Part 11
Two days later and I'm drinking tea in the lounge – and that's a weird thing; the smell of chamomile tea always made me sick before but I can't get enough of the stuff now – go figure – when it happens. He's not on until tonight so I grab the 'phone and curse him out when he doesn't pick up right away and then I feel guilty when I remember he'll be sleeping. Damn.
"You OK?" I can hear the sleep in his voice. Double damn.
"I felt it."
"What?"
"I felt it move." He doesn't answer. "Luka?"
"I heard." Another silence. Oh, crap. And then "Butterflies, huh?"
Thank God. "More like wind".
"Maybe it was wind."
"It was not wind. I felt it."
"So, do you think maybe you're pregnant or something?"
"I think maybe so. Or something. I wish you were here."
"I could come over."
"And do what?"
"I don't know. Watch you giggle?"
"I didn't giggle."
"No?"
"Well, maybe a little. I'm not much of a giggler, Luka."
"Sure you are. You just need practice."
"Look, why don't you get here early and we can get some dinner over the street."
"What, you don't love me any more?"
"Enough to go over there with you."
"Think what dietary habits that child will be born with."
"Yeah, but a resistance to salmonella too."
"And a taste for chamomile tea."
See, it's strange how you get used to stuff. Before long I'm taking that wriggling for granted and not long after that I'm starting to resent it, the little shoves and knocks on my permanently full bladder and, by Thanksgiving, when it starts in with the hiccups, I can curse it. How weird is that?
So anyway, you remember me and my mom said we'd do Thanksgiving? She doesn't forget. This time he goes to pick her up at the 'bus station and by the time they get back they're laughing together although I was starting to wonder what had happened to them because it does not take two hours to make that trip. She stares open mouthed at the size of me; what was she expecting, I wonder? She can't get hold of me to hug me so she does it from behind, nuzzling my hair, which is kind of sweet. Junior squirms obligingly and visibly and she looks like she might cry, but she doesn't, not right now anyhow. Instead she excuses herself saying she has to freshen up. By which she means cry in the bathroom. I turn to Luka, eyebrows raised.
"What?" he asks.
"You tell me."
"She wanted to buy me coffee."
"For two hours?"
"And to apologise. Jesus, Abby, she could apologise for a living."
"She's had a lot of practice."
"And it's understandable because, you know, she loves me very much."
"Of course."
"But you can stop her, right? I mean - there's a limit."
"You reached it?"
"About an hour ago."
"She bring a pie?"
"She brought two."
"Like I'm not fat enough."
"I'll eat them, get fat in sympathy."
"See, that is so not the right answer."
"It's not all she brought."
"What else?"
"All the stuff she bought last time she was here? We have the same over again. Knitted."
This is bad news. The Grandmothers at the centre have been at it too. This kid's going to have 27 grandmas and Maggie is about 15 of them all on her own.
Maggie and me in the same kitchen being a recipe for disaster, she and Luka fix dinner together while I fiddle with silverware and candlesticks and the flowers she brought and then sit and contemplate my ankles which look as though I'm wearing water wings around them. Thanksgiving my ass. Which is another worry. I still have trouble recognising my body on the rare occasions that I look at it properly. Luka assures me that I'm a picture of ripe allure but I have a hard time buying it. Oh, and that libido thing I mentioned? No longer all it's cracked up to be. I mean, I think about it, I think about it a lot but that's about as far as I go because it seems such a hassle and we seem to take longer figuring out how to do it without me being uncomfortable or needing to pee yet again than actually, you know, doing it.
Sex is like eating, you know? Sometimes you want the works, 5 courses, the good crystal, fine wine, candlelight; other times you want pretty standard fare to keep you going and sometimes you just want to snack. Luka's not much of a snacker; seems he'd rather go hungry.
It's not doing his temper any good, abstinence. Dieting. Whatever. A couple of nights ago I'm getting pretty unmistakable messages that his appetite has been piqued and I sigh and say okay and he tells me not to do him any favours. I'm trying to work past the temptation to say he's such a guy, thinking with something other than his brain and I smile archly, flex my fingers and say there are still things I can do for him but he says no thanks, if that was what he wanted he'd take care of it himself and he's going downstairs to watch James Bond. "Oh, go fuck yourself" I say under my breath, except not far enough under because he calls back that if he could do that we wouldn't be having this conversation, and I throw my head back and roar with laughter. He relents then and seems happy enough to lie with me while I do the crossword in the paper and he does his level best with Henry James and a dictionary.
Dinner's good and he looks all offended that I'm surprised.
"I'm just glad it wasn't something with the head still on" I say.
"It didn't have one. Shame, I could have made a centrepiece out of it." He would too. Maggie's OK, she's telling us about her new job, how it's perfect for her, how she gets a few commissions for her art, how she's decorating her apartment and Luka would have come in very useful what with being so tall. He chats back, says he has enough paint in his hair already thank you very much and I'm actually enjoying a Thanksgiving dinner for the first time in pretty much forever. He seems comfortable, flirts with her a little so that she actually blushes, but when I get up to make coffee he's hard on my heels.
