Sixteen weeks. I think I know what I must look like, I've seen it before,
so many times, this look of puzzlement as I try and read the grey and white
patches in the screen. Then, like looking at one of those Magic Eye
things, it's suddenly clear, I make out the spine, the curve of the skull,
an arm, a profile, the busy flutter of the heart. It's fascinating but
absolutely nothing to do with me. He's holding my hand, his face lit by
the glow of the screen, and as I watch he tilts his head and frowns a
little and I realise that he too is trying to make sense of what he's
looking at. He looks at me, eyebrows raised and says, so softly that I can
barely hear him "I don't know, maybe a set of hand luggage, what do you
think?" The technician points out the important features, takes
measurements, all looking good for dates, presses the scanner a little
harder into me. The image on the screen wriggles obligingly.
"Helpful little thing." she says.
"My side of the family" he murmurs.
"I can tell you the sex if you want to know."
"We don't." I say. We talked about this; he wants to avoid certainties; I'm starting to like surprises so I agree with him.
"It can help with choosing names." she says. She so wants to tell us.
"Even so" he says and she nods. He takes the paper towel from her and wipes the jelly from me. As she's turned away he leans down and plants a little kiss on my belly, whispers a few words in Croatian.
"That for me or . it?" I ask, amused.
"For the vanity case" he grins.
"Do you have any questions?" she asks and we shake our heads in unison. He's hiding a smile because he knows that I'm desperate to pee now, the full bladder I needed for the ultrasound now becoming painful. I hurriedly rearrange my clothes and he helps me down off the couch. "You'll have to excuse me" I mumble to the nurse who smiles understandingly. As I'm washing my hands in the bathroom I look at myself in the mirror over the basin. Shit. This is real. I've seen it, her, him. A person, another person. Shit. What the fuck am I doing?
"You're having a baby" I tell my reflection aloud. And I'm grinning.
He's taking me out tonight, anywhere I want, a movie, dinner, how about we go dancing - he can teach me to tango while I can still move, and right now he's in the shower and he's singing. He has many fine qualities, this husband of mine, but a singing voice sure as hell isn't one of them. Well, I have ways to put a stop to that. It's a dirty job but someone has to do it. I'm such a saint.
Later, as we're dressing, I pull on a pair of pants.
"What?" he asks, as I curse.
"Goddamned things, I can't fasten them. Christ, I only bought them in January." I stop then and look at him, understanding. He's smiling a little.
"I warned you about the pizzas."
"Shut the hell up and find me a safety pin." But I'm kinda proud of myself. I'm pregnant, see?
The Saturday before my mother comes to visit we brave the Croatian Centre. I already know that the grandmothers are as mad as hell because we cheated them out of a wedding and they've made their feelings about that very plain to Luka. They nod and smile, a couple of them wink at me, a few whose English is up to the task give me advice about what I should be eating. We don't stay long but while Luka is sitting talking to a few of the old ladies about their ailments I get roped into a game of bingo which is sort of difficult because I don't know the Croatian for any numbers past five. Seeing my confusion one of the younger women who has a two year old asleep in her arms comes to my rescue and marks the card for me. I don't win of course and I'm expecting to get up and go when the young mother, who tells me her name is Mila, suddenly plants the sleeping boy on my lap and excuses herself, saying she has to go to the bathroom. The child doesn't stir but lies in my arms, his blond head hot against my chest. He smells of chocolate, his perfect skin a little flushed, incongruously dark lashes fluttering as he dreams, and I want to cry. Did my Mom sit like this with me, watching me sleep? I don't remember seeing her like this with Eric, but I guess she must have. She must have looked at me and she never saw the screw up I am, never saw the drinking, the shitty relationships.
I know for sure that Luka sat like this with his kids, I know he did. But I know it without being told because that's one thing we haven't gotten around to talking about. Danijela is one thing, but the kids . . . I look over at him but he's concentrating on one of his ladies, leaning in to speak into her ear, so I guess she's a little deaf. Mila returns and takes the little boy from me and a moment later Luka's asking me if I'm ready to go or has the bingo awakened my killer instinct. As we're leaving - and God, that takes longer than the time we've spent there - he glances down at me and asks what the damp patch on my shirt is. There's an edge to his voice and his eyes look a little wary.
"Sweat."
"Yours?"
"No, not mine, stupid, the little boy, he was sweating like a miner."
"Cute though." He says, but I can hear the effort it costs him.
"What?"
"You think I didn't see. You were pointed out to me. They think you're a natural."
