“Feed the chickens,” I mumble. “Then let them free-range.” The chickens are quieter out of their coop; perhaps I can sneak in a little more sleep.
Ian puts his head next to mine on a tiny patch of pillow and reaches over my shoulder to stroke the cat. “You said we could sit outside this morning and watch the chickens lay eggs.”
Ian has become obsessed with catching the chickens in the act of laying. It is vaguely disturbing.
“I said
some
morning. I didn’t say today. It’s cold out.”
“Please, Mommy?”
These days, Ian only calls me Mommy when he wants to soften me up. But then, the chickens were Ian’s birthday present from me last spring, so I deserve this.
I reach my arms around his angular body, luxuriating in his warmth and little-boy smell. “You win. But you need to put on a coat. And I need to make coffee. You want hot chocolate?”
“With whipped cream,” he says. “And marshmallows.”
I kiss his shaggy hair. “Anything for you.”
It’s not just an expression. I really will do—in fact, pretty much
do
do—anything for my son. During his cheetah phase, I took him to the San Diego Wild Animal Park. When he moved on to dolphins, we headed to Sea World. I have seldom turned down a request for a playdate, sleepover, or pool party, and we take a vacation every August. In the years before Ian received chickens and a coop for his birthday, he racked up a Wii, an iPod, a fully stocked saltwater aquarium, and Alfredo the cat. For Christmas I gave him a piano.
More than things, though, I give him time and love and attention. Although I practice law, we are not wealthy. I took myself off the partner track when I became pregnant and have been content with regular hours and a solid, steady income. We live in a three-bedroom ranch house in Fullerton, a pleasant suburban town in north Orange County, California. I drive a five-year-old Honda Accord. It is enough. No, it is more than enough.
Of course, I worry that I’m spoiling Ian, that he will suddenly turn bratty and ungrateful or that he will crumple in the face of life’s disappointments. But here’s the thing: the more I give him, the greater he shines with curiosity about the world, the more he trembles with appreciation for all living things.
So, yes, I will do anything for my son. Because I love him so very much. And because the sad truth is that the one thing he really wants, the only thing he’s requested for every birthday and every Christmas since he was old enough to talk, is something I haven’t been able to give him.
Ian wants a sibling.
2
Vanessa
Today is my birthday, and ever since I woke up this morning, I’ve had this feeling. Eric is going to ask me to marry him tonight. I thought he might do it at breakfast, but he had to work the early shift today, so he was already gone when I got up. He left me a note on the counter, though:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, V. HAVE AN AWESOME DAY & I’LL SEE YOU AT DINNER.
Eric is good with stuff like that. You know, leaving me notes or buying me little things. He’s going to be really romantic when he asks me to marry him, write me a poem or maybe even a song, which is something he used to do when we first started going out, before he gave up the guitar. I’m not sure about the ring. Part of me thinks he’ll want to pick it out together, and part of me thinks that since he works at Costco, he could get a good deal on a diamond.
I have searched through all of his drawers and jeans pockets, but haven’t found anything. He must want me to help pick out the ring. Or maybe I haven’t looked hard enough.
This feeling I’ve got, that today is the big day, is different from how I felt last month at Christmas. That time, I thought he would slip a ring onto a branch of our tree, which was actually just a ficus strung with silver and gold garlands. It’s different, too, from how I felt on New Year’s Eve, when I decided he’d drop the ring into a glass of champagne and wait for me to notice it till after we’d toasted.
At eleven o’clock on New Year’s Eve, I asked Eric, “Do you want to open the champagne?”
He said, “I didn’t buy any champagne. Did you?” And then, when he figured I wasn’t going to put out, he went to bed.
My hands shake as I turn the key to our apartment. It’s different this time. I can sense it. Today is not just any birthday. It’s my twenty-ninth. Meaning, if I’m going to get married before I turn thirty, I have to get engaged
right now
.
During the three years I’ve lived with Eric, every one of my high school friends has gotten married.
Every single one.
For a while there was a wedding like every weekend. I’m a regular in the T.J.Maxx dress department. Time after time, Eric and I drive out to Riverside just to have people tease me about catching the bouquet or to say, “You guys must be next” or whatever. I’ll laugh like that’s funny even though it’s so not, and Eric will just look uncomfortable.
