The World: According to Graham (20 page)

She was a trooper and has the first bra that she can fill without padding. I wouldn’t allow her to buy pajamas. New rule. She sleeps either naked or in my shirts.

It’s Monday, and we’re driving through Memphis. With a little bit of luck we can catch up to the tour, which is in Phoenix this week.

“Hey. I thought we agreed to the phone rules,” I scold when I see her grabbing her phone from the center console.

“Chill out, Graham,” she says. “I need to see when my next doctor’s appointment is.”

I roll my eyes, but keep quiet.

She fiddles with her phone for a bit. “Looks like it’s on Friday. Should I cancel? I mean, I had intended to cancel it because I was going to find a new doctor near Caroline’s place, but I kept getting distracted with work and I obviously couldn’t ask Maggie to do it for me.”

“No,” I reply adamantly. “You keep your appointments.”

It’s this part of her pregnancy that makes me anxious. I can make sure that she eats correctly and avoids stress, but all I can really do is tag along to her doctor appointments and be the supportive new dad.

She napped yesterday in the car. I’d glanced in her direction every chance that I got, making sure Rachael looked peaceful. Her soft little sleeping sighs were music to my ears. I’d reached over and stroked her forearm, convincing myself that she wasn’t a dream. There’s not a doubt in my mind that she is my future. We just have to keep all the bullshit from plaguing our lives.

“Well, I guess this time is as good as any,” she says, as she turns towards me and adjusts the volume on the radio. “What’s your plan for me having this baby?”

“What do you mean?” I’m honestly confused by her question. She’ll go into labor and we’ll head to the closest hospital. It seems simple enough.

Then she pulls out a long sewing needle and pops my bright red balloon. “I’m not just having this baby at any hospital.” She’s using her lecture/preachy voice and is drumming her fingernails on the armrest. I sit back and prepare to be educated by Professor Early. “One of the reasons that I was moving to Texas was to start a relationship with a new doctor who would deliver the baby. I hate to point out the obvious, Graham, but I’m about to turn thirty-nine, and I’m pregnant. It’s not the same as being twenty and pregnant.”

“Why not?”

“I see the doctor more than someone who is younger. There’s a higher risk of diabetes and something called preeclampsia which is caused by high blood pressure. And not to mention the higher risk of genetic—”

I cut her off, because I can’t listen to her ramble on about all the things that might be wrong with our perfect baby. “Okay. So what should we do?”

“I don’t know.” She sighs, and her voice turns to a whisper. “Not being settled when the baby is born has not been something that I’ve ever considered.”

Silence fills the truck except for George’s snores. I didn’t plan past the part where I convinced Rachael to travel across the country with me to meet the tour. In my utopian world, us being together would solve all of our problems. The baby would be born in whatever city that we were in, and we’d travel from hotel suite to hotel suite like Max and Marissa have and just make it work.

The longer the silence rests between us the more that I sense her getting restless. She’s begun rubbing her thumbs over the tips of her nails, which I’ve seen her do in the past when she’s getting worked up. That’s not good for her or the baby.

Think, Graham. Come up with something . . .

“We can fly back to D.C. for your appointments, if you like your doctor.” I know that she had wanted to flee Washington because she didn’t want anyone to know about the pregnancy, but that was before I made her understand that she was mine. Now, who cares? I’d take out an ad the
Washington Post
if she would let me.

“Okay,” she begins tentatively. “So does that mean when I’m about thirty-six weeks along that I’ll leave you and move back to Washington?”

Her words are like a knife to my heart. Leave me again? That will not do. This whole ‘road trip’ thing has been great for communication, but it sucks when I can’t take my eyes off the road long enough to completely read her body language. Her voice doesn’t give me any clue as to where her head is at.

“Marissa and Max set up a crib in their hotel room and Marissa hasn’t missed a tour date.” I hope that doesn’t sound like I’m throwing Marissa in Rachael’s face as a perfect example of how to be a mom on the road, but it does seem to be working for her.

“That’s great for them, Graham,” she snaps.
Fuck! I must have hit a nerve.
“But I’m not a nomad. That’s not my personality. I’ve never been a mom before. I’m quite terrified of having an infant. I don’t know how to feed it, or change its diaper.”

“Quit calling our baby an ‘it’,” I growl. I’m not mad at her. I’m just frustrated that there doesn’t seem to be a good solution here.