I feel ridiculously proud of that.
She doesn't want picking up from the bus station, she'll get a cab, she'll be fine, don't trouble ourselves. So we don't. Except Luka is cutting up bread and he's unnaturally quiet and I feel like my throat's closed over so I can hardly swallow. We're anxious for each other and he sees through my nonchalance as I see through his. When the doorbell rings he drops the knife with a clatter and a "Shit!". We look at each other for a second. "All for one" I say and try to smile and we answer the door together.
In the end she doesn't gush any more than any other grandma to be and I feel uneasy because it's like we're playing at this. I give her the tour of the house and it's sort of OK, but as we're finishing up dinner I have to go and sit in the bathroom for a few minutes and remind myself that this is good, that, like it or not, the past is the past, I can't undo it and I can't rewrite it and it brought me here. I flush the toilet for appearance's sake and try not to think of what might go wrong, because Ivica was right, I've been scared for too long.
Luka is down there with her and I can hear them talking; at least he doesn't have to take her around the Art Institute. I linger a little longer than is absolutely necessary before rejoining them. Truly, revenge is a dish best eaten cold.
"You didn't change your name? You're not a Kovac?"
"No, I did, just not to Luka's."
"Then what?"
"Mine. I'm a Wyzcinski again."
"Oh, Abby, sweetheart, that's so nice, I can't believe you did that!" I don't tell her that I'm seriously considering the idea of being a Kovac.
"Luka's idea."
"It was?" She looks at him adoringly and I'm afraid that she's going to get hold of him. She doesn't and I begin to relax. She's doing fine, she's doing great, she's just . . . somebody's mom.
"What about the baby? What name will you use? You going to hyphenate?"
"Kovac-Wyzcinski? That would be a bit unkind."
"Maybe we should wait and see who it looks like" Luka says quietly and she doesn't hear the joke in his voice. I don't really blame her for that - it's a real skill.
"You'll be there, at the birth?" He doesn't answer at first and she thinks he didn't hear and starts to repeat the question, although I don't know why because it's rhetorical, right? Well no, wrong, because he cuts in.
"That's . up to Abby." My mother blinks, is silent. That's not what she was expecting. Hell, it's not what I was expecting. He looks real uncomfortable now, rakes his fingers through his hair.
"You don't want to be there?" I ask.
"It's your show," he says. "Being there is a . . . a - " he's struggling to find the word so I know he's dealing with more than vocabulary here, " - a privilege . not a right."
"I didn't know you felt like that about it."
"You didn't ask," he says and excuses himself to go and make coffee. You know, one of these days he's going to do something completely predictable. But not today.
"Helpful little thing." she says.
"My side of the family" he murmurs.
"I can tell you the sex if you want to know."
"We don't." I say. We talked about this; he wants to avoid certainties; I'm starting to like surprises so I agree with him.
"It can help with choosing names." she says. She so wants to tell us.
"Even so" he says and she nods. He takes the paper towel from her and wipes the jelly from me. As she's turned away he leans down and plants a little kiss on my belly, whispers a few words in Croatian.
"That for me or . it?" I ask, amused.
"For the vanity case" he grins.
"Do you have any questions?" she asks and we shake our heads in unison. He's hiding a smile because he knows that I'm desperate to pee now, the full bladder I needed for the ultrasound now becoming painful. I hurriedly rearrange my clothes and he helps me down off the couch. "You'll have to excuse me" I mumble to the nurse who smiles understandingly. As I'm washing my hands in the bathroom I look at myself in the mirror over the basin. Shit. This is real. I've seen it, her, him. A person, another person. Shit. What the fuck am I doing?
"You're having a baby" I tell my reflection aloud. And I'm grinning.
He's taking me out tonight, anywhere I want, a movie, dinner, how about we go dancing - he can teach me to tango while I can still move, and right now he's in the shower and he's singing. He has many fine qualities, this husband of mine, but a singing voice sure as hell isn't one of them. Well, I have ways to put a stop to that. It's a dirty job but someone has to do it. I'm such a saint.
Later, as we're dressing, I pull on a pair of pants.
"What?" he asks, as I curse.
"Goddamned things, I can't fasten them. Christ, I only bought them in January." I stop then and look at him, understanding. He's smiling a little.
"I warned you about the pizzas."
"Shut the hell up and find me a safety pin." But I'm kinda proud of myself. I'm pregnant, see?
