What a Girl Wants (5 page)
John has never understood my relationship with his wife. But we have emerged from a parallel childhood. Brea and I practically speak our own language and it’s hard for John. I know it drives my own parents crazy.
“John, sorry. I thought you were Brea.” I’m hoping I’ve given him enough time to shake the visual of me in a thong.
Heaven
knows I want to shake it.
“Listen, Brea’s in the hospital. She had a miscarriage this morning, and she’s crying her eyes out.”
I gasp. Mouth the word
no
, but say nothing. There is no air.
“I wish there was something I could do, but I just keep saying the wrong things. She wants you, Ashley.”
My stomach roils. If I could do anything to take this burden from Brea, I would. No one wanted a baby more than her. No one deserves a baby more than her, and I’d give up my own right to bear children if it would help her. I clutch my ailing tummy which aches with empathy.
I find my voice. “Is she all right? Physically, I mean?” I ask.
“She’s worn out. She made them do two ultrasounds before she would believe the baby wasn’t there anymore. They want to do a D&C tomorrow and told her we could try again in a few months, but she’s brokenhearted, Ashley. It feels like she’ll never be happy again.” John’s voice cracks, and I feel myself tear up. To know Brea is so loved by a man lifts my spirits like nothing else could. There will be more babies, but this one will always be Brea’s first. I know her.
“I’ll be right there, John. Tell her I’m on my way.”
I’m tentative, but I make my excuses to Purvi and grab a few envelopes I’ll work on late into the night. For once, my heart doesn’t care about work or how many hours this day will cost me. My best friend has just lost the only thing she ever wanted, and I want to rail at the injustice of it all. While crackheads can spew out children, my precious Brea loses hers.
I try to calm down in the car and wipe away any remnants of emotion. The last thing Brea needs to see is my tears. Lord knows she has enough for both of us right now. I stop by Starbucks and order her a Frappuccino with a double shot. When all else fails, there’s no pick-me-up like a good double-dose of caffeine. The only drug we’ve ever done. The only drug we’ll ever need. Except, of course, for an epidural when the day comes. Oh! An epidural . . . I tear up all over again.
I find Brea at the hospital, stuffed into a tiny room with two other people. Both speak some form of Chinese—and loudly. Brea’s lovely face is red, and her eyes and nose are swollen from weeping. She breaks down again when she sees me and her whole body begins to shake. John is sitting beside her and immediately sees his chance to retreat.
“I’ll be back later,” John says as he makes a mad dash for the door.
“It’s okay, Brea,” I say through tears as we cling to one another. “There will be other babies. This one just wasn’t ready yet, that’s all. That man”—I point to the doorway—“who just ran out of here like a lead greyhound loves you with his whole heart.”
We giggle through our tears.
She sniffles again. “Is that Frappuccino for me?”
I pull it away and pretend to sip. “No. Did you want one?”
“I’m betting it’s got extra shots in it and you’re too much of a worm to drink that much caffeine.”
I hand it over. “See, that’s one plus. You can drink caffeine again.”
“Only for today. Then I’m going on the cleanest diet you ever saw me do. This is going to be the healthiest womb known to modern science.” She pulls another Kleenex from the box on her bed. “Other pregnant women will have to fear me as their babies yearn for the comforts of my luxury suite.”
“Sheesh, you’d better stay away from my brother, then. Dave finds out there’s no rent and he’s there.” We both break into cackling laughter, and the Asian roommates give us a look as if we’ve swallowed something whole. “I’m so sorry, Brea.” We hug again tightly.
“Do you think John is okay?” Brea asks as she leans back against her pillows.
I nod. “He loves you so much, Brea. He only wants you to be okay.”
“I didn’t know what to say to him, Ash. He looks at me with those puppy dog eyes, and I feel like I’ve let him down. I just feel so guilty I can’t look at him.”
Her brutal honesty stabs me in the chest. Here John knows he’s got the best deal in town, and Brea is worried she’s letting him down. “John knows that God has His plan,” I say. “I can’t for the life of me imagine what it is right now, but there’s a reason for this.” Why does faith sound so empty at times like this? I know the words are true, but there’s sometimes a sting to them when you’re hurting. Try as we might, words can’t make pain go away.
