“What are you doing?”
“Trying to write.”
“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.