Jubilation. "Another time, then," I finish, dropping the receiver back into it's cradle as my eyes happily skate around the still dark room. Feeling like a condemned man just given a stay of execution, an involuntary laugh escapes my throat as I sit up abruptly and swing my legs over the edge of the mattress. Instantly regretful of my haste as the room begins to spin around me, the smile leaves my face and I drop my head into my hands, willing my stomach to stop churning. Nibbling on one of the crackers from the stash on my nightstand, I slip my feet into my fuzzy slippers and cut a somewhat unsteady path to the bathroom.
I'm met with a billowy cloud of steam on the other side of the door, and a smile once again tugs the corners of my lips when my eyes find Danny in the middle of the haze. A droplet of water falls from his wet hair, traveling down the center of his naked back and disappearing beneath the knotted towel that hangs low across his hips. Our eyes meet briefly in the mirror, and I watch him return my smile under the obscurity of a mound of shaving cream as he gently sweeps the razor along his jawbone. Without a word, I walk up behind him, my fingertips reaching around to caress the muscles of his chest and belly. Locking my wrists around his waist, I press my cheek against his back, closing my eyes as I inhale his scent. "There's no need to get ready in a hurry, sweetie," I whisper against his warm, wet skin. "Rick called. He can't meet us at the country club this morning... he's been asked to cover the ER."
The clanging of the razor against the porcelain lavatory startles me as he drops his hand into the filmy water to rinse the blades, and I peer over his shoulder when his body tenses, a weary sigh crossing his lips just as he lifts his eyes to meet mine in the mirror. "And I suppose you're happy about that?" he asks coolly, his eyebrows raised slightly as he tilts his head back to resume the strokes on his throat. I flash him a look of innocence. He doesn't buy it for a minute. "Damnit, Michelle," he begins, the accusatory inflection in his voice causing me to back away from him and cross my arms in defiance. Wiping the remnants of cream from his face with a hand towel, he unstoppers the sink as he turns to face me, arguing, "We have to tell him sooner or later, Michelle. It's been nearly four weeks since we found out. Pretty soon, you won't be able to hide it from him."
He's right. I'm thrilled to have been handed this chance to prolong the inevitable conversation with Rick, but I'm incensed by his scolding nonetheless, and I shove a finger into the center of his chest, defending, "I'm not ashamed of our baby at all, Danny... if that's what you think." I can tell that he feels contrite immediately, and I lower my eyes, placing a hand against my still flat belly as I take a seat at my vanity, my voice quivering as I explain, "It's just that... Rick... I know that he's not going to take the news of this pregnancy as well as abuela. That's all."
His hands on my shoulders are warm and comforting as he stands behind me, and I raise my eyes to his reflection, lost in the rhythm of his gentle caress. I've missed this. Him. We haven't made love since we found out about the baby, and I savor every touch, desperate for the intimacy that we once shared. "He has no choice but to accept it. We'll make him understand, baby... we will," he whispers, pressing his body closer still, the heat from him coming off in waves from beneath his towel, and I drop my hand to my side, my fingertips stroking his muscular calf.
His breathing is labored, as is mine, and I feel him straining underneath the fabric of the towel as he inadvertently brushes himself against the skin between my shoulder blades. "I don't want to think about Rick anymore," I declare, waiting for his eyes to meet mine in the mirror once again. "I only want to think about you and me," I add, pivoting in my seat and batting my lashes up at him flirtatiously. "Let's go back to bed, Danny," I purr seductively, blinking eyelids heavy with arousal as I reach for the knot in the towel.
Wrapping the fingers of one hand around my wrist, his other hand flies up to cinch the edges of the towel as it begins to slip off of his hips. Easing my hand out of his grasp, I avert my eyes in embarrassment as he refastens the knot, and he says softly, "We can't, Michelle." Stung by his rejection, I say nothing as I rise and begin to draw myself a hot bath. "I really need to get some work done this weekend," he attempts to explain, but I refuse to make eye contact with him as I undress and settle into the water.
