Fluke (21 page)

“If I’m pregnant, I’ll drink tonight, and then I won’t drink anymore,” she answered.
 
“At least not until we figure out what to do about it.”

I drove along, conflicting thoughts in my head.
 
I pictured two little Adams inside my empty head, almost like in the movies, when an angel and a devil appear on someone’s shoulders.

One side said, “Having a baby would be great.
 
You’d be a great father.”

The other side said, “You’re scared to death of babies.”

“But the responsibility would be good for you.”

“You can’t keep a goldfish alive, and goldfish don’t even need anything except a sprinkle of food every now and then.”

“A baby would change that.”

“You work in a book store.
 
You don’t make any money.”

It became too much for me; I was glad we were getting booze.
 
I felt like I would be happier if she wasn’t pregnant; I couldn’t imagine going through the internal arguments for the next nine months.

We picked up a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a bottle of Hot Damn from Barney’s, and drove home.

Back at the apartment, I mixed up two Jack and Cokes, and Sara read the instructions on the box.
 
The atmosphere was tense inside of the apartment; I got the feeling Sara didn’t want to take the tests, and I felt that way myself.
 
I could almost believe that if we just didn’t confirm it, it didn’t exist.

Ignorance is bliss, Adam-boy
.

Twice, as Sara read the boxes, I came close to telling her to not bother with the tests.
 
I was ready to tell her that we should just wait for her period, that her being late for the first time ever was just a fluke.
 
The period would come soon enough, I wanted to tell her.

What I really wanted to do was reassure her, to make her think I wasn’t just a sniveling gimp who couldn’t make a decision or take control of a situation.
 
I felt helpless and witless watching her read, and I wondered if her opinion of me had been reduced at all due to the wishy-washy way I was handling the situation.

I turned the cold tumbler in my hand, preparing my speech.
 
I would tell her, it’s okay, don’t worry.
 
We’re going to ride it out, and your period will come, and we’ll be fine. What I ended up doing, however, was staring at the bubbly liquid in the glass, and watching Sara head to the bathroom with one of the tests in her hand.
 
She gave me a small kiss on the forehead as she walked by and whispered, “Love you, Mister Fluke.”

I whispered “love you” back to her, and realized that she would always be the strong one.

The bathroom door clicked shut, and I stood up.
 
I was nervous, and I decided to put some music on to break up some of the quiet that was filling the apartment.
 
I scanned her CD rack and decided on the Doors.

The music flowed out of the speakers and I plopped back down into the easy chair, letting my head rest on the back.
 
The thoughts of the previous day, from PJs, touched the back of my mind again, and I sat up.

Keep in mind, Adam-boy, that she has a picture of your father in her closet.

“No, no, no,” I said out loud.
 
I sucked down the rest of the drink in my glass and went into the kitchen to make another.

Her father is probably your father, Adam-boy.

“No way of knowing that,” I spoke out loud again.
 
I knew Sara wouldn’t be able to hear me, and if she did, she would probably think I was singing along with Jim Morrison.
 
Even though I doubt I could be singing along to anything right now.

The thoughts gnawed at me for a few more moments until I heard the bathroom door open.
 
I went back to the easy chair and sat down, and Sara came into the living room.
 
I saw a cylindrical piece of white plastic extended in her hand, shaped like a digital thermometer, with a narrow end that was held in the urine stream.
 
I felt like sliding out of the chair and crawling underneath the coffee table.
 
I didn’t want to see it.

Her face was expressionless, though I tried hard to read it, to get the answer without looking for a plus or minus sign.
 
She said, “Here, take a look,” and held the tester out to me.

I grabbed it with one hand, and took a long pull off of my drink with the other.
 
I had mixed it strong, and felt the slight burning as the whiskey slid down my throat into my stomach.
 
I relished the feeling and held the tester in front of my face.

Minus.

I suppressed a small yelp of happiness and looked at Sara with what was probably an inappropriate amount of relief, but she returned my smile and she said, “We’re fine, Adam.”

Thank you Jesus!
I yelled inside.
 
Outside, I said, “That’s great, Sara.”

“I’m going to take the other test just to make sure,” she said.
 
I turned the one in my hand over, inspecting every centimeter of it, just to make sure there were no other, hidden indicators that would prove the test wrong somehow.
 
There were none.

“Are you sure you want to bother?” I asked.
 
I was slightly worried underneath my relief. I wanted to accept these results and move on.

“I might as well, Adam.
 
We have the test already, and it doesn’t hurt to get a second opinion, you know.” She picked up the box and headed to the bathroom.

I felt okay, though, because the box for the test she had taken already promised a “98% Accuracy Rate!” It was designed to reassure me, and it was working.
 
I felt confident that the other test, which boasted a “98.9% Accuracy Rate” (when I bought the tests, I wondered how one brand managed a 9/10 of a percentage point edge on the others, but I quickly gave up, as there was probably technology involved that I couldn’t even comprehend) would prove the first one correct.

