I’d always been a firm believer in not having too many places to lounge. It encourages all-around lackadaisicalness. But now that I was to do nothing but lounge, I deserved a comfortable chair in the shade. Unfortunately, my deck was south-facing, and with the temperature heating up, I couldn’t even step foot out there without feeling like I had been sucked into Dante’s seventh circle of hell.
I sent Chris on a mission to find a deck chair and matching umbrella. The plan was for him to scope out what other patrons were buying and come home with something similar. As I awaited my purchase, I envisioned myself whiling away the days, observing the wildlife. There was the iridescent-green hummingbird who dive-bombed the feeder like a kamikaze fighter when the ruby-throated male hummingbird wasn’t around. I bet she appeared svelte and sexy when they were on dates, like the kind of bird who just ate salads but then binged on sugar when no one was watching. I’d tell her that men like chicks who eat. Then I’d commiserate with the robin who was building a nest in the lilac tree that overhung the deck railing. I’d warn her to take one last flight of freedom before settling down to lay those eggs. We would talk about our hopes and dreams and it would be beautiful and serene, and it wouldn’t feel like bed rest at all. Hell, it would feel like a fucking Disney movie.
As I was expanding the list of animals I’d capture to ply with unsolicited advice—the woodchuck who took one bite out of every single tomato in our garden; the deer who scratched its antlers against my magnolia tree until it fell over; the sex-crazed rabbits who just needed to calm down—Chris arrived home, arms full and struggling up the driveway.
“This will never work,” I said as he tore apart the plastic wrapping and began setting up the new chair.
His shoulders fell. “I looked at ten different chairs. This was the best option.”
“It has to recline all the way back. That’s the whole point of bed rest. And there’s no cushion.”
Chris sighed and turned to go.
“The umbrella looks good, though,” I shouted after him.
I ordered an umbrella stand online, and after two more trips to the big-box stores, Chris came home with an acceptable chair. My jiu-jitsu fighter was living up to his nickname. The Sandman was still holding firm to his patience. I wondered if my father was this tolerant of my mother’s requests when she was pregnant.
Two days later, through the modern miracle of free expedited shipping, the Charlie Chaplin UPS guy was at my door. This rare human contact was the highlight of my day.
“Here you go, Aileen. I need a signature,” he said.
“How’d you know my name?” Suddenly this felt creepy.
“It’s on the box.” He smiled, his brown eyes sparkling below thick brows.
“Oh, right. So, what’s your name?”
He pointed at the name tag on his uniform. “Dave.”
“There it is,” I said. “Well, thanks, Dave.”
Dave’s arms were tan. I tried to picture him without his mustache. Would it be weird to ask him to put his finger above his lip?
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“My brother has a mustache.” I had been locked up for too long.
“Oh. Okay. Well, you have a nice day.” He stroked his mustache and smiled before heading back to his truck. Halfway across the front yard, he stopped, turned, and waved. Oh my God, the man thought I was flirting with him, when really I was just a moron.
The next morning Chris set up the umbrella but then left for work without opening it. It was colossal, and it would require more strength and maneuvering than I could muster; how was I supposed to open it—from bed? Years later I would look back at these little communication difficulties and wonder if they were the seeds that sowed greater misunderstandings. At least the cushy chair was there and the deck umbrella was physically on the deck; unfortunately, the only thing it was doing was blocking the view.
The days were long. I pretended the deck was a yacht off the coast of France, and I was waiting for my garçon to arrive with a dry martini. Luckily, every afternoon at 4:00 p.m., there he was, his rugged hands greasy with motor oil. Instead of a martini it was a decadent chocolate or vanilla milkshake. Well, maybe not decadent, but good enough for a broad shackled to her bed in the wilderness. This milkshake was my salvation, not only because it was a treat but because I got to see my husband’s glorious face for a few minutes. It was also nice to know that Chris was checking up on me. If I died of boredom, at least he would find my body while it was still warm.
Knowing he was coming home each afternoon kept me grounded. It allowed me to break up the day in smaller increments, BC and AC—Before Chris and After Chris. As the hours passed, I lay in my lounge chair staring up at the cloudless sky, grateful for the vitamin D the sun provided.
One morning I thought back to the time I’d come home from summer camp to find that my father had spent the whole day indoors. Rachel was with me, and as I ushered her to my bedroom, embarrassed by his unkempt hair and the coffee stains on his shirt, I mumbled, “It’s his day off; he’s not feeling well.”
I was physically bound to my home because of bed rest, but my father was also a prisoner, unable to break free of the constraints of his own demons. Just who and what those demons were, I was still trying to figure out. Yosh’s death was the catalyst that catapulted my father into depression, but there had to be something else, some deeper reason, which I had yet to uncover.
I powered on my laptop, wishing I could google the answer. Instead, for no good reason at all, I began looking up statistics about miscarriages and high-risk pregnancies. I knew this wasn’t healthy, that I’d only become more anxious, but I was searching for something tangible among the numbers and percentages, knowing that if I couldn’t solve the riddle of the past, perhaps I could see the future.
