It’s been said that romance in the latter stages of pregnancy is impossible, but Jeremy learned how wrong that was. Though Lexie had reached the point in her pregnancy where making love was uncomfortable, they lay close together in bed, sharing memories of their respective childhoods. They talked for hours, laughing at some of the things they did and wincing at others, and when at last they turned out the lights, Jeremy found himself wishing the night would never end. In the darkness, he wrapped his arms around her, still amazed at the thought that he could do this forever; and just when he was beginning to doze off, he felt her gently move his hands to her belly. In the stillness, the baby was awake, moving and kicking, each sensation making him believe that all was right and would turn out well. When they finally fell asleep, he wanted nothing more than to spend another ten thousand evenings like the one they’d just shared.
The next morning, they ate breakfast in bed, feeding each other fruit and feeling like a honeymooning couple again. He must have kissed her a dozen times that morning. But on the drive home, they grew quiet, the spell of the past hours broken, both of them dreading whatever lay ahead.
The following week, knowing another seven days wouldn’t help, Jeremy called his editor again; again, his editor said there was no problem and that he understood the pressures Jeremy was facing. But an almost imperceptible edge of impatience in his voice reminded Jeremy that he couldn’t postpone the inevitable forever. That knowledge increased the pressure—and kept him awake for two nights—but it seemed inconsequential compared with the anxiety he and Lexie felt as they waited for their next ultrasound.
The room was the same, the machine was the same, the technician was the same, but somehow everything felt different. They weren’t here to learn how the baby was doing, they were here to learn if she was going to be deformed or die.
The gel was smoothed over Lexie’s tummy, and the hand piece was placed upon it. Both of them immediately heard the heartbeat: strong, fast, and steady. Lexie and Jeremy exhaled at the same time.
They’d learned by now what to look for, and Jeremy found his eyes drawn to the amniotic band and its proximity to the baby. He watched to see whether it had attached, could anticipate where the technician would move the hand piece next, knew exactly what the technician was thinking. He saw the shadows, forcing himself to keep quiet when he wanted to tell her to move the hand piece and then zeroing in when she did exactly that. He watched as the technician watched, knew what she was seeing, knew what she knew.
The baby was getting larger, the technician noted as if speaking to no one in particular, and she said the baby’s size made it difficult to read accurately. She continued to take her time, bringing up one image after the other. Jeremy knew what she would say, knew she would tell them the baby was okay, but the words she spoke were unexpected. The technician explained that the physician had asked her to go ahead and tell them if things were going well and that she felt comfortable in saying that the band hadn’t attached. Still, she wanted to get the doctor to make sure. She rose and went to get the physician. Jeremy and Lexie waited in the room for what seemed like forever. The doctor finally appeared, looking tense and tired; perhaps he’d delivered a baby the night before. But he was patient and methodical. After watching the technician, he ran his examination before agreeing with the technician’s conclusion.
“The baby is fine,” he said. “She’s doing well, better than I expected. But I’m pretty sure the band is getting slightly larger. It seems to be growing along with the baby, but I can’t be sure.”
“What about a C-section?” Jeremy asked.
The doctor nodded, as if he’d anticipated the question. “We could, but C-sections come with their own risks. It’s major surgery, and even though the baby is viable, she would be at risk for other problems. Considering that the band hasn’t attached and the baby’s doing fine, I think that would actually entail more risk for both Lexie and the baby. But we’ll keep that possibility open, okay? Let’s just keep going like we are for the time being.”
Jeremy nodded, unable to speak. Four weeks to go.
Jeremy held Lexie’s hand on the way back to the car; once inside, he saw the same concern on her face that he felt himself. They heard the baby was fine, but the news was a whisper compared with the deafening announcement that a C-section was out for the time being and that the band seemed to be growing. Even if the doctor wasn’t sure.
Lexie turned toward him, her lips pressed together, looking suddenly tired. “Let’s go home,” she said. Her hands rested instinctively on her belly, and her face was flushed.
“You sure?”
“Yeah,” she said.
He was just about to start the engine when he saw her lower her head into her hands. “I hate this! I hate that just when you allow yourself to believe that everything’s going to be okay, even for an instant, you find out that we were just being set up for something worse. I’m just so sick of this!”
I am, too, Jeremy wanted to say. “I know you are,” he said soothingly. There was nothing else he could say; what he wanted was to somehow make the situation better, to fix it. What she wanted, he recognized, was for someone simply to listen.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know this is just as hard on you as it’s been on me. And I know you’re just as worried. It’s just that you seem so much better able to handle it than I am.”
Despite it all, he laughed. “I doubt it. My stomach started doing flip-flops the instant the doctor walked in the room. I’m developing an aversion to doctors. They give me the heebie-jeebies. Whatever happens, Claire can’t become a doctor. I’m going to have to put my foot down there.”
“How can you joke at a time like this?”
“It’s how I deal with stress.”
She smiled. “You could throw a temper tantrum.”
“I don’t think so. That’s more your style.”
“I’ve been doing that enough for the both of us. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. And besides, it was kind of good news. So far, so good. That’s what we were hoping for.”
She reached for his hand. “You ready to go home?”
“Yeah,” he said. “And let me tell you, I’m really looking forward to an apple juice on the rocks to steady the nerves.”
“No, you have a beer. I’ll have the apple juice and look on enviously.”
“Hey,” Lexie said the following week.
They’d just finished dinner, and Jeremy had gone into his office. He was sitting at the desk, staring at the computer screen. When he heard Lexie’s voice, he turned to see her standing in the doorway, thinking again that despite the bulging belly, she was the most gorgeous woman he’d ever seen.