“John could have married someone who could give him babies right away, someone who could use a big word in a sentence. Why did he marry me?” She sniffles again and pulls another tissue from the box.
“Need I remind you that John wasn’t the only guy who wanted to marry you, Brea? He did not marry you for how many kids you could pop out in the shortest amount of time. And I’m sick of you saying you’re stupid. You’re one of the smartest people I know and definitely the highest caliber. I know I’d trade some IQ points for a date.”
Brea smirks at me but then the smile fades. She stares out the window, chin quivering. “Did you see John’s face just now? He wants a baby.”
How can Brea not see his pain for her? His love for her? I’d die to have a man look at me like that. “He’s crushed. But he’s only concerned for you right now. Doesn’t that tell you anything about how people feel about you? You’re not a surrogate. He’s not out ten thousand bucks. You’re the woman he loves.” I sigh and try to attempt some humor. “Now I know you’re hurting big-time. You haven’t even touched your Frapp.”
She ignores my brilliant quip. “What if I can’t have any kids ever?”
“I’m not going to discuss that because that’s ridiculous. The doctors haven’t said anything like that, right? Miscarriages happen, what, one in four pregnancies, or something? It’s just a fluke.”
Brea shakes her head. “Maybe God is waiting for you to get married so we can be pregnant together.”
“Hmmm. I’m thinking you and me hormonal together is not a good thing. Let’s just let you have your day, and you can tell me how it’s done. How’s that?”
I sit with Brea for maybe an hour, and then I see it in her eyes. She wants John now. He’s pacing down the hallway like a tiger at mealtime. It’s funny that John and I should have such a hard time starting a conversation when we have Brea in common. I guess we both want all of her; sharing Brea is like taking a sliver of cheese-cake and leaving the rest for someone who might not fully appreciate it.
But she belongs to him. “She’s all yours,” I say to John when he comes bounding over like an oversized Saint Bernard puppy.
“Thanks, Ashley.” John pats my shoulder and then grips me in an awkward hug. “We’ll have more babies. You told her that, right?”
I look through the doorway at Brea and then John. “I told her. God’s told her too. Right?” I stare at her until a small smile appears on her face. She knows. God has not left her side.
Once out of the room, I wander the hallways to the maternity ward. Is there anyone who can visit the hospital without going to the hope ward? The place where new life is fresh and smells baby-powder sweet.
There are three little babies in the viewing window. One is small and pink, and apparently angry at his new accommodations. The other is blessed with a shock of black hair and dark eyebrows, and I can’t help but think that it’s a good thing he’s a boy because waxing all that would just be painful. Then there’s one little girl. She’s got a touch of strawberry blonde hair and creamy skin with a healthy pink tone, and my heart clenches all over again for Brea.
Just when you think you’ve got life all figured out, God throws a curve ball.
You’re out!
A
fter an extended day of work after my morning off, the other gang (not The Reasons, but a group of paralegals and administrative assistants with a few female engineers for good measure) is going out to get drinks. I generally go along, even though I only hit the hard stuff: Diet Coke on the rocks. If I’m feeling really bold, I go all out and add a twist of lemon. But tonight I’m just too dis-traught over Brea, and I’ve read the same patents over and over again, but they just appear as word salad. I’d go sit with her and cheer her up but that’s John’s job now, and I feel genuinely useless. So I’ll just go home and pout. Besides,
The Bachelor
is on tonight and what better way to forget
my
life than to watch a bunch of inflated females vie for faux princessship?
My apartment is dark when I enter, except for that scarlet beacon of hope: the answering machine blink. The temptation of the red flash—it speaks to me, beckons me nearer, asks me
ARE YOU BUSY
ON SATURDAY NIGHT?
In its own primitive Morse code it hypnotizes me, and I come to it with my arms outstretched zombie-like.
I breathe deeply. For three years running, I’ve made a New Year’s resolution that I will not tie my worth to this cruel appliance, but I’ve never been able to curb my over-eager enthusiasm. This bubble of hope grows and grows until I am certain Colin Firth has left his gorgeous Italian wife for me, or Rupert Everett has suddenly gone straight and can think of no one but me: Ashley Wilkes Stockingdale. Yes, I know it’s not the most Christian dream, but it’s there all the same.
