HELEN SOFTLY SQUEEZED an avocado marked with an ORGANIC label at the Whole Foods Market. An older woman stared at her and smiled. “You know my daughter’s pregnant, too,” she said. “After three miscarriages, she finally had a boy. And now, she’s about to have her second.” Helen had heard a hundred little confessions everywhere she went since the day she started showing. At first she had hated the fact that complete strangers would walk up to her and editorialize about morning sickness, about cravings, about miscarriages, about the night they knew they conceived, about the names they might label their forthcoming progeny, the pluses and minuses of knowing a child’s sex before birth, remedies for swollen feet, and the best positions to sleep in after the sixth month. But now she enjoyed the small kindnesses, the unthreatening intimacies, the quiet words that made her feel cared for, made her feel like an indispensable part of the world that suddenly appeared to be inexplicably kind. As she waited in line at the checkout, she turned over a bottle of wine in her hand. She imagined how it would taste. It had been almost seven months since she touched any alcohol or drank any caffeine. Her baby was going to be perfect. But the feeling that she’d like to sit alone and enjoy a glass of wine entered her and took control of her body. The urge to drink wine was solid as a stone hitting her in the stomach. She pictured herself in her backyard, at ease, sipping on a glass of wine in the late afternoon, the sun reflecting in her eyes, reflecting off the glass. She felt the wine on her tongue, and swallowed the cool, rich, red, silky liquid. The taste of the wine was so real it held her motionless—then let her go like a strong hand loosening its grasp. She found herself standing in an aisle of the grocery store.
The sack girl asked her if she needed help lifting the groceries into her car. “No,” she said—then changed her mind. “Yes, that would be very helpful.” Another sacker, walking in the opposite direction, spoke to the young girl who was pushing Helen’s basket. “¡IQue muchachita tan linda!” he said. “Te quiero.” He said it half seriously, half in jest. Helen pretended not to hear, and, for an instant—perhaps for only a second—her face filled with an overpowering shame, a shame she could not hide even from herself, a shame that was as much a part of her as the color of her eyes, or the thickness of her hair, or the soft lilt in her voice, a shame that was part of a memory larger than the baby in her body, louder than her laughter, a shame that could never deliberately be remembered or recalled but could never be forgotten, a shame she kept successfully hidden most of her waking moments, a shame that kept returning to her like a boomerang or a bad penny or a bad dream. In that instant, that shame rose to her face and she felt the entire world could see it, could see the ugliness of her life, could see she did not deserve a husband or a baby or the house she lived in. She wanted to cover herself and be protected; she wanted to weep because she felt she would never be an adult, never be a grown-up woman because she would always be a little girl whom someone had hurt. And then the look was gone. Nobody in the store noticed. The look that deformed her face was too fleeting, was over almost as soon as it had arrived. She took a deep breath and steadied herself. She took several deep breaths—controlled her body—she kept it from shaking. “It’s just the pregnancy,” she told herself, “it’s just the baby.”
The young girl noticed her look of discomfort. “He didn’t mean anything by it,” she said, “he was just messing around. He’s a little forward, but he’s nice. You speak Spanish?” Helen forced a smile and shook her head. “Oh, then you must be Italian.”
“Yes,” she said, “I’m Italian.”
After lunch, Helen stepped out of her house on Emerson Street, and wandered slowly through her English garden. She bent down with a little difficulty and smelled her lavender bush, then the mint growing next to it. She snapped off a leaf from the mint and bit into it. She liked the way the taste exploded in her mouth. The late spring afternoon was too perfect to drive a car. She decided to walk. The northern California breeze was typically light, and the blooming tulip trees swayed softly in the breeze. The wind here was never cruel, never too hot, never threatening—not like El Paso’s. She hated thinking about the place of her birth, but lately that goddamned city had been visiting her like a craving for chocolates. She tired to push the desert from her thoughts. She looked at the green all around her, and took a deep breath. For the first time in five years, the Bay Area had not had a drought. The winter rains had come day after day after day, and now that they were gone everything in Palo Alto was bright green, flowers growing like weeds.
