27
M
y timing is way off; I know that.
Right now my apartment is full of peopleâfriends and coworkers, sipping champagne and spiked eggnog and talking about their Christmas plansâwhile the hostess of the party is holed up in the master bathroom. Not the most hostessy thing to do, but I can't wait any longer. I bought the pregnancy test this morning and planned to take it right away, but then Randy surprised me by taking me out to brunch. And then our afternoon was cluttered with party errands: chilling the champagne, mixing the eggnog, picking up the salads from Dean & Deluca and the bagels from Zabar's. The only window of time would have been while I was taking a shower, but then Randy suggested that we soap up together and I didn't want to set the pee test up in front of him since I wasn't ready to tell him that I might be pregnant with someone else's baby.
Yes, my timing is totally off.
So I'm sitting here on the edge of the tub in the master bathroom, watching the little stick that I peed on to see if a cross appears. A crossâthat would mean I'm pregnant. Funny that the laboratory people would choose a cross: the symbol of crucifixion. Which is what I'll do to my little brain if I am, in fact, pregnant right now. How ironic that would be: the Christmas gift I'd always dreamed of, the ultimate gift of a baby, a new life. I have always dreamed of becoming a mother, and over the past few months with Randy I've been able to visualize that dream clearly.
But under very different circumstances.
In the scenario of my dreams, my baby has a loving father: a capable, kind man who fills out the perfect triangle of my loving, nuclear family.
That man is not Jonathan Thompson.
Randy, however, would be the perfect father. He wants to be a father, and I want to be the mother of his child. In fact, we've been trying to get pregnant for the past six months. The bitter irony: if I'm pregnant right now, it's not Randy's baby.
I turn to the towel rack beside me and bury my face in a fluffy maroon towel. It smells of fabric softener and freshly bathed baby. Sweet. If I'm pregnant I'm going to need special baby soaps, along with Vaseline for diaper rash and a truckload of Pampers. I know my fair share about babies from my nieces and nephewsâseven of them, two in New Jersey and five in Maryland. They won't believe their Aunt Emma is pregnant. That is, if I am. At the moment the little stick isn't forming any color patterns at all, which throws me into a bit of panic. What if I did it wrong? Fifteen bucks for this kit, what if I didn't hit the right spot? And how stupid would that be?
Through the wall I hear laughter; I withdraw from the towel and listen carefully. It must be coming from the main bathroom, which butts up against this room. I recognize Jane's voice.
“Well, hurry up and get your ass in here before everyone at the party sees.”
The thump of a shutting door.
“Are you planning to take advantage of me, young lady?” That's Marty, Jane's guy. “Here and now? I have to question the wisdom ofâ”
“Just shut up and kiss me,” Jane tells him, and I go back to the fluffy towel and press my face into the sweet scent and shudder.
And then there's excruciating silence during which I have to wonder and worry what might be transpiring next door. I flush the toilet then run the cold water to create a shield of noise. I know it's a crime to waste clean water that way, but Jane's my best friend in the world and I can't stand feeling like I'm hiding in her pocket while she makes love to Marty.
Jane and Marty are a great couple. I think Randy and I make a good couple, too, which is why I don't understand how I could have botched things up like this.
I press my face against the cool tile and look over to the shower stall where Randy and I made love this afternoon. When I'm with Randy, it's as if we belong together. The feeling is diametrically opposed to the tangled, angry passion that used to burn between Jonathan and me. Damn him.
I flash back to that night nearly a month ago: Thanksgiving weekend. Randy flew out on Wednesday morning, heading off to Oregon to spend the holiday with his mother and siblings, nieces and nephews. It was earlyâbefore workâbut I cried when he said good-bye, not wanting to see him go. I had spent the past few months trying to pinpoint when I was ovulating, and as luck would have it I was going to be ripe that weekend while Randy was gone, so add hormonal anguish to the whole separation thing. I walked him down to the lobby and told him I was worried about him flying during the holidays. He seemed moved by my rush of emotion, and down in the lobby, in front of the window leading out to Amsterdam Avenue, he pulled me close and whispered: “This is the last Thanksgiving we'll spend apart.” Watching his yellow cab head off toward LaGuardia, I worried that he would never come backâa prescient flash of doom. At the time I didn't realize that the bad luck would fall in my path, not his.
That was the weekend Jonathan stopped by. It was Friday night, and I'd just gotten off the phone with Jane to beg off dinner, having been at work since eight o'clock that morning trying to learn the mechanics of a large Manhattan branch of Mainline Bank; trying to hold my ground as a supervisor though I was mostly feeling lost; trying to adhere to corporate policy among employees who despised the corporation; trying to stave off a headache . . . without success on any of these fronts. Stretched out on the sofa with a bowl of cold edamame beside me and a Lean Cuisine Mac 'n' Cheese under my chin, I groaned when the intercom buzzed.
“There's a Mr. Jonathan Thompson here to see you, Ms. Dombrowski,” Steve the Doorman said.
Ugh! The last person I wanted to see.
“I'm sorry,” Steve corrected himself. “That's
Officer
Thompson.”
“Like that makes him any better than the rest of us,” I said with the intercom off. Jonathan had always been quick to use his police ID for preferential treatment: to get us into clubs, to get a reduced bill at a restaurant, to summon instant respect. Well, it wasn't going to work on me anymore. “Tell him I'm on my way out,” I said into the intercom, then went into the kitchen to rummage for a bottle of wine. As I popped the cork, I wondered how I could have thought I was in love with Jonathan Thompson. Maybe part of the allure was his last name. Marriage would have made me Emma Thompson, like the actress who could do no wrong in my book. Last-name fantasies are the big hazard of being born with a name like Emma Dombrowski. Nothing against my Polish grandparents, but couldn't someone along the line have shortened the name to Donner or something? Instead, I get saddled with this wonker of a last name, which puts me on the perennial husband hunt for something better. Randy's last name is Walker. Could the man be more perfectly suited to me? Emma Walker . . . I loved the sound of my future self.
