KITTY
IT’S CHEESY, I KNOW, but I made dinner for my husband. It still feels weird to say it out loud. My husband. It isn’t the dinner I’ve made that’s the good part. The dinner is just mashed potatoes, green beans and grilled chicken sandwiches. I am fully aware that things have started off a bit rocky for us, and I want to do everything I can to make it better. Maybe if we try a little harder, everything will fall into place. Happiness takes work. Anything worthwhile does. Maybe if Jordan knows he’s going to be a dad, he’ll get his act together. I know he’s always wanted to be a dad.
The last time I remember feeling giddy was after we got engaged. I had been caught so off guard that the sparkling diamond and lathering of compliments turned me into a smiling bobble head. I’d spent the next year planning and plotting our wedding. I’d spent so much time soaking up the flattery that I hadn’t stopped to think about how it all made me feel without the outside influence. Without the adoration. But this time was different. This time it was a baby- our baby. I’ve always known I’ve wanted children. So this time I knew it was something – someone – we both wanted.
When Jordan walks in from work he tosses two lap top computers and a navy blue bag onto the couch. I smile and try to meet his eyes, but I’m unsuccessful. He is staring at the lap tops like they are alive; like they are listening to whatever it is that he’s telepathically trying to tell them. I clear my throat from the kitchen, trying again to get his attention. When that doesn’t work I speak up. “Hey babe. How was your day?” I ask quietly, not wanting to upset him. I just want to have a nice dinner together. I just want to be happy together, for us and for our little one. I place my hand on my stomach, thinking about the life we are creating. The life that will depend on the two of us for his or her source of love.
“Fine.” He mutters, not bothering to ask about mine. “What’s for dinner?” He asks the question with expectation, because it is there. I know I said it is cheesy that I made him dinner, but I should have said it is required. It’s part of the job. Cheesy just sounds more cheerful, so I chose that. I’m trying.
I try to and recite tonight’s menu, but he interrupts with a loud grunt.
I am still smiling and my face feels hard like plastic. “But first…” I motion for him to join me in the kitchen and he all but rolls his eyes. I pretend I don’t notice. “Can you come and check the oven for me?” I turn my back to him and pretend to be busy with the chicken sandwiches. I’m pulling out bottles of ketchup and keeping busy as I place them at the center of the table. After a few minutes I haven’t heard him open the oven door. I force myself to turn around. He is standing in the kitchen right behind me, but he isn’t moving. “Jordan?” I place my hand on his shoulder to let him know that I am not being forceful. He’s told me on more than one occasion that he hates it when I boss him around. I’m not trying to boss him around at all. I’m trying to surprise him. I’m trying to make us happy. I’m trying, dammit. I’m trying, but he’s not playing along. He never does when we’re behind closed doors.
“Why do I have to check on the oven? What am I even checking for? You’re free, you’re making the meal. You check it.” He shrugs so that my hand falls from his shoulder and back into place by my side. He says the words with distain; as if he’s just taken a bite of the hottest pepper and he needs to spit it out, quickly.
“Would you just mind checking it for me?” I plead, desperately wanting this to work out. My patience is wearing thin although I’m willing it not to. Can’t just one thing work out for us?
“Would you mind having dinner ready a little sooner?” He says with an emphasis on sooner. He stomps over to the table and pulls out his chair, plopping down, waiting to be served. He won’t play along.
I want to throw a plate against the wall. I want to scream. I want to tell him to make his own damn dinner. But I said I do. And in this marriage, for me I do means, I do serve you, I do obey you, I do what you say when you say it, I do…everything. I’m not sure what it means for him other than I do nothing but go to work and come home to treat you like crap. Somehow it doesn’t seem balanced; it’s not fair. None of this is.
Instead of serving a perfect dinner plate in front of his face, I smash his chicken sandwich with my fist, watching it ooze across the plate and melt into the mashed potatoes and green beans. This is how I compose myself before I turn to open the oven. The oven that is cold because I never turned it on. The oven that has a single item inside because I wanted Jordan to find it. I wanted him to appreciate my creativity. I wanted him to find my eyes without my pleading and I wanted his eyes to tell me that we were going to be okay. But his eyes don’t find mine and nothing tells me that we are going to be okay. Nothing.
Jordan is still sitting idly in his chair at the table while I hold the tray with a single hamburger bun. A bun in the oven. It was supposed to be cute. It was supposed to be fun. But nothing about this has been cute or fun. I stomp over to where he is sitting and let my fingers drop the tray in front of his face. The tray lands perfectly in front of his chest and the bun bounces up once before falling into a heap of two pieces.
“Very funny.” He leans back in his chair, not understanding the meaning. “Are you trying to tell me you’re on a diet? I noticed you’ve gained a few pounds.” His voice was full of arrogance.