She walked down Emerson a few blocks and took a right on University. She walked into a small bookstore. She had no idea what she was doing in this unfamiliar place. It was Eddie who liked books, not she, and Helen realized she had never been in a bookstore without him. He’s rubbing off on me, she thought. She walked around looking for nothing in particular and found herself standing before the poetry section. She stared at the names of the poets, and read out the titles she found interesting. The Only Dangerous Thing, Oblique Prayers, Diving into the Wreck, Letters to an Imaginary Friend. She picked up a small book whose title she could not see from the binding and touched the printed letters with her fingers: Words Like Fate and Pain. It was a strange and sad and hopeless title. She wondered about the woman who wrote the book, wondered what it was like to write something, and then allow strangers to read her secrets. Maybe it was a kind of freedom. Or maybe it was just another form of imprisonment. She had no desire to read the book, but she found herself opening it, she found herself staring at the words, she found herself reading:
For you there was no conscious departure.
no hurried packing for exile.
You are here, anyway, in your own
minor archipelago of pain.
Do what every exile does. Tell stories.
Smuggle messages across the border.
Remember things back there
as simpler than they were.
She did not want to think about the words on the page. She knew she could not bring herself to read anymore, but for some reason she reread the words before shutting the book and placed it back on the shelf. She quickly stepped out of the bookstore. She looked around as if she were afraid someone had seen her in the bookstore. She felt stupid for feeling paranoid. She laughed to herself: “It’s a bookstore—not a sex shop.” She looked at her watch and walked toward the bakery/coffee shop where she was meeting Elizabeth. She thought of the poem as she walked, and was sorry she had not bought the book. And yet she did not want to buy it. She was sure it would be sad; she was sure it would make her remember.
As she crossed the street and slowly made her way toward the coffee shop on the corner of University and Waverly, she shook her head at all the stores that crowded around her. Every other storefront was a restaurant. “You’d think all we do around here is go out to eat. Maybe it’s true. Maybe we’re just a bunch of pigs.” She remembered how one morning she and Eddie had gone running very early in the morning, and how they had run past a shop window that someone had spray-painted: RENOUNCE YOUR WEALTH RICH SWINE. She had said nothing, but her husband had laughed. “Good for them,” he said. “Things are too neat around here.” “Maybe we are swine,” she said softly, though she did not realty believe it, did not believe it. She had lived in Palo Alto for five years now. In the beginning she had loved this peaceful, well-to-do town. It was clean, idyllic; the weather was perfect. She had never lived in a place like this, and living here had made her feel safe. She and her husband often jogged through the university. Watching the students ride their bikes to class made her feel as if she had become a part of America. She felt silly thinking it, but she thought it anyway. She never told her husband these things. If she had, she would have had to explain more than she wanted him to know. But lately, the material comfort she was living in had begun to make her feel uneasy. The house meant less to her than she thought it would mean. Nothing she had or wore or owned meant as much to her as she thought it would—except for Eddie. Eddie was everything. Her friend Elizabeth was raised here; she had moved to San Francisco because, she claimed, “the City’s not so goddamned while.” “What’s wrong with white?” Helen had asked. Elizabeth had laughed, kissed her on the cheek, and said, “Never mind.” Helen had hated the condescending tone. If Elizabeth knew how I’d been raised, she had thought at the time, then she’d be ashamed of herself for speaking to me in that tone of voice. But hadn’t she led Elizabeth into thinking she was whiter and more sheltered than she actually was? Hadn’t she made Elizabeth believe she was born in the same kind of environment? As she walked past the Burger King, a man asked her for some change. She did not look into his face as she handed him a dollar. “Hope your baby’s bew-tee-ful,” he said. She turned around and smiled at him. “He will be,” she said, then turned around and kept walking. “He will be beautiful,” she said to herself, “he’ll be perfect.” She’d had a dream. She knew it would be a boy—a perfect, smart, happy, handsome boy. She ran back and gave the man another dollar. This time, she made sure she looked into his eyes. She walked away from him slowly. She hugged herself as she arrived at the coffee shop.
There was a short line at the coffee counter. She looked around at the casually well-dressed clientele. “Everything here’s so studied,” she muttered to herself. She felt a sharp and sudden loathing for this town, this place she had made hers but would never really belong to her. She saw no sign of her friend. She ordered a cappuccino for Elizabeth, and a cup of decaf for herself. She found an outside table, and placed Elizabeth’s cup of coffee opposite her own seat. As she took a sip from her cup, she felt the baby moving inside her. She touched her stomach, and tried to enjoy the baby’s dance in her womb. It hurt—but just a little. The first of a thousand little hurts. “Motherhood hurts—los hijos calan,” She winced at the thought of her mother’s voice. I don’t want her here—not today. Please not today.
“Well, don’t we look stunning?”
Helen looked up and laughed. “Yes, we do, don’t we? It’s the extra passenger. Does wonders for your complexion.”
