Two Pink Lines

It smelled of the entire breakfast Lucas cooked for me—three eggs, bell pepper, tomato, scallions, and red onion, seasoned to taste with sazón, heavily peppered and scrambled with sausage. It looked only of egg and bell pepper, but stained orange by seasoning and whisked. It felt only of the pepper in my throat but with onion when through my nose.

“Teresa, everything alright in there?” Lucas was asking outside our bathroom door. Very gentle, his voice.

“Yes, fine. Just need a moment.”

I stood from my knees and brushed straight and flat the yellow linen dress I was wearing. Tight around my stomach at twenty-eight weeks.

“Do you need anything?” he asked again.

Always very considerate, Lucas. Always nearby.

“Just need a moment,” I repeated.

I turned on the hot water first and waited for it to scald before allowing the cold to provide reprieve. One. Two. Three pumps of eucalyptus soap and lathered up past my wrists. A fourth for good measure and when I was halfway through my second humming of happy birthday to you, Lucas said again “Are you sure?”

I hummed anew, louder. A higher pitched happy birthday to you. The right thirty seconds to cleanliness. Dried my hands and applied lotion, honey and almond scented, whipped like butter. Between the knuckles, beyond the wrists. I took out the barrette holding back my hair and checked for leftovers. I’d floss first, always starting with the canines, working back and ending in the front. No brushing to follow to preserve enamel and a swish of water—I liked it warm—around my mouth and into the sink. Ahhhhh. I’d check my tongue and below it to make sure all was taken care of. Good now. Good as new.

I opened the bathroom door to Lucas in my mother’s apron. Besar a la Cocinera.

“Was it my eggs?” he asked.

“No.”

“Can I get you anything else?”

“Some water.”

June flowers on our kitchen table. Miami early summer heat wilting them despite windows closed. I flounced and fluffed my dress, trying to encourage the air to float a bit colder and closer to me.

“Are you warm? I can turn up the air.”

I was warm. I wanted the air turned up.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

I took my breakfast dish and utensils from the table and washed them in the sink. Our dish soap pine.

“If you’re not feeling up to it, you can skip Jade’s shower. I’m sure she’d understand.”

She wouldn’t. Jade and Lucas were fraternal twins. That their hypothetical respective children be born in tight proximity was important, imperative, lightly exacted. Our babies will be just like twins. They’ll be the best cousins. The best friends. Jade’s tender want. Friendly and unassuming. We were all so lucky.

“Of course, I’ll be there,” I said. “I know how important it is. To her.”

“She’s really gonna appreciate it.”

Sweet Lucas in that apron was trying. Was thinking of me. Picking up my dry cleaning. My socks. Returning my calls. Washing my car. Seasoning my chicken. Chopping my greens. Scheduling my calendar.

“It’s going to be a nice time,” I said, also trying.

Nice, nice all the time.

“I’m glad to hear you say that.”

Lucas assumed sincerity always. He was a face value man, easily buttered and sweet-talked and willing to accept my reassurance without thought. This was important when we were unable to get pregnant for a year, when I wasn’t bleeding or ovulating regularly, my body fat too insignificant, my binge and purge uncontrolled, when I lied. He tracked my imaginary calendar and made the plans. Dinner and dancing and yellow daisies. Breakfast in bed, my favorite dish and dessert. Chorizo and flan and then more flan. One more bite. One pink line.

How many years did I not talk to him about it? Kept my own calendar because I wanted with desperation. I needed reason to be good for reason to be better; thought that pregnancy would bring me the reprieve that eluded while we tried. That control was only just a day away. This made perfect sense, for surely I could recover for something singularly dependent on me. I could be good under the correct circumstances if only they’d arrive. 

I purged from my body, easy, what was left of breakfast while Lucas finished the dishes.

***

Jade and her wife, Victoria, lived in Miami Springs. Jade was thirty-three weeks pregnant and, to all’s dismay, not carrying twins. They were eager to get this one out and to try again for two. Jade had a good, steady, normal pregnancy. She was a good, steady, normal woman and would be a good, steady, normal mother.

I loved Jade. She wanted everyone at her house and all the time. Called most weeknights. I defrosted too much chicken. Made too much rice. Cannot eat all this dessert myself. Come over for dinner. I already made you a plate. She showed her most unaffected love through abundance, through meals, through service and a hotplate. Adamant when we became pregnant around the same time, steadfast about lunch, cookies left in the mailbox, cake on Sundays.

“Teresa!” Jade called across their chain-linked fence when she saw us street parking. Waving, so excited. We joined in her backyard.

“Hello to you, too,” Lucas said.

They embraced. So happy.

“Hey Jade,” I said.

We were both wearing yellow dresses. Hers canary, mine mustard.

“Look at us, already matching,” she said. “Last chance to make this a combined shower.”

Jade had been trying for weeks. It’ll be so special. I’ll host. You won’t have to do anything. Invite anyone. Invite everyone. I would not have a baby shower because my rule was simple: no party for something I couldn’t take care of. The doctors told me the baby was healthy, steady, normal. Good job, momma. I didn’t believe them and would not have my friends, my whole life over, to cut a cake I’d later deprive us of.

“Just not my thing. But happy to be celebrating you, and you,” I said touching her stomach. “The house looks amazing.”