If he doesn’t propose tonight, there’s always Valentine’s Day.
The apartment smells of tomatoes and garlic. Jason Mraz is playing over the speakers connected to Eric’s iPod. Eric and I have totally different taste in music, but we both like Jason Mraz. Eric calls him a “Universal Donor” of music. I don’t really get what he means by that, but whatever.
I love living with Eric, at least most of the time, but our apartment sucks. It’s dark and small and doesn’t have enough closet space. The dinky living room has dirty beige carpet, and it opens to a kitchen that has brown cabinets made of this plastic-y stuff that is supposed to look like wood but doesn’t. Rents are high in Redondo Beach. This was all we could afford. Eric likes to surf, so he doesn’t want to move inland.
Eric is at the sink, filling a big pot with water. He dries his hands on a dish towel and meets me by the front door. He’s wearing what he wears every night, a faded T-shirt and his oldest, softest jeans. Eric’s not too tall, but his shoulders are square and his hips are slim. He looks good in jeans.
“Hey, birthday girl.” He cups my face in his hands and kisses me. All of a sudden I’m not nervous anymore. Everything is going to be okay.
“Eggplant Parmesan?” I ask.
“Uh-huh.” He kisses me again.
“My favorite.”
“I know.”
Eggplant Parmesan really is my favorite thing Eric makes. It is also the only thing Eric makes, unless you count Kraft Deluxe macaroni and cheese. Eric doesn’t eat meat. Eric doesn’t cook meat. Eric doesn’t even like meat in the house.
I bury my face in his neck. He runs a pale, slim hand through my thick black curls. I almost say “I love you,” but I hold it back. Eric shows his love in a million ways, but he’s not big on the words. The pause between when I say “I love you” and the moment he says it back always feels a beat too long. He hardly ever says it first. We had a fight about it once, and he explained that for him, saying “I love you” is a special occasion kind of thing, and if we say it too often it won’t mean anything anymore. I still don’t get that, but I kind of have to go along with it. So tonight, I’ll save my “I love you” for the Big Moment. If there is a Big Moment.
If Eric doesn’t give me a ring tonight . . . I can’t even stand to think about it.
He goes back to cooking, and I go off to change. Our bedroom has almost no floor room, even with the double bed shoved into a corner. The closet is so crammed that I can hardly see what is in there. Like the dresser, we share the closet, but most of it is my stuff. Eric has only one suit and one dress shirt, both from Goodwill. He wears them to weddings.
Not that I even care about our wedding. We can have something small and cheap. Maybe something in a park. Eric’s job at Costco is steady, and the hours are good, but he doesn’t make a lot of money. But we’ve been to so many weddings. A lot of people would be hurt if we don’t invite them. And then there’s the registry to think about . . .
Stop.
I peel off my lavender scrubs. They match our bedroom walls. Our bathroom is lavender, too, a slightly darker shade. Eric gave me these scrubs for Christmas (when he didn’t give me a ring). He said, “I know purple is your favorite color.”
I hate scrubs. Scrubs make me look fat. Not that I’m so little. My boobs are kind of big (I’m okay with that) and so is my butt (not so okay), but my waist is small and my legs are good. When I’m in scrubs, you can’t see that. I don’t even get why I have to wear them to answer the phone and file papers at Great Grins, the dental office where I’m the receptionist. It’s not like any of the patients are going to spew blood or saliva on me.
“You going somewhere?” Eric asks when I come out in my favorite purple dress.
“I don’t know. You taking me somewhere?”
“Do you want me to?” Uh-oh. I made him squirm.
“No! I was kidding. I’m right where I want to be.”
Okay, so that’s kind of a lie. It would be nice to be somewhere other than this ugly apartment. Before Eric, I used to love clubbing with my girlfriends. Plus there was this guy, back in Riverside, who used to take me to expensive restaurants and fancy nightclubs. And I liked it. Dressing up, riding in his shiny car, having people wait on me. I liked it enough that for a while I was able to ignore the bad things about this guy. Like his cologne, which was way too strong. Or his voice, which was way too loud. Or the way he’d go into the restaurant bathrooms all crabby and come out with a new, happy, hyper personality. Or that he didn’t believe that being with just one woman was natural.
