Not To Us (18 page)

“Daunting, that’s my life, right now,” I say with half-smile. “I love Michael. I’ve loved him for a long time, but this baby…” I try to decipher what I’m really trying to say. “It’s been a point of contention between us since this whole cancer thing started, but if it isn’t his, more than anything, I want to be here with him.”

“You want a paternity test.”

I look at her in surprise. “I do. What’s involved with that?”

“Well, there was an amniocentesis done. Michael ordered it.”

“I thought he didn’t test for paternity?”

“He may not have specifically ordered it, but it would come up with the genetic markers for that,” Lisa says now.

“So, what do we need to do?”

“Well, we need to order this additional part of the test to be done with the lab. Come on, let’s go talk to Michael. He’s waiting for you, Ellie.” Her words soothe me on some level. I slowly take in air. My chest feels less tight. Maybe it’s the pain killers, but maybe it’s Lisa, her non-judgmental attitude, her unwavering support of me. I feel like she’s a lifelong friend, even though I’ve only known her for a few days.

“Lisa,” I say. “Thank you.”

“Ellie, just know you can talk to me at any time; okay? About anything,” she says with a meaningful look.

“Thank you.” We walk out into the hallway together. I take in the spa atmosphere once again and shake my head and half-smile. “Where’s Michael? Having some tea or something?” I ask with a hint of humor. I half expect to find Michael in a spa robe drinking green tea.

“Nah, I think he’s drinking cognac with Stephen in our private office,” Lisa says with a laugh.

“This is quite a set-up you have here, Lisa.”

“Pregnancy and cancer and gynecological issues of any kind are all very difficult to begin with
…
this is supposed to be a refuge for all that.”

“A refuge,” I say. “That’s exactly what it feels like.”

Lisa gives me a reassuring smile.

I trail behind her, trying to shake this sudden uneasy feeling that comes over me. I straighten my shoulders back, as if by doing so, I can right the tilt in the axis my little world seems to be making.

≈≈

We find Michael and Stephen having a friendly conversation about basketball and sipping cognac just as Lisa had said. Lisa is the smooth operator in telling them both that we want to get a complete profile from the amniocentesis, including paternity. She easily explains that these are my wishes without saying anything more. Michael gives me a measured look, downs the rest of the cognac, and follows Lisa to the laboratory without a word or glance in my direction. I get more on edge while Michael provides his DNA for testing in the lab, but successfully hide it from the Doctors Chatham.

A half hour later, we say goodbye to Stephen and Lisa and make our way back to the ferry and home to Bainbridge. Michael keeps giving me these quizzical glances as we make our way off the ferry and head toward the beach house.

We haven’t had more than a superficial conversation about anything, beyond what to have for dinner, and agreeing to checkin on the kids sometime this evening, and what my pain level is, since we left the Chatham’s medical office.

Michael stops at the Town & Country Market. I stay in the car and he returns in fifteen minutes with two bags of groceries. I take my cell phone out and discover two voice mail messages, but just don’t have the energy to play them. I should have already checked in with my children, but I can’t do that either. I’m suddenly exhausted.

Ten minutes later, we’re driving down the gravel drive toward home. Our beach house welcomes us in a dark window kind of way, as if we have been gone too long and this is our chastisement for being so late, but the house involuntarily makes me smile as soon as I see it. Gingerly, I get out of the car and follow Michael as he carries the groceries inside.

“What’s the number?” Michael asks again as he heads to the kitchen.

I have to stop and think about what I would classify the number to be. My right upper torso feels like it is on fire.
And I’m just noticing this?
“An eight, I think,” I say to him now.

Michael disappears for a few moments and comes back with a cold glass of water, two white pills, and watches me take them. His hand brushes my face in this casual way and I move in to feel his touch even more. He enfolds me into his arms and holds me for a long while. All his gestures and actions tell me that everything is going to be okay, but he doesn’t say anything more and neither do I.

I’ve changed into my pajamas
,
a black silk camisole with some funky matching pants in black and white. I slip on my best silk black robe and come back downstairs. Intent on sitting in the family room and working on editing a manuscript I’m behind on. Michael watches television. It’s some kind of romantic comedy where the laughter fills in at all the strategic parts. He turns it off after a few minutes and sips at his cognac appearing in deep thought.

