One Good Egg: An Illustrated Memoir (11 page)

There were flowers all over—in the kitchen, on the nightstand, in both bathrooms. There were books left open on couches, more books on the tables, and piles of CDs on the player. A history of the time I’d been away.

Most of the rest of August was taken up with work and training for Ride FAR. September’s ride ended up raising more than $120,000. We had five days of sun, 500 miles without injury or a single bike breakdown.

The first morning after the ride, Lorene stared me awake. She was sitting up in our bed. The second my eyes opened, she announced, “I feel like I’m home.
This
is my home now.” We floated through the day, on a cloud of post-Ride, day-off, early-September sunny euphoria. But the next morning, we came crashing down.

Bruce called while we were having breakfast. All he said was, “Go turn on your TV.” We were watching over the tops of our knees by the time the plane hit the second tower.
Never doubt that a small group . . . can change the world . . .

The third plane hit the Pentagon. The fourth plane crashed in Pennsylvania. It was days before we stopped anticipating news of a fifth, sixth, and seventh plane. And I don’t know that any of us of a certain age will ever permanently put that possibility to rest.

“I don’t think I want to bring a baby into this world,” I told Lorene.

“It’s too soon, too soon to tell,” she answered me.

Hi Honey, It’s late, it’s dark and I’m at work (in a high rise), half listening for the door-click as the cleaner comes in. I really need to connect with you. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t afraid of getting on a plane just now. The Boston–L.A. path has a touch of the freaky about it. There’s also the uncertainty about what happens next in the world. Where will this terrorism have led us in a month’s time? Don’t worry, I’m not getting cold feet—funny, I’ve realized over the last few weeks how much I do want to do this baby thing with you. I’ve also reflected a bit on what if it doesn’t work, and that reminds me how much I do want it to work, but like we’ve said, there are lots of other adventures ahead.

So, how are you feeling? If we delayed, how far would it set us back?

Love you, Suzy. More than ever, Steve

A month later, we were beginning to trust a blue sky again. We had held babies and felt hope surface again.

My heart is moved by all I cannot save:

so much has been destroyed

I have cast my lot with those

who age after age, perversely,

with no extraordinary power,

reconstitute the world.

A
DRIENNE
R
ICH

“Natural Resources”

Let’s do December! Christmas in New England, and your birthday! If we’re trying for two cycles, I’d be ovulating December 1st and January 1st, so it’d be good if you arrived in late November; although, as Lorene pointed out, after that carwash I gave her for her birthday, the backseat is clean enough, we could do it on the way home from the airport! I watched the news while I was on jury duty yesterday; they’re now projecting a national stress-induced baby boom. Back to our Sunday. We’re excited again. (Please see exclamation points above.)

Love, Suzy

T
he nice thing (not the
only
nice thing) about having houseguests is that they give a to-do list a deadline.

Three days before Steve arrived, I was scheduled to have the test to make sure my tubes were clear (see #6 on list). My gynecologist was running late. I was on the table with my knees up when she brushed by Lorene, gloved up, lifted my gown, and shook her head, disgusted.

I had forgotten to take off my underwear. I scooched out of them and flung them over to Lorene, which had my gynecologist hissing, blowing a gasket–like, “If those had landed on my tray, we would’ve had to start all over with the sterile prep.” Needless to say, she had no time for that. From where I was, in the stirrups, it was hard to imagine further humbling yourself, but I apologized. And she got to work.

Left tube: clear! Right tube:
Jesusfuckingchrist!
I arched my back off the table. Lorene took a few steps toward me. The gynecologist gave the dye another go. “Let’s try this again,” she said.
If having a baby is more painful than this, I may resign.
“I don’t know whether it is blocked or spasming. There was a nice pool—you saw the way the dye came through the other tube?”

She was talking to Lorene and motioning at the monitor hanging up over my left shoulder. Lorene nodded; she was holding my hand. “There’s no reason why that other tube should be blocked. These spasms can take thirty minutes to calm down.”

“What if it
is
blocked?” Lorene asked.

“You’d run the risk of a tubal or ectopic pregnancy.”

“How are those treated?”

“Laparoscopy.” She removed her gloves. “I have to run.”

I crumpled up my gown and threw it away. Having a baby seemed so unlikely again. I had stupidly let my hopes get carried away with Steve’s arrival preparations. “Hey,” Lorene said, looping her arm through mine. “Remember? You only need one.”

The air-duct cleaning (see #5) backfired on us. A small pile of dust on top of the oil burner caught fire and blew smoke all over the house. At the end of the day (less than forty-eight hours before our chemically sensitive Australian guest was due), we had clean ducts and a house that stunk like an ashtray. “At least there’s no dog smell,” Lorene observed. No dog smell. No wood-smoke smell. No coffee smell. Not a hint of the spaghetti sauce that had cooked all day for last night’s dinner. Just ashtray. “Well, what’re you going to do.” It wasn’t a question (we had done everything that we could think of); that’s what Lorene said when the answer was “nothing.”

Steve’s flight touched down a few minutes after midnight on November 28th. We met at the curb and exchanged quick hugs. “We should have brought you a down jacket—I have a big one at home you can borrow,” Lorene said as we loaded him into our Civic. The two of them fell into easy conversation while I concentrated on finding today’s way out of Logan Airport.

There was a silence in the tunnel; Lorene volunteered, “We’re waiting to get a new car until we know whether we’re going to get a baby. Probably something with four doors.”

“And two visors,” I added, all of a sudden seeing the car through Steve’s eyes.

The Charles River came into view, lit up on both sides. The night seemed unusually clear and welcoming. Full of promise.

“Our Ride FAR friend Mary Ann is coming in the morning,” I began.

“Noon,” Lorene continued. “Mary Ann’s a delivery nurse—she delivers babies out in the western part of the state.”

“She offered to show us how to do everything.”

“Oh?” Steve shifted in his seat.

“Suzy should be ovulating any day now,” Lorene volunteered.

“Good on you!” he patted my leg.
I hope he teaches our baby, if we have a baby, all of his Aussie expressions.

“Good on
you
!” I returned the pat. “Your timing is pretty perfect.”

T
he barn light illuminated the white picket fence and the winter remnants of the garden along the walk up to the kitchen door. We had recounted our air-duct minidrama during the last part of the ride, so Steve was obliged to comment. “It doesn’t smell too bad,” he said politely.

Given the hour and the next day’s agenda, we all agreed to turn in. “Hope you won’t mind my bumping around in the middle of the night,” Steve said. “I get terrible insomnia coming in this direction.” We got him settled in his room and gave him a quick tour of the house.