The Dog Year (16 page)

L
ucy put her hand on her chest and felt the beat of her heart through her white T-shirt. It had taken her forty minutes to drive to the Cryobanking Conception Clinics and her heart hadn't slowed in the least. She chose the closest parking space in front of a rambling, brown-shingled ranch that resembled a dentist's office or maybe a senior center. Before she even got out of the car, she checked the worn pamphlet a third time to confirm that this was the right address.

Inside, it smelled like new carpet and vanilla. The lights were bright, and there were big bottles of hand sanitizer on the counter blocking the view of the receptionist. Lucy found this a little obvious.
We know where your hands have been, pal,
she imagined the staff thinking.
Gel up!

“Excuse me.” Lucy smiled and stood with her very best posture.

The receptionist pulled her nose from her computer. “How can I help you?” she asked.

“My husband is here. I mean, his genetic material is here.” Lucy had not prepared a speech. She'd only pictured herself arriving and leaving with tubes in a nitrogen flask of some sort. That was her fantasy anyway, although she knew that wasn't how it worked. Pulling her doctor-self together, she tried to sound authoritative. “I'm Lucy Peterman; my husband, Richard Lubers, made a deposit about a year ago. I'd like to collect that, if I may.”

“Are you the designee?”

“I should hope so. He didn't say. I mean, he died without saying.” She swallowed. “He died.”

“I'm sorry,” the receptionist said, as if she couldn't care less, and tapped on her keyboard. “Did you bring identification?”

Lucy fumbled in her purse. “I have my driver's license, my birth and marriage certificates, and my passport.”
Always good to be prepared.
She spread these on the desk and continued, “And here is my husband's driver's license, his birth certificate, and his social security card. I have our joint MasterCard and Pier 1 cards if you need something with both our names on it.”

The receptionist scratched her eyebrow with a dark, manicured nail and said, “Marriage license and photo ID should do it. You can put the rest of that away.” She tapped again and said, “I'm sorry, I don't see a Richard Lugers in the system.”

“Lubers,” Lucy said so forcefully that the receptionist blinked.

“Pardon me.”

To Lucy, it seemed near impossible that all this keystroking was necessary for such a short name.
R-i-c-h-a-r-d-L-u-b-e-r-s Enter.
What else could she possibly be writing? A telephone rang somewhere.

“Yes, here it is. I found it. It was under Lubers.”

“Yes.” Lucy blinked. “Can I have it?”

“Well, if you are who you say you are. Yes. But you can't take it with you today. You have to go see a reproductive endocrinologist, and get the appropriate tests. There are fees involved.”

“But it's here. He was here. My husband was here.”

“It appears so. Yes.” The receptionist focused on Lucy. Straightened her glasses. “Now you need to get a doctor's appointment and follow procedure.”

“Can I see him? It?”

“No, Mrs. Lubers. There's really very little to see.”

“It's here, though. You're one hundred percent certain.”

“Get a doctor's appointment,” the woman said more gently now. “We'll be here when you're ready.” It was the only defrosting Lucy was likely to see at the clinic, and for the moment, that would have to be enough.

*   *   *

Outside the laboratory, with the fall breeze on her face, she dialed her brother's number. “Charles. Please stop being mad. Everything is going to change. You'll see. I'm at the sperm bank. Richard really did come here. From here on out, Charlie. You could be an uncle soon.”

She dialed Phong's number. “Tell Charles to call me. Tell him I don't
need
him. I
want
him. There's a difference. It's a good difference.” Finally she called her health clinic. That's when she learned that, like most things, nothing was as easy as it seemed. If you want a dimmer switch in your house, an electrician has to replace all your knob and tube wiring and upgrade you to the twenty-first century. If you need a new roof, pretty soon you also will have to replace the gutters, soffits, and struts. If you want your husband's sperm, your personal plumbing has to be mined and your entire infrastructure spelunked.

The appointment receptionist at Excel Health Co-op spoke with nasal clarity into the phone. “First you must see your general practitioner for a basic assessment and referral to an OB/GYN or fertility expert. They will schedule a pre-conception exam, which will include several blood tests, a PAP smear, and possibly a mammogram.”

“My God. How long will all of this take?”

“We can book you for your first appointment in three weeks. December first. The rest depends on you, their schedule, and luck.”

Lucy scrambled to regain footing on her dream bubble. “Jeez, if I were still in high school I could go under the bleachers and get pregnant without a single appointment.” She added a thready laugh to make sure the receptionist got the joke. “I'll take that December appointment,” she added.