Generally, I press the answer button, only to be offered a great phone plan or told I have just won a fabulous, all-expense-paid trip to Vegas. So I should learn, right? I’m a Smart Girl. Yet I continue to dream and, even now, my heart races with the possibilities. I try to ratchet my hopes down a bit. It will not be a date. It will probably not even be someone I know, but rather one of those friendly-sounding guys on tape pushing weather-proof windows.
Dropping my purse, I press the button and brace for the worst.
“Ashley, hi. It’s Seth. Listen, I was wondering if you might be free for a movie or dinner this week. I wanted to talk to you about something.”
I press the button three more times just to make sure I’ve heard him right. A movie. Now does that mean he wants me to come over for the old movie night with the gang? Okay, but he said dinner. Maybe he wants me to bring dinner with me before the movie?
“I should just give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he’s asking me for a date.” I hold my shoulders up high and dial his work number. Seth works until all hours of the night, like me, so I figure that’s my best shot.
“Seth Greenwood.”
“Hi Seth, it’s Ashley.”
He pauses for a moment, and in that split second I wonder if I misunderstood his message, that the last person he wants to hear from is me, that—
“Ashley, good to hear from you. You got my message then, good. I was wondering if we could do something later on this week. I want to ask you about something.”
He wanted me to call! “You can ask me anything,” I say like an idiot middle-schooler.
Mental note: Do not try to be cool.
“How’s Wednesday night? Maybe we could meet at Fresh Choice.”
“Great,” I answer with little enthusiasm. Fresh Choice is a salad bar. No waitresses, no tips, definitely no reservations. Now I’m wondering if I’m not worthy of a sit-down restaurant, does he expect us to go Dutch too? And there’s no mention of the movie.
Two whole days of questions. How will I get through it?
“I’ll see you there at seven. Is that okay?” Seth asks.
He’ll see me there. He can’t pick me up?
“Perfect. I’ll see you then.” Now of course, I’m dying to call Brea. But I wonder if she’s up to hearing about my paltry love life. I reason she probably needs a good laugh and I call her at home, hoping she’s not asleep yet.
Expecting John, I’m surprised when Brea’s voice answers groggily. “Hello?”
“Brea, hi. It’s me.”
“Oh, Ashley. Finally someone who’s speaking in English! Tell me something I can understand. Please. Please. That hospital room made me want to run screaming by the end of the day. I’ve been listening to non-stop chatter in a foreign language for the entire day. Did you know they bicker like Italians?”
“Great. So you felt right at home.”
“Very funny.”
“Hey, I’m not sure if this qualifies as something you can understand, but Seth called and asked me out for Wednesday night.”
“Where?”
“Dinner at Fresh Choice.”
“Oh.”
“Well, it’s better than nothing,” I say brightly.
“True, but not much better.” We both laugh. “What are you going to wear? I wish I could go shopping with you, but I don’t think I’m going to feel up to it after tomorrow and the procedure. Will you bring the outfit by before you wear it?”
A date is, first and foremost, a reason to shop. Ann Taylor calls my name and I know I must find that perfect outfit, the cross between
I look good
, and
Hey, I’m not trying to look good.
“Ann Taylor has this darling pantsuit I saw in the window last week. It’s kind of a maroonish color with beading.”
“Maroon is not your color, Ash. You need something bright like red or white on top. Besides, beading at Fresh Choice? I think you’ll feel a little self-conscious when some toddler splashes Hi-C on you.”
She’s right of course. I hate that. “Okay, there’s a cute nautical outfit at Talbot’s. I saw it in the catalog. It’s red.” And so we dance. The negotiation of the perfect ensemble. Since Brea won’t be there in body, she must be there in spirit, and we discuss everything right down to the earrings and lipstick shade. The talk cheers us both up.
After I hang up, I make myself a gourmet meal of Cup-o-Noodles and Diet Coke and settle in for a night with the fake Prince Charming
Bachelor
. Unfortunately, I can only stomach about five minutes of the show and its pathetic giggling collection of women, since it’s early in the season.
No wonder men think we’re pitiful. I cannot imagine I’m from the same species as these women, much less the same gender. If my mom thinks I’m too smart for the average male, no wonder. According to this show, Anna Nicole Smith is too intelligent for the average male.