I heard a flush, and Sara came out of the bathroom.
 
Again, she held out a white plastic tester, this one with a more rectangular than cylindrical appearance (perhaps that’s the .9 percent difference, I briefly thought).
 
Her face was expressionless again as she held out the tester, and, feeling confident, I joked with her, “You know, you’d be a great poker player.
 
You’ve got a kick ass poker face.” I took the white plastic from her and remembered that on this test, the small
square would turn blue if you were pregnant, and stay white if you weren’t.
 
I glanced down at it.

The square was blue, very blue.

I sucked down half of my drink and looked at Sara, confused.
 
“But, these things are over ninety-eight percent accurate.
 
How could…” I trailed off, glancing back and forth from Sara to the little blue window on the tester.

“Don’t know.
 
But, these tests apparently don’t prove a thing for us.
 
I’ll have to see a doctor and have a blood test.” She sighed and sat down on the couch, grabbing her drink.
 
She held her drink up in my direction and said, “A toast to ignorance,” she said, laughing.
 
I thought I caught a hint of bitterness in the laugh.

I laughed quietly and went to the couch next to her.
 
I felt bad for her, this beautiful woman who just had to pee on two different little sticks and didn’t learn anything.
 
It was a lot of strategic peeing to not know anything when it was over.

“I’ll call the doctor tomorrow and make an appointment,” she said.
 
“Tonight, though, let’s just get drunk, Adam.”

“Sure, Sara, whatever you want.” I said, though the picture in her closet continued to gnaw away at me.
 
I wanted to ask her about it; in fact, I felt like I might go insane if I didn’t.
 
At the same time, though, it had been such a stressful day up to that point, I didn’t know if I wanted to open up another can of worms with the love of my life.

We sat on the couch, listening to “Riders on the Storm,” when I blurted out, “Sara, there’s something I need to ask you about.”

“Sure, honey.” She sat up, and turned sideways to face me.
 
She looked so cute as she did it, so girly, which was a terrible word, but the best I could come up with to describe the way she moved.
 
Her right leg was tucked under her bottom, and her other leg stretched out across my lap.
 
She tucked her chin down and took a sip from her drink, but kept her eyes on me as she did.
 
Her hair was in a ponytail, and the ponytail hung over her shoulder.

Now there’s a picture, I thought, or as Sean would sometimes say, “A Helen of Troy.
 
A beautiful portrait.
 
A vision of loveliness.”

“When I was rooting around in your pictures, invading your privacy yesterday,” I started and laughed, poking my finger gently
into her belly.
 
I didn’t want this to turn too tense, so I tried to be lighthearted.
 
“I found a picture that I wanted to ask you about.”

She didn’t say anything, just nodded at me, her eyes not moving.

I didn’t know how to say it any other way, so I said, “You have a picture of a guy who looks almost exactly like me, Sara.
 
Almost a carbon copy.
 
Did you know that?”

“Adam?” she said, but that was all.
 
I recognized the trance as it came, and reached out to take the glass from her hand.
 
I set the glass on the table and looked at her.
 
She was gone again, and I had a bad feeling that I may never find out who the man in the picture was.

I watched Sara, somewhat frightened, but unable to really react except to just let her work through it on her own.
 
She sat in her daze for close to an hour.
 
I had never seen anything like it, not even from her.
 
Previously, her episodes had seemed to last forever, but in actuality had only been a matter of minutes in their duration.
 

I grabbed the bottle of Jack and the bottle of Coke that we had, and set them on the table next to Sara’s glass which was now soaked with condensation.
 
I managed to suck down her virtually untouched glass, and three glasses of my own while she was away in that other place.
 
Courage was something I wasn’t good at.
 
I knew that we had to hash things out, and that it was paramount in the process of us moving on, to have something solid together.
 
I didn't know what to do right now, and I doubted that I was going to make any progress unless I could hide the fear behind a wall of alcohol.
 
The liquor was going to help give me the courage, I decided.
 
Otherwise, I might let this go on until things just fell apart between us.
 

It was as I was tipping the glass back, knocking out the third and strongest drink, when Sara’s head turned slowly towards me.
 
I choked a little on that last swallow, lowering my glass, returning her look, her stare.
 
I shakily set my glass on the table maintaining eye contact with her, waiting.

“Make me one of those?” she asked.
 
Her tone was different than the other times she “recovered.”
 
Her voice was pensive, and she looked tired.
 
She looked tired, and a little dreary, as if we were standing next to a casket at a funeral instead of sitting on the couch.

“Sure” I told her.
 
I picked up the Jack, and filled her glass about a third of the way.
 
A moment’s thought, and I went ahead and filled it a little over half-way.
 
She probably needed this like I needed this, except for some other reason.
 
The bottle, and glass, clanked together in my trembling hands.
 
I set the bottle down, and topped the glass off with Coke.
 
“Here you go, Sara” I said, handing her the glass, and watching as she drained half of it without batting an eye.