I was pouring chardonnay into a glass when the doorbell chimed. That bastard! I thought, slamming the bottle on the counter.
I threw open the door, annoyed by the irreverent gleam in his pale blue eyes. I said: “You're not supposed to be up here.”
“I came to pick up my stuff. Stuff that's rightfully mine. How come that guy doesn't know me? I used to live here.”
“That was more than a year ago, Jonathan. Now you have no right to be here.”
“Oh, I have rights.” He stepped inside, walked right past me, surveyed the living room. “I've got MasterShield,” he said, flipping his badge at me with a flourish.
I folded my arms across my chest. “Did you pull a gun on Steve? Or just tell him that you're âon the job,' that big insider code.”
“You gotta know how to talk to people,” Jonathan said. “Put your time in the NYPD, you learn how to talk to people.”
“How long's it been now, four years?”
“Five.” He grinned, pausing to look me up and down. “You're still looking hot, Emma.” He held out his arms.
“And I haven't put on the pork yet. Actually, I've been working out.” He flexed an arm and moved closer to show me a blip of biceps. “Feel that.”
“No, thanks.”
“I joined a gym. After I appeared on
Guiding Light
I realized that maybe modeling was the thing. I mean, acting is the ultimate prize, but modeling is a good start. You know the guy who plays Ryan on
All My Children?
He got his start as an underwear model.” He pressed a hand to the crotch of his jeans. “You've seen the package, Em. What do you think?”
“I wish you and your package luck,” I said. The last five minutes were an instant reminder of the many reasons Jonathan and I had broken up, and I figured the best way to get rid of him was a quick pat on the back, then a boot in the butt.
But Jonathan had other ideas, as he sank down into Randy's leather chair and stared up at the ceiling. “You painted the ceiling blue? Ceilings are supposed to be white.”
“It's cerulean,” I said, glad that I no longer had to take decorating advice from a cop. It had been Randy's idea to bring color to the room through the cathedral ceiling, and we'd both been enchanted by the result, sometimes snuggling on the couch and staring up hopefully, as if gazing into our future. “The color of the sky.”
He surveyed the room. “What is all this crap? That painting. . . Is that a bunch of stars or alien eyeballs?”
It was Randy's work, entitled “Country Sky.”
“And that mess in the corner?”
Randy's paintbox.
“And what, you got a bike up here?” He eyed me suspiciously. “Don't tell me you ride a bike now, Em.”
“It's my boyfriend's stuff. He lives here now.”
Jonathan's jaw dropped. “I'm crushed!”
“Yeah, right. Will you leave now?”
As he took a deep breath and glanced back at the painting, I could see that my words had hit him like a physical blow. “Christ . . . I can't believe you hooked up with someone else.”
“Jonathan, it's been more than a year, and you moved in with Lindsay.” That would be
the
Lindsay Green, “Weather Watcher” on
Eyewitness News 6.
I'd been devastated when Jonathan took up with her. Inside, I knew he was pursuing her partly because of her showbiz connectionsâthe limo ride to fameâbut it hurt to be replaced by someone so perky, so blond. A gentle, mild weatherfront. “You moved on,” I said. “So did I.”
He sighed. “And where's the boyfriend now?”
“Not here at the moment,” I said cautiously. “If you'll give me a minute, I'll find the key to the basement locker. We moved your things down there.”
“Had to get me out of sight, huh? Does he feel threatened by me?”
Not in the least,
I thought.
Jonathan looked back at Randy's painting, sucked in a breath, then let out a sob. “Oh, shit, Emma! My life is shit!” Much to my amazement, he pressed his face into his hands and began to cry. Wail. A major meltdown.
I suspected forced drama until he brushed away his tears and I saw that his face was a red, puffy mess. Tentatively, I stepped toward him.
“It can't be that bad. You always weather the storm, or at least that's what Lindsay would say.”
“She broke up with me. And I really loved her.”
Oh, just drive needles in my eyes, why don't you? “There, there,” I muttered. “At least you've got your acting career, right? And the modeling? People love that you're a cop in your spare time.” Which was sort of the way Jonathan perceived his life.
“I don't know what to do. I didn't know where to turn. Lindsay's gone and so is
Guiding Light.
I made a pass at the casting director, and she didn't take it well. If I even get close to the set, they're threatening to slap me with a restraining order.”
I felt my eyes bug out wider. “Whoa! You've been busy.”
“Busy fucking myself!” he said in a fit of anger. “I've fucked everything up.”
I wholeheartedly agreed, but wasn't going to kick him when he was down.
“I've screwed myself over, and hurt the people I care about.” He lifted his chin, his wet eyes meeting mine. “I've hurt you, Emma. I'm sorry for that.”
Despite his flaws, Jonathan did have a gift for sincerity. In that moment I felt his pain, accepted his apology.
“Look. . . .” I stepped closer, leaning on the arm of the big leather chair. “You followed your heart. I've always admired your ambition. This time it didn't work out, but that's no reason to stop. I'm sure there are bigger and better opportunities in your future.”
He gulped. “Do you know anyone at the Ford Agency? I need an âin' there.”
“Nope.” I rubbed his back. “I got nothing for you, Jonathan. But I'm sure you'll work things out.”
He pulled me down into the broad chair so that I was half on his lap, and I gave him a warm, supportive hug. Shades of the old Jonathan emergedâa snuggly bear, a vulnerable spirit. I'd been mistaken to think that I'd loved him, for our relationship had never been a partnership; it was more like an adoption of a wayward bad boy. I hugged him hard, willing to help him out one more time.