artless

I knew it right away. Slightly swollen, slightly off-balance, a little dizzy going up. I knew in Amsterdam better than to drink beer. In Maryland, I ordered a glass of wine, as a decorative object more than anything. I knew and I didn’t. It was Christmas, after all. And I didn’t say a word, not even when all the talk was about my brother, his wife, his baby, his plans. All the talk. And while they talked, my breasts swelled, and my belly bloated. I went out and bought supplies for that time of the month. And when that time didn’t come, I went out again and bought a test. By then, of course, I knew.

6:30 in the morning, I walked to the bathroom, I read the instructions, I took my time. One minute, it said, before the result would appear, maybe less. I wanted that minute, alone in the quiet house. But it wasn’t a minute, and I wasn’t alone.

I stared at the word that told me so, still half-expecting some sign of ambiguity, or negation, fearing it and wanting it. I gave up on that and turned my attention to the mirror, searched the same pink face I recognized from pictures in which I looked impossibly young and impossibly happy for someone who was neither. I searched for something different or something sure, anything, really. I looked at myself for an hour, numbed and cold, telling myself, and telling him, mouthing the words, none of which made it any realer, the fact of it, or the implications.

7:30, edge of the bed, a broken promise poised. “We’re having a baby,” I said, still not sure that was the right thing to say, or the right way to say it. “That’s great news,” he answered, adding my name, an endearment, and a hug. We haven’t said much about it since. And what should we say? Things are going well. When I cry, he reminds me that other people have problems.

While I’ve hardly felt a thing.

Neither a love child nor an accident, it’s been called a little bean, a little fish, and a little buka. It gets bigger everyday. I’ve seen it swimming like mad, hiding its little face with its little hands, hilarious, and heart-breaking. It’s eight centimeters, an immensity that I struggle to comprehend. And yet it’s so slight, it could be nothing at all.

Now when I go to work, all the girls ask, “How’s the baby?” I wish they wouldn’t mention it. I’ve said the secrecy was the hardest part, but all my instincts told me to hide it. It’s not so easy anymore. I don’t show it off; I’m more embarrassed than proud. I feel for my colleagues in loving marriages who’ve been trying for years. I feel for the other ones whose babies are learning to eat and grasp and crawl. The questions used to be about them; now they’re all about me. I can justify it to myself, how desperately and how long I wanted this, how badly my body wanted it, how I conceived right away. But there’s always another side. I still look at pregnant women and envy what they’ve got, not just the cute pregnant-person belly, and the clothes that suit both them and it, but all the passion I imagine they’ve got, the glow, the pride, the confidence, everything I’m supposed to be feeling but don’t.

Except when I do.