Potted Plants and Pregnancy Tests
THIRTY-THREE
“Girl, what is going on with you?” my friend said as we made our way through the aisles of the grocery store near my house.
It was a few months after Wlad had “postponed” our wedding and a couple of weeks after he’d come to Nashville with the goal of making things right.
Seeing him was bittersweet. I was still bruised, but I’d swallowed my pride and forgiven him, and now we were inching our way back into our familiar, cross-continental rhythm.
“Nothing’s going on with me,” I said to my friend. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She cocked her head and stared at me like I was crazy, then pointed into my shopping cart. It was full of comfort food, vitamins, potted plants, and herbal tea, all of which I rarely bought and none of which I needed.
“With the exception of those snacks, it looks like you’re about to go on a health kick,” she said. “But that doesn’t explain the extra-large container of pickles you’ve got in your refrigerator.” Suddenly, she stopped short in the aisle. “Wait. Are you pregnant?”
I stopped as her words sunk in. I had been more tired and on edge over the last few weeks, but I’d attributed it to work and the heartbreak over Wlad’s flip-flopping.
Then I remembered the weekend he and I had just spent together.
Caught up in the excitement and spontaneity of makeup sex, we hadn’t been as careful as we usually were.
Now, here I was, buying potted plants and folic acid.
“Might as well buy a pregnancy test, just to be safe,” I said, in a bewildered state of shock and delight. Then I maneuvered my cart toward the pharmacy area, suddenly sure of the fact that nothing about my life was ever going to be the same.
“We need our baby’s home to be very safe and secure,” Wlad said, smiling and putting his arm around me. I was a few months into my pregnancy, and Wlad was counting the days. He was a natural with Vitali’s three kids and had always wanted to be a dad.
“It is gorgeous,” I answered, looking at the house I was about to move into, “and I can promise you no one is breaking in because this place is sealed up tighter than a bank vault. I just wish you could be here with me in it. Like, all the time.”
Wlad and I had just purchased a five-bedroom, four-bathroom house in the Green Hills section of Nashville.
It wasn’t much bigger than the house I’d grown up in, but we’d retrofitted it with security features that made the White House seem slack in comparison.
All the rooms upstairs were separated by thick, wooden doors with interior iron plates that locked into the walls and floor when we closed them.
When all those doors were sealed up tight, the only way to open them was if Wlad or I scanned our palms on a panel next to our bedroom.
If we chose to, we could also lock down both the master and Kaya’s bedroom windows with metal grates, and if we didn’t, no worries.
Our black ops security guard had installed bulletproof film on all the other windows in the house, and he planned to live in the apartment above our garage.
Wlad and I weren’t being paranoid. Vitali was now the mayor of Kyiv, and there were plenty of people out there who wanted to destroy him and his family.
As a public figure, I was also vulnerable to obsessive fans—something I’d experience ten years later, when I had a stalker who the FBI investigated and ultimately sent to prison.
Finally, we lived in a state where pretty much anyone and everyone could own a gun—and much of the population did.
I loved that house, but it was a fortress, and Dad lost his mind the first time I told him about it.
“This is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done,” he said. “How are you going to get out if there’s a fire? No one can get in or get out with bulletproof windows and metal grates.”
Now that I think about it, he had an excellent point.
But it was too late. Wlad was insistent that we needed a secure house, and I was right there with him given how much time I’d be there alone.
Now, he and I were about to move in, and it was where we were going to raise our baby—at least when Wlad wasn’t back in Germany or Ukraine.
That was the issue that was currently plaguing my mind.
“Wlad, how often do you think you can visit?” I asked. “I mean, so far, so good with this pregnancy, and I can go to all my doctors’ appointments alone or with a friend, but I miss you.”
“I’ll come back as much as I can,” Wlad answered as we made our way around the house toward the pool in the back. “Every few weeks for sure.”
“Okay,” I answered, doing my best to hide my disappointment.
No matter how often Wlad and I saw each other, the fact that we didn’t see eye to eye on what “home” was practically killed me.
For me, home was with Wlad, but it was better in a country where I could work and have my own friends, not to mention my family.
For Wlad, home was with me, but it was in Europe.
