Part 5
DO WHAT YOU HAVE TO DO
I know I can't be with you
I do what I have to do
And I have the sense to recognize
But I don't know how to let you go
-Sarah McLachlan-
I wake up the next morning alone. If Michael's smell weren't all over the
sheets, I would have thought last night was a dream.
Stretching myself out across the now-empty bed, I contemplate the ceiling. I
feel amazingly calm right now. I should be a wreck.
The morning light streams in through the slits of the hotel blinds. Maybe it's
just the hormones talking, but I have this strange sense that things are going
to work themselves out. I can do this. I've come to terms with the fact that
there's extraterrestrial life here on earth. I can most definitely come to terms
with how my life has to be now.
As if in response to my current thought, I spot a folded piece of hotel
stationary resting on the pillow next to mine:
He gives you what I could never give you. Make sure he knows how lucky he is.
Love always, Michael
My heart aches and I want to cry, but I don't. I think it's time to stop crying
over what can never be. I need to move on.
***
It's been three weeks since Michael left me in the hotel room. I've been trying
so hard now. Really, I have.
I think Scott is starting to feel a little better about things. I haven't let
him get too excited because it hasn't kicked in for me yet, but I didn't make
him sleep on the couch when he brought home a pregnancy survival book.
I finally told my mom. She's ecstatic, of course. Jim, who's been like a father
to me these past few years, is in denial about being a grandfather but he's
dealing. Liz and Isabel call me non-stop with parenting advice, nursery ideas,
and plans for a baby shower. I'm happy that Isabel can be excited too. Recently,
her and Jesse were able to adopt a baby of their own so she's having an easier
time accepting my pregnancy than she did with Liz's. Especially since alien
genetics aren't involved.
Scott has been begging to help me pick out maternity clothes, which I find a
little odd. But, in my new position of dutiful wife, I think I'll humor him. I'm
hardly showing yet…
I just got this visual of Michael in a maternity clothing store. Of course, I
would have to bribe him into the store with sexual favor. He'd probably just ask
if they had maternity lingerie. At least he would rip on all the flowery jumpers
that look as if they were modeled after doll's clothes and belong on two
year-olds. Scott would probably want me to wear them. He did say leggings were
cute…
Stop, stop. I really need to stop. I have enough faith in Scott to trust he
wouldn't want me to wear unflattering polka dots. And Michael wouldn't be caught
dead in a maternity store, no matter what I used to persuade him.
I'm trying, I really am. See, it's like kicking any bad habit. It's impossible
to go cold turkey. Slowly, I'm weaning my system of Michael. A few fantasies
today, even less tomorrow, eventually I'll be Michael-free!
It's going to work. Even if Scott brought home this hideous wallpaper sample
with dancing pastel elephants and couldn't understand why I was crying. It's
okay. It's not like I'd envisioned this wonderfully elaborate, colorful mural on
my baby's nursery wall painted by a certain other-worldly artist. Scott cannot
read my mind.
I'm just going to let myself have one last fantasy today involving Michael, lots
of paint, a severely messy drop cloth, and, much later, an exquisite mural made
just for our baby…
"Honey! Now, I know you didn't like that wallpaper sample I brought home earlier
so I went back to the store and picked these instead…" Scott comes bursting into
the room just in time to interrupt my thought process. Good, my mind wasn't
really heading in an appropriate direction anyway…
I can't help but frown when I see the books Scott has piled in his arms. Every
single one promises to be filled with pastel colored circus animals.
"What?" Scott drops the books on the kitchen table and gives me a look.
"It's just…I don't want my baby assaulted with dancing animals." I can't help
but sound bitchy. Hormones combining with my tendency to throw verbal barbs is
not making Scott the happiest husband these days. Of course, he never even
attempts to spar back with me. Rather, he just puts on this annoying,
condescending smile and says…
"Okay, pumpkin."
"Okay, pumpkin?" I whine back at him. "It's not okay, Scott! Don't you have any
opinion on the subject? Obviously, you like pink bears if you brought home three
damn books full of them!" Scott immediately looks hurt by my harsh temper, but
instead of trying to appease me, he fights back. For once.
"Yes! As a matter of fact I do! What I'm wondering is if I'm allowed to have any
input on 'your' baby, as you refer to it. It's all about you, Maria. You aren't
ready to think about baby names. You don't need to worry about maternity
clothes. You reject any input I have. Well, guess what Maria, in sixth months
this isn't all going to be about you. I'm the father here, Maria. Don't I have a
right to be part of this? Can't I be happy about this without worrying you're
going to bite my head off for it?" Scott slams his hand against the table and
stalks out of the room.
I just sigh and collapse into a nearby chair. Every word Scott said is true.
But, contrary to what he thinks, I have been trying to let him in and be part of
this. Unfortunately, I can't exactly explain to him that it takes concentrating
on every molecule of my body to be happy about the fact that Scott is the father
of my baby and Michael isn't. But I am trying, I really am.