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THE INAUGURATION OF A STATE SENATOR really is not that big a deal. It’s not really even that much of an inauguration. After he won the election, Tim was basically told, “Congratulations. You’re a state senator. See you in January.” He had to pick out a few committees that he wanted to join and work on; all of the paperwork relating to all of them is spread out on our dining room table.
Annie and her new boyfriend are coming up from New York for the weekend. Tim’s going to go pick them up at the train station, while I finish cleaning up. Since the fundraiser, we’ve made a plan to get together once per month. We take turns hosting. We went to New York just before Christmas so we could see the city all done up in lights for the holidays. She and Sean decorated the hell out of their apartment, as well. Sean is an interior designer. The window treatments were festooned with tasteful white lights, and a single candle glowed in every window. An actual candle: not those cheesy lightbulb things. He even served us drinks with cranberries and spiced orange slices frozen into the ice cubes.
They came up in January, and then we went back to the city for Sean’s Valentine-themed decor. It’s been so great to have them back in my life. Between visits, we call and Facebook. I didn’t realize how badly I’d missed having a girlfriend in my life until now, and I am so thankful to have Annie again.
Keith and I have been emailing and Facebooking each other since their tour began at the Sydney Opera House in early December. For a little while after the tour started, reporters were calling Tim and me at the house to get the scoop about Hydra living in our home for nearly two months, since Keith had already spilled the beans about it during the interview on The Edge. We blew them off, and eventually they lost interest. Toni took over and issued a statement on our behalf, and that seemed to satisfy the tabloids.
Keith, Tim, and I are now good friends. A few times, I’ve come home from work to find them actually Skyping with each other. If you had asked me back in August if I ever thought that would happen, I would have asked you to share your drugs with me.
Right now, Hydra’s in Europe, and then they’ll make their way to Asia. After that, the North American part will start in Montreal, Canada and then extend west to Vancouver before trickling downward and eastward, across the U.S., ending in Providence, Rhode Island. Keith sounds like he’s having a lot of fun on this tour, and the screaming crowd of fans night after night isn’t wearing him down yet. But I think that’s probably because it doesn’t feel like work to him. In the ‘80s and ‘90s, when they were touring constantly, he got burnt out with it all, to the point that he dreaded going back on the road. It’s nice to see him enjoying his job again; maybe this is how he envisioned the life of a rock star, and now it’s finally come to fruition.
I can hear them Skyping right now. “No way,” says Tim. “You’re in Prague? Don’t tell Brenda. She’s been dying to go there.”
“Oh, let me see!” I holler out, as I enter the range of the webcam. “Point the camera out the window.”
“It’s still dark here, Bren. You’re not going to see much.” He points the camera out the window, and I see the skyline lit up. “You’ll have to come see it for real. Trust me, it’s stunning.”
“So, Prague then where? Was it Warsaw?”
“Yes. Warsaw! There is this café that makes amazing stuffed cabbages. Legit Polish golumpki. Cannot wait!” Keith smiles.
“So, any word on Damien?” I ask. Tamsen and Damien are no longer on the forbidden topic list. Keith’s been trying to get supervised visits.
“I just finished Skyping him, too, which is why I am up so late. We try to Skype every few days, which is a wonderful start. When the tour is over, I get to see him in person. He’s starting high school now, even though he’s getting home-schooled. So smart,” he gushes.
“Must take after Tamsen,” Tim says and laughs.
“True story,” Keith replies. We sign off, and I smile at Tim.
The timer on the oven dings. I am a bit on edge tonight, trying to make our entertaining skills appear as flawless and skillfully executed as Sean’s. Tim’s committee papers are all over the dining room, and the smell of the roast he put in the oven is suddenly making me want to throw up.
Tim opens the oven, and a cloud of steam escapes. He catches sight of me as I cover my mouth and run to the toilet; he waits for me outside and hands me a glass of water and a hand towel. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t know. I wonder if I caught that stomach bug that has been going around at work. I don’t know how I’m going to make it through the night. I hate to say it, but the thought of eating that roast makes me want to hurl.”
“Bren, do you think you could be...” he begins.