“That would be my advice.”

“But,” Lucy said, “if there is a pep rally there's no telling what I might do.”

*   *   *

Appointment made, Lucy walked back into her house with new eyes. She went in search of the file folder she kept of general decorating ideas: paint colors, upholstery, furniture. Tucked deep into her old wooden file cabinet she spotted something she had purchased after finding she was pregnant that first time: a hardcover artist's sketch book, a set of calligraphy pens, and a roll of double-sided tape. She'd intended to use the book to chronicle her pregnancy: monthly changes, details about the delivery, gifts. Ultimately, she'd hoped to use it to write notes to her baby that she could read as he grew up. Notes about his graduation, his wedding, the birth of a grandchild.

“Perfect,” she said. Spreading out the magazine clippings from her file, with crib styles and paint samples, she began sketching ideas for the perfect baby's room. With Little Dog curled at her hip, she turned the page and began a letter.
Dear Baby,
she wrote.
I can't wait to meet you.

*   *   *

With the prospect of a baby back on the agenda, Lucy felt euphoric. She wanted to move on with her life. Get back to work. With her iPod in place, she marched into the Maplewood Serenity Center. She consulted her watch. Right on time. Inside the usual dingy room, Kimmy, Claire, and Sara stood in a triangle. Tig was on the phone, standing in the corner. When Lucy entered, Sara rolled her eyes in tiresome disgust.

“What's up? Where is everybody?”

“You tell us,” said Sara. “Mark says he's got some new shift schedule and he can't make it on Wednesdays any more, which we all know is bullshit. He's had the same schedule, for like, ever.”

Claire, looking as usual like a pale confection of spun sugar said, “Mark's fine, Sara. He'll come back when he's ready.”

By now Tig had finished her call. “It's Ron,” she said.

Kimmy put her arm on Claire's shoulder. The bruise on her chin was the color of a jaundiced liver. “Ron went on a bender. Drove his wheelchair off an embankment. Spent the night in a ditch.”

“My God.” Lucy shoved her iPod into her pocket. “Is he all right?”

Tig said, “He's stable. We can't get any more information on the phone. It's good to see you, Lucy. Does this mean you're working on the goals we set?”

Lucy ignored Tig. “Ron seemed like the most stable of all of us. Pissy but stable,” she said.

Claire, Kimmy, and Sara traded glances. “Sometimes he is. Sometimes he's not. We were just going to visit him. Do you want to come along?”

*   *   *

At the veteran's hospital, as Tig spoke with the nursing staff, Lucy and the other three women formed a mismatched quartet just outside Ron's room. When the nursing assistant finished helping him brush his teeth, they entered.

“I should have known you birds would show up,” said Ron.

Lucy moved to his side, checked his IV drip, and hefted the water pitcher for fullness. “Are they treating you well here, Ron? I can talk to someone if there's something you need.”

“At ease, Super Girl.” Sara walked to the opposite side of the bed. In a voice Lucy had never heard, she said, “Ronnie? What happened?”

His large black hand covered her pale white one. “A bad night. Nobody's perfect. Claire, you're looking tired. Take a seat.” He nodded at Kimmy. “On the other hand, you're looking well.”

“Stop taking care of us for a second, Ron, and tell us what happened,” Claire said.

Ron exhaled. “My son, Eric, took the baby. Nothing I could do. He's irrational. Police say I've got no rights. The boy's grandpa, but no rights. He'll keep that baby until he doesn't want him anymore and then I'll get him back. No telling what shape he'll be in. Hoping he's too young to remember any of this.”

Kimmy said, “What were you doing out rolling around after dark? You know you can't do that.”

“I wasn't drinking, if that's what you think. When Eric put my grandson into the car, I saw his stuffed bunny go flying into the weeds. Heard that baby howl. I thought I could get it, but the embankment by my apartment was steeper than I thought. Lost my damn traction and spent the night on my back. Opened that old scar in my leg and now I'm back in this old barn. Goddammit.”

Claire laughed. “It was just your crazy driving that got you in here? Don't that beat all hell.”

Sara grabbed his hand. “Idiot.”

“I am still your elder, Miss Sara. You will speak to me with respect.”

Kimmy breathed a sigh of relief. “You scared us, Ron.”

