Hoops


I sat sprawled in the over-sized arm chair, laptop open, staring at my keyboard. My husband plopped down on the sofa across from me, grabbed the TV remote and flipped through the channels.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to write.”

“Write what?”

“A fractured scene.” I looked up at him. “We take a scene, stop it in the middle, add something interesting like commentary or another scene and finish it.”

“Oh, what scene are you writing?”

“Right now I’m playing with the day I told you I was pregnant. Remember?”

“Yeah. Marquette was in the NCAA tournament. Round 1, against Alabama.”

“He would start the scene there,” I thought.

I had spent the previous night trying to sleep on the sofa with a headache and nausea. I chalked all of this up to a bad case of PMS, but I was late too, so I stopped by a pharmacy and picked up a pregnancy test on my way home from work the next day, just in case.

March Madness had begun and Marquette, my husband’s alma mater, was playing. I peeked online at work, and the game wasn’t going well for Marquette. On my drive home, I listened to the game, and by the time I got home, the “good” guys had closed the gap.

The first thing I did when I got home was head to the bathroom and take the pregnancy test, although I figured I’d have to repeat it in the morning, just to reassure myself that it was truly negative. When that magic second line formed in the results window, I checked the wrapper to make sure the test was not past its expiration date. It wasn’t. Apparently my gynecologist was wrong: it was possible for me and my husband to get pregnant without medical intervention. I danced a little jig in the bathroom, and then wondered what we were going to tell the social worker handling our adoption.

I heard the garage door open. My husband’s car radio was so loud, I could hear the announcer calling the play-by-play of the Marquette game. I snapped the cover on the test stick and ran to the door to greet him.

“You’ll never guess what happened!”

“Yeah, I know,” He bounded through the doorway, beyond me into the living room where he grabbed the TV remote. “They’ve pulled within three points, only three minutes to go.”

I followed him into the living room, where he watched the final three minutes, oblivious to me standing behind him with a positive pregnancy test in hand. After Marquette lost, he turned to me. “How was your day?”

I looked up from my lap top and my reverie as my husband moved suddenly to put down the TV remote. He assumed a serious posture, frowned and spoke. “Yes, I remember that day. It was tragic. Marquette lost.”

But the sparkle in his eyes betrayed him.

© 2010 Michele Arduengo. All rights reserved.

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