“No way,” I tell him. “I think it’s just a stomach bug. But now I’m wondering if we should cancel tonight. I don’t want to make Annie and Sean sick, too.” Tim and I haven’t really called it “trying for a baby” anymore. Right now it’s “whatever happens, happens, and let’s have fun in the process.” I like that method a lot better; I was afraid Tim might whip out some crazy, color-coded ovulation calendar. Nothing says sexy like your husband jamming a thermometer into your mouth every morning.
And honestly, getting pregnant has been the furthest thing from my mind lately. The Baxter launch went great, and now I am on to the next project at work. This one is more interesting. I get to work on a band that is trying to get national recognition. Once Amanda learned that Hydra had been living in my house, she gave me this launch—it’s actually her nephew’s band. So far, I am having a blast with it, and it’s fun to not work on something corporate for a little while.
The fall and winter so far have been so busy, with Tim winning the election, then the insanity of Christmas and work heating up again, now that the New Year has passed. In this last week, I’ve had a few twinges of nausea, but it never occurred to me that I might be pregnant.
Tim’s rooting around under the sink and finds a pregnancy test from the last time we actually called it trying. “Do these expire?” he asks, examining the box.
“It’s not like it’s going to blow up if I pee on it, will it?” I laugh and walk to the bathroom. He follows. “Out.” I shove him back into the hall.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not going to watch me pee, are you?”
He pauses at the door, uncertain. I know that, if I am, he wants to experience every minute of it with me. But I have to draw the line.
I sit down and take a breath. Right here is the moment where my life might change drastically. If I sit here for a few minutes, I can keep my life exactly the same for just a bit longer. If I am pregnant, then life will change because there will be a baby on the way. But if I am not, then will things also change? Will we go back to where we were before? Will we get bored with each other, because not being pregnant isn’t enough of a change? Will we silently point our fingers at each other and retreat into ourselves once again?
“Brenda?” he calls through the bathroom door. “Come on, you’re killing me.”
“Hold on.” I zip up and wash my hands before opening the door.
“Well?” He barges into the bathroom when he hears the water run in the sink. I hold the test stick behind my back and smile at him.
“Really?” he asks, trying to reach behind me to see for himself. “Come on, you’re killing me. Did you look yet?”
“No, not yet.” And I haven’t. Part of me likes not knowing. I kind of want to prolong that for a bit longer, to keep things the same for a few more minutes.
“Well, are you going to show me?”
I draw my hands from behind my back and hold the stick out to him. The window glows with a + sign.
“Wow. Oh, my God. Bren, we’re going to be parents!” He throws his arms around me. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” I can feel my eyes filling with tears. I’ve been weepy for a couple of weeks now, too—a sure sign that my hormones are starting to flare up.
“And I love you, too,” Tim says, bending to kiss my still-flat stomach. “I can’t wait to see you.”
We pace around the house a bit; we don’t know what to do with the news that we’re expecting a baby. I sit down at the computer and pull up a pregnancy website. We read it together for a few minutes, and then Tim proposes we go to the bookstore and buy every book on the shelf.
“Maybe we should go to the library. After all, we have a college fund to build now,” I point out, absently rubbing my belly.
“I wonder when it was. Maybe our little tryst under the Christmas tree did the trick, huh? Or was it on New Year’s Eve?”
“Not a word to Annie and Sean tonight, okay? I want this to just stay between us until I’ve at least had the chance to go to the doctor. And don’t tell Keith either, okay?”
Tim agrees.
“By the time they play Providence, I’ll be seven months along. I don’t know how I’ll keep this a secret from him until then.”
The emails from Keith are more consistent than the phone calls and Skype sessions; we write to each other once per week. Over the months of the tour, my pregnancy will begin to show, and I will have to get creative with positioning the webcam so he won’t see that I’m expecting; I want it to be a surprise.
What I like the most about his emails are the photos he sends of all the cities the band has played. I have them printed on matte photo paper, and I paste them into a scrapbook that I plan to give to him when he gets to Providence. I know he’ll love it.
I’ll have to start another scrapbook for the baby. Tim and I will take a picture of ourselves and our friends tonight, and I’ll paste that in the first page, because it’s the night we found out that this little life inside of me had already begun. It’s also the night where mine became complete.
And I can’t wait to fill the rest of the pages.