R had been none too happy about my summer of music. In addition to the three Rick Springfield concerts I’d attended, my new friend Amy had convinced me to take a three day holiday to Montreal, Canada to go see Corey Hart in concert. Corey Hart had released new music in Canada, having done some touring there to support it, and was planning on headlining a summer music festival. She coached me as to which summer day camp would be able to accomodate Zach so I could attend, and told me her husband was donating frequent flyer miles so she could make the trip on the cheap. R had reluctantly done the same, but was nonplussed by my absences from home, even after a rock star had asked me to work for him.
“Do you think you can come home without stopping by the airport this afternoon?” I asked him on the phone one afternoon. R had been taking flying lessons at the local airport; he’d always wanted to try them, and we lived literally down the street from the local airport. R had become friendly with the office staff, helping out with their computer glitches and accounting problems, and often went over there now after work.
“I guess I could come home first,” he said. “But I’ll have to go over there later, they need me to figure out what is wrong with the fax machine. It sends but doesn’t receive. Why, is something wrong?”
No, nothing was wrong. I hadn’t even noticed, at first, when I’d packed a box of tampons for our trip to Montreal and they had gone unused. I was horrible at calculating my cycles, and even worse since the miscarriage last winter. I was usually so regular that I hardly ever had to pay attention. I hadn’t remembered exactly when my period was due, but I didn’t want to get caught in a foreign country without supplies, so maybe I was just being overzealous when I’d packed the Tampax.
But then I’d vomited on the plane ride back. I never threw up on planes. At first I thought it was because I hadn’t eaten much before the flight, but then I started counting the days. It didn’t take me long to surmise that I might be pregnant. I stopped for the test on the way back from the Tulsa airport, and had watched the second line form on the stick a few hours later.
I was happy, of course. But somewhere in the back of my head I was a little sad, too. It was July. I should have still been pregnant from my miscarried baby; the due date had been late August. Maybe it was a little bit of cosmic justice somehow, helping me to get through what promised to be an awful month by giving me the hope of a new life.
“No, nothing is wrong,” I told R. “I just have something to talk to you about, and I’d rather not do it on the phone.”
There was a silence on the end of the line before the words rushed back at me: “You’re pregnant!”
I laughed. So much for drama. “Yes, I am. What do you think of that?”
R laughed also, and the tension from the last few weeks disappeared. “Well if it comes out playing guitar or holding a microphone, you’ll have some ‘splainin’ to do.”
I wanted to be irritated, but I couldn’t be. R was joking, and the fact that he was meant that everything was fine between us.
Another baby. Another try. I was nervous, but hopeful.