Sadie
I’m perched on the edge of the bathtub, my knees jittering nervously along with my insides. There’s a pink and white plastic stick resting on the sink and I can’t take my eyes off it. That little plastic stick and its tiny blue lines hold the key to my happy future.
I blow up a puff of air, fanning my light brown bangs out. I shuffle my feet against the cool tiles and try to keep myself from picking up the pregnancy test. I check the timer on my phone again. Just two more minutes.
There’s a light knock at the door and my husband Dale pokes his headful of black curls around the edge.
“Hey, baby. You doin’ okay in here?” He gives me his devastatingly hot half-smile. My husband has no idea how smoking he really is. He’s the only one who doesn’t realize. With his black curls, bright green eyes, and muscled arms he attracts female attention wherever he goes. Let that man mow the grass on a hot day and all of a sudden, every wife in the neighborhood has to walk her dog or water her plants. He teases me sometimes that if I ever met his twin brother, Carter, that I’d leave him because Carter is the “handsome one.”
“I’m fine, sweetie.” I return his smile but I can feel my nerves tugging the corners of my mouth down. “Just a couple of more minutes, okay. I’ll be right out.”
“Fingers crossed.” He sticks up his hand, fingers twisted together. “This one feels lucky, Sadie-kins.”
He eases the door shut, leaving me alone again. I know he’s just as anxious as me, but he’s trying to hide it for my sake.
I glance at the timer again. I want this. I want this more than anything. The ache to have a child has lodged down deep inside me. When we got married three years I wanted to start trying immediately. I want a tiny slip of love and sweetness all my own. A tender head to kiss and itty bitty toes to nibble. Dale wanted to wait until his brother Carter was out of the military, so he wouldn’t miss out on this huge part of his life. I loved Dale too much to say no.
So we waited.
And now, Carter is due to get out of the Marines. We started trying a few months ago but so far that stick has only one line on it every month.
One line means no baby.
One line means another month of feeling like my body is failing again.
One line means more tears.
Please, I plead silently to the ceiling, please let there be two lines this month.
The timer on my phone chimes, church bells ringing in my yellow bathroom.
My hands are suddenly slick, clammy with fear, and my stomach churns. I take a deep breath, stand up and take two steps to the sink. I swallow past the lump in my throat and look down. The air lodges in my lungs, tight and hard.
There’s one blue line. --
I sweep the plastic stick into the waste basket and cover it with a tissue. I don’t want to see it again. I splash water onto my cheeks and press my fingers into my eyes, rubbing away the beginnings of tears. Then, I let myself out of the bathroom.
Dale is sitting on the bed, a television remote in his hand. He’s flicking through channels on the little TV we have on a corner shelf. When he sees me come out, he turns off the television and drops the remote. There’s his sexy half-smile again.
“So, now when you call me daddy, it’ll be for real and not just some kinky sex thing, right?”
I collapse onto the bed and bury my face in a pillow. The tears start then, hot against my cheeks as they spill over and dampen the cheery sunflowers on the pillow under my head.
“Aw, baby.” Dale’s voice is low. He slides his hand over my back and into my hair, pulling me to him, cradling me in his lap.
I sniffle. “I can’t believe it. Maybe, maybe I did it wrong. I think I want to take another one, these things aren’t always accurate, you know.”
“It’s okay, Sadie. It’s really okay. It’ll happen when it happens. I don’t want you to stress about it. I’ve heard that makes it harder. And you know, Carter will be home soon, we’ll be busy. Your art is starting to take off…” His voice trails off. I hear the silent begging in his voice, asking me to be okay with the test results. He hates to see me sad.
“Besides, a negative test just means we have to try again.” His grin is sexy sweet and his fingers soft as he slips them up my leg, pushing my skirt over my thighs. His lips trail over the shell of my ear, warm and easy against my skin. “I love trying to get you pregnant, baby. It’s just about my favorite thing to do in the whole world.”
Dale’s words seep into my heart and his hands soothe my pain. I love this man more than anything.