The Saturday before my mother comes to visit we brave the Croatian Centre. I already know that the grandmothers are as mad as hell because we cheated them out of a wedding and they've made their feelings about that very plain to Luka. They nod and smile, a couple of them wink at me, a few whose English is up to the task give me advice about what I should be eating. We don't stay long but while Luka is sitting talking to a few of the old ladies about their ailments I get roped into a game of bingo which is sort of difficult because I don't know the Croatian for any numbers past five. Seeing my confusion one of the younger women who has a two year old asleep in her arms comes to my rescue and marks the card for me. I don't win of course and I'm expecting to get up and go when the young mother, who tells me her name is Mila, suddenly plants the sleeping boy on my lap and excuses herself, saying she has to go to the bathroom. The child doesn't stir but lies in my arms, his blond head hot against my chest. He smells of chocolate, his perfect skin a little flushed, incongruously dark lashes fluttering as he dreams, and I want to cry. Did my Mom sit like this with me, watching me sleep? I don't remember seeing her like this with Eric, but I guess she must have. She must have looked at me and she never saw the screw up I am, never saw the drinking, the shitty relationships.
I know for sure that Luka sat like this with his kids, I know he did. But I know it without being told because that's one thing we haven't gotten around to talking about. Danijela is one thing, but the kids . . . I look over at him but he's concentrating on one of his ladies, leaning in to speak into her ear, so I guess she's a little deaf. Mila returns and takes the little boy from me and a moment later Luka's asking me if I'm ready to go or has the bingo awakened my killer instinct. As we're leaving - and God, that takes longer than the time we've spent there - he glances down at me and asks what the damp patch on my shirt is. There's an edge to his voice and his eyes look a little wary.
"Sweat."
"Yours?"
"No, not mine, stupid, the little boy, he was sweating like a miner."
"Cute though." He says, but I can hear the effort it costs him.
"What?"
"You think I didn't see. You were pointed out to me. They think you're a natural."
I feel ridiculously proud of that.
She doesn't want picking up from the bus station, she'll get a cab, she'll be fine, don't trouble ourselves. So we don't. Except Luka is cutting up bread and he's unnaturally quiet and I feel like my throat's closed over so I can hardly swallow. We're anxious for each other and he sees through my nonchalance as I see through his. When the doorbell rings he drops the knife with a clatter and a "Shit!". We look at each other for a second. "All for one" I say and try to smile and we answer the door together.
In the end she doesn't gush any more than any other grandma to be and I feel uneasy because it's like we're playing at this. I give her the tour of the house and it's sort of OK, but as we're finishing up dinner I have to go and sit in the bathroom for a few minutes and remind myself that this is good, that, like it or not, the past is the past, I can't undo it and I can't rewrite it and it brought me here. I flush the toilet for appearance's sake and try not to think of what might go wrong, because Ivica was right, I've been scared for too long.
Luka is down there with her and I can hear them talking; at least he doesn't have to take her around the Art Institute. I linger a little longer than is absolutely necessary before rejoining them. Truly, revenge is a dish best eaten cold.
"You didn't change your name? You're not a Kovac?"
"No, I did, just not to Luka's."
"Then what?"
"Mine. I'm a Wyzcinski again."
"Oh, Abby, sweetheart, that's so nice, I can't believe you did that!" I don't tell her that I'm seriously considering the idea of being a Kovac.
"Luka's idea."
"It was?" She looks at him adoringly and I'm afraid that she's going to get hold of him. She doesn't and I begin to relax. She's doing fine, she's doing great, she's just . . . somebody's mom.
"What about the baby? What name will you use? You going to hyphenate?"
"Kovac-Wyzcinski? That would be a bit unkind."
"Maybe we should wait and see who it looks like" Luka says quietly and she doesn't hear the joke in his voice. I don't really blame her for that - it's a real skill.
"You'll be there, at the birth?" He doesn't answer at first and she thinks he didn't hear and starts to repeat the question, although I don't know why because it's rhetorical, right? Well no, wrong, because he cuts in.
"That's . up to Abby." My mother blinks, is silent. That's not what she was expecting. Hell, it's not what I was expecting. He looks real uncomfortable now, rakes his fingers through his hair.
"You don't want to be there?" I ask.
"It's your show," he says. "Being there is a . . . a - " he's struggling to find the word so I know he's dealing with more than vocabulary here, " - a privilege . not a right."
"I didn't know you felt like that about it."
"You didn't ask," he says and excuses himself to go and make coffee. You know, one of these days he's going to do something completely predictable. But not today.