Read Online Love Stories in This Town by Amanda Eyre Ward - Free Book Online
Authors: Amanda Eyre Ward
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made a papier-mâché Abraham Lincoln head to wear the day he taught his students about presidents—that was the man my son would have as a father.
There was Dr. Zhong coming toward me, wearing a white coat like a normal doctor. His face was a big pie, and he didn't seem jerky, or in a hurry, like my HMO guy who had a hundred patients a day. He was almost bald, and there was something on his cheek: a birthmark in the shape of a heart. He smiled, thin but wide.
“I'm Mimi,” I said. With difficulty, I stood up from the pillow.
“Come with me,” said Dr. Zhong.
I did. He led me into a room with a bed inside it. Another woman was there too, in a white coat like Dr. Zhong's. She smiled and Dr. Zhong said, “Lin does not speak English.” I nodded. “Why not lie down?” said Dr. Zhong. Why not indeed? The bed was cool underneath my thighs. “Why not tell me why you are here?” said Dr. Zhong, and I began.
“I want to have a baby,” I said. “My husband and I have tried everything. I love him, and the doctors say there isn't any reason why.” The woman nodded, and took my wrist. Dr. Zhong took my other wrist. I sat between them for a moment, breathing slowly in and out. The woman spoke in Chinese and Dr. Zhong responded. Finally, he said, “It is like a river, with too much water between the banks.”
While I considered that, the woman left. “Lie back down,” said Dr. Zhong. “Just relax. We will warm your womb.”
I really do think he said that. I would not make this up. He stuck needles in various parts of me and then the woman came back with a heat lamp and held it in front of my belly button. They took some big rubber cups and suctioned them on and off of me. And then it was done. “Take this,” said Dr. Zhong, handing me a piece of paper covered in Chinese characters.
I took the pills and sipped the tea. The tea tasted like what would result if you boiled lemongrass and Windex. Fucking A. I drank the stuff. When I told my husband all about it, he laughed and then looked a bit miserable. He patted the spot next to him on the mattress, and I went and lay down. He ran his fingers through my hair. “Hey,” he said. There was nothing else to say. He wanted a little one as much as I did.
I felt a bit different after Dr. Zhong. I slept more soundly than ever before. It was as if my life had stopped while I was asleep—none of those half-remembered turnings, no dog jumping on the bed and mashing my feet. It was as if I had been alone in bed and taken NyQuil. NyQuil rocked. It had been like that. And then I woke up.
I should have gotten my period on Thursday. Thursday came and went, and I ran into the bathroom whenever it was free, which was not often. My heart raced as I copyedited the synopsis of Othello . (Each play was synopsized into short, “reader-friendly” segments. For example, here is what I was handed on Thursday: Othello was a totally rad dude and he told crazy stories. He was black;, which is totally cool; but which was not cool in Shakespeareses time. Desdemona was a young hottie, like Christina Aguilera, but royalty. She fell in love with Othello. They were like Iman and David Bowie; but opposite . Unbearably, it was not my job to rewrite the “story pods,” as they were called. I just added apostrophes, deleted semicolons, gritted my teeth, and moved on.)
As I made pancakes on Sunday, my husband said, “Shouldn't you have gotten your period by now?” He was reading the “Week in Review” section of The New York Times .
I looked at the griddle. “Don't say anything else,” I said. I flipped a pancake. Leo pressed his lips together, but could not stop the edges of his mouth from grinning. I ate so many pancakes, thinking that I was eating for two. Thinking that my little boy would love my pancakes, the way I mix butter and syrup together in a pan.
• • •
After the Monday Editorial Meeting, I went for a walk. I needed exercise, not caffeine. Shakespeare.com was in
There was Dr. Zhong coming toward me, wearing a white coat like a normal doctor. His face was a big pie, and he didn't seem jerky, or in a hurry, like my HMO guy who had a hundred patients a day. He was almost bald, and there was something on his cheek: a birthmark in the shape of a heart. He smiled, thin but wide.
“I'm Mimi,” I said. With difficulty, I stood up from the pillow.
“Come with me,” said Dr. Zhong.
I did. He led me into a room with a bed inside it. Another woman was there too, in a white coat like Dr. Zhong's. She smiled and Dr. Zhong said, “Lin does not speak English.” I nodded. “Why not lie down?” said Dr. Zhong. Why not indeed? The bed was cool underneath my thighs. “Why not tell me why you are here?” said Dr. Zhong, and I began.
“I want to have a baby,” I said. “My husband and I have tried everything. I love him, and the doctors say there isn't any reason why.” The woman nodded, and took my wrist. Dr. Zhong took my other wrist. I sat between them for a moment, breathing slowly in and out. The woman spoke in Chinese and Dr. Zhong responded. Finally, he said, “It is like a river, with too much water between the banks.”
While I considered that, the woman left. “Lie back down,” said Dr. Zhong. “Just relax. We will warm your womb.”
I really do think he said that. I would not make this up. He stuck needles in various parts of me and then the woman came back with a heat lamp and held it in front of my belly button. They took some big rubber cups and suctioned them on and off of me. And then it was done. “Take this,” said Dr. Zhong, handing me a piece of paper covered in Chinese characters.
I took the pills and sipped the tea. The tea tasted like what would result if you boiled lemongrass and Windex. Fucking A. I drank the stuff. When I told my husband all about it, he laughed and then looked a bit miserable. He patted the spot next to him on the mattress, and I went and lay down. He ran his fingers through my hair. “Hey,” he said. There was nothing else to say. He wanted a little one as much as I did.
I felt a bit different after Dr. Zhong. I slept more soundly than ever before. It was as if my life had stopped while I was asleep—none of those half-remembered turnings, no dog jumping on the bed and mashing my feet. It was as if I had been alone in bed and taken NyQuil. NyQuil rocked. It had been like that. And then I woke up.
I should have gotten my period on Thursday. Thursday came and went, and I ran into the bathroom whenever it was free, which was not often. My heart raced as I copyedited the synopsis of Othello . (Each play was synopsized into short, “reader-friendly” segments. For example, here is what I was handed on Thursday: Othello was a totally rad dude and he told crazy stories. He was black;, which is totally cool; but which was not cool in Shakespeareses time. Desdemona was a young hottie, like Christina Aguilera, but royalty. She fell in love with Othello. They were like Iman and David Bowie; but opposite . Unbearably, it was not my job to rewrite the “story pods,” as they were called. I just added apostrophes, deleted semicolons, gritted my teeth, and moved on.)
As I made pancakes on Sunday, my husband said, “Shouldn't you have gotten your period by now?” He was reading the “Week in Review” section of The New York Times .
I looked at the griddle. “Don't say anything else,” I said. I flipped a pancake. Leo pressed his lips together, but could not stop the edges of his mouth from grinning. I ate so many pancakes, thinking that I was eating for two. Thinking that my little boy would love my pancakes, the way I mix butter and syrup together in a pan.
• • •
After the Monday Editorial Meeting, I went for a walk. I needed exercise, not caffeine. Shakespeare.com was in
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