The Scent of the Blueberry -- 8

Two candles – that seemed right. Actually, “right” wasn’t good enough – it had to be perfect. Evelyn had spent all day at the grocery store, the bakery, the liquor store – it had to be just the way it should be. The white table cloth with the red napkins in the red napkin rings. The red wine ready for the 2 crystal glasses that Karen had lent her for just this occasion. Even the lustrous red sunset – still early in mid-February – seemed to promise the perfect Valentine evening.

And after the dinner, if he had not already guessed that something was different because she wasn’t sharing the wine with him, she would tell him. And she would see the look in his eyes – the same look she had fantasized about since the moment the results of the pregnancy test had been confirmed. He would be surprised, ask questions like “When?” Or even “Are you sure?” And take her in his arms and hold her – and tell her that he would be there for her – and . . .

And then it wasn’t that way. Funny, she couldn’t seem to hear the words. His mouth moved, his face contorted. Evelyn couldn’t get the words, but she did get the message. And it had absolutely nothing to do with being there for her – nothing to do with her, or the baby, at all. Nothing to do with the two of them. Only himself. And it was then that she knew that there would be no baby, no one to tell her when to breathe during labor, and no “white house with the picket fence” for her.

She knew that she couldn’t do it alone. The morning sickness, the diapers – Evelyn didn’t harbor any romantic illusions. She couldn’t count on much help either -- Karen had her own life to lead, her mother was, well, her mother, and . . . well, at least the nurse had understood. When Evelyn had originally received the pregnancy confirmation at the doctor’s office, the nurse had asked her whether this was what Evelyn had been hoping for. At the time, she hadn’t been able to believe her ears. Yes, of course, what do you think I am? Yes, this is exactly what I had been hoping for. So, a few days later, feeling like a total fool, Evelyn went back to the office, found the same nurse, and told her that it just wasn’t going to work out. The nurse hadn’t seemed to judge her – in fact, she smiled gently and helped Evelyn to set up the appointment for the procedure.

You might think that would signal the end of the problem. No – not on a couple of fronts. The motherfucking bastard kept calling, kept stopping by, kept trying to give her flowers, candy, everything except the one thing she had wanted. She wondered whether he did not actually understand the language – she thought that the phrase “fuck off” lacked the apparent ambiguity that he seemed to perceive. Finally she had to tell him that the next step was a restraining order. Later she heard that the motherfucking bastard had told his friends that he had broken up with her because she was frigid. That she needed help – God knows he had tried his best -- and he truly wished her the best of luck in the future.

Then there were the television shows. She would turn on the TV and the host of the program would open the manila envelope and say to the young man sitting there, “The DNA testing shows that you. . . are. . . the father. And the girl sitting between them would start jumping up and down, screaming, “I (bleeping) known it, you (bleeping bleep bleep). No way you ever gonna see that baby, even you git down on your knees an’ kiss my (bleeping) ass!” And the host would pull her aside and say. “Think of your baby, Yolanda. Every child needs a father. At least talk to Devon.”

And, by the end of the next commercial break, Yolanda and Devon would be just so cool with each other that Evelyn wanted to throw up.

And, of course, there was Grace at work – the department store job. Grace would simply disappear at certain times of the day – everyone knew that she and her husband were going through the world’s most complicated and expensive infertility treatments. Every month Grace looked just a little more like her world was coming to an end. To make matters worse, Evelyn had struck up something of a friendship at some point, and Grace seemed to look for Evelyn to provide support and strength as she careened from one disappointment to the next – all in the name of potential motherhood. But what Grace wanted most in the world, Evelyn had given up – and there was no way that Evelyn could bear to listen to Grace’s troubles. And that just added to her guilt.

It wasn’t just that. It was every day. Every woman she passed on the street was pregnant, or was pushing a stroller, or was pregnant and pushing a stroller. Even worse, sometimes, there would be a man, obviously a spouse or significant other, and he would be obviously linked to the child. It get to the point where Evelyn couldn’t even set foot in an art museum or look at an art book – there were too many Mary Cassatt pastels and Raphael Madonnas. It was everywhere.

Already Christmas in the department store was starting to drive her crazy. Or crazier, she supposed. Mothers bringing their children in to see Santa. Manger scenes on church lawns – every Mary had a Joseph.

Thank God for Karen. Karen understood – at least Karen loved her. And the latest letter from Karen had said – what had it said? That’s right, she hadn’t read it yet. There was Michel, and the phone call, and the blueberry tea, and the overwhelming scent of blueberries. . .