Possibilities
Sorry it's taken so long! Here is part two of this story. I expect it to be nine or ten parts and the next parts will follow much more quickly.
II.
The next day, you say nothing about babies or children or even short adults. You drive into work together, you sneak up to immunology to steal coffee, you diagnose a patient, you steal lunch from Wilson, you mock Allison for having to stay late to do paperwork, and then you sit in her office listening to your iPod while you wait for her. All in all, a typical day.
The next day is much the same, and the day after that and the day after that. You wonder where all this patience is coming from. Must be something in the water.
On the fourth day, the routine is the same but when you are lying in bed Cameron finally says something. It’s not what you’re expecting.
“Why do you want a child?” she asks, her voice low but clear, coming to your ears through the darkness of the room.
You roll over to face her but she’s staring up at the ceiling and you can’t see her eyes. It’s pretty clear that your answer to the question is going to have an effect on Allison’s decision, and you know you’d better say something good, but you already told her that your recent feelings confuse even you. That explanation didn’t work for her, it seems, and now it feels like you’re about to take a make-up exam you didn’t even know you were supposed to be studying for.
“Why wouldn’t I?” you say, trying to distract her.
“Because you hate all people,” she says bluntly.
“I hate kids less than I hate everyone else,” you counter, but you know she isn’t going to accept that.
Rolling back over again, you stare up towards the ceiling, not really able to make it out in the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains.
“I wouldn’t have wanted kids with Stacy,” you say, and hear her harsh intake of breath beside you.
“What?” It’s spoken quietly, but you think you can hear an edge of hurt in that single word, and you wish you’d come up with a better explanation.
“If the leg had never happened, and she’d never crippled me, and we’d somehow managed to stay together, I still wouldn’t have wanted kids with her.”
“I don’t--”
“You asked a question and I’m answering,” you say, cutting her off. “Now listen up. I’m not going to repeat myself.”
You take a breath and continue with what you were saying.
“I never would have thought about wanting to share her attention with some ankle-biter, and I wouldn’t have wanted to devote any of mine. I wouldn’t have wanted to see her pregnant. Hell, I still can’t imagine that. You can keep asking me why I want a kid now, and what’s changed, and I’m going to keep answering you the same damn way. I don’t know. All I know is that I think about you with a fat belly and swollen ankles and it’s something I wish I could see. I think about holding a kid while you sit next to me and it’s something I want to do. I think about loving something else besides you and I actually think I can do it.”
Tilting your head towards her, you can just make out her features.
“I’m not saying I won’t suck at it,” you feel it necessary to tack that addendum on to your pathetically sappy speech.
“I don’t think you’d suck at it,” she replies after a short pause.
When she doesn’t say anything else, you don’t know what to do. You aren’t about to beg or pressure her into anything, and it’s not like you’ve always been Mr. Forthcoming, so her silence isn’t something you can resent. A few minutes pass and you think she’s fallen asleep so you roll onto your side and wait for sleep.
“I’m not trying to be a bitch,” she says quietly about five minutes later, just as you’re on the edge of a dream.
Wakefulness returns and you say, “I know that. You couldn’t be one even if you did try.”
“I just--”
“Just wanted me to know that you‘re still thinking. This is why you would not suck. Which is good, because at least one of us would need to know what they were doing.”
“I wish this wasn’t so hard.”
You want to reach over and touch her, stroke her cheek, rest your palm on her hip, but you don’t do anything except say, “Same here.”
When you’ve heard her breathing even out and the very light snore that signifies deep sleep, that’s when you reach over, touch her hand and think about how greedy you’re being.
Three more days pass and you must have the patience of Job because you still haven’t snapped and demanded that she just give you a damn answer. Yes or no. At this point you’re not sure if you even care which.
Wilson comes in to your office drag you down to lunch. Apparently he’s noticed that you haven’t been your normal cheerful self. Or maybe it was the nurse you made cry down in the clinic that gave you away.
“So, I hear you’ve been unusually charming today,” he says as you walk to the elevator.
“Naturally. Can I be any other way?”
