People Who Knew Me (27 page)

Two minutes ticked by on my wristwatch. I looked at the stick. A plus sign. I took out another stick, calmly, robotically. Two minutes later, that one gave me two lines—indicating two beings, me and the baby. The third, fourth, and fifth sticks all confirmed the same. Not one dissenter. I stared at them, in a line on top of the metal container used to discard pads and tampon wrappers.

When I left the bathroom and went back to my cubicle, Gabe was waiting there, leaning on my desk, arms crossed, a suggestive smile on his face. It would have been impossible for people not to know about us. He always looked too happy to see me.

“Hey, you,” he said.

“Hey,” I said, trying to pretend as if nothing were wrong. He knew me well, though.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Actually, I'm not feeling that well.”

His brows furrowed in genuine concern.

“Go home, then,” he said. Then, in a whisper: “I'll bring you some soup later.”

I nodded, unable to form actual words. I knew I would have to tell him, at some point. But I could buy time with a fake flu.

*   *   *

In our year of pseudo-togetherness, Gabe and I had never talked about kids—the desire for them, or lack thereof. But there was no question I would keep the baby. As much as those pregnancy tests scared me, I felt a jolt of excitement, too. I'd harbored the desire for a baby for years. Maybe I wanted a baby for the wrong reasons—to distract me, occupy me, give me purpose. But I wasn't sure what the right reasons were. Marni would have disagreed with me and dragged me to a clinic that day, which was why I didn't tell her. She still didn't even know about Gabe.

I'd have a few months before I'd have to tell Drew about the pregnancy, a few months before my belly would protrude and truths would reveal themselves. I wouldn't have to tell him right away that the baby wasn't his. I would have nine months to think about that confession, nine months before he would see the baby—with Gabe's brown skin.

Drew would assume it was his, conceived on that one night we had sex together—a miracle of sorts. Yes, we finally did have sex. It was a moment of weakness for me. He came home one Friday night in August—I told Gabe I had plans with Marni—and I got a little woozy with wine. I was feeling especially guilty lying next to Drew in bed, wondering what the hell I was doing with my life.

“You know, next month it will be nine years since we met,” he said.

“Nine years? Wow.”

“We should do something special. To celebrate.”

“Yeah, sure,” I said.

“We could have dinner at that restaurant we went to the day we got married,” he said. There was excitement in his voice that made me nauseated.

“Old Homestead Steak House,” I said.

“Have a couple martinis, appetizers, desserts—the works.”

“Sounds nice.”

“It'll celebrate the start of our tenth year—a decade!”

“Good idea,” I said, trying to share his enthusiasm, or at least sound like I did.

He turned on his side, put his hand on my middle.

“I know things have been hard,” he said.

I gave him a smile that felt weak, hoping it didn't look it. I don't know if it was remorse or pity or what, but when he peeled back the sheets that were covering my body, I didn't stop him. I felt I owed it to him. It didn't last long. He was inside me and, a minute later, he wasn't. I could have convinced myself it hadn't even happened except that my inner thighs were wet with him leaking out of me and my cheeks were wet with tears.

“What's wrong?” he said, using his thumb to dry under my eyes.

“I don't know,” I said. I did know, though.

“I was thinking,” Drew said, “maybe you were right.”

I pulled the sheets back up to cover my body, all the way up to my chin.

“About what?” I asked. I thought—hoped—he was going to say I was right that we should split up, but then I remembered I'd never proposed such a thing, not out loud, at least.

“Maybe I should get her a professional caretaker, come home to you,” he said. “It's been so long. She's not going to get better. We can't do this forever.”

But, see, I'd found Gabe. I'd found a way to do exactly this—forever.

“How could we afford it?” I asked, using his own argument against him.

“I have to get a job. We'll make it work somehow.”

There was a time when this was all I wanted from him—these words. They were stale now.

