33. Ruby
33
RUBY
Two days before the wedding, I’m making pizza for dinner in Harry’s apartment and singing along to a Fleetwood Mac song playing on the radio. “You can go your own waaaay.” I fling an arm as I’m singing, tomato puree hurtling from the spatula across the marble wall tiles.
I’m getting clumsier by the day. Yesterday, I knocked the lamp off the nightstand in the bedroom with my elbow and broke it—I still haven’t mentioned this to Harry—and this morning, I walked into the coffee table, spilled coffee all over the shaggy white rug underneath, and cut my knee.
Wedding jitters.
It’s happening to both of us.
A couple of days ago I found Harry searching for his cufflinks in the refrigerator, and before he left for work this morning, he added salt to my coffee instead of sugar.
I wipe the tiles clean and finish adding the toppings to the pizza. Pepperoni, ham, red onion slices, red and green peppers, and chilis. I take a tin from the cupboard: pineapple. The finishing touch, a reminder of the night we had a picnic on the floor of the Drake Hotel in Chicago. Even though I still believe it’s wrong, pineapple on pizza.
I want to see Harry smile again. I know it’s only pre-wedding nerves, but he has been working so hard the last six weeks that I can barely remember the Harry who dragged me into a cave on a Scottish beach and turned it into a sexy memory. He has had a lot on his plate, but I can’t wait to board the plane heading to our secret honeymoon destination and see him relax.
I open the tin and scrape my knuckle on the jagged metal. “Shit!” It stings like crazy, and as I squeeze my finger, a huge ruby droplet wells on the surface of my skin and drips onto the counter, barely missing the pizza. The sight of it there, so close to the food, makes me feel nauseous.
The dishcloth is close by, but as I reach for it, my fingers feel wet, and I instinctively lick the blood away. Big mistake. The instant I taste the tang of iron on my tongue, I start retching and I barely make it to the bathroom in time.
When the nausea passes, I sit back and rest my head against the cool tiles. Memories of being rushed to the hospital doubled up in pain come flooding back, making my pulse race, but I’m not in any pain right now. It’s a weird sensation. And now that I’ve been sick, I realize how hungry I am.
I rinse my face with cold water, pat it dry with a fluffy towel, and peer at my reflection in the mirror. “You’re fine,” I tell myself. “You’re not going to get sick again. You’re getting married next week, and it’s going to be perfect.”
With a nod to myself in the mirror, I wrap a Band-Aid around my finger, my gaze turned away from the blood, and head back to the kitchen. The phone rings. Harry.
“What time will you be home?” I ask. “You’re going to love what I’ve made you for dinner tonight.”
Pause. My stomach twists.
“Damn! Will it keep till tomorrow? I have to fly to Vegas tonight with Carlos.”
Tears well in my eyes like he just told me the wedding was cancelled. It isn’t the first time he has had to stay away on business, and it has never bothered me before, but tonight, the news has tipped the scales into an emotional meltdown.
I wipe my damp face with my fingertips and sniff loudly.
“Ruby? What’s wrong? Has something happened?”
“No.” I shake my head even though he can’t see me. “I cut my finger on a tin of pineapple.”
I can almost see the smile at the other end of the line. “I can cancel my meeting, Ruby. It’s fine.”
It doesn’t sound fine though; I can hear the reluctance in his voice, and I know how important this new project is to him, to the future of Weiss Petroleum.
“No, don’t do that. I’m just being a wimp. When will you be back?”
“Tomorrow. I’ll be back tomorrow no matter what.”
In the kitchen, I scrape the uncooked pizza into the trash can. My blood clings to the jagged edge of the lid, and I toss that into the trash can too, catching a waft of pineapple juice from the open tin. I grab a fork from the drawer and spear a chunk of fruit.
Before I can stop and think about what I’m doing, I’ve eaten the whole tin. I’m still hungry though. I find a jar of pickled onions in the cupboard and eat them too, sitting on a stool at the breakfast bar with a block of cheese that has my name written all over it.
I think about the wedding.
I’ve organized flowers, the cake, the reception dinner, and champagne. I’ve sent out invitations, bought lingerie for our wedding night—white satin and lace, currently wrapped in tissue paper in the bottom drawer of the closet in our bedroom—and ordered rings. I’ve even arranged a surprise gift for Harry.