He rolls his eyes so hard you wonder if they’ll stick. The thought makes you grin obnoxiously. Irritating Wilson is still one of your favorite past times. Even happy married life hasn’t changed that.
“Cuddy’s going to be all over you and then she’s going to be all over me asking what’s wrong with you.”
“Still going to you, eh? You’d think she’d have started going to Cameron by now.”
“She has. Cameron told her you’re her problem at home and Cuddy’s problem here.”
You scowl briefly, more amused than wounded. “So much for familial affection.”
“Just spill it so I can decide on some approximation of the truth to placate Cuddy with. You’re favorite contestant get voted off American Idol? Bike break down? Cameron have a headache the past few nights?”
That last one makes you glare at him and he actually backs up a step and holds up a hand to placate you.
“Hey, hey, just kidding.”
The elevator doors open and you enter and stab the ground floor button with your cane. You could just tell him what the problem is. He’d probably be supportive and helpful and enjoy flexing his best friend muscles. Five years ago you wouldn’t have batted an eye about sharing personal information about Cameron.
But this is not five years ago, and it’s not Cameron any more, it’s Allison, and it’s not just her, it’s you. You’ve never been one to “open up” and this is too deep to be the thing makes you start, even if it might actually make you feel better.
“Just haven’t been sleeping well,” you tell him. Neighbors have some damn do-it-yourself remodel going on and they’re at it all night.”
It’s a reasonable enough lie, and you glance at Wilson out of the corner of your eye and see that he’s buying it hook, line and sinker. He always has been the gullible sort.
“Fine, understood. That’s a pain in the ass. But don’t take it out on the nurses, okay? Stick to the patients like you usually do.”
The elevator doors open again and the two of you walk off and head for the cafeteria. Maybe in a few years you’ll be able to tell him everything and laugh at him for believing your lame story about the neighbors.
That night Allison makes basil and garlic encrusted pork tenderloin for dinner. One of her little secrets is that she loves Martha Stewart and does a pretty fair imitation of her in the kitchen. She’s not burning little patterns into the meat or anything, but she can definitely follow a recipe from one of the magazines that are shuffled amongst the medical journals on the coffee table. The magazines used to come in covertly when she did the grocery shopping. A year ago they started arriving in the mail. You will never cop to the fact that you’re the one who bought the subscription. She still thinks it was her mom.
Pork tenderloin means that she is in a better mood. Possibly a more decisive mood. It puts you on edge for the half the evening while you wait for her to finally give her answer. Then she puts in one of your favorite movies and the two of you sit on the couch very close together (because you do not call it snuggling) and you think about the fact that it’s not too bad just the two of you.
Competing for bathroom space at midnight reinforces that fact. You’re trying to brush your teeth while she puts on moisturizer and when she accidentally elbows you in the ribs, you drop the toothpaste and send it and her birth-control pills tumbling off the counter and into the trash.
Great. You’re pretty sure she’s not going to say you did it on purpose to pressure you, but stranger things have happened. You lean down and grab both items and then hear her speak.
“You can leave the pills.”
It seems like, if this was a movie, you’d bolt upright and bang your head on a towel rack or something and get a big laugh. Your actual actions are very measured and slow. Long fingers release the pills, squeeze the toothpaste much harder than necessary and then joint, by joint, you straighten up and look at her reflection in the mirror.
Her face is scrubbed clean and her hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail and her big eyes are meeting yours.
You think about asking if she’s sure, or some other incredibly lame question, but you don’t. You just grab her hand, turn off the light and lead her to your bed. The future is completely uncertain but at least now you have an answer.
“I’m still scared,” she whispers, when you’re lying in a sweaty tangle under the sheets an hour later.
“I figured,” you say.
Her hand is resting on your chest and she idly twirls her engagement and wedding bands around her finger.
“You took a pretty big leap of faith a few years ago. I figured I could do the same.”
It just feels natural to cover her hand with your own.
“That leap turned out okay,” you tell her, your voice a bit gruff but you won’t say it’s because of an overabundance of emotion.
“Yeah, not too bad,” she says and out of the corner of your eye, you see her smiling.