“I don't want to get my hopes up,” I said. I was mean. I wanted him to be the one to give up on our marriage. I wanted him to be the one to quit. “Come to me when you have a caretaker and a job and a balance sheet that shows we won't be in debt for the rest of our lives.”

He pulled away, back to his side of the bed, resumed staring at the ceiling.

“You don't have faith in us, do you?” he asked.

“These last few years have done a number,” I said.

His only rebuttal was a long sigh.

*   *   *

I knew the baby was Gabe's. We'd taken chances—too many times. I should have gone back on the pill. I'd stopped taking it a few months after Drew moved in with his mother, telling Drew, “What's the point?” Gabe and I were responsible, at first. We used condoms, Drew's condoms. Then we decided to skip the condoms, because it felt better without them. He would just pull out, a method every man claims to have mastered. The first couple months, I was nervous. But then nothing happened and I felt invincible. This woman at work—Tricia—had been trying to have a baby for years. I figured it couldn't be that easy.

When I pictured telling Drew I was pregnant, I saw him smiling. He'd say something like,
That's awesome
. He wouldn't worry about logistics. He would be relentlessly happy, until I'd tell him about Gabe. Then his face would fall, every muscle in it giving up entirely. He would look confused and sad—not angry, though. There would be pain in his eyes, as if he'd just been knifed in the stomach by someone he thought he could trust. He wouldn't look down at the wound, though; he'd just look at me, asking how I could do this. I wouldn't have an answer.

*   *   *

I faked the flu for the rest of the week. I needed time to think, to contemplate the human growing inside me. I still called Gabe every day, just to hear his voice. He said he couldn't wait to see me, he missed me. He said we'd have to make up for lost time, as if that lost time were the duration of a year rather than just some days. My stomach ached—either subtle morning sickness or nervous nausea brought on by what I'd have to tell him when I saw him.

I went back to work on Monday. September 10. I set my purse on my desk, then went straight to Gabe's office. I thought I'd tell him right then, rip off the proverbial Band-Aid. But the way he looked at me rendered me speechless. He looked at me like he was witnessing the most beautiful sight in the world, taking it in, appreciating it in the way only poets can. He stood from his chair, walked past me so I caught the whiff of his cologne, and shut his office door, without care for who saw. Then he lifted me up—two hands on my waist—and set me on his desk. He lay me down so I knocked over a small wooden desk clock and the only picture he had in his office—of him and his mother, Lucy. He'd said she'd love me, that he couldn't wait for her to meet me.

He pushed up my skirt as far as it would go, to the very top of my thighs. He yanked down my nylon stockings. They tore.

“I've been thinking about this for days,” he said, kissing my neck. My entire body tingled. I reached up and under his shirt, touched his skin.

“I like you like this,” I said. I felt wanted—desperately wanted.

It was quick because it had to be. Anyone could knock on the door. Anyone could hear the heavy breathing, the creaking of furniture under the weight of bodies. When we were done, I took off my nylons, put them in his trash can, underneath some already-discarded papers. He pulled up his pants and, except for our flushed faces, it was like nothing had happened. He opened the door, said loudly, so everyone in the vicinity could hear, “Thank you for the update, Emmy. Check back in a couple hours if you get any more information.”

I nodded obediently and left, some folders in my arms as props.

For the next few hours, he instant-messaged me on my computer. I had to turn the sound off so my coworkers wouldn't hear the constant ding of a new message. I sat close to the screen, blocking the view of the little arriving thought bubbles containing his words.

I already can't wait to see you again
, he wrote.

You're so beautiful
, he wrote.

I asked him where he wanted to go for dinner after work, told him I'd make a reservation—somewhere nice. We could stay the night at his house, for once. Drew had picked up Bruce when I told him I was sick. “I'll get him out of your hair,” he'd said.

Let's just ditch work
, he wrote.

Let's spend the day together
, he wrote.

I crossed and uncrossed my legs. My panties were wet. I told him we couldn't just leave together in the middle of the morning—everyone would know.

