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Dear Bean,
* * *
Today we found out how perfect you are—a perfect little girl! Can you believe that, Beanie? I can’t. I looked at the screen and laughed in amazement and joy, because I could see you. I really could. A girl. My little girl. My daughter.
* * *
I keep saying the words to myself, like trying on a new outfit, making sure it fits. Maybe if I keep saying them, they will start to feel real, because right now they don’t. I keep shaking my head at myself, amazed that we’ve gotten this far. My belly is round, I feel your flutters, we’re having a girl!!
* * *
Your father looked so proud when he saw you on the screen, little legs kicking away like you had to get somewhere, fast. You have places to be, Bean! ‘Here’s one who doesn’t like to sit still,’ the technician said, and laughed. And your daddy… he grew six inches taller just looking at you. His chest swelled and his face couldn’t hold his smile. ‘Well, hello there,’ he said to you, which made me smile. I could see it already—how he would sing you to sleep, your head nestled under his chin, your tiny hand starfished on his chest.
* * *
I could see it all, Bean. It was all there in front of us, shining, perfect, waiting to happen. I didn’t have any doubt about that. No doubts at all.
* * *
Love, Mama
4
Eva
“Beer or soda, Eva Diva?”
My dad smiles at me hopefully, using my old nickname, as he proffers the cooler with its many cans jostling for space amidst the melting ice cubes. It’s Saturday, a properly warm day with blue skies and birdsong, and my parents have invited James and me over, along with my brothers and their families, for a barbecue. Something I try not to dread, but invariably do.
“I’ll have a beer, Dad,” I say with a smile, not because I actually want a beer, but because I know it will forestall any when-are-you-going-to-get-pregnant conversations that my father hints at and my mother asks outright. You know your eggs start to wither and shrivel at thirty-five, Eva? You don’t have all the time in the world, even if you think you do.
No, I always want to say, I don’t think that, Mom. But I never do, for a whole lot of complicated reasons.
My father’s face falls just a little as he hands me a can of Budweiser, the family drink. I grew up in a solidly working class family in the south Boston suburb of Roslindale, back when it was a generational, immigrant community of Irish Catholics and a few others, besides. Now it is in the process of becoming expensive and gentrified, peopled with a mix of college students, singles, and young upwardly mobile families. Most of my parents’ friends and neighbors have sold up since the prices have skyrocketed, but they’ve held on, stubborn to the last.
We are standing on the back deck overlooking a postage stamp of carefully tended yard, the Boston skyline visible over the trees in the distance. I can smell the smoky, charcoal aroma from the old school barbecue my dad has already started, mixed with the cloying pine scent of the air freshener my mother overuses. Home. A place that makes me feel a dozen different things.
“James!” My dad’s voice becomes jocular, the man’s man tone he seems to reserve for my husband in particular. “Beer?”
“No thanks, Brian.” James never drinks beer; he doesn’t like the taste, something my father refuses to understand or accept. I’m sure he thinks if he keeps asking, one of these days James will take a Bud from him.
“Are you sure?” Dad asks, and James smiles and shakes his head.
“Sorry. I’ll have a Coke, though.” His gaze is a little distant, his manner a bit reserved, as it always is when we visit my family.
James is the only child of wealthy parents; his father was in finance, his mother lunched and played tennis. He grew up in Connecticut, went to boarding school when he was eleven and then on to Tufts here in Boston, and everyth
ing about my family—from the beers to the nosy neighbors to my back-slapping brothers—is foreign to him. It doesn’t help that my two brothers are the kind of guys with hearty laughs and booming voices; Patrick is a firefighter and Steve a paramedic. They married young, have three children each, and stayed in Roslindale. I’m the anomaly in the family, and I suspect I always will be. I feel it most when I’m at home, like I’m wearing clothes that don’t fit.
“So how’s the insurance world, James?” my dad asks, which is something else he always does on these occasions that never works. My dad is a plumber, and doesn’t really understand the corporate world. Doesn’t really want to. He basically thinks life insurance is a big scam.
“It’s good.” James’ smile seems a bit forced. I know things have been tense since Rachel called with the news about Emily. I don’t like to ask, because James makes it feel so private, but I know he met her during his lunch break and they argued.
Emily is moving to the palliative care unit on Monday, and James is taking off work to be there for the day, with Rachel. I haven’t asked him how he feels about it because I know he won’t tell me, but it feels like I should, like I should at least try to seem supportive.
I take a sip of my beer even though I don’t like the taste. All my childhood I’ve been trying to fit in with my family, keep up with my brothers, even though I knew I never could. They outpaced me at everything, no more so than with our choices of career—saving lives versus marketing for makeup? No contest. And it’s not even real marketing, according to my mother, who wrinkled her nose and said, “But it’s not in a magazine?” when I told her about one of the ad campaigns I’d organised.
Another sip, and the beer doesn’t taste any better. I’m still feeling crampy, wishing my period would finish so I can start on the next cycle of hope. I haven’t even told James I’m not pregnant; with the situation with Emily, it hasn’t felt appropriate, and it’s not like it’s news, anyway. Yet part of me still wishes he would notice, ask, care.
