graph of her.She stared at the ceiling uncertainly as he passed a gentle tongue along her belly. Wait, she wanted to say.
Do I really want to do this?
she thought.
Am I making a mistake?
But it seemed like it was too late.
This occurred to her often after the bus had passed. She could pinpoint the moment when she almost said, “No! Stop!” And her baby, and her life as it was, would have ceased to exist.
And then, without warning, the baby, Robin, was all grown up, and the young woman who had stood at the window brushing her hair was like a ghost in an attic. January read an article in a newspaper about “bucket lists,” which was a list of things you wanted to do before you died, and she found herself looking at the various suggestions with growing dread. Skydiving? Absolutely not. Visiting Florence? Extremely doubtful, given her salary and fear of flying. Learning to play a musical instrument? Too complicated and boring. All the things that people longed for seemed a little stupid, she thought.
Meanwhile, in the living room, Jeffrey had inserted
Shrek
into the DVD player, and there was that jolly music yet again,
maybe I’m in love, maybe I’m in love
, etc.
And then Robin was coming home from college for the Christmas holidays, and January and Jeffrey stood in the baggage claim area of the airport, awaiting her.
He had promised that he wouldn’t tell Robin. She had extracted this vow after that first night, and he had agreed, and she basically trusted him, although she worried a little.
“So,” she said to him now, as they sat watching a cluster of people withdrawing luggage from a conveyor belt. “So, anyways … I think it’s really not a good idea for us to talk to Robin about what’s going on with us.”
“About …?” said Jeffrey. He had been hypnotized by the slow trundling of baggage along the carousel, and now looked up at her, perplexed.
“About us having
sex,”
January said. “Don’t tell Robin about that.”
“Why would I tell Robin about that?”
“I don’t know, Jeffrey,” she said. “You have brain damage. I have no idea what your thought processes are like. I’m just reminding you, okay?”
“Okay,” he said.
“I’m not trying to be mean,” she said. “Do you think I’m mean?”
“No,” he said, and folded his hands in his lap. She looked at her cellphone to check the time.
“She should be here by now,” January said.
Outside, it was sleeting a bit. The news had spoken hysterically about a “monster storm” spreading across the Midwest, but she hadn’t paid much attention until now. She stood below the monitors and found Robin’s flight. DELAYED , it said.
This was the kind of thing that used to make Jeffrey crazy. He hated disruptions to his schedule, he hated being made to wait, he would descend into tantrums of outrage when he encountered a long queue or was put on hold on the telephone or, God forbid, had to sit in an actual waiting room—she could remember howhe had once behaved at the obstetrician, sitting there with his legs crossed and his foot jiggling, flipping irritably through the pages of
Parents
magazine and
Good Housekeeping
with wrist flicks that seemed almost like slaps, and she’d said, “Please, Jeffrey, will you just go for a walk or something,” which sent him spiraling into a decline, and he spent the entire rest of the afternoon radiating gloomy, silent resentment. (Note:
He
had not in fact been the one who was eight months pregnant at the time.)
Now, on the other hand, as they lingered and lingered in the airport, Jeffrey seemed perfectly content. He was still as a potted plant, and had a little transcendent smile as they sat there in the uncomfortable plastic chairs. A few rows away, a young mother was struggling to keep her toddler from running amok; she had him strapped into his stroller and he was flailing and arching his back like a torture victim, letting out low, guttural, straining cries as the mother attempted to
Do I really want to do this?
she thought.
Am I making a mistake?
But it seemed like it was too late.
This occurred to her often after the bus had passed. She could pinpoint the moment when she almost said, “No! Stop!” And her baby, and her life as it was, would have ceased to exist.
And then, without warning, the baby, Robin, was all grown up, and the young woman who had stood at the window brushing her hair was like a ghost in an attic. January read an article in a newspaper about “bucket lists,” which was a list of things you wanted to do before you died, and she found herself looking at the various suggestions with growing dread. Skydiving? Absolutely not. Visiting Florence? Extremely doubtful, given her salary and fear of flying. Learning to play a musical instrument? Too complicated and boring. All the things that people longed for seemed a little stupid, she thought.
Meanwhile, in the living room, Jeffrey had inserted
Shrek
into the DVD player, and there was that jolly music yet again,
maybe I’m in love, maybe I’m in love
, etc.
And then Robin was coming home from college for the Christmas holidays, and January and Jeffrey stood in the baggage claim area of the airport, awaiting her.
He had promised that he wouldn’t tell Robin. She had extracted this vow after that first night, and he had agreed, and she basically trusted him, although she worried a little.
“So,” she said to him now, as they sat watching a cluster of people withdrawing luggage from a conveyor belt. “So, anyways … I think it’s really not a good idea for us to talk to Robin about what’s going on with us.”
“About …?” said Jeffrey. He had been hypnotized by the slow trundling of baggage along the carousel, and now looked up at her, perplexed.
“About us having
sex,”
January said. “Don’t tell Robin about that.”
“Why would I tell Robin about that?”
“I don’t know, Jeffrey,” she said. “You have brain damage. I have no idea what your thought processes are like. I’m just reminding you, okay?”
“Okay,” he said.
“I’m not trying to be mean,” she said. “Do you think I’m mean?”
“No,” he said, and folded his hands in his lap. She looked at her cellphone to check the time.
“She should be here by now,” January said.
Outside, it was sleeting a bit. The news had spoken hysterically about a “monster storm” spreading across the Midwest, but she hadn’t paid much attention until now. She stood below the monitors and found Robin’s flight. DELAYED , it said.
This was the kind of thing that used to make Jeffrey crazy. He hated disruptions to his schedule, he hated being made to wait, he would descend into tantrums of outrage when he encountered a long queue or was put on hold on the telephone or, God forbid, had to sit in an actual waiting room—she could remember howhe had once behaved at the obstetrician, sitting there with his legs crossed and his foot jiggling, flipping irritably through the pages of
Parents
magazine and
Good Housekeeping
with wrist flicks that seemed almost like slaps, and she’d said, “Please, Jeffrey, will you just go for a walk or something,” which sent him spiraling into a decline, and he spent the entire rest of the afternoon radiating gloomy, silent resentment. (Note:
He
had not in fact been the one who was eight months pregnant at the time.)
Now, on the other hand, as they lingered and lingered in the airport, Jeffrey seemed perfectly content. He was still as a potted plant, and had a little transcendent smile as they sat there in the uncomfortable plastic chairs. A few rows away, a young mother was struggling to keep her toddler from running amok; she had him strapped into his stroller and he was flailing and arching his back like a torture victim, letting out low, guttural, straining cries as the mother attempted to
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