Maybe in Another Life (17 page)

He ducks out, and I stay in the bathroom for a minute.

I breathe in and out, trying to control my brain and my body. And then I pick up my phone and Google the one thing that could convince me I’m wrong about this. The one piece of evidence I have that maybe I’m not pregnant.

can i be pregnant if i got my period

“You cannot have a menstrual period while you are pregnant . . .” My heartbeat slows. I start to calm. This might all just be OK. “But some women do have vaginal bleeding during pregnancy.”

I click on another one.

“My cousin didn’t know she was pregnant for four months because she got her period all during her pregnancy.”

I click again.

“You may still get your period at the beginning of your pregnancy due to what is called implantation bleeding when the egg implants in the uterus.”

Crap.

“Typically, the bleeding will be lighter and shorter than a normal period.”

I turn off my phone and slump down on the floor.

Despite every piece of common sense available to me, I got pregnant. And it isn’t by the handsome, charming, perfect man I’m starting to believe is the one.

It’s by the asshole with a wife and two kids in New York City.

I get hold of myself. No good comes from imploding or exploding right now. I breathe in. I open the door. I walk out of the bathroom and join Ethan at the table.

“How should we kill the time?” he asks. “Should we get away from this horrible guacamole and go find you a cinnamon roll?”

He’s going to leave me. My perfect person. The man who
jumps at the chance to get me a cinnamon roll. He’s going to leave me.

I shake my head. “You know what?” I say. “Let’s just order some burritos and chow down.”

“Sounds like heaven,” he says as he flags down a waiter.

We order. We talk about his job. We make jokes. And we eat tortilla chips.

With every chip I eat and every joke I make, I push the news further into the recesses of my mind. I bury my problems and focus on what is in front of me.

I am great at pretending everything is fine. I am great at hiding the truth. I almost believe it myself for a minute. By the time our burritos have come and gone, you’d think I’d forgotten.

We head to our cars and plan to meet up at the vet.

“You’re perfect,” Ethan says as he shuts my car door for me. “You know that?” When he says it, it becomes clear just how much I
haven’t
forgotten.

“Don’t say that,” I tell him. “It’s not true.”

“You’re right,” he says. “You’re too pretty. I need a girl less pretty.”

When we get back to the animal hospital, the vet is ready to talk to us.

He pulls us into an exam room, and one of the vet techs brings out Charlemagne. She runs right to me.

“There you are!” I say to her. I pick her up and hold her in my arms.

“So you are the ones who found her?” the vet asks us.

“Yeah,” Ethan says. “Running through the street.”

The vet looks dismayed. “Well, she’s not chipped. She is also not spayed. And she’s undernourished. She should be about two or three pounds heavier,” he says. He is tall, with a thick gray beard and gray hair. “That may not sound like a lot, but on a dog this size . . .”

“Yeah,” Ethan says. “It’s a considerable deficit.”

“Any idea how old she is?” I ask.

“Well, her teeth aren’t fully in yet, so she’s still a puppy.”

“How young, do you think?”

“No more than four months, maybe five,” he says. “My guess is that she lives with someone who isn’t paying too much attention . . .”

“Right,” I say.

“Or it’s possible she’s been on the street for a while.”

I find it hard to believe she’s been on the street for a while. Dogs that live out on the street wouldn’t run into the middle of the road. That seems to defy the very concept of survival of the fittest. If you are a dog that runs into the middle of the road, especially in the dark of night, then you are probably not going to last long on the mean streets of . . . anywhere.

“A lot of times, people don’t spay their dogs,” the vet continues, “and are surprised when they end up pregnant.”

Ha!

“Caring for a nursing dog and a litter of puppies, when you don’t expect to, can be overwhelming.”

I’ll say.

“Sometimes people keep them until they can’t deal with it anymore and put the puppies out on the street.”

Good God.

I look at Ethan, who, not knowing how uncomfortably close
this man is hitting the nail on the head, seems disturbed by all of it. Which makes sense. I am, too. I know that people are awful and do terrible things, especially to things that are helpless, especially to animals that are helpless. But when I look at Charlemagne, it’s hard to comprehend. I barely know her, and I’m starting to think I’d do anything for her.

“So we have no real recourse,” Ethan says. “In terms of finding out who she belongs to.”

The vet shrugs. “Well, not through this route, at least. You could put fliers up around where you found her or go door-to-door. But either way, if you are at all considering keeping her, I might recommend you do that instead of tracking down an original owner, if there is one.”

“Oh,” Ethan says, “we weren’t—”

“And if we did,” I say, interrupting him, “would we just schedule an appointment with you guys to get all of that stuff taken care of? Get her spayed and chipped?”

“Yeah,” the vet says. “And she’ll need a series of shots. We can help you with fattening her up, too. Although, assuming she has consistent access to food, she’ll probably take care of that one on her own.”

“All right,” Ethan says. “Thank you very much for your help.” He extends his hand for a handshake. The vet reciprocates. I do the same.

“My pleasure,” he says. “She’s a sweetheart. I hope you guys can help her find a good home. If not, contact the front desk, and we can help you try to get her into a no-kill shelter. It’s not easy. There are already so many other dogs in the city taking up spots, but we try to help.”

By the time we leave the animal hospital, the sun has set, and the air is crisp. I have Charlemagne in my arms, her leash
wrapped around my hand. She’s shaking a bit, maybe because of the cold. I can’t help but wonder if it’s because she knows her fate is uncertain.

“What are you thinking?” I ask him.

“I don’t know,” Ethan says. We are standing by our cars. For a moment, I’m stunned that I bought the car just this afternoon. Feels like a lifetime ago. “I can’t really have a dog at my place.”

“I know,” I say.