We have had nothing, but this surface conversation, since we came home, ate dinner, and went our separate ways. I sense we are at the end of that scene right now.

“Don’t you think we should talk about this,” he finally says with a heavy sigh.

I put down my manuscript.
Yes, apparently, we are going to talk about this.
“Michael.”

“It doesn’t matter to me, Ellie. Just like Elaina, I
will
be the father to this child.”

I release the breath that I’ve been holding since he first spoke. I do not want to have this conversation. Our roles are suddenly reversed. Now, he wants this baby and I’m unsure. Regardless, he wants to bend my will to his.

“It
matters
to me
,” I say. “All of it matters. I had radiation therapy, which may have inadvertently affected this baby. I have a day or two instead of weeks to think about what I want to do and so, I want to know all the facts before I decide.”

“
You
decide!” Michael leaps from the sofa and comes over to me and takes my hands. “You meant
we
decide.”

I stare at him; resolute and unbending. I cannot really explain what is happening to me and why, all of a sudden, I doubt everything, including him. “Of course,” I say in this soothing tone. I can lie like no one else and I’m doing it now. I catch my lower lip to keep it from trembling, but he’s watching my face.

“Ellie,” he says in this wounded tone. “You’re lying to me.” I attempt to pull away from him, but I can’t because I have had too many surgical procedures to move quickly and freely. He holds on to my forearms. “Ellen Kay,” he whispers. “Don’t do this to us.”

“Michael,” I say in this pleading voice. “I have all these…doubts. I don’t know what to do anymore.”

“Trust me,” he says. “Believe me.
We
, you and I, together will figure this out.”

I look into his eyes then because I so want to believe him, to
trust him.
I want to believe that somehow we will make the right decision, but I have all these reservations now and this inexplicable fear. “It’s too much…it’s too many wishes,” I say with foreboding.

My cell phone rings interrupting the tense moment. I suddenly remember the two voice mail messages from earlier that I’ve never played. For some reason, I start to feel cold and anxious. Michael lets go of me, retrieves my ringing phone from the kitchen counter, and answers the call.

“Robert,” Michael says after a moment. “No, we just got home a little over an hour ago.” Michael looks over at me with a reassuring look, but then it falters. He’s silent for a few minutes, listening to what Bobby has to say. His face turns pale and he turns away from me.

My mind starts reeling in this slow motion kind of way. I struggle to breathe. Pain rages through me and I register its high level on some distant plane as if it’s happening to someone else.

“Where?” Michael asks. “Okay. We’re on our way. No. We’ll catch the ferry. Give us an hour.” Within seconds, his voice changes to this clinician way of speaking, no emotion whatsoever. “No, not right now. We’ll call you from the ferry and she can talk to them then.”

I’m standing now, shaking, and distantly feel my breath leave my body in one silent whoosh. I don’t even know what’s happened yet, but I can feel the shock and grief of it settle over me, like an unwanted cloak I may never be able to remove.

I race up the stairs, tear off my robe and pajamas. Frantic, I pull on jeans and one of Michael’s dress shirts. I push my feet into ankle boots, and gingerly put on the white jacket. Part of me is disgusted with the idea of taking up precious time for this wardrobe change because, on some level, I’m perceptive enough to know that time’s already run out, while another part of me is taken up with the idea of getting it just right as if I, somehow, have the power to change whatever lies ahead by what I’m wearing, including time.

It’s true; my mind has already begun the slow descent into disbelief. It races with this one pervasive thought: this can’t be happening, not to us.

I go back downstairs. The house feels like a silent tomb as if it too is holding its proverbial breath, awaiting the answers to the questions I cannot even begin to ask. I grab my purse and cell phone.

Michael waits for me by the front door. He’s just standing there in a t-shirt, blue jeans with his hands buried deep into the pockets of his brown leather jacket.

I look at him. His face is a mask of indifference, a surgeon’s face, prepared to tell the patient the bad news.

“Don’t tell me, yet,” I say in a low voice.

Michael nods at me and just watches the tears stream down my face. My mind shuts down, preparing for something so bad; I can’t even face it yet.

The silence from Michael only confirms it for me. I’m losing one of my wishes.

≈ ≈ ≈