"Don't leave me alone with her" he pleads and I'm a little panicked, remembering what happened last time, but he finishes with "She'll start apologising again and I might just lose it."
"Come on, Luka, be a man."
"What? I should go and talk to her about football?"
"Worth a try."
"I don't know anything about football."
"Fake it. She'll never know, she knows less about football than you do."
"How is that possible?"
"Hard to grasp, I know."
"What's going on in here?" She's followed us, she's actually followed us.
"Guy talk" Luka tells her.
"I can be one of the guys can't I, Abby?" Boy, can she ever. She makes to hitch herself up onto the counter but she can't do it because she's so short or too full of turkey and pumpkin, I don't know. Luka hesitates for a moment and then lifts her up and backs off a little too fast.
"I know what I wanted to ask you! Names – have you thought about names?"
"No, we – "he starts but I cut in.
"Daniel for a boy" and I'm aware that he's frozen. "For Danijela."
"Danijela?"
"Luka's late wife." There is a moment's complete silence which she breaks.
"Well, I think that's a beautiful idea."
"Abby – "
"My terms." I tell him.
"Terms?" Maggie's puzzled. He's not. He's almost smiling.
"And if it's a girl?" he asks, "You have that figured out too?" The way he's looking at me it's cruel that Maggie's here because I think I could go five courses right about now.
"Sure. Rosa."
"Oh, I like that, that's pretty!" she says, dreamily.
"Isn't it?" I say, still holding his gaze.
"Just Rosa?" she asks, disingenuously.
"Rosa Margaret" he supplies.
"Oh, no, I didn't mean – " Yeah, right.
"Rosa Margaret" I confirm. And then I add "Kovac".
"That part of your terms too?"
"Absolutely."
"Well," Maggie chimes, "I guess we have a lot to be thankful for this year." I should want to push her off the counter for that cliché but you know what, I have to agree with her.
Later I wait until I'm sure he's on the verge of sleep and won't give me an argument before I speak.
"Luka?"
"What?" He's barely awake. Perfect.
"I've been thinking . . . would you mind very much if I took your name?" I can almost hear him smiling in the dark.
"What's mine is yours. Help yourself."
And right there I ignore the fact that he was almost asleep and help myself to a little more than his name.
Two days later and I'm drinking tea in the lounge – and that's a weird thing; the smell of chamomile tea always made me sick before but I can't get enough of the stuff now – go figure – when it happens. He's not on until tonight so I grab the 'phone and curse him out when he doesn't pick up right away and then I feel guilty when I remember he'll be sleeping. Damn.
"You OK?" I can hear the sleep in his voice. Double damn.
"I felt it."
"What?"
"I felt it move." He doesn't answer. "Luka?"
"I heard." Another silence. Oh, crap. And then "Butterflies, huh?"
Thank God. "More like wind".
"Maybe it was wind."
"It was not wind. I felt it."
"So, do you think maybe you're pregnant or something?"
"I think maybe so. Or something. I wish you were here."
"I could come over."
"And do what?"
"I don't know. Watch you giggle?"
"I didn't giggle."
"No?"
"Well, maybe a little. I'm not much of a giggler, Luka."
"Sure you are. You just need practice."
"Look, why don't you get here early and we can get some dinner over the street."
"What, you don't love me any more?"
"Enough to go over there with you."
"Think what dietary habits that child will be born with."
"Yeah, but a resistance to salmonella too."
"And a taste for chamomile tea."
See, it's strange how you get used to stuff. Before long I'm taking that wriggling for granted and not long after that I'm starting to resent it, the little shoves and knocks on my permanently full bladder and, by Thanksgiving, when it starts in with the hiccups, I can curse it. How weird is that?
So anyway, you remember me and my mom said we'd do Thanksgiving? She doesn't forget. This time he goes to pick her up at the 'bus station and by the time they get back they're laughing together although I was starting to wonder what had happened to them because it does not take two hours to make that trip. She stares open mouthed at the size of me; what was she expecting, I wonder? She can't get hold of me to hug me so she does it from behind, nuzzling my hair, which is kind of sweet. Junior squirms obligingly and visibly and she looks like she might cry, but she doesn't, not right now anyhow. Instead she excuses herself saying she has to freshen up. By which she means cry in the bathroom. I turn to Luka, eyebrows raised.
"What?" he asks.
"You tell me."
"She wanted to buy me coffee."
"For two hours?"
"And to apologise. Jesus, Abby, she could apologise for a living."
"She's had a lot of practice."
"And it's understandable because, you know, she loves me very much."
"Of course."
"But you can stop her, right? I mean - there's a limit."
"You reached it?"
"About an hour ago."