She will make a wonderful mother, is the thought that flits through your mind before you drift off to sleep.
II.
The next day, you say nothing about babies or children or even short adults. You drive into work together, you sneak up to immunology to steal coffee, you diagnose a patient, you steal lunch from Wilson, you mock Allison for having to stay late to do paperwork, and then you sit in her office listening to your iPod while you wait for her. All in all, a typical day.
The next day is much the same, and the day after that and the day after that. You wonder where all this patience is coming from. Must be something in the water.
On the fourth day, the routine is the same but when you are lying in bed Cameron finally says something. It’s not what you’re expecting.
“Why do you want a child?” she asks, her voice low but clear, coming to your ears through the darkness of the room.
You roll over to face her but she’s staring up at the ceiling and you can’t see her eyes. It’s pretty clear that your answer to the question is going to have an effect on Allison’s decision, and you know you’d better say something good, but you already told her that your recent feelings confuse even you. That explanation didn’t work for her, it seems, and now it feels like you’re about to take a make-up exam you didn’t even know you were supposed to be studying for.
“Why wouldn’t I?” you say, trying to distract her.
“Because you hate all people,” she says bluntly.
“I hate kids less than I hate everyone else,” you counter, but you know she isn’t going to accept that.
Rolling back over again, you stare up towards the ceiling, not really able to make it out in the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains.
“I wouldn’t have wanted kids with Stacy,” you say, and hear her harsh intake of breath beside you.
“What?” It’s spoken quietly, but you think you can hear an edge of hurt in that single word, and you wish you’d come up with a better explanation.
“If the leg had never happened, and she’d never crippled me, and we’d somehow managed to stay together, I still wouldn’t have wanted kids with her.”
“I don’t--”
“You asked a question and I’m answering,” you say, cutting her off. “Now listen up. I’m not going to repeat myself.”
You take a breath and continue with what you were saying.
“I never would have thought about wanting to share her attention with some ankle-biter, and I wouldn’t have wanted to devote any of mine. I wouldn’t have wanted to see her pregnant. Hell, I still can’t imagine that. You can keep asking me why I want a kid now, and what’s changed, and I’m going to keep answering you the same damn way. I don’t know. All I know is that I think about you with a fat belly and swollen ankles and it’s something I wish I could see. I think about holding a kid while you sit next to me and it’s something I want to do. I think about loving something else besides you and I actually think I can do it.”
Tilting your head towards her, you can just make out her features.
“I’m not saying I won’t suck at it,” you feel it necessary to tack that addendum on to your pathetically sappy speech.
“I don’t think you’d suck at it,” she replies after a short pause.
When she doesn’t say anything else, you don’t know what to do. You aren’t about to beg or pressure her into anything, and it’s not like you’ve always been Mr. Forthcoming, so her silence isn’t something you can resent. A few minutes pass and you think she’s fallen asleep so you roll onto your side and wait for sleep.
“I’m not trying to be a bitch,” she says quietly about five minutes later, just as you’re on the edge of a dream.
Wakefulness returns and you say, “I know that. You couldn’t be one even if you did try.”
“I just--”
“Just wanted me to know that you‘re still thinking. This is why you would not suck. Which is good, because at least one of us would need to know what they were doing.”
“I wish this wasn’t so hard.”
You want to reach over and touch her, stroke her cheek, rest your palm on her hip, but you don’t do anything except say, “Same here.”
When you’ve heard her breathing even out and the very light snore that signifies deep sleep, that’s when you reach over, touch her hand and think about how greedy you’re being.
Three more days pass and you must have the patience of Job because you still haven’t snapped and demanded that she just give you a damn answer. Yes or no. At this point you’re not sure if you even care which.
Wilson comes in to your office drag you down to lunch. Apparently he’s noticed that you haven’t been your normal cheerful self. Or maybe it was the nurse you made cry down in the clinic that gave you away.
“So, I hear you’ve been unusually charming today,” he says as you walk to the elevator.
“Naturally. Can I be any other way?”
He rolls his eyes so hard you wonder if they’ll stick. The thought makes you grin obnoxiously. Irritating Wilson is still one of your favorite past times. Even happy married life hasn’t changed that.