The only thing that neither of us has thought about is Harry’s bachelor party. I don’t want a bachelorette party—the only person I know in New York, aside from Harry, is Lizzie—and I think he is deliberately avoiding the topic because he feels bad getting one without me. Maybe we could do something together after the wedding rehearsal.
I don’t care about it being bad luck spending the night together before the wedding—that bullshit is for superstitious people, not us. I pop a cube of cheese into my mouth and chew as Ronnie pops into my head. Ronnie was there the night I met Harry. He was there when we got snowed in at the hospital.
I think I know what to do.
“Stop right there.” My dad beams at me from the seat in his room when I go in and raises a finger, warning me not to come any closer.
He has been moved to a stroke rehabilitation center, and although he’s exhausted from all the physio treatment he’s receiving, he also seems brighter than he has been in a long while. For as long as I can remember. Which makes me sad to think how unhappy he must’ve been.
He grabs the walking stick propped up against the wall, places it in front of him, and uses it to stand up. Then, smiling at me all the way, he crosses the room, using the cane for support, and links his free arm with mine.
“I promised I would walk you down the aisle.”
I wrap my arms around him and hug him tightly, sniffing back tears.
“Hey, why so emotional?” He watches me closely when I release him. “They’re happy tears, right?”
“Yes.” I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and try to laugh, which only makes me sound like a pig snuffling around for food in the mud. “I never doubted you would.”
I wait for him to sit down and take the visitor seat next to him.
“I’m being fitted for my suit this afternoon,” he says, propping the walking stick back up against the wall. I can hear in his voice that those few steps have drained his energy, but his smile is still in place, determined not to let it show. “Harry arranged it.”
My chest swells with even more emotion than I’m already carrying around this morning. As busy as Harry has been, he still made time to sort my dad’s wedding suit. “You could walk me down the aisle in a black sack, and I’d still be the proudest daughter in the world, Dad.”
He blinks hard. “Now you’re going to start me off.”
Several moments of comfortable silence pass before we both say at the same time: “Have you heard from Mom?” She must be on both our minds.
“You first,” Dad says.
“She tried calling Harry’s office.”
“But you haven’t spoken to her?”
I shake my head. I know I’ll have to eventually, but I can’t bring myself to tell him what happened in Chicago. I just can’t seem to find the right words. How do you tell your dad that his wife is in love with someone else?
“I’ve been thinking.” He makes his right eyebrow dance comically. “About my wedding speech.”
Wedding speech? Fuck!
“It’s okay, Dad, you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
“I do want to. My daughter is only getting married once. I want to do this properly.”
I can’t help smiling at him. The bravest man I know. “Do you want me to help you write it?”
“I know what I want to say about my baby girl. But I need you to tell me about Harry. I don’t even know his last name. I don’t know where you met him, or how long you’ve known him. I…” He shrugs. “I keep trying, but the memories… They’ve gone.”
My breath catches in my throat. My heart is doing funny things that are making me feel queasy again. The stroke. My dad doesn’t know who Harry is. Marry this Harry … and be happy . He doesn’t know that Harry is a Weiss. He probably doesn’t even remember Karl or what happened thirteen years ago.
Tears spill from my eyes. If he doesn’t remember Harry, perhaps he has forgotten about Karl and Mom too.
Misinterpreting my tears, Dad reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “It’s going to be okay, Ruby. You don’t need to worry about me, you know.”
I suck my bottom lip. “You might as well tell me to stop breathing or reading books.”
The tears keep flowing. I feel like a walking bag of emotions today and they’re going to get worse on our wedding day when Harry sees what I’ve planned for him.
“Sorry.” Dad hands me a box of tissues. “I’ve really gone and done it now, haven’t I?” He watches me dabbing my eyes, squeezing the tears out and trying to smile through it. “Everything okay, Ruby?”
I can’t look at him. My dad has always been able to see right through me. “Dad, there’s something I need to tell you about Harry. His last name is Weiss—he’s the son of Karl Weiss.” “You’re starting a new life with a wonderful man. It doesn’t matter that he’s Karl’s son as long as you love him. He has proven how much he loves you by his actions. I’m not going to hold you back, not when there’s a whole world out there just waiting to be discovered.”
