Woke Up Lonely A Novel - By Fiona Maazel Page 0,94
see your place. I remember you lived with two other guys, but they were not there. I took mental notes. No posters or collegiate wall hangings. No incriminating pamphlets or volatile mix of paint thinner, alcohol, and toilet bowl cleaner. Just a couple books about healthy eating, and a navy blue duvet.
You were obviously nervous to have me there. “Want something to drink? Juice or soda? Water? Seltzer? I don’t have any seltzer, but there’s a bodega just down the street.”
I decided to lie down. I slipped off my sneakers, and because I was still warm, and because it was disconcerting to watch you watch me with those giant, incredulous eyes, I did the simple thing of taking off my clothes. I undressed like a child getting ready for bed. And when you asked if I wanted a nap, who wouldn’t have laughed? You were actually willing to turn off the light and let me sleep and probably to stand guard outside. I said, “Shut the door, but come sit here,” and I tapped the mattress.
32. There was something platonic about the way you looked at me. Touched me. No one had ever cupped my elbow. My knees. And then the way you told me a little about your mom, who’d died. Your dad and stepmom. This wasn’t seduction. It was intimate. And then you were back to the loneliness. And how maybe it was not so unassailable after all. And throughout, more and more, I just needed you to stop talking like that. I reached for you, and the rest was what I knew best.
I did not consider the chance I’d get pregnant. It never even crossed my mind. You, the young socialist, were my way back in. The ears of government awaited. I had many years to architect my life before a child would factor into the design, if ever.
33. Naturally, once I found out, I had the same thought every morning: Today I will make the appointment. And after I failed to get money for the procedure, I said: Today I will ask my parents for the money to make the appointment. And then the days went by. I had scruples about abortion unknown to me until then. Or maybe I didn’t have scruples but just would not terminate this cell of a child that was ours. So you see, per usual, my body knew things that I did not. If it’s any consolation, I swear I told my contacts you were clean. And I swear I thought that would be the end of it. I moved to D.C. and kept news of the baby to myself. And when it was impossible to hide, my luck changed. I was pregnant; I spoke Korean. The CIA had just picked up word of an OB and his wife who were newly escaped from the North, settled in New Paltz, and wanting to work for the U.S. government, though they didn’t know it yet. I was the most suitable candidate to recruit the pair.
34. I made contact. Yul and wife appeared willing, though mostly for fear of being returned to North Korea. I got bigger. And in my head, I accorded the growth of my body with the success of my labors. For those first few months, I just didn’t seem to notice I was pregnant at all. I guess I was so terrorized, I couldn’t let out my fear. Not in secret, not in guise. I went about my business, studied photos of the American GIs who’d defected to the North, and deaf-dumbed my way through Yul’s prognoses: Only ten weeks to go, you’re doing great!
35. What can I say about us? When you showed up in New Paltz, I didn’t know what to do. I had no experience with feelings. All I knew was my job, so I called it in. The socialist returns. They said you were good cover and still a person of interest. Stay on him, they said. And I did.
But it was hard going.
You counted calories at every meal. I should have been annoyed. Instead, I found in displays of your self-hate compassion for my own.
You made love not as a man who wants to be hurt but as a man whose tenderness dredges the sex of whatever psychic drama I could bring to bear on the event. It was sweet and loving. It was safe.
You’d stretch your arms overhead and loop them round my waist on the way down so that I could