She was pregnant.
Months ago, a revelation of the sort would have struck with the force of a wrecking ball. Yet since learning of Isaak’s death, perhaps due to familiarity of the loss, or maybe a shell erected of guilt, she instead gained a numbness that enabled her to function. Like moving underwater, it was a slow, surreal, muted existence. She had become a spectator of another’s woman’s life.
If you want to talk, I’m here, Luanne recently offered. It appeared Vivian’s mood had been taken as an effect of Gene’s absence. Still, Vivian couldn’t help wondering if it was true what people said, about the telling signs when in the family way. Was it plain on her face, in her eyes?
Vivian feared this now as she caught her own reflection in the polished silverware on the table. She averted her gaze from even the waiters gliding by at the Waldorf Astoria. It was her mother’s preferred hotel during periodic stays such as this. In a corner of the restaurant, a harpist plucked chords beside a large topiary fashioned after a genie’s bottle.
“You’re not eating your lunch,” Vivian’s mother observed across the span of white linen.
Vivian glanced at the citrus salmon she had but pushed around on her plate. She should have interjected an alternative when the woman ordered on her behalf. The smell of seafood was making her queasy. “I’m just not very hungry.”
“Are you certain you’re feeling all right?” It was the second time her mother had voiced the inquiry. “You look ... a bit off.”
“I’m fine. Really. A smidge tired, is all.”
A commentary about Vivian’s job requiring too much energy would typically follow. Instead, her mother appeared on the verge of issuing a statement of import. But suddenly, as if to drown the words, she drained her gin and tonic. Then she set down the glass and resumed idle conversation between labored pauses and cigarette puffs. Her unspoken syllables screamed in Vivian’s ear.
Ask me! Vivian wanted to say. For the more her mother fidgeted–with a fork, her lighter, the brooch on her burgundy dress suit-the clearer it became that, somehow, she knew.
Regardless of the consequences, Vivian felt a growing need to share her plight. She understood there were alternatives: giving the baby up for adoption, or a secret appointment with a willing doctor. But both of these were unthinkable. Hence, it wasn’t advice she yearned for as much as an assurance she would not endure this alone. Such a comfort might even shed the numbness encaging her.
“Well,” her mother said, an abrupt conclusion. She crushed out her half burned cigarette in the beveled ashtray. “I’d better fetch my belongings from my room.”
“Already?” Vivian said. “I thought there would be more time.”
“I’ve decided to take the earlier train, departing just past two. It’s unfortunate I’ll be missing Gene by just a few hours.” She waved her fingers at the waiter, a request for the check.
Perhaps she had altered her schedule in order to avoid the man presumed responsible for Vivian’s condition. After all, who else would it be?
Restaurant staff cleared the serving ware and settled the bill. All the while, Vivian mentally willed her mother to stay. But the woman closed her handbag and prepared to rise.
Vivian felt the world closing in. If she stayed silent, it would crush her into nothing. “Please,” she said, “if you have something to say . . .”
Her mother crinkled her brow as if at a loss. Quiet stretched the air, padded only by the harpist’s chords and surrounding chatter. At last, Vivian’s mother lowered her gaze and straightened in her chair.
“Very well,” she said, “though I don’t know exactly how to phrase this.” There was a stiffness to her jaw, adding a clip to her words. “It’s certainly not a lifestyle I’d foreseen. I suspect your grandmother will have plenty to say on the subject.”
Simple as that, the reality of disapproval crystallized into shards, each one aimed at Vivian’s heart. She couldn’t help questioning her decision to speak up. In the end, maybe she was destined to manage all on her own.
“The situation, you see,” her mother went on, “is that your father ... should be returning by month’s end.”
Vivian’s thoughts came to a halt, derailing. “Sorry?”
“He’ll be coming home. To DC, that is. We agreed, however, that it would be better-for us both-if I remained in New Hampshire.”
Absorbing this, Vivian flashed back to the couple’s parting at Euston Station. She recalled the way he had said good-bye even to Vivian. Messages she could not decode. She considered the makeshift bed in his study, his choice to stay in London. All were signs she had noticed but ultimately discounted. “So, you are divorcing,” she said.