“Thank you,” Victoria said, joining us from inside.

She was in a ruby jumper, wearing her usual topaz hoops, amber-hued, and Nikes. Her fresh box braids tinted purple. She and Jade were glorious together and their backyard adorned in color the same. Red. Green. Purple. Yellow streamers lining the fence. The above ground pool shimmered blue, bug and palm frond free. Their coconut palm bare and fruits of her labor set atop a circular table, machete and Don Q Cristal nearby. Three. Four speakers counted. The entire sound system, two bases, uprooted from the living room and on patio chairs, singing. Already next-door neighbors were cheering over fences. Be there in an hour. Be there soon. Coming now.

“Lucas, could you help me sweep the patio? I just cut the yard.” Victoria asked.

He knew where they kept the broom and they went inside together.

“How are you feeling today?” Jade asked me.

“Fine, good. Excited for you.”

“Are you sure? Lucas mentioned that you had a bit of morning sickness after breakfast.”

Lucas mentioned this to be kind, in case I didn’t want to come, in case I seemed tired when here. He thought that I probably needed comradery, another shoulder.

“It was just nausea. I’m fine. How are you?”

“Are you sure it was just nausea? It’s a little strange to have it come back like this in the third trimester.”

It was not, in fact, strange to have morning sickness, nausea in the third trimester. It was not strange to have it at any point during pregnancy. At any point during pregnancy, I could claim morning sickness, could claim nausea.

“My doctor seems to think it’s fine,” I said. “Anyhow, how are you doing?”

“Okay, great. I just want to make sure our little cousin is safe,” she said, holding my hand. Our stomachs touched when she did this. Jade, thinking us having a close moment.

“So, wait,” I said. “Tell me how you’re feeling.”

“Oh, you know, the usual. Tired from pregnancy. Tired from work.”

“But excited?”

“Yes, of course! Excited this day is here and for the big one to come soon. And you’ll be right after me!”

Labor felt far, hypothetical only, and the baby even further.

“Come on now,” Victoria said. “We’ll catch up later! We need to set up the food. The white neighbors are early.”

Their spread was ample, best on the block. White rice. Yellow rice. Fried rice. Black beans. Pinto beans. Roast pork. Roast chicken. Fried beef. Cubanos. Yuca. More yuca. Plantains three ways. Four ways. New chafers and sternos. Rice pudding and flan on familiar plates and in familiar bowls. Guava, mango, pineapple, coconut on platters borrowed from neighbors. Guarapo and Corona in a cooler.

I lit the sternos. The smell of grass and chlorine mixed with warming food. Deep breath. Control yourself. Release breath. Just portion it out. Slow.

“Everything okay out here?” Lucas asked.

“Yup, yes. Everything is good,” I said.

“Jade marinated the chicken in lemon like you like,” he said. “Overnight.”

I took a tiny serving of the chicken, white rice. One scoop of black beans. Took the smallest littlest Cubano and one maduro. Nothing more. No dessert.

The other neighbors arrived as a single collective and with more and more food and more drink. Rebecca next door brought brigadeiro. Matt mofongo. Carla well wishes and rum and cupcakes. More pork. More beer. Chicken hearts. Candy. We took out another folding table from the garage to support the support. Everyone so happy, dancing. Everyone so happy, singing. Everyone so happy for this baby. Cheers. Salud. Lucas so happy. Jade so happy. Victoria so happy.

I wanted it too. I spooned and scooped. Two. Three. Four plates, each one teemed and full. Everyone celebrating. I could too. The beef is so tender. The flan so light. How did you get it so light? The plantains perfectly fried. What’s in this? What’s in this? What’s in this?

“Let me get you some water and a napkin,” Lucas said, approaching me.

I was standing among neighbors I hadn’t met before. My mouth was dry, teeth crowded with food stuck. I brushed between gums with my tongue and nothing gave. Sticky leftovers hardened on my cheek.

“Here you go,” Lucas said, handing me the water bottle, gesturing to take my empty plate, and the other empty plate stacked below, and the smaller dessert one on top.

My feet ached of twenty-eight weeks and impending gout. My hands sausages from sun, dehydration, sodium, sugar. I had gotten caramel on my dress in two different spots. My hair molasses, stuck to my neck with fly-aways greased to my forehead, spattered in sweat and smear. I was swollen and unkept. Eating for two. Three. Four, it felt. My stomach full down to my knees. Ankles bloated and rounded. Not in control.

It was like going to church. Confessional easy now. It smelled mostly of the lemon chicken, but also sweet like brown sugar. It felt sticky, was sticky, condensed milk treacle down my hand and arm. Bits of it looked whole, undigested, edible again. Hot sauce stung my nose, turned my palm rosy.

The hand soap in Jade’s bathroom was a familiar strong citronella. Hot water first; cold to follow. Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you. The hand lotion pump on the back of the toilet, peach scented and creamy. The dental floss, as always, in the medicine cabinet. A swish of warm water. Ahhhhh. Good as new.

I returned to Lucas holding a ginger ale and glass of ice for me. Same morning sympathetic eyes, sorry my body growing our baby always felt so sick. The backyard still full of friends, music going, Jade and Victoria pleased and glowing. My little family so good. My little family exactly right.

“Everything good?” he asked.

“Good,” I said.