. I immediately loved that about him, which completely overrode my preexisting dislike of something he couldn’t help—he wasn’t Gary.

I waited while Steve walked Mark back to his car; this was their good-bye for the week. As we drove back to Taylor Street, Steve asked, “You sure Lorene is the one?”

“Yeah. It’s so easy—I don’t know that I can explain it. I don’t have to spend any energy meeting her halfway—we’re already together.”

“It’s new.”

I blushed in the dark. “She’s really nurturing. Her store is like a community center; people go there just to hang out. Everybody loves her.” I trailed off, missing Lorene. It would have been so much easier to have her there so he could see she was the one, the way my dad and sisters did.

Steve didn’t stir until eleven the next morning. I was up, bags packed, temperature marked on my chart. Turns out there was no need to rush off to Fish Creek; we could head out for a little breakfast and shopping (Fish Creek wouldn’t provide any opportunities) on Steve’s favorite street. We talked through two coffees and walked the length of the street—in and out of soap and lotion stores, clothing stores, book and paper stores. I ended up with two dog toys for Vita and Mister.

Steve still had more packing to do when we got home, and then there was a stop he’d planned at his parents’ house on the way out of town. We would be getting to Fish Creek in time for dinner.

I had the gifts I’d brought for Steve’s parents on my lap in the car. Maple syrup and blueberry jam. All of a sudden, they seemed very small. “What do your parents think about this?”

“June’s intrigued. She never expected to get a grandchild out of me. And Pete has always really liked you—he’s quite impressed with your books. He hasn’t tuned in to the baby thing.”

I was starving by the time we arrived. June’s buttery toasted cheese-and-tomato sandwiches tasted delicious. She had collected photos from Steve’s boyhood to show us. After lunch, Steve sat with his dad. I stood with June while she refilled her bird feeder with brown sugar and water. Wild parrots fluttered around the patio off her kitchen.
I could see a lot of Steve in her face. I read the hint of a smile as acceptance. We could have been mother- and daughter-in-law, the two of us standing there talking.

After a bit, Steve and I traded places. I joined Pete at his desk on the enclosed porch, his retirement office. Stacks of unfiled folders were piled on the tops of full filing cabinets. We talked about publishing and the economy. “Has Steve shown you the elementary school?” he asked, looking up at me over his half glasses. “It’s right at the end of the street; the boys walked there from here. They spent a lot of time at the little creek you’ll pass on the way.”

Steve took me down to the school, stopping by the dried-up creek where he and Andrew had played. After we got back, we corralled June and Pete together on the front doorstep for a couple of photos, then left for Fish Creek.

I
t was dark when we pulled in. We threw our bags into our separate rooms and Steve changed into his “house pants”—a familiar pair of now grayed-out blue “track” pants with white stripes down the sides. He put some music on and got dinner started. His meals are simple, just a few ingredients—in this case, pasta, tomato, and mushrooms—but he enjoys laboring over them. He was singing, chopping, sautéing, and stirring alone in the kitchen for over an hour. I read my book on the couch.

Neither of us made any mention of a baby—the retreat didn’t officially begin until the next day.

After dinner, we went for a walk. The sky was full of stars, pinhole pricks of bright light, no moon. There was a chorus of cud chewing; once our eyes adjusted, we could make out a hundred or more dark blobs in the meadow alongside the road.

“The sky’s so different. Must be upside-down.”

“Different for me, too; I’m not used to being here in winter,” Steve said. “I don’t think you ever get the Southern Cross.”

Steve made himself a cup of tea, and I said good night. I fell asleep to strains of techno-pop music and his occasional throat clearing as he worked on his novel. I awoke the next morning at six (the dogs’ breakfast hour) and recorded my temperature. Day 13 of my cycle. I should be ovulating any day now. I would wait until after lunch to break out the predictor kit.

Steve got out of bed at nine and made his morning tea. I let him wake up, appearing immersed in my writing.
I was thinking we could start the retreat off with a real bang
. . . We had talked about the possibility of just jumping into bed together, circumventing the rest of the process. Everyone, including Lorene and Mark, was in favor of the concept.

We went to the Flying Cow for breakfast. The café was two doors down from our place. The owner was eight and a half months pregnant. “Where’s Mark?” she greeted Steve.

“He’s leaving us to work out this part of the project,” Steve answered.

“Please, don’t make me laugh,” she begged, and steadied her middle.

We sat down and ordered “flat white” coffees, bacon, and eggs. “I thought you were a vegetarian,” Steve said.

People always do—it must have to do with my writing animal books or my earnestness or something. “Nope, but I hardly ever eat red meat.”

“I am,” Steve said. “I’ll eat a little chicken, if Mark’s cooking, and it’s hard to get around eating lamb in this country.”