THE BABY CHASE

BY

BEN MATTLIN

 

 

 

CHAPTER I

 

 

 

We were married five years when she talked to her doctor about wanting children.  She was a doer, used to taking charge and having things come out her way.  The doctor told her to take her temperature first thing every morning, and mark it down on a chart.  She did this for two or three months.

One clear morning in April, during that time, I was shaving and she was watering the plants on our terrace when she called out to me.  She had quite a garden out there: flowers, green plants, even a baby tangerine tree.  It was a beautiful morning, and it was her one true hobby.  She had given up dance class and church, but the garden had stuck.  My mouth was surrounded with shaving cream so I didn't respond at first.

She walked back inside to refill the water pitcher.  "Did you hear me, darling?" she said, reaching around me for the faucet.  "We've got nasturtiums.  It's only April and we've got nasturtiums!"

"That's good.  What are nasturtiums?"

She slapped me on my toweled bottom.  "Those colorful flowers you like.  You know.  Nasturtiums!"

She disappeared outside again.  A draft blew in through the open sliding-glass door and made me shiver.  I rinsed my face, bathed it in the cologne she had given me for my last birthday, and joined her on the terrace.  "Let me see."

"There."  She pointed.  There were many half-open buds.  "Put some clothes on!  Coming out here in nothing but a towel!"

There really were quite a lot of flowers, and I was impressed with her green thumb.  "I like the deep red ones," I said.

"Here kitty!"

She had moved to the far side of our terrace and was leaning over the railing.  From there you could see the pool of the apartment building next door—a fair-sized L-shaped pool with chaise lounges all around.  She clucked her tongue twice.

"Here kitty kitty kitty!  Here kitty kitty kitty!"

I came closer and saw a gray and tan cat curled up on one of the chaises.  "He's sleeping," I said.

"No.  I just saw him move.  He's there every day.  There are several cats who hang out there now.  I see them every morning.  I wonder if anybody owns them."

She continued to look out over the edge and cluck her tongue at the cat.  Her words sounded ghostly as she deliv­ered them onto the morning air.

"Good morning, kitty.  Good kitty..."

I began to get goose bumps.  She meowed at the cat and I went in to finish getting dressed for work.

"Darling," she said when she drifted inside again, "I want a kitty."

"I know."

"I really want a kitty."

I gazed at her sympathetically while tying my tie.

"I always had a kitty," she said, looking at herself in our full-length mirror and twirling bits of her blond hair and red skirt between her fingertips.  "Before you."

That last part stung.  The lady or the tiger, nothing!  This was the husband or the cat!

"I'm allergic," I said.  "You know that."

"Just a kitty."

She pursed her lips and sunk almost to her knees and hugged herself, staring up at me desperately, and I didn't recognize her.  I tried not to stare back.  I was unable to make out what she said next.  Baby talk.  Her eyes went watery.  I said, "I like them too, but I'm allergic."

She crouched toward the mirror and recommenced checking herself from all angles.  "God!" she said in a sad but grown-up voice.  "I'm getting old!  I am so old."

"Nonsense."

"No.  I am old.  I'm almost thirty-five, past child-bearing years, due for a mammogram.  I'm an old lady."

Mammogram always sounded to me like an urgent message delivered by a topless girl, perhaps written across her breasts.  In a sense, I supposed it was an urgent message written across the breasts.  I shouldn't joke.

"You're beautiful and full of life."

"How would you know?  You're nearly two years younger!"

By the end of the day I agreed to go with her next time to her gynecologist to see about why we weren't getting pregnant.

*

 

I had mentioned children even before we were married.  "Who are we to bring a kid into this world?" had been her reaction.  "It's selfish."

Then, two years ago, after we both passed thirty, we bought a two-bedroom condo in Brentwood, the yuppie section of L.A., and she went off the pill.  I didn't think she'd had a true change of heart.  She'd read it could take as long as five years to get all the pill out of you.  We would see what happened, take it as it came.  Not that we used any other form of birth control.  It was an experiment, rather than a decision—like when she tried a new color of nail polish.

The spare bedroom made a good place to write my novel.

I was a copy writer for an ad agency.  By the time we went to her gynecologist's, I had finally finished the novel—a novel with an agent but no publisher, no home.  Thaisa worked for nonprofits, doing PR.  Her name, pro­nounced Tah-yeesa, came from the Egyptian word for peace, or something.  Her mother, who died when Thaisa was a small child, admired the hippies.  My wife hates the name and I never call her it, unless I want trouble.  In high school, kids used to call her "thighs—ah!"  Perhaps consequently, she has neither thighs nor hips to speak of.

The afternoon we lined up at her bureaucratic, cut-rate HMO clinic was very hot.  I couldn't help wondering if I should have gone to my doctor first—an older man in private practice in Beverly Hills.  His name was Dr. Berk­owitz, and he was warm and a bit whiny but very authorita­tive.  He reminded me of my father, who died about fifteen years ago.

In time we were directed to Examination Room 5, an odd-shaped closet at the end of the hall.  "Oh, I see you brought your husband," said the short middle-aged nurse.  "I presume this handsome devil is your husband."

"Today he is," said Thaisa.

The nurse started to take her temperature when Thaisa informed her that I was the patient today.

"Oh, but it's your HMO card," the nurse pointed out.

I distracted myself thinking about my latest account at work.  How to sell a Japanese Gatorade-style soft drink called "Pure Sweat" to the Latino community?  I heard a TV somewhere; a talk show was on.  Everywhere you go there is a TV.  They follow you.  Ah, how we rely on technology for our happiness, I mused idly.  Then I stared at the wall.  There were no windows.

When the temperature was done we waited some more.

"How long you usually have to wait?" I asked in a whisper.

"Depends.  Don't be so impatient, Chief!"

She smiled.

That was a good sign.  If she smiled after calling me "Chief" it meant I hadn't crossed the line yet.  She tucked some of her shoulder-length straight blonde hair behind one ear and bit her lower lip in a manner I find enticing.  I gave her a little hug.  She's a thin woman with muscular arms and skin dry as powder.

"Let's lock the door and make passionate love right now on the examina­tion table!" I said.

The door opened and a tall Asian woman in a doctor's coat walked in.  Dr. Tomart.  A series of "Hello.  How are you?"s ensued.  Her hand was slick and cool.

"Thaisa explained to you, I suppose, that in Infertility, the couple is the patient.  You've been trying to get pregnant how long?"

A subjective question.

I started, "Well—."

"I went off the pill two years ago."

Dr. Tomart was young.  You know you're getting old when your doctor looks young.

"Yes.  That's right.  That qualifies as Infertility."  She rose commandingly from her stool.  "Thaisa's tubes checked out clear and in order.  Cycles are regular.  Let's get your pants off and examine you."

I looked away but don't know what I saw.

*

"It happens to girls all the time," Thaisa said afterward.

"What does?"

"Being examined like that.  You boys aren't used to it."

"You're enjoying this power trip, aren't you?"

I was still in my jockey shorts on the examination table.  It was cold, which felt good.  We were alone but then Dr. Tomart returned with a small plastic cup.  It had a green lid and a sticker on the side for writing your name, and was sealed with white adhesive tape.

"Semen sample," she said.

She left again, I ripped open the cup.

It was a hell of a place to get turned on.  The fluores­cent lights, the faded tiles, the inimical tools.  I had heard they offered you pornography in these situations.  Not here.

A deep breath.  I held the cup.  "We're in this together, aren't we?" I reminded Thaisa.

"Of course."

I pulled her toward me.  We kissed a long time.  It wasn't so bad.

In time, I could come to love those cups.

*

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