Your girlfriend brought serenity into your life, and maybe that was a saving grace--maybe.
During the four years you shared with her, she had seen to it that your modest suburban home was clean, tastefully decorated, a pleasure to return to even from a fabulous vacation. She had never shown the slightest inclination to pursue a career that some day might threaten to become more important than her relationship with you, but was instead content to maintain your home and to volunteer part-time at a food pantry in the city. She had never brought up the possibility of marriage, which, though puzzling, suited you just fine; you were still young enough to enjoy your success as a graphic artist, not so old and desperate that you ever worried about spending the rest of your life alone. Although the arrangement was satisfying, you couldn't help but wonder now and then why she never brought up the M word. It seemed unnatural, somehow, and you'd wonder whether she was harboring some dark secret; maybe she had been married and never divorced, and to clean the slate now would mean to dredge up a past that was best left buried. Whatever the case, you sometimes found yourself eying her suspiciously, but all you would see was the beautiful dark-eyed girl you'd literally bumped into while walking down a crowded downtown street five years ago.
Though sometimes uneasy, you felt blessed to have her, the perfect partner for you now.
The baby was a surprise, to say the least. Like marriage, you had never discussed the possibility of children with her. So when, one morning, she broke the news to you, all you could do was absently eat your breakfast and stare at some point just past her face. You felt a groundless dread. You were too stunned to utter a word.
“Well?” she finally said, sitting across the kitchen table, which was small and stylish.
“Well,” you said dully, and puffed out your cheeks, as if buying some time to formulate a response. When you finally looked her in the eye, you didn't see hope or joy or disappointment at your hesitancy. She remained dead-pan, which made the moment the more confusing.
“What are we talking about here?” you asked at last. “Are we talking maybe, or is it a done deal?”
She broke out laughing, then, the delightful gurgling laugh that you'd come to love but soon would start to distrust.
“How you put things,” she said, shaking her head. “Really, do you think I would even mention it if it wasn't a done deal?”
“But we never--”
“What?-- never discussed children? No, but then we never discuss rain either, but sometimes it does rain.”
That was the extent of the conversation regarding the news. You and she finished breakfast, and then went about your daily routines.
A baby-- it seemed so unreal. Whenever you thought back on the way she'd told you, you couldn't shake the feeling there was something sinister about it; she had delivered the news with such lack of enthusiasm. It just seemed so cool and calculated, you couldn't help sensing a trap. The more you dwelled on it, the more your breathing seemed to shorten.
You had grown up in a large family, with three sisters and three brothers, and most of your childhood memories revolved around eating dinner, with many hands reaching every which way across the table, grabbing this bowl or that. As the middle child, you often feared that you might starve. Sure, there was camaraderie among you and your siblings, but it never seemed special enough to override the mortification of having to wear hand-me-downs clothes. The worse thing, though, the thing that affected you most, was the suffocating lack of privacy. For the first eighteen years of your life, you felt that you had never been alone; always there were eyes watching every little thing you did, eyes following you everywhere.
Your childhood nightmares were filled with crowded fears-- eyes staring at you, hands snatching food from your mouth, bodies jostling you, pressing in tight so that you could barely breathe. Maybe this was why you cherished your simple, uncluttered existence now. Maybe this was why the idea of a baby troubled you. Although a baby took up little space, that would change. It would grow larger, breathe more air, eat more food. Soon your house would be overflowing with baby things-- a crib, a diaper bag, cans of formula, bottles of Karo syrup, stuffed animals, nursery books-- and later, as the baby grew, there would be toys-- Leggos, learning games, more stuffed animals, action figures, tricycles, kites, skateboards….