His fingers find their way between my legs and he touches me perfectly. He is a man who wanted to know how to please me from the first time we had sex and has made it his mission to know everything that gets me hot. Now, though, I just want him close. I want to feel his skin bare and warm against mine. I want him to slide inside me so that I can forget the disappointment and start to build the hope again that this month might be the month. When he pushes his big cock against my entrance tears spring to my eyes. I grasp him to me, holding him so tightly that has to drop his face into my neck. We move together in a way that is lovely for its familiarity. I may know my husband inside out but that doesn’t make it boring to be with him, and as he brings me to orgasm, he holds my face and kisses me as the pleasure crests and I’m left breathless with pleasure and emotion.
And maybe, just maybe, this time might make the baby I’m desperate to have.
--
I prop a canvas against the wall and drop my brushes into a jar half-filled with solvent. I can’t concentrate on painting tonight. Usually, my art is my escape. I’m not exactly Monet but painting is something I’ve done since I was a child. When I married Dale, he converted the back porch of our house into a studio for me and encouraged me to follow my artistic dreams. Actually, encouraged is an understatement. He insisted. He’s always believed in me, even when I didn’t. He’s always so positive. He thinks if you believe things will work out how you want, then they will. Just like he keeps believing I’ll get pregnant.
I don’t really believe that anymore. I feel like my body is broken. There’s something wrong with it. Sometimes I feel almost rotted inside. Rotted and empty.
Last week, I went to park and sat on a bench and watched the new moms with their shiny strollers. They were gathered in their chatty little mommy group, with circles under their eyes and big cups of coffee in their hands but I could see the pride shining through their tired eyes. I watched as they soothed and fed and pressed kisses onto tiny, tender heads. I watched until they noticed me watching.
Sighing, I flip a canvas around, stare the strokes smoothed across the surface. It’s a landscape scene, a lake with a tree on the shore reflected in its surface. And there’s a tiny red-haired child nestled into the roots of the tree, snoozing, with a teddy bear clutched in one hand. But the child isn’t reflected in the water. I shake my head as I realize even my art reflects my desire for a child. Everything I paint these days is full of children. The lines gentle and the colors soft.
Picking up my phone, I scroll through my contacts, searching for my doctor’s number. I chicken out again and shove the phone away. While I feel there’s something wrong with me, I don’t want science confirming my fears. It’s eating at me. This desire. It’s pecking at my marriage, making me sullen and withdrawn. If I don’t pull myself out of this hole I’m slipping into, I’m afraid it’s going to affect things between me and Dale.
I pick up the phone again, my fingers hovering over the screen before I toss it away again. I can’t do it. I can’t bring myself to find out if what I’m thinking is true. What if I can’t have kids? I know Dale has always said it doesn’t matter, that’s he perfectly happy with just the two of us or twenty kids, whatever I want. I almost resent him a little for pushing it off on me. Whatever I want. I know he means it, that all he wants is for me to be happy, and if what I want is kids then he’ll do whatever he can to make sure that happens. But sometimes I feel like he doesn’t want to back himself into a corner. If he leaves it up to me, he’s not responsible for the outcome.
With a huff, I grab a newly stretched canvas and set it up on the easel. I gather tubes of oils and squeeze them onto a palette, mixing them swiftly with a brush. I settle onto the stool in front of the canvas, grab a brush, and stab at the empty square in front of me. Empty. Like my body.
The colors are dark, slashed across the canvas in a swirling whirlpool with streaks of red. And caught in the center is a girl, a woman, with light brown hair and hazel eyes. She’s trapped, the misery on her face coloring everything around her. There’s a sunflower gripped in her fingers, half of its petals missing. I drop the brush and stare at the painting. Then I grabbed the white acrylic and a large brush. I started with the woman, whiting her out, covering her face and her sad eyes. I pulled the brush across the canvas over and over until everything was gone; the woman, the whirlpool, the dark pulling colors.
I moved across the room, slotting the canvas into a spot on the drying rack so the white could dry. I’d never use the whited-out canvas for anything but practice now. I wouldn’t give it to a client. Paint doesn’t hold as well on a canvas that’s been whited.
I stared at the window and saw the woman staring back at me. Light brown hair, green-gold eyes, sad face. The woman from the whirlpool. I turned away from the window and walked out of the studio. There was nothing in that room that could white me out. Make me new, fresh, something that can be done over. I shut the door behind me and went to make dinner for my husband.