That did it. I couldn’t take it anymore. “I’m pregnant, asshole.” The words seem to hit him with force. He still didn’t get the reference, that much was clear. I watch as his ruffled brow tries to grasp the words I have just spoken.
After a moment, a smile creeps into the corners of his mouth. His eyes rise to meet mine. “I’m going to be a dad?” He murmurs looking back and forth from my stomach to my eyes. It was the smile I’d wished for, but not like this. It shouldn’t be this hard.
I nod. He reaches out his hand and places it in the center of my stomach. I take a step back, allowing his hand to fall. I don’t want to be touched. I want to be loved and this isn’t love. This is something else.
I walk back into the kitchen and grab his plate with the smashed sandwich. When I turn to walk it back to him, he’s gone. He’s on the couch, on his cell phone, calling his parents. He’s telling them our news when we haven’t even discussed it ourselves. This was supposed to be our chance at redemption; our chance at a happy marriage. This was supposed to be ours- not theirs. I turn and plod back into the kitchen. I grab my plate, the one with the fluffy sandwich. I grab a bottle of ketchup and a glass of water and head to the bathroom. I want to eat alone. I want to pretend this isn’t happening. I want to pretend I never married him.
***
WE’RE WAITING IN THE doctor’s office. I’m in a paper gown sitting on the exam table, my bare legs dangling above the ground as I swing them back and forth. Jordan’s sitting in the corner chair, entertained by the screen on his phone. The next time the door to the room opens we’ll know the results of the pregnancy test. It will be official. I feel goose bumps line my arms and legs as we wait. They must have the air conditioning below seventy degrees. Why do they keep it so cold? I’ve heard that restaurants keep it cold to stop lingering customers from hogging the tables. But it’s not like anyone wants to stay here any longer than they have to.
I study my finger nails. They are unpainted. I have a hang nail on my ring finger and I decide to pick it. As I pull the hang nail in one quick motion, blood rises to the surface. It stings and I press it in between my lips for a moment. It’s so small, but now it’s throbbing and causing my finger to swell.
A moment later there’s a polite knock on the door and Dr. Spenson walks in. I stop swinging my legs, watching him as he studies the file in his hands. What does it say? He clears his throat and I don’t know if it’s a bad habit or if he simply wants Jordan to stop staring at his screen and look reality in the eye. If only there was a magic pill for that. He clears his throat a second time and sits in the tiny chair that has been waiting for him, the one with the black circular top and shiny wheels. I wonder if he and the other doctors ever race each other in their little chairs down the narrow hall outside of the door, after hours. For some reason I’ve always wanted to do that. I’ve always found those little chairs hard to resist. They seem to scream “come and play!” But maybe I’m the only one who hears that screaming. Maybe I just need to hear my test results. I need to hear that I am pregnant and I need Jordan to care.
First Dr. Spenson looks at me. After all, I am the only one who’s looking back at him. So it makes sense that his eyes would land on mine. And the fact that I’m the one who’s body is about to change in unthinkable ways. I am the one who has to prepare for a delivery, which I can only think of as hours upon hours of excruciating pain. My stomach does a flip flop as I wait for him to speak. He must sense the anxiousness in my eyes, because he finally begins to talk, this time without clearing his throat. Maybe he has given up on getting Jordan’s attention. I don’t blame him. “Casey, Jordan…”
I am surprised when Jordan doesn’t correct him on my name. She goes by Kitty now. He’s always telling everyone that and it’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. I hate the nickname and I don’t want him or anyone else calling me that. But I never say anything. I just let it be. I don’t feel like fighting back. The nickname makes me feel like someone who’s been kidnapped. The bad guy changes the kid’s name so that no one on the outside recognizes her. Only I allowed myself to be kidnapped and I did it in front of all of our friends and family with a smile on my face. I said the words. I said I do.
“The test came back negative. You’re not pregnant.”
I gulp and try to force a smile to my face. I feel like that’s all I’ve been trying to do since I walked down the aisle. A big fat plastic smile. I don’t know if it’s working or not. No one is looking to tell me. I nod, wanting to get out of this paper gown and leave. This was supposed to fix us. This baby was going to change everything, I could feel it. But now, there is no baby. I guess there never was. I swallow hard, pushing down the tears that are fighting their way to the surface. My throat burns but I try to push that away too. I open my mouth to speak because no one else will and I have to ask. “I…How?” I take a moment to compose myself. Drawing in a deep breath I try again, shaking my head and steadying my eyes on Dr. Spenson. “But I had morning sickness and I had a positive home pregnancy test.” I’m not accusing him, I’m curious. I’m confused. I expected a positive result today; I didn’t even consider the alternative.
“I’m sorry this wasn’t the news you were both hoping for.” Dr. Spenson stands to leave. His work here is done. He has plenty of other clients to see. Pregnancies to announce. “Home pregnancy tests are generally accurate, but can produce false results. Again, I’m sorry. The good news is you’re young and time is on your side.” He winks and leaves through the door, allowing it to close with a heavy thud.
