"Good People" - читать интересную книгу автора (Sakey Marcus)

MAY 2006

2

TOM REED COULDN’T SLEEP for rain and acronyms.

The rain wasn’t real. It came from the sound gizmo on Anna’s night table. The noise wasn’t actually much like rain, more like a hum of static. She said it helped her sleep, and he didn’t mind, though it made him smile when she turned it on while real rain fell. Rain from a machine to mask the sound of rain on the windowsill, the same way they had thick curtains to block the daylight and an alarm clock that simulated the sunrise. They’d laughed about it, years ago, how they’d lost the battle against yuppiehood without firing a shot.

But the rain wasn’t really the problem. It was the acronyms.

TTC. HPT. IUI. D amp;C. IVF. ICSI.

At first they’d seemed amusing, if a little precious: TTC for trying to conceive, HPT for home pregnancy test. Anna found a whole community online, thousands of women sharing stories on fertility Web sites, posting their most intimate details on message boards, analyzing basal body temperature and cervical mucus consistency like oracles peering at tea leaves. The Web sites had made Anna feel better, had provided something it seemed he couldn’t. The first acronyms had come from there.

The later ones came from the doctors, and they were neither amusing nor precious. They were cruel and costly. Tom rolled on his side, careful not to disturb her. They used to sleep spooned, the heat of her back nestling his chest, the smell of her hair, the sense that their bodies snapped together like Legos. Sometimes it seemed like a long time ago.

IUI, intrauterine insemination.

He tried to think about work, about the specific, boring mundanity of it. He pictured his office, eight by ten, drop ceiling, metal modular desk, the slim window through which the mirrored side of the neighboring skyscraper bounced a view of his own back at him. But that led to thoughts of the 9:30 status meeting he was going to miss, of sighs and shaking heads. He tried to guess how many e-mails would be waiting when he made it in.

IVF, in vitro fertilization.

The light that slipped past the curtain glowed faint silver. The clock read 4:12. There weren’t many reasons to be awake at 4:12. In his twenties, sure: a Saturday night, he and Anna and the old crew, candles burning, beer gone, Leonard Cohen on the stereo, a last joint circling as people fell asleep against each other on garage-sale furniture. In his twenties, 4:12 made sense.

At thirty-five, though, 4:12 was a moment to sleep through. There was only one reason people his age tended to be awake at 4:12.

TWW, two-week wait. Ending today.

ANNA FELT THE bed creak and sag as Tom rolled over. He made faint sounds and nuzzled his pillow. How could he sleep? Her thoughts were loud enough to drown out the recorded rain. She was amazed he didn’t hear them, didn’t respond like she’d spoken aloud.

This is it. This time is the one.

I’m going to be a mother.

Please, God, let this be it.

But then.

That cramping feels awfully familiar.

Don’t be PMS.

I can’t do this again.

The hardest part about IVF was that she was indisputably pregnant. Her harvested eggs had been combined with Tom’s sperm. This last cycle they had even gone for intracytoplasmic injection, injecting each egg with a single sperm. Of the five eggs they had harvested, three had been successfully fertilized. Three microscopic embryos. Babies.

Because this was their fourth cycle of IVF, the doctors had transferred all of them. Which meant she was not just pregnant, but pregnant three times over. There were babies alive inside of her. But they would stay alive only if they attached to her uterus. If they didn’t live, it was her fault.

Stop, she thought, the reaction routine to the point of a mantra. She knew fault didn’t enter into it. It wasn’t like she hadn’t done everything: the diets, the exercise, the post-sex positions, the vitamins, the hormones, the prayer. But none of it mattered to the voice in her head, the one whispering that every other woman could do it, that it was the most basic thing in the world, that to fail at that was like failing at breathing. Women gave birth. That was what made them women.

Stop. This time is the one. You’re going to be a mother.

Please, God, let this be it.

SHORTLY AFTER SIX, he gave up, tiptoed across creaky floors to the bathroom. He tuned in WBEZ as the shower warmed: news of the war, the indictment of a telecom CEO, a commercial for Eight Forty-Eight, Steve Edwards promising to talk about the governor’s latest tax plan and interview a local poet. It felt normal, comfortable, the same sounds from the same tinny radio, the sputter-kick of the water, the faint sourness of morning teeth.

But today could be the last day of your old life. He smiled as he rubbed shampoo into his hair.

