There's Something I Want You to Do (3 page)

“No, I don’t think that’s right,” he said, shaking his head like a sad horse, back and forth. “You didn’t say it.”

“Well, I love you
currently,
” she said, as a group of German tourists waddled in through the entranceway. “I love you this very minute.” She waited. “What a poor excuse for a quarrel this is. Let’s talk about something else.”

“There,” he said, pointing to a baby-angel. “How about that one? That one will be ours. The doctor says so.” The angel he had pointed to had wings, as they all did, but this one’s arms were outstretched as if in welcome, and the wings were extended as if the angel were about to take flight.

After leaving the chapel, walking down a side street to the old city, they encountered a madwoman with gray snarled hair and only two visible teeth who was carrying a shopping bag full of scrap cloth. She had caught up to them on the sidewalk, emerging from an alleyway, and she began speaking to them in rapid vehement Czech, poking them both on their shoulders to make her unintelligible points. Everything about her was untranslat
able, but given the way she was glaring at them, she seemed to be engaged in prophecy of some kind, and Susan intuited that the old woman was telling them both what their future lives together would be like. “You will eventually go back to your bad hotel, you two,” she imagined the old woman saying in Czech, “and you will have your wish, and with that good-hearted husband of yours, you will conceive a child, your firstborn, a son, and you will realize that you’re pregnant because when you fall asleep on the night of your son’s conception, you will dream of a giant raspberry. How do I know all this? Look at me! It’s my business to know. I’m out of my mind.” Eli gently nudged the woman away from Susan, taking his wife’s hand and crossing the street. When Susan broke free from her husband’s grip and looked back, she saw the crone shouting. “You’re going to be so terribly jealous of your husband
because of the woman in him
!” the old woman screamed in Czech, or so Susan imagined, but somehow that made no sense, and she was still trying to puzzle it out when she turned around and was gently knocked over by a tram that had slowed for the Malostranské stop.

The following commotion—
people surrounding her, Elijah asking her nonsensical diagnostic questions—was all a bit of a blur, but only because everyone except for her husband was speaking Czech or heavily accented English, and before she knew it, she was standing up. She looked at the small crowd assembled around her, tourists and citizens, and in an effort to display good health she saluted them. Only after she had done it, and people were staring, did she think that gestures like that might be inappropriate.

“Good God,” Elijah said. “Why’d you do that?”

“I felt like it,” she told him.

“Are you okay? Where does it hurt?” he asked, touching her profession
ally. “Here? Or here?”

“It doesn’t hurt anywhere,” she said. “I just got jostled. I lost my balance. Can’t we go have lunch?” The tram driver was speaking to her in Czech, but she was ignoring him. She glanced down at her jeans. “See? I’m not even scuffed up.”

“You almost fell under the wheels,” he half groaned.

“Really, Eli. Please. I’m fine. I’ve never been finer. Can’t we go now?” Strangers were still muttering to her, and someone was translating. When they calmed down and went back to their business after a few minutes, she felt a great sense of relief. She didn’t want anyone to think of her as a victim. She was no one’s and nothing’s victim ever. Or: maybe she was in shock.

“So here we are,” Eli said. “We’ve already been to a chapel, seen a baby, talked to a crazy person, had an accident, and it’s only eleven.”

“Well, all right, let’s have coffee, if we can’t have lunch.”

He held her arm as they crossed the street and made their way to a sidewalk café with a green awning and a signboard that seemed to indicate that the café’s name had something to do with a sheep. The sun was still shining madly in its touristy way. Ashtrays (theirs was cracked) were placed on all the tables, and a man with a thin wiry white beard and a beret was smoking cigarette after cigarette nearby. He gazed at Susan and Elijah with intense indifference. Susan wanted to say:
Yes, all right, we’re stupid American tourists, like the rest of them, but I was just hit by a tram!
The waiter came out and took their order: two espressos.

“You didn’t see that thing coming?” Elijah asked, sitting up and looking around. “My God. It missed me by inches.”

“I wasn’t hit,” she said. “I’ve explained this to you. I was nudged. I was nudged and lost my balance and fell over. The tram was going about two miles an hour. It happens.”

“No,” he said. “It
doesn’t
happen. When has it ever happened?”

“Eli, it just did. I wasn’t thinking. That woman, the one we saw, that woman who was shouting at us…”

“She was just a crazy old lady. That’s all she was. There are crazy old people everywhere. Even here in Europe. Especially here. They go crazy, history encourages it, and they start shouting, but no one listens.”

“No. No. She was shouting at
me
. She had singled me out. That’s why I wasn’t looking or paying attention. And what’s really weird is that I could understand her. I mean, she was speaking in Czech or whatever, but I could understand her.”

“Susan,” he said. The waiter came with their espressos, daintily placing them on either side of the cracked ashtray. “Please. That’s delusional. Don’t get me wrong—that’s not a criticism. I still love you. You’re still beautiful. Man, are you beautiful. It just kills me, how beautiful you are. I can hardly look at you.”