“How are you?”
“I’m fine. But I just thought I’d check to see how it’s coming.”
Since their marriage, he’d been telling her exactly what had been happening with his writing, but only when she asked. There was no use volunteering his own daily struggles when she got home from work. How many times could a person hear that her spouse is failing before she finally began to believe that he was a failure? Instead, he’d taken to retreating into his office, as if hoping for divine intervention and attempting to make the impossible possible.
“The same,” he said, simultaneously evasive and descriptive. With his answer, he thought she might nod and turn to leave; that had been her response in the last couple of months, once she learned he’d already postponed his last two columns. Instead, she stepped into the room.
“Would you like some company?”
“I always love company,” he said. “Especially when nothing seems to be working.”
“Tough day?”
“Like I said, the same as always.”
She entered his office, but instead of moving toward the chair in the corner, she walked toward him and put her hand on the armrest. Jeremy took the hint: He slid back the chair and she took a seat on his lap. She put her arm around his shoulder, ignoring his surprise.
“Sorry for squishing you,” she said. “I know I’m getting heavy.”
“It’s no problem. Anytime you want to sit on my lap, feel free to do so.”
She stared at him before finally letting out a long sigh. “I haven’t been fair with you,” she confessed.
“What are you talking about?”
“All of it,” she said, tracing an invisible pattern on his shoulder. “I haven’t been fair since the beginning.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying,” he responded, ignoring her touch.
“All of it,” she said again. “I’ve been thinking about all you’ve done in the last nine months, and I want you to know that I want to spend the rest of my life with you, no matter where that life brings us.” She paused. “I know I’m not making any sense, so let me get to the point. I married a writer,” she continued. “And that’s what I want you to do.”
“I’m trying,” he said. “That’s all I’ve been doing since I’ve been down here. . . .”
“That’s my point,” she said. “Do you know why I love you? I love you because of the way you’ve been ever since we found out about Claire. Because you always sound like you’re sure everything’s going to be okay, because every time I get down, you seem to know what to say or what to do. But most of all, I love you for who you are, and I want you to know I’d do anything to help you.”
She clasped her arms around his neck. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately about what you’ve been going through. I don’t know . . . maybe it was just too much. Look at all the changes you’ve made since January. Marriage, the house, the pregnancy . . . and on top of all that, you moved down here. Your job is different from mine. For the most part, I know what I’m going to do every day. Granted, there are times when it’s tedious or frustrating, but it’s not as if I think the library will close if I don’t do my job. But your job . . . it’s creative. I couldn’t do what you do. I couldn’t come up with columns every month or write articles like you do. They’re amazing.”
Jeremy didn’t bother to hide his surprise as she ran a finger through his hair.
“That’s what I’ve been doing at the library when I have a few extra minutes. I think I’ve read everything you’ve written, and, I don’t know, I guess I just don’t want you to stop. And if living here is what’s stopping you, I can’t ask you to make that sacrifice.”
“It’s not a sacrifice,” he protested. “I wanted to come down here. You didn’t force me.”
“No, but you knew where I stood. You knew I never wanted to leave. And I don’t, but I will.” She met his gaze. “You’re my husband, and I’ll follow you, even if that means moving to New York if you think that will help.”
He didn’t know what to say. “You’d leave Boone Creek?”
“If that’s what you think you need to write.”
“What about Doris?”
“I’m not saying I won’t visit. But Doris would understand. We’ve already discussed it.”
She smiled, waiting for his response, and for an instant Jeremy considered it. He imagined the energy of the city, the lights of Times Square, the illuminated outline of the Manhattan skyline at night. He thought of his daily runs in Central Park and his favorite diner, the endless possibilities of new restaurants, plays, stores, and people . . .
But only for an instant. As he glanced through the window and saw the whitewashed bark of cypress trees standing on the banks of Boone Creek, with the water so still that it reflected the sky, he knew he wouldn’t leave. Nor, he realized with an intensity that surprised him, did he want to.
“I’m happy here,” he said. “And I don’t think moving to New York is what I need to write.”
“Just like that?” she said. “Don’t you want some time to think about it?”
“No,” he said. “I’ve got everything I need right here.”
After she left, he started straightening up his desk and was just about to shut off the computer when he noticed Doris’s journal near the mail. It had been on the desk since he’d moved in, and he realized he should return it. He opened it and saw the names on the pages. How many still lived in the area, he wondered, and what had become of the children? Did they go to college? Were they married? Did they know their mothers had gone to Doris before their births?
He wondered how many people would believe Doris if she appeared on television with her journal and told her story. He guessed half the audience, maybe even more. But why? Why would a person believe something so ridiculous?
Pulling up to the computer, he pondered the question, suggesting answers as they came to him. He made notes about how theory influences observation, how anecdotes differ from evidence, how bold statements are often perceived intuitively as truth, that rumors seldom have any basis in reality, that most people rarely require a burden of proof. He came up with fifteen observations and began citing examples to make his case. As he typed, he couldn’t shake the feeling of giddiness, of amazement, that the words were flowing. He was afraid to stop, afraid to turn on the lamp, afraid to get a cup of coffee, lest the muse desert him. At first, he was afraid to delete anything, even when it was wrong, for the same reason; then instinct took over and he pressed his luck, and still the words came. An hour later, he found himself staring in satisfaction at what he knew would be his next column: “Why People Believe Anything.”
He printed it and found himself reading the column once more. It wasn’t done yet. It was rough, and he knew he needed to edit it. But the bones were there, and more ideas were coming, and he knew with sudden certainty that his block was over. Still, he jotted down several ideas on the page in front of him, just in case.