“I keep telling you all to worry about your own selves. You people are so ready to jump into anything that isn't about fixing yourselves. I don't need you trying to rescue me. I don't want to hear another word about any plans that don't include separating yourself from your addiction.” Ron trained his eyes on Lucy. “What about you, Lucy? How have you been?”

The group turned to her in unison. Lucy said, “Busy.”

*   *   *

As they were leaving the hospital, Tig put her hand on Lucy's arm. “I wondered when you were going to get back into therapy. I haven't seen you on my schedule, and the group isn't talking.”

Lucy's smile was radiant. “Thank you. Thank you for keeping track of me but you'll be happy to know that I am better. So much better.”

Tig looked at her with an unreadable expression. “Tell me about that,” she said.

Lucy cleared her throat. “It's true that I went through a terrible time. You saw me at my worst. I don't blame you for wondering where I've been.” Lucy touched Tig's arm, as if she were reassuring a patient.

“Then make an appointment. Come to my office. Tell me what's changed.”

“Okay, I will. I have your number. I'll call.” Lucy moved away like an expert operator in a singles bar, but not before she saw Tig narrow her eyes.

E
very day Little Dog watched the transformation. Lucy began by clearing her things from the room she had been camping out in for almost a year. “A suite, that's what this baby needs. Her own place. I'll put in a bathroom. A walk-in closet. Push the walls out.”

Little Dog thumped her tail and rested her head on her paws. Mrs. Bobo, disdainful of all things, lifted her tail. Over the next three weeks, with Richard's iPod charged, Lucy worked as hard as she had in medical school, like her hair was on fire. She hauled old clothes to Goodwill, brought workmen in for estimates, and cleaned every corner of her old Victorian. She bought plastic toilet-seat locks, cupboard door locks, and outlet covers without a thought of illicitly pocketing a pacifier. She shopped for eco-friendly paints, carpets, and baby furniture, stealing nary a toothpick.

In between her shopping excursions, she deleted answering machine messages by the score. From Claire: “For heaven's sake, get your butt to a meeting and get to work, hon. We won't ask what cha' been up to. But jus' between you 'n me. What cha' been up to?” From Sidney: “I'd love to have you over if you'd like to come, hang out a little. We could talk.” From Mark: “Hi, Lucy.”

Ron even tried once.

“I'm going against my own better judgment, calling you like this, but Claire is bugging the hell out of me. We'd love to see you again.” She didn't delete that one.

Three weeks went by. Lucy occasionally called her brother. “Painting the baby's room soon,” she said to his voice mail. And “I know you'll call when you're ready.” And “C'mon, Charlie, you're about to break your last silence record.” And, finally, “You are not going to bum my high, Charles. You are not!”

She even booked a couple of sessions with Tig, thinking of her future as a single-mother breadwinner, knowing she would need to work, be a role model, come to a future classroom for career day.

“Aren't you supposed to be happy for me?” she asked Tig. “I'm out of my slump. I'm moving forward.”

“Are you?”

“What do you mean,
are you
? I'm going to have a baby. It's actually perfect timing, to have this time off to focus. I have a lot of work to do on the house.”

“Time off. Is that what you're calling it?”

“I've stopped stealing. I'm back in my bedroom. I'm rebuilding a life for myself. I see that as progress.”

“You
were
making progress. Going to AA, making friends.”

Lucy scoffed. “Friends? A bunch of alcoholics and an anorexic. I'm leaving crazy land behind.”

Tig was silent. She wrote something down on her legal pad.

“I just don't get you counselors. Sometimes happiness is just happiness, and not avoidance in disguise. Sometimes people get better. Sometimes you people are wrong.”

Tig nodded. “Sometimes, yes. So you're serious about having Richard's baby?”

Lucy, in her most obnoxious incarnation of herself said, “Duh,” and Tig put her pencil down.

“I will be here for you, Lucy. No matter what.”

*   *   *

Grumbling, Lucy went back to her plan with even more conviction. Her daily routine now included a cup of coffee and a to-do list, followed by a brisk walk with Little Dog. She spent the rest of her morning talking to workmen, cleaning out snarled junk drawers and basement boxes; but always, always, she carefully left Richard's things untouched. Evenings were spent cataloging the day's accomplishments and writing to the child of her dreams.
Dear Baby, Your father was perfect. We're going to be great friends
. In the moments when she paused in her decision making—single or double breast pump, baby sling or carrier, plastic or silver spoon?—she napped. Sometimes she napped when she was in the middle of reading about the pros and cons of epidurals, or doulas versus midwives. When the contractor came at noon to estimate the cost of adding a bathroom, Lucy had been asleep.

