Mourning Sickness
by Inna Mkrtycheva
Lucy had been contemplating the proper way to break it off with her husband for months, years even. She considered her options.
1) It's not you, it's me.
2) We've grown apart, as friends, as lovers, as people.
3) I think it would be best for the both of us if we were to see other people.
4) Frankly, sweetheart, the sight of your flaccid, let alone engorged, penis is enough to make me want to vomit up blood.
She thoroughly crossed out the latter with her complementary red pen, courtesy of the Holiday Inn. The hotel bed on which she lay had a tasteful burgundy comforter, and smelled clean, but foreign. It was hot and the sheets were twisted around her feet, and her husband Craig was downstairs getting coffee. Lucy reached into her purse and pulled out a pack of Parliaments, which she kept hidden from Craig. She put one in her mouth and lit it. She took a slow, satisfying drag; she hadn't been able to get away from her health-conscious spouse long enough to fully enjoy a cigarette in a few days, at least. She gazed at the smoldering tip and wondered what the big deal was before bringing the cigarette to her lips again.
Lucy simply knew that the time had come. When it comes, you just know. She knew she could no longer bear living with her clean, sensible, by-the-book brick of a husband, a successful attorney who was handsome in the conventional way, and well-built in the way swimmers are (muscular but not bulky--streamlined maybe?), and who possessed a very articulate manner of speaking, wherein he over pronounced every single word until she felt she could rupture her own eardrums with sharpened pencils, just for the sake of not having to hear him utter another word.
Lucy wished she were having an affair. She wished for a torrid, forbidden love that she couldn't forsake, so she could break down and hysterically cry to her husband, Oh, Craig, we're in love, don't you see? I'm sorry, I didn't mean for this to happen! Will you ever forgive me? at which point she would burst into tears and crumple to the floor before him. Oh, the guilt she would feel! The empathy, the shame! And she would still feel for her loving, understanding husband, and he would care for her, too, and together they would commiserate the loss of their five-year-marriage, and maybe eventually they would all muster the courage and respect to go out to dinner together (or maybe something a little more casual, brunch, let's say) and someday they could all be friends and Craig would fall in love with a kind-hearted woman that smelled like vanilla, and he would remarry and everything would finally make sense. He could have his own children, and maybe they could spend the occasional Christmas dinner together, and they would cope, yes, then they would cope.
But there was no affair. There was no one else, and Lucy could not expect him to cope. She shook her head and put out her cigarette. She was just about to light another when there was a knock at the door. After a slight pause she heard Craig's voice, his strong-but-not-so-strong-as-to-be-overbearing voice go "Lucy, baby."
Lucy didn't say anything. Maybe he thought she was still asleep. Of course, Lucy was a terrible insomniac, and when it wasn't insomnia it was night terrors, and when it wasn't night terrors it was sleep apnea and so on. In their medicine cabinet at home, Lucy kept every pill under the sun in little translucent orange containers, lined up like little soldiers, silently praising the metaphorical gods of medicine.
Impulsively (and stupidly) she ran into the bathroom. Craig had always entered a room about as gracefully as a train wreck, and she could hear him now, bumbling and buzzing about, touching things, clanking. She didn't move.
"Honey," he said, "I know you're in there," his voice lilting and playful as if he were talking to a cat or a dog or a hamster.
"Oh, Lucy, pumpkin," he continued, and Lucy prayed that he would run out of loving food-related nicknames soon, "It smells like cigarettes in here. Jesus, what is that? Luce," he persisted, "Have you been smoking again? Now, honey. You know what that could do to the baby." Lucy almost cringed at the sound of that word, but stopped herself in time. Craig rapped lightly on the bathroom door. Even his knock was completely inoffensive.
"I don't see how anyone could even want to touch this stuff," said Craig quietly, and she could practically see him wrinkling his nose at the notion, "Come on, now, sweetheart. This is rather childish." He scoffed. Normally Lucy hated it when anyone patronized her in such a manner, but at the moment she was more interested in the fuzzy maroon filaments on the toilet seat cover she was sitting on top of than anything Craig had to say. She stood up and threw her cigarette into the toilet.