I can feel his eyes upon me as I lean back against the bath pillow, begging me to tell him that I understand. "Fine," I finally spit, flashing angry eyes at him briefly.
He knows that I'm less than convinced by his lame excuse and he presses forward, defending meekly, "It's just that... I've got a ton of new project proposals to review before Monday morning, and I'm already really behind." Leaning against the countertop behind him for support, he folds his arms across his chest and crosses his legs at the ankles, falling silent again as he awaits my response.
Delicately massaging my tender breasts with the washcloth, I shrug my shoulders indifferently, replying shortly, "I said, fine. You don't owe me any kind of explanation."
Releasing a sigh of frustration, he decides to change the subject, asking, "What would you like for breakfast this morning?"
"I don't want anything," I answer, already anticipating the argument that will surely follow.
Not surprisingly, he's kneeling beside the bathtub in near record time. "Are you nauseous this morning?" he asks, genuine concern evident in his voice. If I wasn't so pissed, this exchange would be endearing.
With a snort, I lift one leg from the water, slathering on the soap as I answer, "Good guess." I seem intent on picking a fight with him for some unexplainable reason, and the release sure feels good.
Undeterred, he's not losing his patience with me. "I could bring you a ginger ale to settle your stomach... then maybe you'd feel like trying to eat something," he offers, threading his fingers through my unruly curls and forcing me to look at him.
Shrinking away from his touch, I shoot daggers his way, snapping, "Damnit, Danny... don't you listen? I told you that I don't want any breakfast." I sound childish... even to myself. My hormones are waging a chemical warfare within my body, and I'm helpless to control my emotions as my moods swing from one extreme to the other. Giving in to the next shift, I drop the soap and washcloth from my hands and begin to shed warm, salty tears into my bath water.
After several moments of sharing companionable silence, Danny's calming voice sings to a place in my heart that only he can reach. "Honey," he begins, reaching for the discarded bar of soap and washcloth. I watch the work of his hands as he creates a frothy lather, my tears and sniffles subsiding. "I just worry about you and the baby... that's all. You know how important it is for you to eat well now," he whispers, nudging me forward, and I wrap my arms around my bent knees, nodding my head in understanding. I mouth the words, 'I'm sorry', but he shakes his head 'no' as he gently kneads away the tension in my neck and shoulders with the soapy washcloth, and I give in to the sensations that he's creating.
"I love you," I breathe, lifting a dripping hand from the water to stroke the side of his face as he rinses the suds off of the small of my back. "I mean it," I reiterate, knowing that I can't ever tell him that enough.
Smiling, he leans in for a kiss, whispering, "I love you, too." I could never doubt that, I think, as he drains the water from the tub and helps me to my feet, wrapping me in a plush towel. "So... does that mean that you'll eat something before I leave for the office?" he asks, handing me my robe as he steps into his own.
I've learned to take advantage of every break in morning sickness that I'm afforded, no matter how short-lived, and despite my earlier protestation, I actually feel like I could eat something. "Whatever Olga's fixing is fine," I nod, and I can tell that he's mentally congratulating himself on his powers of persuasion as he heads for the kitchen. What can it hurt to let him believe that he's won this round?
Thankful that I can now spend my Saturday morning lounging in our bedroom, I pull on my most comfortable, cotton sundress and plop down on the bed, reaching for the open baby book, jammed between the pillows, that Danny and I fell asleep reading last night. I let the pages slip from under my thumb as I flip from the chapter on conception to the one on the fortieth week of gestation, the images flying by like time-lapse photography. Unconsciously rubbing my own belly, I swallow the nervous lump that rises in my throat as I stare at the distended abdomen of a woman, turned profile, who's just days from her delivery date. The thought of my body undergoing a similar metamorphosis is too difficult to fathom, and so I focus on something that I can comprehend, turning back to the chapter that we left off on last night.
I hear the rattling of china and silverware against the wicker tray as Danny fumbles with the doorknob, and I clutch the book to my chest as I let him in. "Mmm... pancakes!" I squeal, grabbing the tray from his outstretched hands and balancing it in one palm as I return to the warm comfort of the rumpled bedcovers.