I'll leave first. I'll tell them I have a meeting uptown. I always have meetings
, he wrote.

You leave an hour after that
, he wrote.

An hour will give me time to prepare a picnic for you
, he wrote.

Central Park. Meet at the Christopher Columbus statue at noon
, he wrote.

I watched the cursor flicker on the screen, considering.

Okay
.

*   *   *

I walked up Sixth, toward the park. As I got closer, foreign languages flew around me every which way. The city was crawling with camera-carrying tourists, even on a Monday. They snapped pictures of art deco buildings that weren't special, but may have seemed so. When I got to the edge of the park, the horse carriage drivers bombarded me, asking if I wanted a ride, waving brochures in my face. I wanted to ask why it wasn't obvious that I lived there, that I was a New Yorker, that I didn't need a ride through the park because I could walk its paths every day if I so desired. I put my head down, shuffled past the crowds of tourists who were considering a carriage ride, and made my way to the mall.

I could see him standing there, next to the Christopher Columbus statue, from a good hundred yards away. He was holding a picnic basket in his right hand—a wicker basket, the kind you picture in your head when thinking of a “picnic basket.” I wondered if he owned it, if he'd had it stashed in a closet at home for whatever reason, or if he'd gone out to buy it for this very occasion.

The forecast dictated rain later in the day. A few stray clouds hung in the sky, but I was convinced they would wait to break open until after our picnic. I felt like the universe was on my side.

He didn't see me coming; he was facing the other direction, watching a woman in workout attire walk briskly while pushing an empty stroller. The baby was strapped to her back, asleep. Gabe was smiling, and I wondered if it was at the baby, or if he was just smiling in anticipation of me.

I tiptoed right up behind him: “Boo.”

He flinched. All New Yorkers knew to be slightly on edge in Central Park. We'd heard the stories.

He set down the picnic basket and put his arms around me, lifting me off the ground far enough that my shoes dangled off my toes, my heels bare. He took my hand and we walked down the path, the trees arching overhead, as if the branches on one side of the mall and the branches on the other side were desperate to touch each other. Every other park bench was occupied: one with a man in a business suit, maybe out of the office for a rare breath of fresh air; one with a woman who had a sketchbook in her lap; one with a couple and a toddler having a temper tantrum so loud that the couple couldn't bear to make eye contact with us. They were embarrassed, clearly, shushing the young girl and promising things—cotton candy, a stuffed animal, a horse carriage ride—to get her to shut up.

“They must be from out of town,” Gabe said once we passed them.

“How do you know?”

“They're forcing an outing to Central Park when that kid is in a terrible mood.”

The way he said it—
that kid
—made me uneasy about telling him about my kid, our kid.

“It's probably their last day here. Long weekend trip. From Rhode Island, I'd guess,” he said.

Drew and I used to do this—watch people and guess their circumstances. The more outlandish, the better.

We didn't walk through the park; we meandered, the way lovers do, announcing with their slow stroll that they are in no hurry to be anywhere else. When we got to the Great Lawn, Gabe took a carefully folded, red-and-white-checkered blanket from the messenger bag slung over his shoulder and shook it out onto the grass. He sat and I did the same.

In the heat of summer, when kids were out of school and tourists were at their peak, the lawn was crowded with people tanning, throwing Frisbees, playing catch. On this day, we were mostly alone.

We were facing the Belvedere Castle, Central Park's oddest attraction. It looked to have been lifted by a crane from Victorian England and transported to America, dropped in the middle of the park with no discernible rhyme or reason. When I was a little girl, I asked my mom if a princess lived there and she said, with a snort, “There are no princesses.”

“I always thought it would be nice to get married there,” Gabe said, nodding up toward the castle.

I'd never heard of a man who dreamed about his wedding day.

“It would be,” I said.

“People do it,” he said. “Someone from the office went to a friend's wedding there.”

“And I bet a thousand different strangers have pictures of it.”