At 4:00 p.m., the end of the day for most but smack in the middle of his, Chris pulled into the driveway. He opened the deck gate, pants smudged with shop dust, sweat dripping from his brow, cell phone propped to his ear, saying, “If the blades are bent, it means you probably hit something.” He rolled his eyes. The man on the other end of the phone was so loud that the robin in the lilac tree fluttered her wings. “I can’t fix it over the phone, but I can have someone come pick it up tomorrow.” The voice got louder. The robin flew out of her nest.
Chris was still holding the milkshake. I willed him to step closer. I wanted to lick the condensation dripping down the sides of the cup. I reached my hand out, but he only said, “I’m sorry, we’re backlogged and won’t be able to get the mower to you before the end of next week.”
He turned to me as he hung up the phone. “The girl at the ice-cream store has it waiting for me now. I just run in and pay, and there it is on the counter. Saves me an extra few minutes.” He leaned against the railing, still holding the milkshake.
“Great.” I reached out my hand for the milkshake, salivating, but it was not forthcoming.
“Work has been hell,” he said, fixing his eyes on Mohonk Mountain House in the distance.
“Sorry it’s been so hard for you.” Give me milkshake! Baby want milkshake!
“You would not believe some of these customers.”
I nodded in sympathy, but he wasn’t looking in my direction. MILKSHAKE!
“We’re ridiculously busy.”
“Um, can I have the milkshake?” Don’t make me cut you.
“Oh, here, sorry.” He handed it to me. Our fingers touched. I reached out with my other hand, taking his wrist to pull him closer.
“Why don’t you sit for a minute?”
“I can’t. I’ve got a million fires to put out.”
I let go.
Studying his face, I could see faint lines crisscrossing his forehead like battle scars. I leaned toward him to kiss him goodbye, but his dried, cracked lips landed on my forehead. I began referring to this as the old-lady kiss because it is so devoid of passion that I assumed this is the way a man kisses his grandmother. Only a year before, I’d been dreaming of castles and llama farms. Chris left and Satchie Red stuck her nose between the deck ballasts to get one last whiff of his scent.
The next day we headed to the lab for a three-hour gestational diabetes test. This is a condition that can pop up during pregnancy but goes away shortly after delivery. The stakes were high because I had failed the first test, which meant there was a good possibility that I did have gestational diabetes. Now they needed to find out for sure. I was as nervous walking into that lab as I had been walking into my high school SATs. The lab could not accommodate my bed-resting body, so I pushed three chairs together in the waiting room and slid my legs between the armrests to lie down. I had hoped Chris would keep me company—it would’ve been a good time to reconnect—but he dropped me off and left to grab a bite to eat and run errands. I knew he was taking time off from the shop during peak mowing season. I also knew that Chris deserved time to eat a sandwich in peace, but I had the opposite problem. My days were too quiet, and I needed human contact.
The results came back that I had failed the second test, too. This meant no more milkshakes. Sugar is bad for pregnant women with diabetes. Not only that, but all carbs were out. I was down to cheese, cashews, and a minimum intake of baby carrots. We’d also be removing all the sharp objects in the house because there was a small chance I might become violent without my daily fix.
I had planned to recline in the car when we arrived at the drugstore to pick up the prescription for the blood glucose meter, but the lure was too great. There were real live people here. I could stroll the aisles, compliment someone’s shoes, ask for information on the side effects of Tylenol, browse the nail polish, and pick out a new shade of lip gloss.
When the pharmacist handed me the blood glucose meter, I eyed it like it was a carburetor. What the hell was I supposed to do with this thing? Chris and the pharmacist had no idea either, so we decided to test it out. I hated needles, and now I’d have to stab myself five times a day. It must’ve been karmic punishment for a previous life’s crime. I closed my eyes and jabbed my finger. Then I rubbed my blood on the strip. Nothing. I did this three more times before I began to feel woozy. It hurt to stand. I sprawled my body out on the bench in the waiting area, frustrated and annoyed, while Chris and the pharmacist read and reread the directions.
Feeling sorry for myself that the only way I was allowed to leave the house was if there were body fluids involved, or some other invasive procedure, it took me a while to notice that Chris was using his own blood to get the meter to work. The man was stabbing himself for my benefit—it was the first time anyone had voluntarily bled for me. I couldn’t say if it was the hormones or the creeping feelings of depression I was trying to ignore, but I blinked back tears. This was beautiful; this was love. In all honesty, I couldn’t be 100 percent sure I’d do the same for him.
He came over and showed me how it was done, stabbing himself two more times until I got it. It reminded me how much I loved him. We hardly talked anymore, and our romantic life was so stale it had grown mold spores. He was overwhelmed and stressed, and I was beginning to worry that he didn’t truly see me anymore, or even remember who we were as a couple. But then he would come through, and I couldn’t imagine surviving any of this without him. He was my anchor.
When we got home, I told Chris to add the carb-filled Cheerios to the dog bowl with my mother’s meatballs. So far it seemed that the only one benefiting from this situation was Satchie Red.
With no more deliveries from the milkshake fairy, I no longer saw Chris until well after dark. But deep down in my soul, there was a tiny seductress clawing her way out over the clamor of rattling prenatal vitamins, blood-sucking machines, and endless Netflix movies. Practically tethered to a bed, with a swelling belly and pain in my nether regions, I had fight left in me yet. I reached under my pillow and opened my brand-new tube of tutti-frutti lip gloss.