He walks to his closet to retrieve his clothes, whistling victoriously as I begin to devour the fluffy concoctions with all the gusto of a starved wolf. "Hey," I say with a full mouth several minutes later, grabbing his attention as I look up from my place in the book. He's sliding his wallet into the back pocket of his stone-washed blue jeans, and I momentarily lose my train of thought, admiring the way that he fills them out. Chuckling to himself when he realizes where my mind has wandered, he crosses the room and sits at the foot of the bed, his eyebrows raised in anticipation. "I want to see how much you learned last night. Here's a pop quiz for you," I challenge, placing the book face down beside me.
Lifting the tall glass of low-fat milk from the tray, he extends it towards me, insisting, "Ok... but keep eating... and drink your milk." I choose to ignore his demands, pretending instead that I'm drinking the milk of my own volition. It's more pleasing to the palate that way.
Wiping the mustache from my upper lip, I lay the groundwork, saying, "I'm about to enter my seventh week." The wheels in his head begin to turn and a serious expression crosses his face as he folds his bare feet under his thighs, sitting indian style opposite me. "What milestone will occur with our baby this week?" I ask, shoving a forkful of syrupy pancake into my mouth, and when the room falls silent, I can't resist humming the theme from 'Jeopardy'.
"Smart ass," he jokes, tossing a pillow at me. "The internal genitalia will begin to form this week," he answers correctly, grabbing for the book to see if he's right.
"Ding... ding... ding. Good answer," I reply, doing my best impressions of game show sound effects and announcers. "Do you care what sex the baby is?" I question seriously, studying him intently to gauge his reaction.
It's a loaded question, I know. Probably a little unfair since it's out of our hands, but it's something that's been on my mind for the past six and a half weeks. Squeezing my hand in his, he responds softly, "As long as the baby's healthy, I'll be happy." Such a diplomatic answer. I can't help but wonder if he's being completely honest with me, though, because truth be told, seeing him with his goddaughter has made me dream of us having a little girl of our own. Of course, when he asks the same question of me, I concur with his answer.
Chasing the last morsel of breakfast with the remainder of my milk in one, unladylike gulp, I return the empty glass to the tray and lift my hands in the air, declaring, "All done."
Giving me a half-assed ovation, he raves, "Good girl. Now... I don't suppose that I could talk you into having liver for dinner tonight, huh?" In response, I give him the finger. Smiling as he stands to remove the cumbersome tray from my lap, he wipes a bit of syrup from the corner of my mouth, teasing, "Hey, come on... it's an excellent source of protein and folic acid."
Rattling the bottle of prenatal vitamins on my nightstand that he diligently reminds me to take before bed each night, I refresh his memory, saying sarcastically, "That's what these are for... remember?" I'm not fishing for a response to what was obviously a rhetorical question, and when he opens his mouth to argue his point, I cut him off, warning, "Don't push your luck, mister."
I love a man who knows when he's defeated. "Oh, well... it was worth a shot," he concedes, leaning down to press a kiss to my smiling lips. "I've got to get to the office. See you this afternoon," he finishes, slipping on his sneakers and circling to his side of the bed to grab the sunglasses, cell phone, and car keys from atop his nightstand. I mindlessly wave to him as he leaves, returning my attention to my reading, curious to see what we can expect in week eight. As I read the distinction between the embryonic stage and the fetal period, the printout of our first sonogram slides out from under the back flap of the book cover and into my lap. Holding it out in front of me, I study the intricacies of our tiny baby amidst the blurry image and in my mind's eye, I'm able to picture myself holding a tiny, swaddled infant that has my curly, blond hair and Danny's skin and eyes. Unwilling to relinquish the fantasy just yet, I lean back against the fluffy softness of my pillow and drift off to dream of the life that the three of us will make together as a family.