His tender words release the stress of my worries and I shudder in relief.
“You’re feeling okay though?” He implores.
I don’t tell him that I was sick again this morning. I skipped breakfast, and my stomach is growling, but I’ll be fine once I’ve eaten.
After a deep breath I reply, “Now who’s worrying for nothing?”
I change the subject and tell him about my plans for the eve of the wedding, but I can tell he isn’t fooled.
Once I’ve helped him write his speech, I leave the center and pop to the grocery store to pick up more ingredients for pizza and to stock up on pickled onions and baby pickles. I hold my nose as I wander along the fresh produce aisle, and again when I reach the toiletries section. Someone has sprayed deodorant or cologne, and my head starts to pound the instant I get the first whiff. A woman wearing a paisley scarf wrapped around her neck and more layers than I can count without staring, eyes me up like I forgot to button my shirt.
Outside, I suck in great gulps of polluted air, open a family-sized packet of potato chips, and cram as many into my mouth as I can fit. Strolling along the street, my eyes are drawn to a baby boutique that I haven’t noticed before. There’s a crib mobile in the window in neutral colors with fluffy clouds, soft animals, and sparkly stars.
Closer, and I press my forehead to the storefront window. I watch it spinning around, mesmerized, and wonder what tune it’s playing at the same time. What tunes do babies like to listen to?
Still stuffing potato chips into my mouth, my gaze drifts to a rocking crib trimmed with white broderie anglaise, two soft teddy bears in pastel shades of blue and pink strategically placed inside the basket. There are more soft toys: a long-necked giraffe, a Winnie the Pooh, and a black-eyed panda. Tiny outfits with coordinating bonnets and bootees. Dinky polka-dot wellington boots.
Another wave of nausea crashes through me, and I close my eyes waiting for it to pass.
Am I overdue? I frantically try thinking back to my last period… Was it before I was admitted to the hospital or after? Why can’t I remember? It’s as though my brain is refusing to settle the one thing I’m trying to figure out, but already I’m imagining all kinds of twinges and tenderness that were not there a few moments ago. Come to think of it, my breasts were sore when Harry groped them yesterday morning.
I head back home in a daze. The nausea, the tears, the craving for baby pickles—could I be…?
I stop off at the pharmacy. Back at the apartment, I tear the wrapper off the test I bought skim-reading the instructions which tell me the best time to do this is first thing in the morning, and pee on the plastic stick anyway.
Then I wait the obligatory two minutes, forcing myself not to look at the tiny screen before the time is up. “Come on,” I mutter to myself, checking my watch for what must be the twenty-fifth time. Two minutes has never taken so long, and just when I’m starting to think that I’ve rewritten the theory of time, the two minutes are up.
I stare at the two lines in the center of the testing stick.
O-kay…
I go back to the instructions, study the ‘How to read your result’ section three times, and then hold the stick so close to my eyes that everything blurs. Blink. Two lines. Blink again, harder this time. Still two lines.
I can’t be pregnant. We both want children of course, it was one of the first things we talked about in Scotland, but we never discussed when. We didn’t put a timeline on it. I kind of assumed that we would have some time alone together first, vacations, our first Christmas, impromptu trips to Vegas or Mexico or New Orleans. I didn’t expect to meet the man of my dreams, get married, and give birth all in the same year.
I wander back to the kitchen, still clutching the stick tightly. I make coffee and then pour it down the sink when the smell makes me feel queasy. I sip a glass of cold water slowly, my brain reviving little by little.
How did this even happen?
My face grows hot, my heart skipping several beats in a row when I realize that I haven’t taken the pill since I came to New York. I was so wrapped up in the Chicago drama that it hasn’t even occurred to me until now.
Grabbing my coat, I dash back to the pharmacy and buy another test. To be sure. Fuck it. I buy five tests and run back to the apartment with them, my breasts feeling heavier and sorer by the second.
The second test is positive too.
And the third.
And every other test after that one.
By the time I’ve used them all up, a line of positive results staring back at me from the glass shelf in the bathroom, and I’m already thinking of baby names.
I’m going to have a baby!
I squeal at my reflection in the mirror and pop a baby pickle into my mouth.