“Wow, I'm tired,” she said, uninspired and bleary-eyed. The
caw-caw
of a black bird flapped into the room.

“Sleep is good,” he said benignly.

Full of good will
, she thought.
What a nice thing to say. So supportive.
She considered setting the record straight, telling him about the sperm bank, but thought instead,
soon enough.

*   *   *

Finally, alone and seated on a hard plastic chair in the clinic's exam room, Lucy held a gauze pad in the crux of her elbow. She extracted a blue latex glove from the box mounted on the wall and pulled it over her right hand. There was a quick knock at the door and a man entered, wearing gray pleated pants and a white-and-gray-striped shirt.

“Dr. Peterman. I'm Brian Ballwig. Nice to meet you.” He extended his hand, and without thinking she offered him her own glove-covered one.

“Oh! I was just being nostalgic, I guess,” she said, ripping the glove off.

“You're in plastics, I understand.”

“Breast reconstruction, yes. But not today,” she said with a little laugh. “Of course, unless you need a little lift.” She laughed again. “I'm a very reasonable person when I'm alone. It's only when I'm nervous and people are present that I lose my mind.”

“No need for nerves here.” He sat at the computer terminal in the exam room and typed in his password. “I understand your usual GP is Dr. Geevie.” Several screens popped in and out of sight until her chart was before him.

“He wasn't available for weeks. You had the soonest opening. I just need a referral, really.”

“So it's just a preliminary check today. The nurse's notes say you and your husband are pursuing pregnancy, is that right?”

“Technically, yes.”

“I guess it does seem a little technical. It's all about risk management these days. Let's take a look at your vitals and blood panel first.” There was more shifting on the computer screen and Lucy looked around. There was a collage of baby announcements tacked to a corkboard over the doctor's shoulder.

“Nice blood pressure. And look at that. I wish I had a cholesterol level of 170,” he said.

The babies on the bulletin board winked and blushed. Some slept on the chests and laps, or in the arms of their parents. One had a tiny set of reindeer antlers perched on her perfectly round head. Another wore nothing but angel wings and a strategically placed cloud. It was like looking at the offerings in a fruit market at the height of summer. Each child's face ready to be plucked from the photo, ripe and ready for kissing.

“Oh,” Dr. Ballwig said. “I didn't realize you were pregnant already. I thought this was a pre-pregnancy exam.”

Lucy tore her eyes from the photos. “Huh? It is a pre-pregnancy exam. I'm not pregnant.”

Dr. Ballwig frowned and pushed back from the computer. “Your blood test clearly indicates pregnancy. Your hCG is elevated. You had your blood drawn an hour ago, right?” He refocused on the computer and tapped through to another screen. “Your urine test confirms it.” He rolled his stool back and said, “Well! Congratulations. I guess we can skip a few steps.”

Lucy's face froze, then she stood. Looked again at the babies and then at the doctor. “I'm pregnant,” she said. The color drained from her face and she put her hand to her forehead.

Dr. Ballwig took her by the elbow, helped her find the chair behind her. “Why don't you take a minute? Give your husband a call. I'll get you some apple juice and we can start over.”

Lucy swallowed and nodded. Dr. Ballwig moved into the hall in a clean
swish
of lab coat and competence. Lucy stood, grabbed the box of gloves from the wall, shoved it into her purse, and swept out of the exam room like 007 from a Soviet submarine.

Little Dog lay asleep on the backseat, whapping her tail twice as Lucy threw herself into the front seat. Throwing the box of gloves into the back of the car, she yanked her phone out of her purse, opened the calendar, and squinted at it. Her last period had been the day after Halloween. It'd been seven weeks since then. She counted the days back to the afternoon she'd been with Mark. Four weeks. The horror hit her like a tidal wave. She hit a button on the car door and all four windows slid open. She gulped in air.

“This is too much,” she said. Then she threw her head back and screamed, “This is too much.”

A man in a hard hat stared as he lit a cigarette. “What are you looking at?” she shouted at him as she gunned the engine and screeched out of the parking lot.

It was a short drive from the clinic to the cemetery. An elderly couple watering a large patch of golden mums around a headstone didn't look up as Lucy's car tore through the gates. She slammed it into park, opened the door a crack, stopped, and put her head into her hands.

“This isn't working,” she said. “I can't make this work.”

