Read Online Golden State: A Novel by Michelle Richmond - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michelle Richmond
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doctor?”
“Does this count?”
“You’re taking your prenatal vitamins? Folic acid?” In my mind, I sorted through a litany of concerns. “You’re not drinking, I hope. A glass of red wine every now and then is fine, but you can’t be too careful—”
“Not so fast,” she interrupted. “I’m not sure I’m going to keep it.”
“But you have to keep it.”
Where had those words come from? I was a physician, not a Sunday school teacher. The more rational side of me chimed in to say she most certainly did not have to keep it; after all, her past actions in no way indicated that she would be a good or responsible mother.
“Julie,” she said. “Put your own history aside.”
My own history. Years of infertility and failed longing summedup so succinctly, like a gaping hole in a résumé. All those years I’d tried to have a baby after we lost Ethan. All the consultations with fertility specialists, all the pills and shots and calendars. All the planning and plotting and praying, the endless strain on my marriage, the arguments, the feeling that I had turned into a person I didn’t even recognize. All of it for nothing. And here she was, my little sister, pregnant. And not necessarily in a position to be grateful for what, to me, would have been a miracle.
I said the most rational thing I could think to say, the same thing I would say to a patient in these circumstances: “Have you talked with the baby’s father?” Old-fashioned, maybe, but Heather, of all people, knew what it felt like to grow up without one.
She resumed her brisk pace. The path was narrow, but instead of following behind I fell in step to her left, so that she could hear me with her better ear. “That’s where things get tricky,” she said.
“Don’t tell me you don’t know who it is.” I regretted it as soon as I’d said it.
“Give me a little credit.”
“I’m sorry. What is it, then?”
“Use your imagination.”
“He’s married?”
Her silence confirmed my guess. “I see.”
“Jeesh—you don’t have to say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you could have seen it coming. Like, of course Heather went and got knocked up by a married man.”
“I was just thinking it’s going to be complicated, that’s all.”
“He’s separated,” she said. “He lives out here, and his wife is on the East Coast. They don’t have kids. It’s not like I’m a home wrecker.”
“If they’ve been apart so long, why don’t they just get divorced?”
“It’s not that easy.”
“No, I guess it never is.”
By now we’d reached the bottom of the trail. We’d been together for no more than half an hour, and already the tension was bubblingbeneath our words. There was a bench at the bottom of the path. I sat down and patted the seat beside me. “Sit.”
“I’m not five years old. You can’t boss me around.”
“I’m a doctor, and you’re overexerting.”
“According to week five in
What to Expect When You’re Expecting
, I can pretty much do anything I want right now short of shooting heroin.”
“And stinky cheese,” I said. “Seriously.”
She held her hand up, Girl Scout–style, and said solemnly, “I swear I will not shoot heroin or eat stinky cheese.”
I took a deep breath. I could tell her my life stood still after we lost Ethan. Four years, two months, I could tell her, and not a day went by that I didn’t think of him. I could tell her what it had done to my marriage, and I could tell her that I still hadn’t figured out a way to forgive her. But if I told her these things, I feared I might never see her again.
She glanced at me and pulled a hard candy out of her pocket. “Butterscotch?”
“No, thanks.”
She sat down beside me and stared out at the ocean, working the candy between her teeth.
“What a view,” she said. “Can you believe you get to work here? Do you ever pinch yourself? It’s about as far as you can get from Laurel.”
“Strange words from a
“Does this count?”
“You’re taking your prenatal vitamins? Folic acid?” In my mind, I sorted through a litany of concerns. “You’re not drinking, I hope. A glass of red wine every now and then is fine, but you can’t be too careful—”
“Not so fast,” she interrupted. “I’m not sure I’m going to keep it.”
“But you have to keep it.”
Where had those words come from? I was a physician, not a Sunday school teacher. The more rational side of me chimed in to say she most certainly did not have to keep it; after all, her past actions in no way indicated that she would be a good or responsible mother.
“Julie,” she said. “Put your own history aside.”
My own history. Years of infertility and failed longing summedup so succinctly, like a gaping hole in a résumé. All those years I’d tried to have a baby after we lost Ethan. All the consultations with fertility specialists, all the pills and shots and calendars. All the planning and plotting and praying, the endless strain on my marriage, the arguments, the feeling that I had turned into a person I didn’t even recognize. All of it for nothing. And here she was, my little sister, pregnant. And not necessarily in a position to be grateful for what, to me, would have been a miracle.
I said the most rational thing I could think to say, the same thing I would say to a patient in these circumstances: “Have you talked with the baby’s father?” Old-fashioned, maybe, but Heather, of all people, knew what it felt like to grow up without one.
She resumed her brisk pace. The path was narrow, but instead of following behind I fell in step to her left, so that she could hear me with her better ear. “That’s where things get tricky,” she said.
“Don’t tell me you don’t know who it is.” I regretted it as soon as I’d said it.
“Give me a little credit.”
“I’m sorry. What is it, then?”
“Use your imagination.”
“He’s married?”
Her silence confirmed my guess. “I see.”
“Jeesh—you don’t have to say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you could have seen it coming. Like, of course Heather went and got knocked up by a married man.”
“I was just thinking it’s going to be complicated, that’s all.”
“He’s separated,” she said. “He lives out here, and his wife is on the East Coast. They don’t have kids. It’s not like I’m a home wrecker.”
“If they’ve been apart so long, why don’t they just get divorced?”
“It’s not that easy.”
“No, I guess it never is.”
By now we’d reached the bottom of the trail. We’d been together for no more than half an hour, and already the tension was bubblingbeneath our words. There was a bench at the bottom of the path. I sat down and patted the seat beside me. “Sit.”
“I’m not five years old. You can’t boss me around.”
“I’m a doctor, and you’re overexerting.”
“According to week five in
What to Expect When You’re Expecting
, I can pretty much do anything I want right now short of shooting heroin.”
“And stinky cheese,” I said. “Seriously.”
She held her hand up, Girl Scout–style, and said solemnly, “I swear I will not shoot heroin or eat stinky cheese.”
I took a deep breath. I could tell her my life stood still after we lost Ethan. Four years, two months, I could tell her, and not a day went by that I didn’t think of him. I could tell her what it had done to my marriage, and I could tell her that I still hadn’t figured out a way to forgive her. But if I told her these things, I feared I might never see her again.
She glanced at me and pulled a hard candy out of her pocket. “Butterscotch?”
“No, thanks.”
She sat down beside me and stared out at the ocean, working the candy between her teeth.
“What a view,” she said. “Can you believe you get to work here? Do you ever pinch yourself? It’s about as far as you can get from Laurel.”
“Strange words from a
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