That’s where his family and his career were.
I wasn’t sure we’d ever be on the same page, but I was determined to push through.
Especially now that we had a baby coming.
“You can come see me when you’re not working, too,” Wlad added. “We’ll make it work.”
I smiled and stared at our pool, then back at the house that I hoped to hell Wlad and I could make a happy place.
Then, suddenly, an old familiar worry crept back into my brain.
While Wlad had been in town, we’d spent weeks buying pregnancy books, talking to our interior designer, and picking out wallpaper patterns.
We’d installed three custom-made saltwater fish tanks in our house and stocked them with gobies, sea anemones, tropical fish, and a stowaway mantis shrimp I named Sebastian.
We’d spruced up our pool deck with patio furniture and stocked the fitness room with machines and weights.
Yet never once had we talked about our wedding.
We were determined to be together, but somehow, we couldn’t get close to crossing that line.
A few weeks later, it was the middle of spring, but it was hot as blazes.
It happens that way in the South sometimes.
March will be cold, April will be gorgeous, and then by May, you’ve got the AC cranking full blast. I decided to invite a few friends over to my pool, and one of them was Allie.
After not talking to me for a year, she was back in my life, and I was so relieved. I’d really, really missed that girl.
“I haven’t told anyone who’s coming that I’m pregnant, okay? Luckily it’s early, so I’m not showing,” I said to Allie while I was putting out cushions on the pool deck chairs. “Pretty much the only people who know are you, Wlad, and my family. I just don’t want it getting out because…”
“The paparazzi!” Allie interrupted. “I get it. Pretty soon they’ll be talking about how fat you’ve gotten.”
I started to laugh even though it wasn’t all that funny. The paparazzi still hounded me after all these years, even in Nashville. The summer before, a tabloid had even published a photo of me in a swimsuit and placed a headline over my crotch that read “fat vagina.”
“Yeah,” I said. “They love a chunky Hayden. Just wait and see how fat my vagina’s going to be when I’m super pregnant.”
Allie laughed, and then I laughed more. It was so good to have my friend back in my life.
“Not to change the subject from my vagina or anything,” I added, motioning for Allie to follow me, “but I want to show you something.”
A few weeks before I’d placed a three-foot-high speaker at the far end of the pool, in a covered area, and connected it to my sound system inside.
Within days, a robin had assembled her nest on top.
It was far away from the part of the pool where most people would spend their time and toward the back of the speaker, hidden from view.
I loved to watch her gathering twigs, grass, and trash, weaving them together to make a home for her babies.
When she finally laid three perfect blue eggs, I was thrilled.
Those robin eggs had put my own pregnancy in perspective, and instead of being shocked and overwhelmed by the sharp turn my life had taken, I was starting to get excited.
“Look at those eggs!” Allie squealed.
About an hour later, my friends started to arrive.
When they walked out toward the pool, I pointed to the speaker and warned them not to get too close.
Then I unplugged it and isolated the party on the other side of the pool.
I started to pass out drinks, trying to hide the fact that mine didn’t have alcohol, and then I circulated around the small crowd.
It was both energizing and comforting to be outside on a gorgeous day with my best friends.
Suddenly, I heard my friend Ben screaming at the opposite side of the pool.
“What’s going on? Are you okay?” I asked, turning around to look for Ben. He was standing next to the speaker, and he was pacing back and forth.
“‘There’s a problem!” Ben yelled as I ran toward him and he motioned toward the speaker. “It’s your robin,” he said, clearly out of breath. “I have no idea what happened. I didn’t touch anything, I swear. But I am so, so sorry.”
I looked toward the back of the speaker and noticed the nest wasn’t on it anymore.
Then I peered over the edge, down to the pool deck.
There was the nest, lying on the deck with its twigs, grass, and leaves scattered all around.
The three blue eggs were smashed into pieces, and bits of blue shell surrounded three tiny bodies that were curled into the fetal position.
Off in the distance, I heard chirping. I looked up, and there was Mama Robin, flying over us in circles.
It’s okay, Mama, I said, comforting myself as much as I was reassuring her. It’s not your fault. Believe me, it’s not your fault.