“Fine.” She sounds defensive and moves toward the passenger door, as if she’s trying her hardest to get away. It kills me, and I’m half tempted to pull the truck over and explain with my body why she shouldn’t ever run from me. “What should we call him or her?”

I think about it for a moment. “Sam. The baby will now be referred to as Sam. It’s a girl or boy name. And Sam Adams was one of the original Sons of Liberty members.” I hope that the reference doesn’t annoy her.

“Okay. When
Sam
is born.” She stresses the name Sam, which makes me smile. “I want it to be in a hospital that I’m familiar with and with a doctor that knows my medical history. I want to bring Sam home to a house where everything is in order and prepared. I want to figure out how to be a parent before I entertain the idea of bringing Sam on the road.”

All of that never occurred to me when I was making this plan. I know that she’s right. I can understand why she wants those things, and I don’t fault her for it. Hell, I’ve never been a parent before either. I guess all of that makes sense. I know that babies need a lot of stuff. When my sister had my niece, she looked as if she was moving into a restaurant when we did family dinners out, instead of just borrowing a table for an hour.

The longer this conversation goes on, the more my chest tightens. “Okay. Let’s agree to cross that bridge when we come to it. Let’s worry about a doctor first.”

“Don’t you see, Graham? If I’m going to be in Texas—”

“God dammit, quit talking about running away to Texas!” I yell as I slap the steering wheel. She jumps, and I feel like a real asshole. “You aren’t going to hide with Caroline and Colin. They aren’t going to take care of you. I am. I will figure this out.”

Apparently everyone has a breaking point, and I just found mine.

I glance in her direction and see her eyes widen with fear. That makes me sick. I don’t want to scare her. I just want her to quit making contingency plans that don’t include me in them.

“I’m sorry.” I sigh, as I reach for her hand. My fingers interlock with hers, and she’s like a grounding force. Touching her reminds me just how much I have to lose if I fuck this up. “I’m not mad at you. It just makes me crazy when I think about you cutting me out of your life.”

She squeezes my hand and it’s the most reassuring feeling in this world. “I’m not cutting you out. I never said that you couldn’t be a part of my life in Texas. I just want to be near someone who loves me and can help me be a mom. Caroline and Colin are good parents. They have experience. If Sam has a fever in the middle of the night, they can tell me what to do. I don’t have friends in D.C. that I can lean on. I don’t know anyone on your tour, and I just don’t want to be alone.”

The cab of the truck fills with thick silence as I process her words. I know that she’s probably right. There just has to be some way to keep her with me. I’m not willing to admit defeat.

There’s a truck stop up ahead so I change lanes, pulling into the parking lot.

“I don’t need to use the restroom?” she asks, not dropping my hand.

“I need some fresh air,” I reply as I bring our locked hands to my lips, kissing her knuckles. “Reality can be a bitch.” I try to joke, but it falls flat.

I grab George’s leash and walk him in the grass. She goes inside to “try” and buy us a couple of waters.

When I see her disappear through the double doors, I decide to break our No Phone rule and give Max a call.

He answers on the second ring. “The prodigal son. You ready to come home?”

I laugh. He’s been calling me that since I decided to take a sabbatical, as I’ve come to call this little trip. “We’re still in Tennessee, but getting much closer to Arkansas. How’s everything?”

“You know our radio show this morning sucked goat balls, right.” It’s not a question. It’s a statement.

“It’ll be better when I record with you guys. We have better on-air chemistry when we’re in the same room.” I know that’s a part of it, but not the entire reason. I’m so distracted. I feel as if the radio show is becoming more of a chore than something that I live for.

Max, of course, doesn’t let me slide. “You’ve lost your kill-shot, Jackson. I served you up a perfect line about a stripper’s tits and you dropped it like a hot potato. Weak, man. You also backed off criticizing the President’s immigration plan that we all know is shit at best. That’s not the Graham that I know and love.”

He’s so right. The stripper’s tits comment reminded me of Rachael’s new breasts, and I just couldn’t go there. It felt as if I was betraying Rach and being an asshole to the stripper. Maybe I have lost my kill-shot.

George flops down at my feet, unwilling to walk around the prickly grass any longer.

“It’s not,” I acquiesce.