"Luce," he persisted, "What are you doing in there anyway?" She sighed.
"Hold on," she said, exasperated. She opened the door to see her husband standing there, wearing a hideous buttoned-down shirt patterned in paisley, proffering his cell phone like a gift of some sort. He smiled sheepishly.
"It's Carol," he said, referring to Lucy's mother by her first name, which kind of pissed her off, but perhaps that was only because virtually everything about her mother pissed her off, from her shrill, nasal voice to her self-righteous attitude to the fungus in her toenails that didn't seem to bother her half as much as it disgusted her daughter. Lucy wondered whether she would be condemned to purgatory or full-on Hell for so sincerely loathing the two people in her life she was supposed to care most about.
She took the phone and emitted a grunt from her mouth that apparently sounded like 'hello'; she heard her mother's voice jolt from the receiver.
"Darling," she cooed, "How's my little girl?"
"Fine," Lucy replied. She cleared her throat. "How are you?"
"Oh, just lovely, dear. April says 'hello.'"
"Hm."
Lucy and her younger sister April had always been on awful terms. It wasn't sibling rivalry, either; the hatred they felt for one another was completely pure, undiluted, undeniable.
A long time ago, Lucy recalled with a slight twitch of the eye, Carol had been mixing pancake batter. Chocolate chip pancakes were April's absolute favorite, and she would watch intently as her mother made them from scratch. Lucy stood on the sidelines while her mother fussed and cooed at her little sister, completely without merit. What had the little brat done to earn that kind of attention? Lucy was a mere seven years old, and jealous far beyond her years. She fumed and kicked at the linoleum floor she watched the two of them from the doorway of the kitchen.
They had still been using mixers back then. Carol poured the viscous mixture into a bowl, and the phone rang. Lucy asked her sister, wouldn't she like to climb up on the stool to get a better look? April obliged. Her long black curls tumbled from the top of her head and into the batter, and Lucy flipped on the mixer.
April's hair didn't grow back completely until she was twelve.
"Honey? Are you there?" Carol's cloying voice jerked Lucy back into reality.
"I'm here, Mom," she said disdainfully.
"I was just saying, that I think this little outing will do wonders for your complexion," she rambled on, "You know, the other day I read in the Herald that ocean water is very good for the skin." Lucy didn't know where her mother came up with her bullshit.
"And I bet it wouldn't hurt you to get a little exercise, either," she said, "Craig tells me you've been putting on a little baby weight." Lucy covered the receiver with her hand and mouthed a quick What the fuck to the back of her husband's head.
"Lucy? Sweetheart?"
"Yeah," she said, snapping to, "Sorry. Yeah, no, I'm fine. I don't need the exercise, really."
"Well, at least make sure you're eating right," said Carol in an overly-concerned voice, "Don't be too fussy. You hear me?"
"Yes, Mom. Yes, I hear you."
"You always were a fussy baby, you know," her mother said, her voice laced with saccharine, "Always crying about something. Never satisfied. Let's hope little David doesn't take after mommy." She made sickening, cooing baby noises through the receiver. Lucy held it away from her face.
"Mom," she said, her face contorted in disgust.
"Oh, sorry, honey. Little David or little Emma. But you know how much I've always wanted a grandson," she said in a lilting, sing-song-y voice, like maybe she should try a little harder to give birth to a person with a phallic object between his legs instead of one without. As if it mattered, as if wanting could change what came out after nine months. Lucy scoffed.
"Mom," she said, "I have to go, now."
"Oh, honey," her mother crooned, " Why, did I say something?"
"Oh no, no, nothing like that," Lucy replied through her teeth, " It's just that--it's that Craig is taking me out to dinner. Breakfast, I mean. I'll talk to you later, Mom. Have a good one, okay?" She hung up the phone before waiting for the reply. Craig turned to face her.
