McCain’s face filled the screen to concede the election. He was flanked by a perfectly coifed Cindy McCain in a yellow suit and flawless red lipstick. McCain wasn’t my candidate, but when he put his hand over his heart and bid his supporters farewell, sobs from way down deep pressed forward, racking my whole body. Into our new red chenille blanket, I cried for poor John McCain as if he were my most beloved friend. I could not stop crying, no matter how much I tried to convince myself that McCain would one day know happiness again.
The next thing I remember is John shaking my shoulder. “You’re going to want to see this,” he said, turning up the volume. I lifted my head—where the hell was I? “You were crying about McCain, and then you fell asleep.” We stared in awe as Obama spoke. Again, tears streamed down my face. This time: pure joy.
The next night, I fell asleep right after dinner again, only to find myself staring at the bedroom ceiling at two in the morning. John stirred and opened his eyes. I told him I had to pee. “While I’m there, I’m taking a pregnancy test.” He laughed and wished me luck as if I was joking.
I squatted down and rifled under the sink for the purple box with the generic drugstore pregnancy test. We’d had unprotected sex on the fourteenth day of my cycle, so it was possible. But so many women I knew were struggling to conceive while on Clomid that I didn’t think there was any chance I was harboring a fetus. My ob-gyn warned it might take a while because I was over thirty-five. I peed on the stick and then crawled back in bed.
“So there’s a bun in the oven?” John asked in a good-natured but mocking tone.
“Probably twins. We’ll need a bigger place.”
After three minutes, I elbowed him. “Go check.” I wasn’t getting out of the warm cocoon of sheets and comforter to confirm a negative pregnancy test. I flipped my pillow and laid my cheek on the cool side. I heard John pee, and then: silence. He stepped into the doorway, his head backlit by the bathroom light, his face obscured by the shadow.
“I think there may be two lines.”
“Ha-ha.” I wasn’t even positive my period was late—I’d lost track because October had been busy with out-of-town settlement negotiations on a new case with Jack. I snuggled deeper under the covers and waited for John to join me, but he stood in the doorway, staring at the pee stick. He was serious. I threw off the covers and lunged at the stick.
Two lines, bright as peppermint stripes, showed through the little circle.
I screamed and danced with joy. A baby! A baby! A baby!
Lucky peppermint stripes. Lucky us.
41
You’ve been to a wedding. You’ve seen pearl-colored dresses, black ties, bridesmaids in jewel tones. You’ve heard string quartets and heartfelt vows. You know the drill: a procession with music, readings, vows, and a pronouncement on behalf of the state.
Here’s what I want you to see from our wedding:
See me and my six bridesmaids, four of whom were Rosen-patients, running through Chicago’s Millennium Park so the photographer could snap pictures of us in front of “The Bean” before the sun faded across the western sky. See us dashing across the lobby of an office building with cool hexagonal mirrors on the ceiling, laughing still, and filling in the bewildered photographer: “We are going to see my therapist!” See me, six weeks pregnant in white strappy heels and a dress tight across the bodice from all the first-trimester carb loading I’d been doing.
See Dr. Rosen in his smart gray suit and shiny black shoes opening the door to a chorus of seven screaming women treating him like a rock star we’d been escorted backstage to meet. See Dr. Rosen smile and usher us back to the room I knew better than any other space on the planet with its fritzy light in the back corner, the coffee stain by the window, the askew mini-blinds. See that he’d arranged the chairs in a circle—just like for a session—except it was a Saturday night, ninety minutes before my wedding. See him take a seat in his usual chair and ask us where we’d been. See him ask me if I was ready. Yes, I’m ready. See me close my eyes and take in a deep breath as first-trimester nausea roils through my body. Hear me exclaim with a twinge of panic: I forgot my crackers! See Dr. Rosen disappear through the door and return with a red plastic cup full of milk and cereal. Muesli. Hear me say, Is this what you eat before morning sessions? You seem more like a toast guy.
See me and John standing together in a side room before the ceremony. See us embrace and hold the moment between us. See how much love my scored heart holds within its swollen boundaries. See me and John walk together down the aisle—there is no giving away, only choosing, accepting, showing up. Hear us promise to build a home and life together with the support of the people who love us. Hear us speak our family into being.
See us vowing before our witnesses. See me resting my palm against my belly, where our baby’s heartbeat clocked in at one hundred and seventy-five beats per minute.
You’ve also been to wedding receptions. You know all about centerpieces, chair covers, and calligraphied place cards. You’ve tasted appetizers with mushrooms and Brie, dry champagne, and buttercream frosting. You’ve heard toasts to the new couple and the opening bars of “Brown Eyed Girl.”
Here’s what I want you to see at our wedding reception:
See table five, where Dr. Rosen and his wife sit flanked by Max, Lorne, Patrice, and their spouses. See table six ringed with the women from my Tuesday-afternoon group. See table seven, where Rory, Marty,