***
I've clicked through every television channel at least three times, and none of the videos stashed away in the bottom of our entertainment center interest me in the slightest. I'm unaccustomed to Danny working on the weekend, and I'm desperate for his company. Selfishly, I contemplate calling him at the office, but rational thinking supersedes my whim, and I remind myself of how badly he needs time to finish his work. He prides himself on his work ethic every bit as much as I do, and he's been taking long lunch breaks and coming home earlier every day since we found out about the baby so that we'll never miss a meal together. Granted, I haven't been the easiest person to live with recently, so he probably needs this break from me and my three other personalities.
Without much thought, my feet propel me to abuela's room, and I knock softly on her door before entering. Just as I expected, I find her enthralled in her latest book. Biographies are her passion of late, and she's about a quarter of the way through Elizabeth Dole's life story when she marks her place and looks up at me, smiling. "Mind some company, abuelita?" I ask sheepishly, though I already know the answer to that question myself.
Patting the cushion of the chair beside her, she insists, "I'd love yours, mi hija... always." Though I know that I'll regret it later today when I have to make trips to the bathroom every twenty minutes, I pour two tall glasses of ice water from the crystal carafe above her bureau before taking my seat at the table beside her, extending one towards her. As I wet my lips with a long, slow sip of water, she reaches out to cover my belly with her small, delicate hand, asking, "How are you and the little one doing today?"
Placing my hand over hers as she rubs calming circles over the thin material of my dress, I whisper in return, "We're fine." Danny and I shared the news of our baby with her within hours of finding out ourselves, and she hasn't sat in judgment of us once, though I'm sure she wasn't expecting another great-grandchild quite this soon. Her support is so overwhelming and I feel myself nearly moved to tears every time she shares in our excitement. "Missing Danny a little... that's all," I confess, feeling ridiculous since he's only been gone for a few hours. She seems to understand, but I feel the need to explain, nonetheless. "It's different during the week because when he goes to work, so do I," I clarify, pointing to the claw-footed cane propped between us that she's quickly learned to master. In a couple of weeks, I'll have her try her first unassisted steps.
Nodding her head in understanding, she rises from her chair and begins to cross the room to her nightstand, and I'm certain that she's got some plan to help bring me out of my doldrums. Returning with a leather-bound photo album, she reclaims her seat and scoots herself closer to me as she opens the front cover. She's become very nostalgic lately, the news of our baby recalling her own memories of young motherhood. "I was six months pregnant," she shares, her eyes fixed on a black and white photograph of she and her husband trimming a Christmas tree. "I had Carlos Ramon just before my eighteenth birthday," she continues, flipping past several pages and gingerly caressing a tiny black footprint and a blue-beaded bracelet.
"Weren't you scared?" I ask, wondering if my own fears are normal or irrational as I stare at a picture of the brand new family, a week old baby propped between mother and father.
I've always admired her strength and bravery, so I'm more than a little surprised by the vulnerability in her voice as she lifts my chin in her hand, admitting, "I've never been more scared in my life. But when you hold that little baby in your arms for the first time, everything just comes to you... naturally." Being responsible for the life of our child is becoming more and more real with each week that this pregnancy progresses, but abuela's words have made me feel a little less petrified. For that, I'll be forever grateful. Sensing my unspoken worries, she strokes the side of my face, bragging, "Besides... you're made of tough stuff."
The boost to my ego does wonders to strengthen my confidence, and I realize that I'll run myself crazy if I constantly give in to the voice of doubt inside of my head. Lightening the somber mood, I tease, "Oh yeah? Well... maybe you should tell that to Danny. He treats me like I'm breakable." I'm on the verge of telling her about our lack of a sex life this past month, but I quickly decide that it's a matter best kept private.
Chuckling to herself, she's clearly sympathetic to my plight as she turns to a picture of three generations of Santos men, my Danny a boy of no more than six years. "Listen, mi hija... it's in his genes. He can't help it. His father and his grandfather before him were the same way." Great... there's no fighting biology. Just when I'm about to ask the secrets for putting up with the constant doting, she beats me to the punch, whispering into my ear as if she's sharing some classified information, "My advice to you is to take advantage of the pampering. While I was pregnant with each of my children, Juan Carlos never let me lift anything heavier than my knitting needles." The smile on her lips matches the one behind her eyes, and it's too infectious to resist returning. "I'll tell you... those were the most restful nine month stretches of my life." I cannot contain my laughter any longer, but I'm startled into silence when the doorbell rings.