“You really are radiant. How can you stand it?” Elizabeth bent down and kissed Helen on the cheek. She sat down and played with the cup of coffee in front of her. “What do I owe you for the coffee?”
“Don’t be silly, Elizabeth, it’s on my husband.”
“Ahh yes, the husband. How’s the husband?”
“He’s as gorgeous as ever. We’ve fallen back in love with each other—didn’t I tell you?”
“I never knew you were out of love.”
“Well, not exactly out of love—just, you know, seven-year itch kind of thing.”
“No, I don’t know. My longest relationship has been two years—my men have shorter attention spans than Eddie. On the other hand, my relationships never last long enough to get boring.”
“I didn’t say we were bored.”
“Isn’t that what the seven-year itch is—boredom?”
“No, I think it’s just that we were getting a little too used to each other. You know, taking each other for granted. But suddenly, it’s as intense as ever—emotionally, I mean.”
“How long’s all this emotional intensity going to last?”
“I know that tone, Elizabeth Edwards. Don’t be so cynical.”
“My first boyfriend, who never tired of telling me he loved me, broke up with me because I wouldn’t have sex with him—then told half the school I gave him a blow job. My first real serious boyfriend left me for another man. My second real serious boyfriend was more passionate about cocaine than he was about me. My first husband—not one year into the marriage—had a heart attack in the arms of another woman, and my current beefcake is a sex addict. He asked me last night if I was interested in three-way sex. I didn’t ask him if he had another woman in mind, another man, a dog, a horse, or a snake. I know this is 1992, Helen, and God knows I’m anything but moralistic about what happens between consenting adults—but Jesus H. Christ, I just want something that resembles sanity. So Helen, I’m not cynical—though God knows I’ve a right to be—I’m just asking a question.”
Helen shook with laughter. “I’ve forgotten your question.”
“I asked, ‘How long will this love nest of yours last?’”
“Does it matter? We’re happy. As soon as we become parents, we’ll forget about love and each other and obsess about the kid.”
“Just try and be nice to each other, will you? Look at my parents—every one of their children is all screwed up—and all because they forgot they were married to each other.”
“Every one of their children, Lizzie? There’s only two of you.”
“And we’re both basket cases.”
“Oh, you brother’s fine—he’s nice.”
“I think he’s a transvestite.”
“How do you know that? Did he tell you?”
“Of course he didn’t tell me. Transvestites don’t make confessions to members of their families.”
“So what makes you think he’s a transvestite?”
“I found a silk dress in his closet.”
“What were you doing in his closet?”
“Never mind.”
“You know, it could be his girlfriend’s.”
“His girlfriend dresses like June Cleaver—not the silk-dress type.”
Helen laughed. “I wish you still lived across the street. I miss you, Lizzie, when are you moving back?”
“This dump? Never. I grew up in a Protestant suburb of Chicago called Libertyville. No one could recover from that, Helen, no one—everyone there is as screwed up as they are white. And then my dad gets this job in what we now call Silicon Valley. Silicon Valley!—shit, that’s worse than Libertyville. When I was in high school my father used to take me to the Hoover Tower and when we’d get up to the top, we’d look out at the Stanford campus, and he’d tell me, ‘This is your school, baby—it’s all yours.’ When I didn’t get in, he blamed the ‘chinks’ and the ‘blacks’ for using up my assigned place in the select school of his choice. It didn’t seem to matter to him that I had nothing but C’s and D’s—and I was stoned out of mind when I took the SAT …” As she continued talking, Helen watched her friend intently and smiled to herself. It didn’t matter in the least to Lizzie that Helen was intimately familiar with every detail of the story she was telling. But Helen didn’t mind: Lizzie’s voice was warm and intense and comforting, the sound of a woman who was real, who enjoyed being alive, enjoyed having a voice, and understood the great pleasure of using it. Helen envied her spontaneity—Helen who was cautious, Helen who was often conspicuously quiet.
The light pink in Lizzie’s short fingernails flew around in the air, and her long, cheap, flamboyant earrings dangled like chimes in the wind as she emphasized the point she was making. “… of course, my parents have never really gotten over my attitudes. Well, I’ve never gotten over theirs. Did I ever tell you about the time I asked my mother if she’d ever had oral sex with my father? She really lost it.”
Helen smiled. “Yes, you told me. But what did you expect? Did you expect her to tell you about her sex life? Give the old girl a break.”
“You always take her side.”
“That’s not true. Why are you always expecting your mother to be someone she’s not? You know her; you know her borders, her limitations—what you can and can’t say. Why do you expect her to change just for you?”