"Let's take a walk," he said, reaching for her hand, "You and me." Lucy forced out a half-hearted "okay", and Craig reached for his jacket.
"So," he said, "How's April? She good?"
"Yeah, she's fine," Lucy replied.
Lucy was absolutely appalled at the fact that he still--still!--had to resort to small talk to obliterate their very frequent and very uncomfortable silences.
During the walk to the beach Lucy recalled Craig's younger sister Cyan. She had legally changed her name from Clarissa, and Lucy couldn't say she blamed her. She would never have guessed that the two were related; Cy was a portly feminist with pink hair who constantly spoke of fighting vague, generalized entities like "the man" and "the system", and Lucy didn't quite know what she was on about half the time, but she helped Lucy dye her hair and made her laugh. They had smoked pot together--something Craig was strictly against--once or twice. On one such occasion, they were at Lucy's apartment, going back and forth for hours, exchanging war stories about college and break-ups, and eventually got to the subjects of love and marriage and babies and Craig. Lucy made a flippant statement about the size of his penis, and they laughed.
"I mean, it's not the most important thing, man," said Lucy in between gasps of pure amusement, "But, you know? It fucking counts." She took another hit.
"Yeah, well," said Cy, "You don't need a dick to get the job done. You know?" Lucy was surprised by the candid declaration, but not exorbitantly so, and she kept quiet.
"I have to say," Cy continued, "He's my brother and everything, but I was pretty fucking shocked when you agreed to marry him."
"Yeah?" Lucy said, exhaling aromatic grey smoke, "Why?"
Cy shrugged.
"You never struck me as the marrying, birthing type."
"Is there a type?" Lucy asked, sitting up, suddenly feeling completely sober. "Sure. Lots of types," Cy brought the joint to her colorless lips. Her nails were perpetually painted black, without fail, and she went on, "You're just not it." Lucy paused.
"No?"
"God, no," Cy shook her head vehemently, "Not by a long shot, baby."
Truth be told, Lucy had never imagined herself marrying a man like Craig. He was thoughtful, attentive, and confident in his manner. He always remembered her birthday, and every anniversary. Lucy still had trouble recalling whether their wedding had been on the fifth or sixth of September.
When Craig proposed to her they had been living together for seven months and technically speaking, it wasn't a bad time to get married. They had had enough time to get to know each other, to learn about one another's habits and pet peeves, to figure out how they both liked their coffee. Perfect timing. Sensible. Right.
Wrong, she thought. So wrong.
They went outside. Craig. took her hand gingerly as she stepped out onto the sand. He looked at her adoringly. She gave him a polite smile. Inside Lucy wished for the strength, the gall, to roll her eyes demonstratively. Nothing came. She looked out into the ocean, black water that ended at the horizon, finite and disappointing.
Maybe it won't be so bad, she thought. I could be a modern mom. I could take up ceramics. Glazed pottery, maybe. The whole family could benefit from it. They'll appreciate the effort I make. They'll take interest in my hobby. I could try new recipes. We'll have dinner together every night, promptly at 7. I'll go to PTA meetings and chaperone school dances. I could put one of those bumper stickers on the back of my station wagon, the ones that say My Kid Is An Honor Student, even if he does get the occasional C. And one day the kid will wake up and mommy will have painted their pristine bathroom wall with her brains while he was sleeping.
No. Not by a long shot, baby.
She thought back to when she first found out she was pregnant. She bought a home pregnancy test that was of the highest caliber and proudly boasted of being 99.9% accurate! and she felt a wave of happiness wash over her as she saw those two prophetic blue lines. She made Craig's favorite dinner (chicken parmesan, so typical) and waited impatiently until he came home. In a ridiculous, spontaneous burst of pure joy she pounced on him before he got through the door, kissed him deeply and told him she was "with child." Lucy furrowed her eyebrows at the thought. She was embarrassed for herself. She didn't know that person anymore. That was only five months ago, and every day since had been the worst in her life.
