2005-03-07
On the Road
"I know you're editing right now," I say. And I can listen to that soft, concentrated breathing of his. That's how I used to breathe when I first read Breakfast of Champions--it's the breathing that let's you know you're in-tune. And it's sometimes like poison, or, tastes like it.
"Yeah babe," he responds.
My hands begin figdeting, and my fingers wildly dance over the concaved, plastic buttons on my graphing calculator. I always have an object as the point of attention when I'm on the phone--so my eyes can glance elsewhere. So my mind doesn't feel as occupied, and so that I don't have to actually be there.
But I am. I'm here. I'm late and I might be pregnant and I have to tell him. Once more, I feel like that kindergartener out in the shadows of the belated, post bell-ringing excitement of the afternoon; after everyone's gone home, and you're the only one standing there with tears almost flooding your eyes because your mom hasn't shown up yet.
"I'm worried," I tell him.
Answering in a sweet, jingle-jangle-like voice as it mixes with his Canadian accent, he speaks: "You're always worried, baby. What's wrong now?"
"It's March 7,"
"Yeah, and the editor just tore up my story, so I have to start again. You're right, baby, this isn't a good day," and he laughs. But I'm not laughing this time.
"I mean that it's the seventh and I haven't begun to..."
"Oh"
It comes as a shock. Sometimes you wonder how they'd react to this sort of news, and now, it's "Oh".
"Perhaps if I just replayed the sequence of events in my mind--"
"Nice..." he begins.
"Be serious about this, Alastair."
"Well, I have to be serious if you use my full name--then there's something wrong."
"What if I'm pregnant?"
"You're not."
"What if I am?"
He lets out a sigh. I don't like it when he sighs. I've been with him long enough to know that sighs aren't always good. I can see his fingers running through the dirty-blond hair, and those ice-blue eyes staring into nothingness--attempting to find a solution.
"Al? But what if I am?" I repeat, and it probably heightens the pressure. And my dark eyes hit the floor, searching for another object on which to concentrate.
"Then..." he begins, "I really don't know."
"Neither do I," I respond, feebly.
"We'll work together and figure it out..."
And that wasn't the answer, but it was a good one. As reassuring and silent as the ride up to Quebec--me staring out the car window with the cold wind numbing my face, but I'd stare up at the mute, majestic cedars. On the road to Quebec.
The night in which we made love, there was snow outside. The next morning, we awoke to the snow-covered dreamworld you only see in the blurriness of sleep.
I only hope this is a dream...