“Well, that’s what’s so wrong with this pop stand of a town—it has too many lines you can’t cross. Everyone’s busy writing their stupid scripts and reading them as if they were the truth. You know, Helen, sometimes people have to depart from the roles their parents hand them. It’s so sickening to watch all the energy people exert in this place to look and be sooo sophisticated, but once you get inside their houses you might as well be living in a small town in Texas. It’s all for nothing, Helen.”
“And San Francisco’s better?”
“Yes, it’s better.”
“There aren’t any snobs in San Francisco?”
“Oh, there are plenty of snobs. If we made them illegal, they’d start speakeasies.” She laughed. “But in the City—in the City at least everybody’s all mixed up with everybody else. Here, in this small town for the overly paid, everybody believes in recycling, everybody drinks expensive coffee, everybody buys organic vegetables and chicken breasts from free-range chickens. But all the Blacks and Latinos who work behind the counters live in the next town. I don’t want any part of it.”
“You are a part of it, Lizzie.”
Elizabeth sipped her coffee, and rearranged one of her earrings. “Yes, I’m a part of it. In some goddamned way we’re all a part of it. But it’s not OK, Helen, Don’t you think there ought to be a revolution in this country?” She pushed her hair back. She laughed at herself, “I’m being ridiculous.” She reached over and grabbed Helen’s hand. “It’s the smoking,” she said, and then added, “but there ought to be a revolution.”
“The smoking?”
“Yeah, the smoking. I quit—cold turkey. It’s been three weeks. Can you believe it?”
“Oh, Lizzie, that’s great.”
“‘Oh, Lizzie, that’s great?’ That’s it?”
“Well, I could have said it’s about damn time.”
“No, that’s my father’s line—he of the pack-a-day habit.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Do I miss it? Are you nuts? Of course I miss it. I’m completely crazed. Oh, Helen, I can’t tell you how much I miss my little lovers. They’re so much more comforting than men.”
“But I bet you feel better.”
“No. I feel worse. I wilt say that my sex addict lover tells me I smell much better. He also says I’m better in bed since I quit.”
“And are you?”
“I suppose so. It’s all that rage—he likes angry sex. Anyway, I fee! as though any minute I’m going to start up again.”
“I stopped three or four times before it finally took.”
Elizabeth stared at her friend with a look of amazement. She ran one of her fingernails against her teeth. “I’ve known you for five years, and you never told me you smoked?”
“I never had a reason to tell you.”
“I talk about smoking constantly—”
“Incessantly.”
“Incessantly—and you never told me you smoked! You snake in the grass.”
Helen smiled and placed her hand over her cup of coffee. “I keep secrets.”
“How many secrets do you keep?”
Helen kept a steady smile. “Oh, I don’t want to talk about this, Lizzie. Let’s not. It was a long time ago. I have a different life now. And it’s this one that counts.” She looked at her watch. “Listen, are you free for dinner?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
“Eddie will flip when he sees you.”
“Yes, your husband loves to be entertained.”
“He loves you, Lizzie. He adores you.”
“Well, I like him, too,” Lizzie admitted, “I just wish he didn’t look and live like such a Republican. My father likes him, you know—that’s not a good sign.”
Helen shook her head and grinned. “Well, Eddie may dress like a Republican, but he makes love like an anarchist.”
“Well, it sounds as if—”
“Shut up, Lizzie, and help me up.”
“Oh, Mama’s getting pushy. Are you going to be a pushy mama?”
Helen put her hands out as Lizzie took hold of her and tugged her up. They both grunted, then broke out laughing. They held on to each other as they walked down the street. Helen wanted to lean into Lizzie and cry and never stop crying. She wanted to learn to let everything out like Elizabeth—all of Lizzie’s words were beautiful balloons floating up into the air, higher and higher. But not hers—she felt too heavy and too self-conscious about the life she’d constructed out of nothing more than words that had no reference to truth. Every word had to be the right word. She was no longer able to enjoy her own speech. She felt obese and ugly and awkward. She wanted to be light, full of grace. It’s this pregnancy, she thought. I’m falling apart. As they turned on Emerson to walk toward her house, Helen hesitated. “Wait,” she said as she turned around, “I want to buy a book.”
Helen rushed into the bookstore, and a few minutes later she held a book in her hands.
“I didn’t know you read poetry.”
“I don’t, but, well, I just, I don’t know. I just got this urge to buy this book. It doesn’t make sense, does it? Cravings. Pregnant women get cravings.”
“For poetry?”
“It beats the hell out of anchovies.”