Afterward, he quick-dried and wrapped the towel around his waist. In the bedroom, Anna lay on her back, blankets pulled to her chin, hands on her stomach, staring at the unmoving ceiling fan.

“How you feeling?”

“Fat.”

He laughed. “Fat’s good, right?”

“I think so.” She pushed off the covers and started to sit, then leaned back with a groan.

“You okay?” He was beside the bed without realizing he’d moved.

She nodded, took his hand to pull herself upright. “Just cramps.”

“Cramps?” She had vicious ones with her period, which was one of those bits of information, like her body temperature to two decimal places, that he’d never anticipated knowing. He could see she was scared, so he put a hand on her shoulder, said, “It’s the hormones.”

Anna blew air through her nose, then nodded. “You’re right.” She stood slowly, started for the bathroom. “Tell you one thing, I won’t miss sticking myself every day.”

He waited till he heard the water, then pulled on slacks and the gray cashmere sweater she’d given him for Christmas a couple of years back. Kettle on, eggs cracked into a pan, bread in the toaster. He left everything going as he unlocked the front door, went downstairs, and stepped out into a crisp spring morning. A haze of clouds sizzled against the beginnings of a bright blue day. He stooped for the Trib, then turned, saw Bill Samuelson staring at him, and nearly flipped backward off the porch.

“Jesus.” Tom put a hand to his pounding heart. “You scared me.”

“Easy to do.” Their tenant took a drag from his cigarette, paused to spit a scrap of tobacco. “Don’t you ever look around?” His voice was low and rich, a silk-smooth contrast to his generally pissy attitude.

“Just a little jumpy this morning, I guess.” Tom shifted from one leg to the other, the cement cold against his bare feet. He itched to bum a smoke, reminded himself that he’d quit. “Kind of a long night.”

It was the sort of comment that would prompt most people to say, Really? Why’s that? But Bill just looked away. Since he’d rented the bottom floor of their two-flat, they’d barely spoken. He kept to himself, never seemed to have guests, disappeared for long stretches of time, and on the rare occasions they did bump into each other, was always right on the verge of rude. But his check hit the mailbox every month, and that was about all Tom cared about.

Back in the kitchen he dumped the Trib on the counter, poured tea, flipped eggs, and tried not to think about acronyms.

IT WAS GOING TO BE FINE. The sky was blue, spring was here, and she was pregnant. Sunlight made all the difference. Who wasn’t nervous at 4:12 in the morning? A terrible hour to be the only one awake.

She reclined in the passenger seat, the back tilted thirty degrees to take some of the pressure off her belly. Her cramping was a little better, but her breasts were unbelievably sore. She’d had to dodge Tom’s hug this morning, and she could tell that had bothered him.

Which was fair. More than. She’d make it up to him. But right now, she could think about only one thing. And all the physical symptoms had to be good signs. She felt different this time than the others.

The morning rush hour was on, and people filled the sidewalks, men and women in business casual. Life casual. Her cell phone rang, and she leaned forward to dig it from her purse, wincing as her breasts swung. She flipped it open, checked the caller ID. Shook her head and tucked the phone away unanswered.

“Who was it?”

“Work.”

He cocked his head.

“I’ll call them later,” she said. “After.” She could feel his stare. “It’s just a phone call. Don’t read into it.”

The clinic was in a nondescript office complex. Orange pillars, bland signs, a cramped parking lot. Tom found a spot for the Pontiac and came around to help her out of the car. The air was cool but the sun on the top of her head felt good.

Even at a quarter to nine, the waiting room was packed. She signed in and took a seat. Tom had his BlackBerry out and was punching buttons, mouth curled into a small frown. Anna felt a surge of anger – not like e-mail couldn’t wait – but wrote it off to hormones.

She pulled a magazine off the table, a People three weeks out of date, the cover given over to the “Shooting Star” robbery. When it had happened, the tabloids had been full of it, and she’d followed the story with that voyeuristic tingle that came from something lurid happening in her backyard. But now, as she flipped the pages and stared at the photos – the Star raising one hand to block photographers, somber police standing outside a dance club, a driver’s license photo of the dead bodyguard – it couldn’t hold her attention.

When she’d been a kid, Christmas had killed her. The waiting, the anticipation, it was too much. She even had a special Countdown-to-Christmas dance, which basically involved flailing spasmodically in front of the tree, arms and legs flying, dizzy with need. Her parents had found it hysterical. The wait for their name to be called reminded her of that time. Maybe I should have a Find-Out-If-You’re-Pregnant dance.