“I mean, I want to help her, and I don’t want her on the street, but I had no intention of adopting a dog,” he says. “And I don’t know how you can adopt her, you know? Because . . .”

“Because I don’t have a place just yet.”

“Right.”

He looks at me. I look at Charlemagne. I’m not bringing her to a shelter. I’m not doing it. With everything that has happened today, my fate is uncertain, too. Charlemagne and I are kindred spirits. We are both directionless idiots, the kind of girls who run out into the street without thinking.

I may make a lot of mistakes, and I may act without thinking, and I may be the sort of woman who doesn’t even realize she’s pregnant when it should be blatantly obvious, but I also know that sometimes I get myself into messes and then get myself out of them. Maybe I can get Charlemagne and me out of this mess by throwing us into it.

Charlemagne and I rode a city bus today with just a backpack and a smile. We are a team. She is mine.

“I’m not letting her go back to people who mistreat her,” I say. “Not that we could find them even if we wanted to. And I’m certainly not leaving her out on the street or headed to a kill shelter.”

Ethan looks at me. I can tell he understands where I’m
coming from but doesn’t necessarily get where I’m heading. “OK . . .” he says. “So what do we do?”

“I’m going to keep her,” I say. “That’s what I’m going to do.”

She’s not his problem. She’s my problem. I’m
choosing
to take care of her.

The parallels do not escape me. And maybe that’s part of the reason I am doing this. Maybe it’s a physical manifestation of what I’m going through emotionally right now.

I have a baby that’s not his. I’m taking on a dog he didn’t ask for. I’m not going to make these things his problem.

“OK,” he says. “Well, she can stay at my place for tonight, and then tomorrow we can figure out a long-term plan.”

He says “we.”
We can figure out a long-term plan.

“That’s all right,” I tell him, moving toward my car. “I should sleep at Gabby’s tonight.”

“You’re not going to stay with me?”

I shake my head. “I should really sleep there. She won’t mind Charlemagne for the night.” Yes, she will. Mark is allergic to dogs. Taking Charlemagne back to their apartment is kind of a crappy thing to do. But I need space away from Ethan. I need to be on my own.

“She can be at my place,” he says. “For tonight. Really.”

I shake my head again, moving away from him. I open my car door. I put Charlemagne on the passenger’s seat and shut her in.

“No,” I tell him. “It’s fine. This is the better plan.”

“OK,” he says. He is clearly dejected. “If that’s what you want.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I tell him.

All he says is “Cool.” He says it looking at my feet instead of my face. He’s upset, but he doesn’t want to show it. So he nods
and gets into his car. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, then,” he says out his window. Then he turns on his lights and drives off.

I get into my car. I look at Charlemagne. Suddenly, the tears that have been waiting under the surface all night spring forth.

“I screwed it all up, Charlemagne,” I tell her. “I ruined it all.”

She doesn’t respond. She doesn’t look at me.

“It was all going to be perfect. And I ruined it.”

Charlemagne licks her paw, as if I’m not even talking.

“What do I do?” I ask her. If you were watching us from the outside, you might think I expect her to answer. That’s how sincere my voice is, how desperate it sounds. And maybe, on some level, it’s true. Maybe if, all of a sudden, she started talking and told me what I need to do to fix this, I would be more relieved than shocked.

Alas, she remains a normal dog instead of a magical one. I put my head on the steering wheel of my brand-new used car, and I cry. And I cry. And I cry. And I cry.

And I wonder when I have to tell Michael.

And I wonder when I have to tell Ethan.

And I wonder how I’m going to afford a baby.

And I wonder how I could be so goddamn stupid.

And I wonder if maybe the world hates me, if maybe I am fated to always be screwing up my life and never getting ahead.

I wonder if I’ll be a single mom forever. If Ethan will ever talk to me again. If my parents will come meet my kid or if I’ll have to fly internationally with a baby on holidays.

And then I wonder what Gabby will say. I imagine her telling me it will all be OK. I imagine her telling me this baby was meant to be. I imagine her telling me that I’m going to be a great mother.

And then I wonder if that’s true. If I will be.

And then . . . finally . . . I wonder about my baby.

And the realization hits me.

I’m going to have a baby.

I find myself smiling just the tiniest bit through my heavy, fearful tears.

“I’m going to have a baby,” I say to Charlemagne. “I’m going to be a mom.”

This time, she hears me. And while she doesn’t start magically talking, she does stand up, walk over the center console, and sit in my lap.

“It’s you and me,” I say. “And a baby. We can do that, right?”

She curls into my lap and goes to sleep. But I think it speaks volumes that I believe if she could talk, she’d say yes.

I
t’s early in the morning when I hear a knock on my door. I’m alone in my room. I’ve been up for only a few minutes. My bun is half undone around my shoulders.

Ethan peeks his head in. “Hey,” he says, so quiet it’s almost a whisper. “Can I come in?”

“Of course,” I say. It’s nice seeing him. I may have gotten a bit infatuated with the idea that he and I have something romantic left between us, but I can see now that we don’t. I will probably always love him on some level, always hold a spot for him in my heart. But dating again, being together, that would be moving backward, wouldn’t it? I moved to Los Angeles to put the past behind me, to move into the future. I moved to Los Angeles to change. And that’s what I’m going to do.

But that doesn’t mean that we can’t still mean something to each other, that we can’t be friends.

I pat the side of the bed, inviting him to sit right here next to me.

He does. “How are you feeling?” he asks. He has a bakery box in his hand. I’m hoping I know what it is.

“Is that a cinnamon roll?” I ask him, smiling.

He smiles back and hands it over.

“You remembered,” I say.

“How could I forget?”

“Wow!” I say as I open the box. “This is a huge one.”

“I know,” he says. “I saw
them a few years ago at this bakery on the Westside, and I thought of you. I knew you’d love them.”