Man of My Dreams (11 page)

“What are you thinking, Mia? Please tell me you understand?” I take in his tear stained face—the way the dampness glistens in his overgrown stubble, the way his captivating blue eyes are sullied with bloodshot red—and I want to reach out and heal his hurt. But I can’t. Because my own hurt overpowers everything, and for the first time since that retched night at his Christmas party, I know that what I’ve been putting off is inevitable.

“I understand, Declan.”

His downturned lips jerk up with hopefulness. But it’s not for long.

“I understand that we need some time apart. Everything you said here today...I can’t ignore what you’re
really
saying. How will I know you won’t feel this way the next time some hot little number walks into your office or if the Starbucks barista flirts with you while filling an order? I can’t live with you resenting me for holding you back. I’m not
that
girl.”

Now it’s Declan’s vein that pops out of his thick, red neck. “What? Are you serious? I told you nothing happened. I don’t want anyone else, Mia. I never did...it was a momentary lapse of judgment. These last few weeks apart have been torture. I won’t survive more separation from you, from the kids. Please, Mia.”

I hate hearing him so helpless, lost, desperate. But I have to do this, as much as it’s tearing me apart to let go of the only man I’ve ever loved. I know this is the right thing to do.

I want to reach out to him, to tell him it’s going to be okay. That after this time apart things will be clear—we will survive this temporary split. But I can’t, because I’m not sure we will. Temporary might very well turn into permanent. Within the four walls of our French country kitchen, a place usually vibrant with our family’s rowdy activity, a place filled with so many ordinary, yet unforgettable memories, the two of us weep inconsolable tears. I might be making the worst mistake of my life right now, stubborn bitch that I am. But this stubborn bitch will be damned if her husband is going to make her feel like she trapped him, caged him and declawed him of his manhood.

“Grace, I’m pretty flipping sure it’s two pink lines. Look!”

“Lemme see,” she says, grabbing the plastic stick from my shaking grip.

Grace flips the pink box from back to front, then from front to back as if juggling the damn box is going to make the directions any different.

“Give it to me, Grace! It says it right here...two lines means positive! And this is the third damn test.”

“Congratulations?” Grace shrugs her shoulders, crinkling her perfectly upturned nose.

I slump down on the toilet seat, staring at the bright pink lines that seem to be flashing like an obnoxious neon sign. Before I can even control it, I start to cry, lifting my hands and the urine-soaked, evil piece of plastic to my eyes. “What the hell am I going to do, Grace? We’re not ready yet.”

I couldn’t have painted this grim picture this way even if I’d planned it. And it’s pretty obvious that nothing about this scenario was planned. I’ve been Mrs. Declan Murphy all of two months. This cannot be happening!

Grace kneels in front of me on the cold tile floor, the mosaic pattern of light and dark blues blurred by my onslaught of tears. I swipe at the droplets, reaching behind me for a wad of toilet paper to blow my runny nose. I search Grace’s face for her true reaction to this unexpected news. I need her strength right now. And if there is one measly ounce of fear, panic, or dread on her always cheery face, I am in for it.

Set amidst those expressive grey blue eyes, behind the minor detection of concern, I see genuine happiness. And she’s smiling. Not just any insignificant smile but one of those
Duchenne
smiles I’d read about. According to scientists this is the sincerest of smiles. The kind that reach up to the eyes—in this case, very evident in Grace’s glowing gaze—something about the eye muscles only being triggered by a genuine, heartfelt grin.

Whatever...she’s obviously happy, why can’t it rub off on me?

“Mia, this is good news. I know it’s sudden, but—Declan is madly in love with you, your mother made a speech at the wedding about getting started on grandbabies, and I get to be an aunt! Oh my God, I get to be an
aunt
!”

I actually feel like I’m disappointing
her
by not being excited about this. I want to be excited about this, I really do. Grace and I have talked about being mothers since we used to play house as little kids. We always pretended we were sisters, married to brothers, each with a bundled up baby of our own. We dressed them up in the old clothes my parents saved from when I was a baby, strolling them around in little plastic carriages and shopping carts. It kept us busy for hours because those babies never cried, or needed changing, or were unplanned!

“Grace, Declan’s going to flip. We’re only just starting out. He’s finally working full-time at the firm and he has to put in a lot of time—a lot of travel, to prove himself. And what about my job? I love teaching. I can’t leave those kids.” A million different images flash through my mind. We’re not prepared, this will change everything. But beyond all the fear and doubt, when I hone in on the fuzzy image of a beautiful, pink-faced newborn with Declan’s stunning blue eyes, my fears start to melt away. Things could be a lot worse. I’m a married college graduate who owns a home and has a great job—it’s not the end of the world.
I’m pregnant.
I’m going to be a mom and I know Declan is going to be an amazing dad.

With a compelling surge of baby bliss, I suddenly can’t wait to tell him the news. Grace recognizes the shift in my behavior, both of our tears now representing joy. She takes the pee-stick out of my hand, the little plastic nothing that just informed me of the single most life changing moment of my existence, and places it behind me on the tank of the toilet.

“You are going to be one hell of a mom, Mia Page Murphy! And I am going to spoil the crap out of her, so you better watch out.”

“
Her?
It’s a fifty-fifty chance, Grace. A baby boy could be brewing in here.” I point to my belly with the uncontrollable impulse to rub the part of me that contains the little seedling Declan and I have created.