I look behind me at Jordan, still sitting in the corner chair. Still glaring at his phone. I can’t help but wonder if he looked up for any of it. Did he look at Dr. Spenson when he said we weren’t pregnant? I push myself off the exam table, listening to the paper gown rustle beneath me. I grab my clothes from the corner and begin to dress. I pull my wavy blond hair back into a loose pony tail with a hair band I keep around my left wrist. I crumple the paper gown between my hands and toss it in the small red bin and walk to the door. Jordan follows without a single word.
There’s no need to stop at the main desk because there is no need for a follow up appointment. I am not pregnant. I push through the double doors and don’t bother to hold them open for Jordan who is trailing my lead. Once we’re outside we walk beneath the large awning of the hospital for a quarter of a mile, passing a mother being pushed to her car in a wheel chair, a newborn baby wrapped tightly in her arms. Her husband, or who I assume to be, rushes to open the car door for her and help her in. They are both smiling, happy to be part of a worldwide club- a club of mothers and fathers- that excludes some without any basis. A club that seems to come so easy for most, and for those that it doesn’t, we hide in the shadows of the wounds it brings. We hide behind a plastic smile, secretly wishing for a child of our own and knowing we may not ever have one. Our car is on the far end of the lot. I am walking faster than Jordan and I don’t know if it’s because I want to get away from this place or if he’s extra slow because he is still studying his phone. Either way, I am quite sure that we are not the picture of happiness on the inside or out. The sun is shining but I wish it was raining and dreary. I thought hospitals were a place of sadness, but I just keep passing people carrying cheery balloons or bouquets of flowers with little congratulations cards. I guess I’m the only one who’s sad today.
I reach the car first and then realize that Jordan has the keys. Annoyed, I turn to see how far away he is. I shield my eyes from the sun to find him. He will be another few minutes and there is nothing I can do to rush him. I press my back against the car. It is warm from the sun and feels good on my skin. For a moment, I close my eyes and slowly count to ten. It’s the only happy thing I can think to do. And then I feel it. My leg tickles and then it is wet. I open my eyes and look down to see a scraggly black and white dog. We meet eyes and his tail begins to wag. His hair is matted, he looks thin. But at least he is free. Unlike me, he can go wherever he wants and do as he pleases. “Shoo!” I use my hands to motion for him to leave. “Shoo!” I keep doing it until he gets the message. We do not have room in our life for a dog. Someone else will help him. I have a relationship that needs saving. Anyway, Jordan would have a cow. I watch as the skinny dog runs off to the neighborhood behind the parking lot. Someone will feed him there, I tell myself as Jordan finally arrives to the car and unlocks it.
I climb inside the car and pull my seat belt on. I catch myself glancing in the back seat, wondering what it would be like to have a little one riding there. Wondering how it would feel to hear someone call me mom. And that’s all I can do, is wonder; because it’s not happening.
For the first time since Dr. Spenson spoke to us, Jordan speaks. His eyes are not on his phone, now they are on the road. It seems we never look at each other and I realize I don’t know when that stopped. It was long before we were married. I just don’t know how long. “So you made it all up?”
He’s accusing me of lying. I shake my head. Why would I lie about this?
“You just needed some extra attention, is that it? Did you get enough?” The corners of his mouth curl. He’s mocking me and I can’t tell if it’s because he’s relieved or just angry.
“Whatever.” I spat. “Ask Trish. She was there with me when I took the test. She saw the result. She saw that it was positive.” I stop to draw in a breath, to keep from crying. My tears will only serve to increase his anger. “Do you ever stop to think about anyone but yourself Jordan? Do you?” I slam my hand against the passenger door. Am I the only one who’s ever married someone and instantly regretted it? Has anyone else ever felt like this? Is this normal? Because it doesn’t feel normal. It doesn’t feel okay. We should be happy. We should be playful. We should be laughing. We should…be in love. But we are none of those things. This was a mistake and we both know it. We both told a little white lie when we said I do. And you know what happens with little white lies. They blow up in your face. They grow into gargantuan mountains of lies. They cause pain. They cause anger. Nothing good can come from a little white lie. And I’m living proof of that; we both are. “Don’t talk to me.”
That gets him. He slams on the breaks and suddenly we’re at a dead stop in the middle of the highway. Cars are beeping as they swerve to miss us. I see a man pass by in his black SUV, giving us the middle finger. None of it can hurt me anymore than Jordan has; any more than this ring on my finger. Jordan unlocks his seat belt and leans toward me, pressing his pointer finger between my eyes. “You. Will. Never. Tell. Me. What. To. Do.” Fire should be coming out of his nose he is so pissed. “Got it?” He smiles, feeling that he’s won.
I nod and a few seconds later the beeping stops and we are driving again. But no matter where we go, we can’t escape what we’ve done.