"Isn't this the best?" Craig asked after some time, "This, just you and me. Like this. Isn't it?" Lucy nodded.
"It is," she said quietly, "Yeah."
Lucy woke up every morning hoping that the day ahead would be better than the one before it, that she would for once and for all be rid of that awful, gnawing feeling in her gut, in her womb, the one that made her want to throw herself out the window or break all the fine china in the house or hit her husband over the head with the ceramic lawn gnome on their front lawn. But it never went away. And in four more months there would never be any way out.
She looked at Craig out of the corner of her eye, taking in his strong features, his handsome face, biting her lip because it was all she could do to keep from crying or vomiting or both. Lucy had always assumed that therapy and medication and sadness was all bullshit, but at that moment she was almost willing to lay herself down on the proverbial couch and ramble on and on about the perverse nature of the mechanics in her head while some silver-haired man nodded and said "Mhmm," and in the end said goodbye and sent her on her way with a prescription for some generic mind-fuck like Prozac or Zoloft. She watched as Craig let go of her hand and walked towards the ocean, up to the dark wet sand the tide had touched, and began to write in it.
Buried in the back of Lucy's mind was the notion that Craig would step out gracefully, take a bow, were he faced with the facts. But the more prominent fact was the one that would need to be rocked to sleep every night, the one that would cry when it shat its pants, the thought of which made Lucy increasingly nauseous every morning, a feeling she flippantly labeled as morning sickness, and that made her husband smile because of what it truly meant, even though she knew it was something more, something purely psychosomatic.
"Mourning sickness, is what it is," she whispered to herself and she almost laughed, even though it was just about as funny as a ten car pile-up with no survivors. She knew herself how cold she was, how black-hearted, to so vehemently hate an unborn child, to be so viscerally repulsed by a husband that most girls--women, even--dream of having. He turned to her. In the sand, he had written what was possibly the most hackneyed, unoriginal romantic proclamation in the universe: CR + LR 4-EVER. Lucy smiled the smile of a nervous teenager on a first date as she rubbed the back of her neck roughly.
Lucy was unsure of many things, but she knew a certain few. She knew that "staying together for the kids" wasn't just a cliché, that people actually did it. She knew that Craig was one of those people. She knew that it was different with your own, no matter how much you dislike kids, blah blah blah. She also knew that CR and LR would never last 4-EVER, despite all of those things.
Lucy looked out into the ocean and at the seagull flying over it, and she felt a subtle pang of envy deep in the pit of her stomach. It was almost imperceptible, but to the seasoned professional, who had gotten used to feeling these "occasional" spastic twitches, it was there and it was real. What she wouldn't give to be one of those birds. Hell, she thought as she watched the seagull graze the water and grab a fish with its beak, I'd even settle for being that fucking guppy thing. At least they're free before they're eaten. Lucy was desperate, more desperate than she had ever been in her whole life. So, she considered. Say there was no baby. Say she misread the test. She had wanted the baby so badly that she dreamed it all up and she'd been ignoring her very regular periods. Or say she just happened to fall down the stairs one day. Not really, mere words would be enough to convince Craig; he was so perfectly reliable in that way. In every way, really.
It was too easy. Babies come and go, happens all the time, she reasoned. Tough luck, sorry, play again later. Lucy couldn't figure out why she hadn't thought of it until this very moment.
"I have to talk to you," she blurted out. Craig looked at her expectantly.
"Our baby?" she said, and he nodded, "Well, I lied."
His face dropped, his eyes lit up.
"We're not having one," she said, "I lied to you." And she hoped, she hoped so much that this would make him hate her, and then he wouldn't be as angry when she asked for a divorce. Craig rubbed the back of his neck. He furrowed his eyebrows.
"But, your stomach? Your belly, I mean, it's grown--"
"It's a pretty easy thing to fake," she insisted, "Why do you think we haven't fucked in as long as we have?" Craig winced at her harsh choice of words. He cleared his throat.