“It’s a girl. Mark my words. I just know it. You’ve always wanted a girl—your little Cara Jean—and this is her.”

Leave it to Grace to remember the name I’d picked all those years ago. The miniature doll I toted around was my Cara Jean. Grace’s doll went by Pippi, after her favorite childhood stories of
Pippi Longstocking
. Something tells me that if it were Grace holding onto the stick with the two pink lines, Pippi would be far from her top ten baby names. But for me, Cara Jean was always number one. And if Grace is right and this tiny beginning of a baby inside of me is going to be my first daughter, then Cara Jean it is.

“Come on, Mommy. Let’s think of a way to tell Cara’s daddy.”

Mommy
. Wow, I really like the sound of that. I cannot believe I’m going to be a mom!

Okay, this is going to sound super cheesy. But I grew up on
Full House
. I don’t think there’s an episode I didn’t see, or commit to memory. Who doesn’t remember Uncle Jesse and Danny Tanner pep talking DJ or Stephanie about the meaning of life—well their meaning of life anyway—accompanied by corny background music and theatrical, mushy hugs? But damn it if those episodes warped my brain into thinking that everything could be solved by the end of a thirty minute sitcom.

Like when Becky was ready to tell Uncle Jesse the news about being pregnant. She prepared him a meal of baby shrimp, baby corn and baby back ribs, in the hopes that he would get the picture. Of course, after a whole bit of silly antics, melodramatic misunderstandings and studio-audience ohs and ahs, Becky and Jesse happily accepted that life, or more likely the creators of the show, was turning them into parents.

Foolproof plan, no? How could I go wrong with replicating a
Full House
scene? Grace cheered me along the whole time and usually what Grace thought was a good idea, was a good idea.

The table is set with the china my parents gave me as part of their wedding present, a pair of turquoise candlesticks that we bought on our honeymoon to Greece to match the linens we received from Declan’s aunt and uncle as a housewarming gift, and all the “baby” sized food I could find at the supermarket. I am most proud of my preparation of his favorite: baby lamb chops with rosemary and garlic. Since being married, I’ve gotten used to preparing a nice dinner almost every night, but this screams special, and Declan will know something’s up the minute he walks into the dining room.

Or so I thought. When he does walk in, past the table and straight to the fridge for a beer, he looks flustered and stressed. My giddy mood takes a nose dive.
Crap! This isn’t how it started with Uncle Jesse and Becky!

“Hey, babe. How was work?”
Tip toe around the elephant in the room. It’s hidden underneath your shirt for the time being.

He pops off the cap of the Corona and walks over to me, planting a kiss at the corner of my mouth. I contemplate pulling him in and relieving his stress the good old fashioned way, but he’s already left my embrace before I can take it any further.

He rakes his fingers through his perfectly, floppy hair, taking a swig of the beer. “Don’t ask. Shitty day and I have to go out of town next week for a few days.”

Already?
Damn, they weren’t kidding when they told him they were throwing him right into it. “Well, you’re home now. Let’s talk about it over dinner. I made your favorite.”

I slide off his suit jacket, lingering at his broad shoulders, hoping to massage away his sour mood. I don’t want anything to spoil this moment I’ve created for us. All
three
of us.

Patting the non-existent bump, I usher him into the dining room and watch as he blinks, taking in the overdone scene. Seeing it through his eyes, I’m kind of embarrassed that I went to all this trouble. What if he doesn’t take the news well? What if this isn’t what he wants?

I see a faint transformation in his weary eyes as he makes a bee-line for one of the baby lamb chops. “What’s all this, babe?”

“Oh...nothing.” I suppress a giddy grin. I am failing miserably at this playing it cool thing. There is no way I’m going to make it through an entire dinner without telling him.

“These are incredible. You went through a lot of trouble, wifey. Let me pour you a glass of wine to go with this feast.”

And there’s my cue. “Um. No wine for me. Just sit.” My lips tighten as I try to hide my secret.

He eases into his chair, staring at me.

I can almost see the wheels turning underneath his trendy, grunge inspired hair style. You can take the boy out of the ‘90s, but you can’t take the ‘90s out of the boy. “What’s up, Mia? You’re acting weird.”

My lips and throat are suddenly as dry as a piece of too-burnt toast. I lick my lips then nervously nibble on the inside of my cheek. I can’t think of the just-right words to say. If we were older, if I had more time to prepare, I’d have the right thing to say. But that’s not the case now, is it?

“I’m not acting weird, Dec. I’m...I’m acting...pregnant.” There I said it!

Declan’s expression has the likeness of a white blank page. Okay, blank isn’t necessarily bad. This can go more than one way. Maybe he’s just speechless, at least he’s not...

Oh, no! He is.

His tensing hands stroke the temples of his forehead like he’s trying to knead a piece of hardened cement. When he’s finally done with the painful looking process, he looks at me with flaring nostrils and protruding eyes. The color of his face has gone from a flawless, healthy hue to a terrified, transparent sallow.

“You’re
what
?”

I flinch back in my chair, as if I’ve been slapped by the tone of disgust in his question. “I’m pregnant, Declan. You’re going to be a father.”

Declan shoves himself away from the table, flying out of his chair. He paces the floor between the kitchen and the dining room. At this rate, he’ll wear out the finish on the hardwood floors.

“Mia, how could this happen? We’re not ready for this. Why...why would you do this?”