Finally a nurse in blue scrubs led them back to an examination room. A poster on the wall detailed her anatomy, uterus and fallopian tubes and ovaries and the rest of it, all drawn in pastel colors and labeled.

“How are you feeling?” The nurse busied herself collecting swabs and tape.

“Okay. Some cramping, but I’m feeling better.”

The woman nodded. “Roll up your sleeve?”

After two weeks giving herself shots of progesterone, the prick of the needle to draw blood was nothing. Anna stared intently at the dark liquid filling the tube.

“Okay,” the nurse said when she was finished. “You can call for your results around noon. Any questions?”

“I know the hormones throw it off, but would it be really stupid to hit Walgreens and grab a home pregnancy test?”

The nurse laughed. “Hold out, honey. Just a couple more hours.”

Christmas had never been so far.

TOM GLANCED AT HIS WATCH, winced. Shit. He’d told Daniels he’d be late, but this was pushing it. “Can you drop me on your way in?”

“I’m not going.”

He paused, then said, “You’ve missed a lot of work lately, babe.”

“I can’t sit at my desk and pretend to give a shit about budgets and timelines, okay? Not today.”

He sighed, jingled the car keys. Pictured the phone on his desk, the red message light blinking. Then he saw the look in her eyes. “Come on,” he said.

They drove downtown and left the Pontiac in an underground garage, rode the elevator up to Millennium Park. The sky was cloudless, and the brilliance of the day had people out in droves: students lounging on the benches, tourists snapping pictures, toddlers playing in the fountain. He got himself a cup of coffee and a juice for her, and they sat on the steps, watching people. Tom used his cup to gesture at a girl with purple hair and a nose ring. “Her.”

Anna followed his look. “She’s a chef. Her dream is to open a restaurant called Gloom. The servers will wear black eye shadow, and the menu will only have cigarettes, red wine, and fresh suckling pig.”

He laughed. “What about him?” An enormously fat man squeezed into a Bulls T-shirt.

“Twelve-inch cock. He makes his girlfriends call him Steel Blue Johnson. Tom, what if it’s negative?”

He looked over at her, his wife, this woman he’d known forever. The wind tugged waves of auburn hair around her face, and she used one hand to brush them out of her eyes. “It won’t be.”

“What if it is?”

“Then we’ll try again.”

She made a sound that was nothing like a laugh. “We’re in debt to our eyeballs.”

“Everybody is in debt to their eyeballs,” he said.

“Not everybody is dropping fifteen grand a pop on IVF.”

He took a slug of cold coffee.

“All this time. The doctor’s visits, all the shots. My God, all that money.” She shook her head. “If this comes up negative, it was for nothing.” Her eyes narrowed, and he followed them to a woman holding hands with a little girl. The girl’s hair was so blond it was almost white, and she wore a polka-dot sundress. They looked like they’d been cast by Hallmark. Anna stared, faint crow’s-feet etching around her eyes. When had those arrived? “Nothing,” she said.

Nothing, he thought, and knew she was right. This thing other people did so easily, for them it came with a long list of costs, not all financial. At first trying for a baby had been fun, had put a charge back into their sex. After a while, when nothing happened, the calendars and thermometers had entered into it. Three days a month became a nonstop fuckathon. He’d had these visions of himself as an oil derrick made of flesh, pumping endlessly and joylessly away. The rest of the month it just seemed like there wasn’t any point. And then acronyms had entered their lives.

Somewhere along the path, things had changed between them. He loved her, knew she still loved him. But it seemed like a habit now. The remnants of something.

“It’s going to be okay,” he said with more conviction than he felt. “It’s all going to be okay.”

She cocked her head and looked at him. It felt like a long moment before she turned back to the park. They waited. When the clock on her phone read 11:58, she said, “I’m scared.”

“Do you want me to?”

Anna took a deep breath, shook her head. “Christmas morning.” She started dialing before he could ask what that meant. The steps were cold through his slacks. Tom could feel his pulse as he listened to her tell the nurse her name. She fell silent, put on hold, and their eyes met, both of them thinking the same thing, focusing all their hope.

Then he heard the murmur of the nurse returning, and though he couldn’t make out her words, he could read the tone, and more than that, Anna’s face, the way she drooped, like everything propping her up had been knocked away, and as he saw his wife begin to cry, Tom Reed added an acronym of his own to the list.

FUBAR. Fucked up beyond all repair.