Authors: Amity Gaige
Tags: #Fiction / Family Life, #Fiction / Literary
But sometimes, in the middle of a baseball game, sitting there with my paper cone of French fries, smiling at all the potential clients, I felt dread. What had we
done
? Why not just go on, you and I? You and I and winter mornings, and the newspaper, and talking, and not talking, and poetry, and the absentminded overwatering of flowers? Why didn’t we have the guts to grow old that way? Why have a
child
? Why try to take that summit?
But we were already too far along. That is, you were too far along. Eight months pregnant, you were a beautiful bell jar, shielding your sweet. You were a snake that had fallen in love with what it had swallowed. Leaning back on the bleachers, elbows squared, you looked out over your own horizon, your T-shirt barely up to the task at hand, one strip of skin visible above the hem of your elastic shorts. At various points in the game, you’d scream—
go go go go go!
And your enthusiasm almost made me feel better. You, this graceful vision of life, screaming at people who couldn’t even hear you. I tried to relax and enjoy the conclusion of your pregnancy. But in the end, my fear of fatherhood was only a heightened version
of any other man’s. The presentiments, in general, are true: You will fall in love with the thing that is out to get you.
Go go go go go!
You. You know who you are. That youngish man thrown into the unknown when suddenly, one innocent night, it comes. The visitor comes.
To the hospital! Gather your things! Your overnight bag! Turn off the lights. Don’t dally! You dash to the door only to realize you’ve forgotten your wife, that mystic bent over and moaning in the kitchen. She refuses to move, but she must move! Give her a second! She is shaking; is this normal? No! No, it is not normal at all! But somehow the telephone has been covered with butter and cannot be gripped and therefore the hospital cannot be consulted and the ambulance cannot be summoned. Far better to unbend the woman and force her into the car! Far faster than waiting for an ambulance! But is she, like the potential paralytic, not to be moved? Might her standing
break
the baby? Several awkward moments pass as your wife gazes at the linoleum. Her expression is that of a toreador who has just been gored. Can she speak? No! Is this normal? Information sighs out of your head like air from a tire. All you can think of to say is
I loved you
, and by this you mean, I tried as best as I could, but now I see that you are going to die and it’s my fault, and I just want to set the record straight that I did, indeed, love you. I wasn’t trying to kill you! This comment finally brings consciousness into the eye of the woman in labor.
What
did you say?
I said I
love
you! you cry, pulling her arm over your shoulder and dragging her out the door. I love you! I’m sorry I did this to you!
You didn’t do this to me, you silly, laughs your wife.
Her contraction must have passed. She is now leaning voluptuously against you, as if there’s all the time in the world. Labor is making her daffy. Her forehead shines with sweat in the streetlight below your apartment. You fight with your keys.
We
did this to us, she clarifies. And P.S., I love you too. I’m so glad you came into my life. Do you know that? Do you?
Sometimes I know that, you say.
I am, she says. So glad. I love you quietly all day long. I’ve always been—she searches for the word—sort of buttoned-down. I can be a real wet blanket, I know that. But when I’m around you, I feel loose. Life feels good and light and swingy. I feel
inspired
. That’s what I feel when I’m with you.
You glance at her, your heart thundering. You believe her. You wish you could stop and make her say it again into a recording device, but you know you probably have only a moment or two before you lose her to another contraction, and you need to keep her
moving
, you need to keep her
focused
because despite all the useful exercises they taught you in prenatal classes at the community center, none of them were How to Deliver Your Own Child in the Backseat of Your Car Using Only a Bottle Opener, a Flashlight, and a Map of Greater Albany.
Madam
, you say, opening the rear door.
And she sits in the hospital for hours washed and waiting on a bed in the upright position, occasionally saying, Well,
that’s
the first time I haven’t had to wait for hours in an ER. The night is a rhythm of her anguished screaming followed by light, casual conversation. In between, you eat ice chips together. Nurses come in and out and in and out and tectonic plates shift and stars die and finally the OB comes in and says
let’s induce and so the induction begins and the contractions happen faster but alas, no change has been made to the cliff face of the woman’s cervical opening. It’s like trying to get a bulkhead to dilate. But deadlines have now been set and all sorts of medical fine print has been printed and suddenly the two of you are the honored guests at a medical emergency. You—the father—are given a pair of blue scrubs and thrust into what looks like a broom closet while your wife is wheeled away toward the OR, followed by a tall anesthesiologist who turns out, in a funny twist of fate, to be German.
But you’re just glad it’s not you who has to operate. (When they gave you the scrubs, you wondered.) You just have to hurry the hell up and change and find the OR, and in the devastating moments in which you are apart from her, changing, you realize that you never, never want to lose this woman, and that the two of you are now connected by some kind of experiential sinew stronger than any cord, any cable, any mooring. Stronger than anything a man could make with his hands. She is lying in the light literally crucified, wrists tied to a T-shaped table, when you arrive and sit in the chair they have placed at her head. And you dry her cheeks because she is crying. And you reassure her. You say, it’s OK, baby. You say, I’m right here. And when they cut her belly open you don’t even look at her belly. Because you’re not talking to her
body
anymore. You are not talking to her body, no. Because a room is created by every love at its apex. And you are talking to her soul in that distant room. It’s a room you’ve never been to before, and a room you may never get to again. You’re really not even supposed to know it exists.
In the end, you have never felt this close to anyone in your whole life.
You say to yourself, I will never forget this. I will never betray this. I will live my life to the standard of
this
. And even if I fall short, I will never give up my commitment to believe in and live by this.
But you don’t.
That is, you do forget. You become complacent. And one summer evening several years later, while standing on the hill above the College of Saint Rose in the middle of a pickup soccer game, you look out over the balsam green Hudson River Valley and you wonder, Yes, but what was that other thing? What was that dream I was supposed to remember? You’re late to get home, but you figure no one will mind if you finish out the half. And right before you jog back onto the field, you observe with perfect sangfroid that you can’t even locate what you’ve forgotten in a category of forgetting. Just like that, you let go of it. You liked the feeling of love, but you weren’t interested in the work, so you let go of it. You gave it up because it would have been difficult. You liked it only when it was good, when it made you look good. When it asked more of you, you demurred; in fact, you pretended that no request had been made. You forgot that you owed them anything, that you owed them the effort of love. You hoped they would eventually forget too. You hoped they would forget you and forget themselves and go on worshipfully bearing your icon. It took her years to figure it out. And then she did, somehow. But you. Your understanding lagged behind. You never imagined anything beyond the conquering. And these are the regrets that dog you now, with all this time on your hands.
So. Much. Time.
I let you down.
I let you down.
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