Eric doesn’t take me out to restaurants much, but we’ll go to the beach to look for dolphins, to farmers’ markets to pick out fruit, or to festivals to listen to music. I almost never like the music, but that’s beside the point. Eric doesn’t need to spend money to make me feel special.
“You want to walk down to the beach after dinner?” he asks. The beach is a mile and a half away.
“It’s kind of cold out,” I say. “And it’s getting dark.”
He shrugs. “Okay. Whatever you want.”
He has set the little glass table that I bought on sale at Pier 1 and opened a bottle of the pink wine that I love and he hates. I pour the wine and start drinking, faster than I should because I’m feeling nervous again.
Even though the living room is small, the carpet is ugly, and Eric’s surfboard is the first thing you see when you walk in the room, I’ve made it as pretty as I could. I painted the walls pale yellow and put up big framed pictures of blue and purple flowers that I got real cheap when Linens ’n Things was going out of business, along with a beige slipcover for the couch, some throw pillows, and a fake ficus (that doesn’t have a ring hiding in its branches—I checked).
I sit on the couch. “Dr. Sanchez took me out to lunch.”
He looks up from tossing a salad. “Just you?”
“Of course not. Melva and Pammy were there, too. We tried out a new Mexican place. It was okay.” Melva and Pammy are the hygienists. “Melva is pregnant again. Did I tell you?”
I know I told him, but I keep waiting for a more enthusiastic reaction.
“Yeah. I think so.” So much for enthusiasm.
“And she’s already saying she wants one more after this.”
“Mm.”
The phone rings, and I answer, thinking maybe someone’s calling to wish me happy birthday. Like maybe my mother. Or my sister. But it’s just some company offering to lower my credit-card payments. After I hang up, I drink some more wine and tell myself that I don’t care that they forgot. Someday I’ll have the kind of family I missed out on growing up, and I’ll never forget a birthday. Never.
My nose feels a tiny bit numb already. I shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach. Sometimes when I get tipsy I say stuff I probably shouldn’t. Like this:
“I used to think I’d have kids at twenty-six, twenty-eight, and thirty. Guess that’s not going to happen.”
He doesn’t say anything, not even “Mm” or “Oh.”
I take another pink sip. Tasty. “I could still have one at thirty.”
Still no response. He opens the oven, checks the eggplant, sets the timer.
“Is it too late?” I ask.
He turns around but doesn’t meet my eyes. “No. It’s not too late.”
“I want to have children, Eric.”
He nods, just a little bit. “I know you do.”
Uh! Why am I doing this? One thing at a time. We can have a serious talk about children after we get engaged.
It’s all Melva and Pammy’s fault. At lunch they were all, “Is this the big night?” Pammy kept going on about ultimatums, and Melva was all about diamond sizes. Dr. Sanchez just looked totally, totally uncomfortable.
If Eric doesn’t give me a ring . . . Oh God, I can’t stand the suspense.
When he sets the salad bowl on the table in front of me, I say, “So—you wanna wait till after dinner to do presents?”
He freezes. “Um, I only got you one thing. I hope that’s okay.”
One thing! Yessssss!
“Of course it’s okay! It’s, it’s . . .
awesome
. One big gift is much better than a bunch of little things.”
“I don’t know that I’d call it big, exactly.” Eric shoves his hands into his pockets and smiles, looking just a little nervous.
Eric got me a tiny diamond. That’s okay. It’ll do the job.
“Dinner’s got another ten minutes,” he says. “Do you want your present now?”
The wrapping is really pretty—thick purple paper and a big white bow. But the box is the wrong size, the wrong shape.
I try to keep my voice neutral. “It looks like a CD.”
“Open it.”
Hands shaking, I peel back the tape slowly, carefully. This is going to hurt, and I’m not ready.
It looks like a CD because it is a CD. And not one from a store either. Eric’s careful printing covers the white paper insert inside the plastic case.
“It’s a custom mix,” he says. “I burned it for you.”
I just look at him.
“A whole bunch of new artists,” he says. “And some older ones I hadn’t heard before. Stuff we can both listen to. That I think we’ll both like.”