“Cuddy’s going to be all over you and then she’s going to be all over me asking what’s wrong with you.”
“Still going to you, eh? You’d think she’d have started going to Cameron by now.”
“She has. Cameron told her you’re her problem at home and Cuddy’s problem here.”
You scowl briefly, more amused than wounded. “So much for familial affection.”
“Just spill it so I can decide on some approximation of the truth to placate Cuddy with. You’re favorite contestant get voted off American Idol? Bike break down? Cameron have a headache the past few nights?”
That last one makes you glare at him and he actually backs up a step and holds up a hand to placate you.
“Hey, hey, just kidding.”
The elevator doors open and you enter and stab the ground floor button with your cane. You could just tell him what the problem is. He’d probably be supportive and helpful and enjoy flexing his best friend muscles. Five years ago you wouldn’t have batted an eye about sharing personal information about Cameron.
But this is not five years ago, and it’s not Cameron any more, it’s Allison, and it’s not just her, it’s you. You’ve never been one to “open up” and this is too deep to be the thing makes you start, even if it might actually make you feel better.
“Just haven’t been sleeping well,” you tell him. Neighbors have some damn do-it-yourself remodel going on and they’re at it all night.”
It’s a reasonable enough lie, and you glance at Wilson out of the corner of your eye and see that he’s buying it hook, line and sinker. He always has been the gullible sort.
“Fine, understood. That’s a pain in the ass. But don’t take it out on the nurses, okay? Stick to the patients like you usually do.”
The elevator doors open again and the two of you walk off and head for the cafeteria. Maybe in a few years you’ll be able to tell him everything and laugh at him for believing your lame story about the neighbors.
That night Allison makes basil and garlic encrusted pork tenderloin for dinner. One of her little secrets is that she loves Martha Stewart and does a pretty fair imitation of her in the kitchen. She’s not burning little patterns into the meat or anything, but she can definitely follow a recipe from one of the magazines that are shuffled amongst the medical journals on the coffee table. The magazines used to come in covertly when she did the grocery shopping. A year ago they started arriving in the mail. You will never cop to the fact that you’re the one who bought the subscription. She still thinks it was her mom.
Pork tenderloin means that she is in a better mood. Possibly a more decisive mood. It puts you on edge for the half the evening while you wait for her to finally give her answer. Then she puts in one of your favorite movies and the two of you sit on the couch very close together (because you do not call it snuggling) and you think about the fact that it’s not too bad just the two of you.
Competing for bathroom space at midnight reinforces that fact. You’re trying to brush your teeth while she puts on moisturizer and when she accidentally elbows you in the ribs, you drop the toothpaste and send it and her birth-control pills tumbling off the counter and into the trash.
Great. You’re pretty sure she’s not going to say you did it on purpose to pressure you, but stranger things have happened. You lean down and grab both items and then hear her speak.
“You can leave the pills.”
It seems like, if this was a movie, you’d bolt upright and bang your head on a towel rack or something and get a big laugh. Your actual actions are very measured and slow. Long fingers release the pills, squeeze the toothpaste much harder than necessary and then joint, by joint, you straighten up and look at her reflection in the mirror.
Her face is scrubbed clean and her hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail and her big eyes are meeting yours.
You think about asking if she’s sure, or some other incredibly lame question, but you don’t. You just grab her hand, turn off the light and lead her to your bed. The future is completely uncertain but at least now you have an answer.
“I’m still scared,” she whispers, when you’re lying in a sweaty tangle under the sheets an hour later.
“I figured,” you say.
Her hand is resting on your chest and she idly twirls her engagement and wedding bands around her finger.
“You took a pretty big leap of faith a few years ago. I figured I could do the same.”
It just feels natural to cover her hand with your own.
“That leap turned out okay,” you tell her, your voice a bit gruff but you won’t say it’s because of an overabundance of emotion.
“Yeah, not too bad,” she says and out of the corner of your eye, you see her smiling.
She will make a wonderful mother, is the thought that flits through your mind before you drift off to sleep.