Time flies when you're having fun. "That's probably Josefina and Abby," I explain, glancing at the clock on her nightstand. "Thanks for indulging me," I say sincerely, leaning down to plant a kiss to her lips as I leave the room, a goofy grin still plastered to my face. Nothing could bring down my mood.
They're waiting for me in the living room, already digging into the tray of tuna sandwiches that Olga's set before them on the coffee table. "Hey guys," I greet, and they wave me off with full mouths as I kneel before the table and begin to review the samples of wedding invitations from the printers and fabric swatches for the bridesmaids' dresses that they've laid out for my perusal.
When I've narrowed the choices of fabric to three pastel shades of satin, Josefina clears her throat, saying, "So... it must be nice to be marrying such a rich, handsome man, huh Michelle?" Nodding my head distractedly, I make a note of the catalog number that belongs to the invitation with the color of ink and type of font that I like. "I mean... I'd give my eyeteeth to be able to sleep late and shop till I drop at whim, but unfortunately, some of us have to work for a living," she finishes, and I look up at her, wondering where all of this beating around the bush is headed.
"What are you getting at, Jo?" I ask shortly, and I glance at Abby, seeing that she's just as confused as I am about this cryptic exchange.
After several moments of digging through her handbag, she withdraws a folded newspaper, handing it to me as she questions, "How come you didn't tell me that you weren't going to work anymore, and that you and Danny were hiring a new physical therapist for abuela?"
Surely I must have misunderstood what she just said. Abby turns expectant eyes to me, waiting for my response. "What?" I ask stupidly, reaching for the paper in Josefina's hands, and she extends it to me, pointing to a circled advertisement.
I take a few deep breaths, trying to hold onto my sanity as I read the words on the page. The ad is similar to the one that Ray placed and that I answered, only this time, it's Danny's name and cell phone number that are listed. I'm too livid to answer Josefina's original question. My blood is boiling, but I refuse to direct any of my venom at the wrong person.
Trying to maintain a polite demeanor for the sake of my guests, I delegate responsibility as calmly as I can. "Abby... would you mind dropping this off at the printers on your way home?" I ask, extending the invitation that I've selected towards her. She can sense that something's wrong, but she nods her head in agreement just the same. Easing myself to a standing position, I turn my attention to Josefina. "Jo... would you mind checking my order at LaFleur's floral shop? And call Eleni. She's catering the reception. Ask her if she'd be able to bring samples of wedding cake for us to taste when we meet next weekend." She nods as well, and I flash what is probably a maniacal smile at them both.
They share a worried glance with one another. "Where are you going?" Josefina asks worriedly at the same time that Abby pipes in, "Aren't you going to have any lunch?"
"I have to go and see Danny. I'll eat on the way," I answer curtly, grabbing one of the sandwiches from the tray and heading for the door. I need some release from the rage that's building within me, and there's only one place to get it... the penthouse floor of the Sancorp office. I leave the room without so much as a 'good-bye', and I hear them whispering to one another as I march to the foyer and grab my keys.
Throwing the car into reverse, I fly out of the garage and down the driveway, stuffing the corner of my sandwich into my mouth. "Sorry abuela," I say aloud, narrowing my eyes as I look into the rearview mirror to change lanes. "Pampering me is one thing... but, expecting me to quit my job and stay home, barefoot and pregnant, is something entirely different." A host of different personalities now inhabit my body to accommodate my many moods, and as I enter the business district and the Sancorp high-rise comes into view, I invoke the 'bitch' to come out to play. Turning into the vacant parking lot and pulling into the spot next to Danny's car, I kill the engine and glance up at the light shining in his office window, warning, "You'd better fasten your seat belt, Danny Santos... it's going to be one wild ride."
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