Chapter 3: Corabelle
The end of the second quarter arrives. Jenny and I start repurposing decorations from her baby shower for Tina’s wedding. Even though Tina’s marrying a doctor and they could do pretty much anything, they’ve decided to keep it small and informal. We’re prettying up a small arch to put on a cliff that is important to them.
On the last day of class, my American Lit professor calls me to his office. I’ve been his teaching assistant this last year, and loved every minute of it.
Professor White is great. He’s supported me doubling up on classes so I can get through my master’s sooner. I’m hoping to start work on my doctorate next year and maybe score a better-paid adjunct position so I can start pummeling at my student loans. The TA stipend isn’t much, although I’m grateful to be doing it rather than working at the old coffee shop like I used to.
When I peek through his open door, Professor White is sitting behind his desk. The surface is littered with papers, and a rather unstable stack of books leans unsteadily on one corner.
“Corabelle!” he says, standing. His dress shirt is wrinkled, as always, and his belt is way too long, the end hanging down to his thigh. Apparently he used to weigh twice what he does now, and he keeps the belt to remind him of where he’s been.
But his eyes are merry, and the new beard he’s growing to be fashionable is still scraggly and sparse.
“What’s up?” I ask, dropping my overloaded backpack to the ground and settling on the hardback chair opposite his desk.
“I guess you know Theresa is graduating in December,” he says. Theresa is one of the adjunct professors he supervises. “She’s gotten a position in New York.”
“That’s great!” I say. “She’s worked hard for it.”
“She has. I saw you are within striking distance of completing your master’s. Are you closing in on your thesis?”
My heart hammers. “I am.”
“I’ve really liked your work. Both your help as a TA and your graduate papers. Real standout stuff.” He opens a desk drawer. “I kept this one.” He places a stapled set of pages on the pile in front of him.
I recognize it. My paper on Dante’s Inferno. I’d probably gotten a little too personal in it, comparing some of my experiences to his infamous Circles of Hell.
“Tapping into your own life story to bring a unique interpretation to a work is what literature is all about,” he says. “So, I’m relieving you as my TA.”
My body goes cold. He’s firing me?
“What?” I ask, my voice shaking.
“I want you in a better position to become an adjunct when Theresa leaves. If you’re under contract for the academic year as my TA, you can’t easily shift over.”
It takes a moment for the words to sink in. If I’m a TA, I can’t be an adjunct when it’s time. This is a good thing.
“Really? So soon?” I ask.
“Will you complete your work and your thesis by December?”
I think fast. It’s seven months away. “I can, as long as I take an extra class third quarter.”
“Good, consider it done. You could probably use the break from TA duties while you hammer that thesis out anyway.”
I frown. “But I’ll lose the stipend.”
It isn’t much, but it’s something. I’ll have to pick up shifts at Cool Beans, if they’ll take me back. Or get some other job. We run too close on bills to lose that money.
“I’ll handle that. They haven’t selected scholarship recipients for fall quarter yet. I’ll make sure they make up that pay.”
“You will?”
He smiles. “Absolutely.”
I sit back in the chair. It’s what I’ve wanted forever. To move through my teaching experience so I could become a professor. Adjunct is the next step. It’s the best possible scenario.
Except.
I want a baby.
After our desert rock moment, Gavin and I agreed that we wouldn’t buy condoms after all, and I wouldn’t get on the pill. If there wasn’t enough sperm, there wasn’t enough. If something happened, it was meant to be.
But, here was this position.
If I got pregnant, the whole plan would collapse.
“Corabelle?”
I snap back to Professor White.
“What is your concentration?” he asks.
“North American Lit,” I say quickly.
“Good, good,” he says. “I’ll get that scholarship application to you.” He stands up. “I’ve never had more pleasure in firing someone.”
I pick up my backpack. “I’ve never been so happy to get fired. Thank you. I can’t wait.” I’m gushing, but my mind is elsewhere. I have to tell Gavin I’ve changed my mind.
“You okay, Corabelle?” Professor White asks.
“Sure, yes, of course,” I say. I need to get out of here before I blow this. “Thank you!”
I hurry out, walking quickly down the hall and out of the building. My breathing is labored, and I suck in air. Did I just give up on having a baby? What did that mean?
The quad is quiet. I find a bench and sit down. I miss Jenny being here on campus with me, but she graduated a year ago. I haven’t made a friend like her on campus since I started my graduate coursework. It’s different. Everyone is focused and often juggling work and school, sometimes family too.
Family. What I don’t have. Won’t have.
Might never have.
My mind whirs. I can’t quite assimilate this new version of my future against what we had just decided. I want to rationalize why I don’t want a baby right now after all. Convince myself I’m making the right choice.
Would a baby even happen if I gave up this opportunity?
Gavin’s sperm count is low. And even if it wasn’t, I don’t know how likely it would be that another baby would have a heart defect.
Mom had four miscarriages. Why? Did those babies have bad hearts? Finn’s condition could be genetic. Or it could be environmental. Or just bad luck.
I hadn’t had a reason to think on pregnancy for a long time. It only just now became possible again.
A little bit possible. Or, at least, not impossible.
I’m possible.
I breathe deeply, trying to relax. I’m spiraling back into my old thinking, my old worries. I have a real thing going here. A real chance.
The job I’ve always wanted. The opportunity I’ve waited for.
A chance to move on.
It isn’t time for babies.
When I get to my car, instead of heading for home, I stop by a pharmacy and pick up a big box of condoms. Sixty count. Gavin will think it’s great.
At home, I head into the bathroom and move aside my boxes of tampons to unbury the ovulation kit I bought a few weeks ago, when I learned Tina was coming home to marry Darion and have their baby.
The machine is heavy in my hand. So recently I had held that hope close to my heart. It was a wonderful hope — the idea that I would have my baby too, and we three friends would raise our children together.
Instead, I will focus on teaching and learning. There will be time for babies, but it isn’t now.
I could return the ovulation computer. We could use the money. By the time I might use it, the little sticks that go inside would be expired.
But I can’t quite do it. I need to keep this hope in my house.
I bend down to peer into the cabinet. In the very back are things we rarely use. Old towels. An electric razor that doesn’t hold a charge. Pink sponge rollers my mother insisted I should keep.
I shove the box to the back with those items. Gavin said he would get a new job in a year. By then, I’d be an adjunct professor working on my Ph.D. We’d both make real money, get out of debt.
Everything was working out.
A family could wait.