"She bring a pie?"
"She brought two."
"Like I'm not fat enough."
"I'll eat them, get fat in sympathy."
"See, that is so not the right answer."
"It's not all she brought."
"What else?"
"All the stuff she bought last time she was here? We have the same over again. Knitted."
This is bad news. The Grandmothers at the centre have been at it too. This kid's going to have 27 grandmas and Maggie is about 15 of them all on her own.
Maggie and me in the same kitchen being a recipe for disaster, she and Luka fix dinner together while I fiddle with silverware and candlesticks and the flowers she brought and then sit and contemplate my ankles which look as though I'm wearing water wings around them. Thanksgiving my ass. Which is another worry. I still have trouble recognising my body on the rare occasions that I look at it properly. Luka assures me that I'm a picture of ripe allure but I have a hard time buying it. Oh, and that libido thing I mentioned? No longer all it's cracked up to be. I mean, I think about it, I think about it a lot but that's about as far as I go because it seems such a hassle and we seem to take longer figuring out how to do it without me being uncomfortable or needing to pee yet again than actually, you know, doing it.
Sex is like eating, you know? Sometimes you want the works, 5 courses, the good crystal, fine wine, candlelight; other times you want pretty standard fare to keep you going and sometimes you just want to snack. Luka's not much of a snacker; seems he'd rather go hungry.
It's not doing his temper any good, abstinence. Dieting. Whatever. A couple of nights ago I'm getting pretty unmistakable messages that his appetite has been piqued and I sigh and say okay and he tells me not to do him any favours. I'm trying to work past the temptation to say he's such a guy, thinking with something other than his brain and I smile archly, flex my fingers and say there are still things I can do for him but he says no thanks, if that was what he wanted he'd take care of it himself and he's going downstairs to watch James Bond. "Oh, go fuck yourself" I say under my breath, except not far enough under because he calls back that if he could do that we wouldn't be having this conversation, and I throw my head back and roar with laughter. He relents then and seems happy enough to lie with me while I do the crossword in the paper and he does his level best with Henry James and a dictionary.
Dinner's good and he looks all offended that I'm surprised.
"I'm just glad it wasn't something with the head still on" I say.
"It didn't have one. Shame, I could have made a centrepiece out of it." He would too. Maggie's OK, she's telling us about her new job, how it's perfect for her, how she gets a few commissions for her art, how she's decorating her apartment and Luka would have come in very useful what with being so tall. He chats back, says he has enough paint in his hair already thank you very much and I'm actually enjoying a Thanksgiving dinner for the first time in pretty much forever. He seems comfortable, flirts with her a little so that she actually blushes, but when I get up to make coffee he's hard on my heels.
"Don't leave me alone with her" he pleads and I'm a little panicked, remembering what happened last time, but he finishes with "She'll start apologising again and I might just lose it."
"Come on, Luka, be a man."
"What? I should go and talk to her about football?"
"Worth a try."
"I don't know anything about football."
"Fake it. She'll never know, she knows less about football than you do."
"How is that possible?"
"Hard to grasp, I know."
"What's going on in here?" She's followed us, she's actually followed us.
"Guy talk" Luka tells her.
"I can be one of the guys can't I, Abby?" Boy, can she ever. She makes to hitch herself up onto the counter but she can't do it because she's so short or too full of turkey and pumpkin, I don't know. Luka hesitates for a moment and then lifts her up and backs off a little too fast.
"I know what I wanted to ask you! Names – have you thought about names?"
"No, we – "he starts but I cut in.
"Daniel for a boy" and I'm aware that he's frozen. "For Danijela."
"Danijela?"
"Luka's late wife." There is a moment's complete silence which she breaks.
"Well, I think that's a beautiful idea."
"Abby – "
"My terms." I tell him.
"Terms?" Maggie's puzzled. He's not. He's almost smiling.
"And if it's a girl?" he asks, "You have that figured out too?" The way he's looking at me it's cruel that Maggie's here because I think I could go five courses right about now.
"Sure. Rosa."
"Oh, I like that, that's pretty!" she says, dreamily.
"Isn't it?" I say, still holding his gaze.
"Just Rosa?" she asks, disingenuously.
"Rosa Margaret" he supplies.
"Oh, no, I didn't mean – " Yeah, right.
"Rosa Margaret" I confirm. And then I add "Kovac".
"That part of your terms too?"
"Absolutely."
"Well," Maggie chimes, "I guess we have a lot to be thankful for this year." I should want to push her off the counter for that cliché but you know what, I have to agree with her.
Later I wait until I'm sure he's on the verge of sleep and won't give me an argument before I speak.
"Luka?"
"What?" He's barely awake. Perfect.
"I've been thinking . . . would you mind very much if I took your name?" I can almost hear him smiling in the dark.
"What's mine is yours. Help yourself."
And right there I ignore the fact that he was almost asleep and help myself to a little more than his name.