"Why," he began, "Why. Why did you say you were pregnant?" She shrugged because half a minute was not enough time to come up with a plausible lie. Lucy hoped he would not need a reason.
He did not seem to; he dropped his gaze and began to meander away. Lucy trotted up to him.
"Craig," she said, "Honey?" Lucy realized it was the first time in their entire courtship that she had actually used such an endearing term. She felt like a sellout. He was acting aloof, and Craig was not one to ever act aloof. Especially not towards his wife, especially not towards Lucy.
She felt jilted. She walked over to him.
"What," she asked tentatively, "What is it? There's something else." Craig shook his head violently, his hair falling all around his face. His eyes were a murky green, the color of a beer bottle. It was something she hadn't ever really noticed before, and it was strangely entrancing.
"No, nothing," he said, "I'm just surprised. Shocked. It's scaryŠ" He trailed off. He was sounding unlike himself, more like a child. He dropped his gaze.
"No. That. That look wasn't shock," said Lucy, but Craig had already started walking. He didn't say anymore.
"Craig, tell me," she said, "You know. You know if there's anything wrong I'd want you to tell me."
Very suddenly, Craig stopped walking.
"I knew it," she said, "Something's wrong. Right?" She spoke jubilantly, excitedly, like a detective stumbling upon a vital clue. Craig rubbed the back of his neck. Then he finally looked at her.
"Oh, Luce," he said gravely, like she was dying before his eyes. Lucy started to sweat.
"Craig," she said, nervous as hell, "For Christ's sake. Just tell me." She crossed her arms and shifted her weight to one foot. "This is the worst," she said, contorting her mouth into a frown. She did not know what she meant.
"Lucy, I love someone," he said, "Someone that's not you."
Her jaw dropped. Just like that, she thought. Deadpan, succinct, nothing unnecessary. White bread only, crusts cut off. There was a feeling she had never felt before.
"Muh," she uttered. She was finding it difficult to form words, syllables even. "Who?" she asked, her mouth dry, her tongue papery.
"You remember Sandra?" Lucy nodded and felt herself grow sick. She remembered Sandra; the rather plump but not unattractive intern she met at an office party of Craig's the previous year. She had commented on Sandra's hopeless ensemble (chunky shoes and an A-line skirt) that clashed in such a way that made her look more boxy than she actually was, and Craig had just said, "Oh, honey, now, you don't even know her," before planting a tender kiss on Lucy's cheek, and she hadn't even thought twice about it until now. But the meetings, the conference calls, the late night conversations which had prevented Craig from coming to bed until very late, those things that she had once been so grateful for manifested themselves into tiny monsters and scratched mercilessly at the back of her raw throat.
"Sandra," she said dumbly, and Craig nodded.
"Now, I just," he said, "I don't know. There's nothing, Luce."
"Nothing," Lucy repeated, looking at her feet, her swollen ankles.
"There's nothing keeping me tied to you," Craig said, looking up. She nodded.
"Do you hate me?" he asked, sounding as sincere as ever. Lucy forced a smile in spite of herself and vigorously shook her head no.
"Go," she told him, "You should go, now." Craig cleared his throat. "How are you going to get--"
"I'll figure something out," she said, "Don't you worry about me." They didn't say any more to one another, and Craig scampered off through the sand, getting smaller and smaller, happy as a schoolboy.
Lucy watched him for a minute or two. She kicked at the sand, holding her hips.
"God," she muttered aloud, "You think you know someone.."
She didn't finish the sentence. Her head was swimming. She wanted to sleep forever. She sat down and pressed her palms to the sand, feeling every grain. She felt like she could crawl out of her skin and into the ocean and swim forever. The water did not look so black, just opaque. She could make out the horizon. Perhaps in a few hours the ocean would be blue, clear, boundless. Lucy could wait. She was eager, ready, she knew how.