She watched as the older woman deadheaded a shriveled mum; the man filled a silver watering can from a spigot. They didn't speak, but instead went about their business of loving by creating a garden for one.

“I'm not going to do this,” she said to herself.

*   *   *

After three days alone, wallowing and chewing the inside of her cheek until it was raw, Lucy decided she had to talk to someone. Someone who understood difficult choices. Someone who continued to reach out even in the light of Lucy's gracelessness.

Sidney had given Lucy her address that first time they'd walked: 516 Serendipity Lane. At the time, Lucy had laughed at the irony of meeting this likeable woman at the office of obvious obsessions: Tig Monohan's counseling clinic. It didn't feel so ironic now. She needed a friend.

Lucy had a picture in her mind of where Sidney lived: a house covered in pale pink paisley, with gingerbread dormers and minty-green shutters. Not this tired bungalow with the canted front porch. She checked the address scribbled on the back of a car wash coupon and pulled her coat in tighter against the winter wind. No, this was definitely the place. The dove-colored paint on the front door was what Lucy associated with Maine, with faded clapboard shingles and the sound of seagulls flapping overhead, but that's where the poetry stopped. There was no railing near the bare, hastily constructed front steps. A combination of red and white trim circled half of the weathered front porch, but petered out unevenly as though the painter had run out of money, motivation, or maybe just the will to live. The doctor in Lucy would have diagnosed the whole place with chronic fatigue syndrome.

She pulled herself from the car just as Sidney, in full winter running gear, jogged up the side street with Chubby Lumpkins trotting easily next to her. Lucy lifted a tentative hand.

“I'm sorry—” she began.

“No,” Sidney said. “I'm self-absorbed in the best of times, and these are not the best times for me. I've made self-absorption an Olympic sport.” With one hand clutching Chubby Lumpkin's leash, she gave Lucy a quick hug. Lucy felt the knobs in Sidney's spine even through the heavy sweatshirt the woman wore.

Sidney stepped back. “I'm trying to get better, but I'm afraid I'm only patient with my own troubles.”

“I'm pregnant,” Lucy blurted before she could stop herself. “It's Mark's, not Richard's. I . . .”

Sidney blinked. Started to smile and checked herself. “You're fricking kidding me.”

“I am such an idiot.”

“You can say that if you want, but it won't help a thing. Besides, you know it isn't true.”

“What, then?”

“Human, maybe.” Sidney put her hand on Lucy's shoulder. “I've been thinking about you. I bet before the accident, you were never limited by anything. Not brainpower, money, or energy. But the universe got you anyway, didn't it? It found your weak spot and yanked it. Now, like Pinocchio, you're a real girl. You're human.”

Lucy's eyes were glassy with tears. “I made a big mistake here, Sid.”

“We all make mistakes.” Sidney pulled up the sleeve of her long, gray sweatshirt and showed Lucy her wristband. “I wish I could say this band is from a water park but it's not. I just got back from the hospital.”

Lucy put her hand over her mouth and Sidney said, “Come in, there's coffee inside.”

The interior of her house felt stark and orderly, in complete contrast to the disarray outside. But it felt famished, too. Clean to a fault, with spare furniture aligned just so, the carpets plumbed, the dull colors devoid of character. Sidney opened the refrigerator and Lucy caught sight of its contents. There was a twelve pack of diet Cherry Coke, a square of tofu, a jug of catsup, and every kind of mustard imaginable. There were also six cans of Ensure. Sidney caught Lucy's stare and said, “I know. I promised I'd buy groceries.”

Lucy said, “I'd go with you, but I'm afraid I'd steal them from you.”

Sidney cracked a can of Ensure. “Cheers,” she said and took a sip, swallowing it like she had the worst sore throat in the history of the world. Then she took a sip of her coffee. Once they settled in the living room, Sidney repeated the routine: She sipped from the can again, and followed it up with the black coffee chaser.

“I have to eat three meals and finish three cans a day. It's God-awful, but measurable.”

“What happened?”

“I passed out. I'd never done that before. My neighbor got me to the hospital.”

Seated in Sidney's stark, dour living room Lucy said, “It seems like when disaster strikes you should be able to hit a Pause button. Put the news on a shelf and look at it. But it's not like that, is it? You have to keep talking to the people in your life, wash the dishes, feed the dog, go to the bathroom, fill your gas tank. Life goes on. After the doctor told me I was pregnant, I had to say something socially appropriate. But I couldn't. It was too much to ask.”