“We agreed when we started taping this show that we would never pull punches.” I give a rueful laugh at his boxing metaphor. “You’re not only hurting the show, but you are cheating on your soul. That’s fucked up.”

“You’re right,” I agree, as I nudge George to his feet. “Thanks for keeping me in line.”

“That’s what I’m here for.” He sounds so cocky that I have to laugh.

“In other news, how is it being on the road with the new baby?” I’m fishing here. I need a success story—some nugget of knowledge that I can drop on Rachael. Basically, I need some hope.

“Tons more luggage, but Mar is handling it like the pro that she is. She . . .”

I see Rachael stomping in my direction, holding a magazine in her hands. Her blond hair swishes back and forth behind her, and her face is a deadly shade of fuchsia pink. I’ve seen this look before. It was when she rang my doorbell to confront me about being one of the Sons of Liberty. As she draws closer, I see her normally large eyes are slits and her mouth is tight. “Uh . . . sorry, Max. Gotta run.”

Ending the call, I walk towards the truck. I have a sick feeling that Rachael just saw the pictures that I’ve conveniently managed to distract her from. This conversation reminds me of old fish in the refrigerator. I know that it’s in there, and I’m reminded of it every time I open the door to grab something, yet as long as it stays there, nice and cold, I don’t have to deal with the stench of removing it.

This conversation is going to go about as well as rotting fish.

I open the back passenger door and give George the command to get inside, as Rachael rages towards me like a bull seeing a red cape. I have a feeling that I’m going to need both hands and my undivided attention to keep Rachael from killing me.

“What’s this?” she asks, slapping the magazine against my chest.

Slamming the truck door, I snatch the tabloid rag out of her hand and roll it into a cylinder. “It’s a bunch of pictures taken out of context,” I say this rather flippantly, but my heart is pounding so hard against my ribs that it’s painful.

“Explain,” she demands, stomping her foot.

“No,” I counter, tucking the magazine into the waistband of my jeans while I cross my arms defiantly over my chest. “Do you think that I’m sleeping with Veronica? Better yet, let me ask the question this way.” I lean forward and growl in her ear. “Do you think that there is anyone else in this world that I want besides you?” My tongue runs along the shell of her ear, causing her to shiver.

For a moment I think that we’ve come far enough that this is it. She trusts me. I’ve underestimated Rachael once again.

She steps out of my embrace and crosses her arms over her chest, accentuating the new perks of pregnancy and mimicking my own stance. “I need to hear you explain why you were hugging and touching your assistant inappropriately in a tacky, themed bar in San Diego. And said, and I do quote ‘I’m seeing someone’ at one of your signings, which the magazine has clearly been led to believe is your assistant. Is that why you didn’t invite me to join you?”

Invite her? She didn’t need a fucking invitation to stand by my side like some sort of kept woman. “No.” I stomp around the truck and climb in the cab. The line in the sand has been drawn.

This is going to be one of thousands of false rumors. We establish trust now and fight this out, because I’m not doing it every week when I’m sleeping with the production assistant, or the waitress, or whomever our agent decides to leak to the press.

She throws open the passenger door and yells, “Fuck you! Explain this to me.”

I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles painfully cramp, praying for some divine intervention to make this woman realize how important she is to me. I’ve told her and shown her. If she can’t come to her senses and see this for what it is, then there is truly no hope for us. I shift in the seat so I can see her. “Rachael, am I in love with anyone else besides you?” I demand.

She stands there with her hands planted on her hips, staring holes through my soul. I’m not backing down.

I fly out of the truck, slamming the door behind me and walk back around to her. When I reach Rachael, she spins around with a defiant
bullshit
look on her face. Her chin is cocked up and her arms are crossed again. I grab her by her shoulders and hold her so she can look in my eyes. “Is there anyone else besides you?”

“That magazine sure thinks so,” she replies tartly.

I pick her up and place her on the passenger seat. She cuts her eyes towards the windshield. “I don’t give a fuck what the magazine believes. I only care what you believe. Answer me, Rachael.” I swallow hard, realizing the gravity of the situation. This is really a make-or-break moment for us. My blood is boiling, and I feel as if we’re teetering on the edge of a cliff. We either establish trust, or I contact the paternal rights attorney that Max has mentioned more than once. “Answer the question. I’m only asking it one more time. Is there anyone else but you?” My voice drops a couple of octaves to a deep growl.