“I know.” She leaned back. “But listen. Okay, sure, I know it’s delusional, I get that, but she said I was going to be jealous of you. That part I didn’t get.” She thought it was better not to mention that they would have a son.

“Jealous? Jealous of me? For what?”

“She didn’t…
say.
”

“Well, then.”

“She said I’d get pregnant.”

“Susan, honey.”

“And that I’d dream of a giant raspberry on the night of conception.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. A raspberry. Please stop.”

“You’re being dismissive. I’m serious. When have I ever said or done anything like this before? Well, all right, maybe a few times. But I
can’t
stop.”

The man sitting next to them lifted up his beret and held it aloft for a moment before putting it back on his head.

“Yeah, that’s right. Thank you,” Elijah said to the man. He pulled out a bill, one hundred crowns, from his wallet and dropped it on the table. “Susan, we need to get back to the hotel. Okay? Right now. Please?”

“Why? I’m fine. I’ve never been better.”

He gazed at her. He would take her back to the hotel, pretending to want to make love to her, and he
would
make love to her, but the lovemaking would just be a pretext so that he could do a full hands-on medical examination of her, top to bottom. She had seen him pull such stunts before, particularly in moments when the doctor in him, the force of his caretaking, had overpowered him.

—

What she saw in her dream wasn’t a raspberry. The crone had gotten that part wrong. What she saw was a tree, a white pine, growing in a forest alongside a river, and the tree swayed as the wind pushed at it, setting up a breathy whistling sound.

—

They named their son Raphael, which, like Michael, was an angel’s name. Eli claimed that he had always liked being an Elijah, so they had looked up angel-names and prophet-names on Google and quickly discarded the ones like Zadkiel and Jerahmeel that were just too strange: exile-on-the-playground names. Susan’s mother thought that naming a child after an angel was extreme bad luck, given the name’s high visibility, but once the baby took after Susan’s side of the family—he kept a stern gaze on objects of his attention, though he laughed easily, as Susan’s father did—the in-laws were eventually softened and stopped complaining about his being a Raphael. Anyway, Old Testament names were coming back. You didn’t have to be the child of a midwestern farmer to have one. On their block in San Francisco, an Amos was the child of a mixed-race couple; a Sariel belonged to a gay couple; and Gabriel, a bubbly toddler, as curious as a cat, lived next door.

After they brought Raphael home from the hospital, they set up a routine so that if Eli was home and not at the hospital, he would give Raphael his evening feeding. On a Tuesday night, Susan went upstairs and found Elijah holding the bottle of breast milk in his left hand while their son lay cradled in his right arm. They had painted the room a boy’s blue, and sometimes she could still smell the paint. Adhesive stars were affixed to the ceiling.

A small twig snapped inside her. Then another twig snapped. She felt them physically. Looking at her husband and son, she couldn’t breathe.

“You’re holding him wrong,” she said.

“I’m holding him the way I always hold him,” Eli said. Raphael continued to suck milk from the bottle. “It’s not a big mystery. I
know
how to hold babies. It’s what I do.”

She heard the sound of a bicycle bell outside. The thick bass line on an overamped car radio approached and then receded down the block. She inhaled with great effort.

“He’s uncomfortable. You can tell. Look at the way he’s curled up.”

“Actually, no,” Elijah said, moving the baby to his shoulder to burp him. “You can’t tell. He’s nursing just fine.” From his sitting position, he looked up at her. “This is my job.”

“There’s something I can’t stand about this,” Susan told him. “Give me a minute. I’m trying to figure it out.” She walked into the room and leaned against the changing table. She glanced at the floor, trying to think of how to say to Eli the strange thought that had an imminent, crushing weight, that she had to say aloud or she would die. “I told you you’re not holding him right.”

“And I told you that I am.”

“Eli, I don’t want you feeding him.” There. She had said it. “I don’t want you nursing him. I’m the mother here. You’re not.”

“What? You’re kidding. You don’t want me nursing him? Now? Or ever?”

“I don’t want you feeding Raphael. Period.”

“That’s ridiculous. What are you talking about?”

“I can’t stand it. I’m not sure why. But I can’t.”

“Susan, listen to yourself, listen to what you’re saying. You don’t get to decide something like this—we both do. I’m as much a parent here as you are. All I’m doing is holding a baby bottle with your breast milk in it while Raphael sucks on it, and then—well,
now
—I’m holding him on my shoulder while he burps.” He had a slightly clinical, almost diagnostic expression on his face, checking her out.

“Actually, no, I don’t think you’re paying attention to what I’m saying.” She fixed him with a sad look, even though what she felt was positive rage. Inwardly, she was resisting the impulse to snatch their baby out of his arms. With one part of her mind, she saw this impulse as animal truth, if not actually unique to her; but with another part, she thought:
Every mother feels this way, every mother has felt this, it’s time to stand up
. She was not going to chalk this one up to postpartum depression or hormonal imbalances or feminine moodiness. She had come upon this truth, and she would not let it go. She felt herself lifting off. “You can’t be his mother. You can’t do this. I won’t let you.”