Rescue - By Anita Shreve Page 0,18
brown hair on the pillow had always been a talisman for him. Around her, the flowered wallpaper and the antique reproductions faded out to nothing. In recent weeks, she’d become a tourist.
“You have wanderlust,” he’d once said to her in the car.
“What’s that mean? I like to fuck and walk at the same time?”
Webster slipped back into the bed, unwilling to be away from her. He knew how her skin felt everywhere—the down of her arms, the hard muscle of her inner thigh, the sweet curve of her hip. If she woke with a hangover, she hid it well, apart from a terrible thirst.
He stroked her arm from the shoulder to the wrist. He wanted to wake her. He liked to see her eyes flutter open, the moment of pleasure when she saw him. Sometimes, she smiled. He had the water glass ready. She would prop herself up on an arm and drink it down, and eventually, after they’d had sex, he’d get her another and a couple of Excedrin.
That morning, however, she woke as if reluctant to enter the world. Webster enjoyed the anticipation. But then she bolted up in bed, putting her fingers to her nostrils.
“What’s that awful smell?” she asked.
Webster sniffed the air. “Coffee? I used the coffeemaker on the bureau. It’s terrible, but I didn’t want to walk out naked in search of a coffee shop.” He ran his fingers from the base of her spine to the nape of her neck.
“Webster,” she said, bowing her head.
He didn’t like the way she’d said his name. He waited. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Fuck.”
She can’t do this anymore, and she’s going to say it. He shut his eyes. He couldn’t stop her.
“You want it straight out?” she asked.
“Always.”
“I’m pregnant.”
The word stunned him. Pregnancy had never crossed his mind.
“You sure?” he asked.
She brushed the hair off her face and turned to look at him. “Very.”
“How far along?”
“Ten weeks.”
“Have you seen a doctor?”
“Yes.”
A dialogue repeated, he imagined, thousands of times between thousands of couples. Only this time it was unique, as if he were the first man ever knocked out by a single word.
Under the .9 moon, he’d asked her if she was on the pill, and she’d nodded. Then later, she said she preferred a diaphragm. Had she really nodded? Had he been mistaken?
Fucking biology. It didn’t give a shit what Mother Nature was doing on the outside.
He almost said, “How can you be sure it’s mine?” but stopped himself just in time.
Don’t go there.
“I don’t know what happened,” she said. “I was on the pill, and then I started getting these bleeds and I switched to a diaphragm. They’re both supposed to work.”
He studied the quilt. A blur of colors slowly came into focus. He noted red flowers on an ivory background, whole squares of blue, knots of thread in the corners of the patches. For a moment, he imagined Sheila happy, the happiness infectious. Then he pictured her wanting an abortion, and supporting her decision. Finally, he saw her as frightened, at least as confused as he was.
“I’ll be such a good mother,” she said, and Webster was surprised a second time. She turned and stared at him, as if she knew she might have pushed him too far, as if he might still be in shock.
“How will you know what to do?”
She kissed him. “We’ll figure it out together, Webster.”
She was not going to ask him how he felt about the pregnancy.
Again, Webster imagined Sheila happy. He tried to see past the sheet to the flat of her belly. His child was lodged somewhere just below the runway scar.
All he had to do was let go, let it happen.
If he asked another question, she’d see his uncertainty, and once the baby came, she’d never forget that waffling and would always wonder. Webster would regret that. He loved Sheila, of that he was certain. The idea of not being with her hurt. Besides, he was just as responsible for the seed inside her as she was. More so. He was the guy, for Christ’s sake. He was an EMT! Why hadn’t he just used a condom?
He stroked her hair where it fell against her back. He liked the way the two sides curled toward each other. He imagined other women paying big bucks over the years to achieve what Sheila came by naturally.
A baby. Settling down. Maybe a place of their own. And he’d be with her every step of the way. As much as he could. He