Nine

THE WEEK WITH ONE DREAMY START

A soft light.

Blurry space around me, distant walls and ceiling.

My body filled with peace, sunbeams emanating from my skin.

Mike’s hand holding mine.

People appeared around me, all sporting wide smiles, their mouths slightly disproportionate to their faces. Their happiness seemed too generous to be contained. They whispered instructions I couldn’t understand, as if spoken in another language. I smiled back at them and they caressed my forehead with serene nods.

A person in a golden dress came in, and he started to move his hands in the air. A ball of warm light formed between his palms, small at first but rapidly enlarging and becoming brighter and sunnier. Some other golden gods joined him. They all followed the dance movements and they formed balls of euphoric energy between their hands. The spheres slowly left their creators’ fingers and they levitated up in the air; they floated in the room until they reached a stationary position above my body. From there, one by one they started their descent, until they made contact with my skin and they produced instantaneous shivers of pleasure all through my nerves. I closed my eyes, oblivious of Mike and anybody else in the room.

Before I lost consciousness, I could hear everybody singing and cheering in a celebration of life and beatitude. Mike was chuckling, absorbed by the inexplicable marvel.

When I woke up my head buzzed.

There is a certain inertia in life. Some rivers can flow forever: peoples might build bridges above them and cities around them, storms might disturb the fish and birds that populate the riverbanks, but water keeps flowing, carelessly. Some lives are similarly never bothered: they don’t face revolutionary events, or they can easily adapt to transformations, as sudden as these may be. Other existences can be challenged with life-altering events. Dams can be built, transforming the river into a lake; glaciers can melt and disappear, letting the river dry out and die. There is always a precise moment when everything changes. What path does life follow from that point onward?

My moment was on a Monday in early August. The fluffy dream that had woken me up earlier that morning had already been forgotten, and I was at work. I was typing on my computer in the Vanity Fair offices in downtown New York, sitting on a couch, too lazy to go back to my desk in between meetings. As I paused for breakfast, I looked outside the windows of the fifteenth floor of the Freedom Tower. I let the tall buildings and the blue sky sink in my eyes, chasing inspiration on the article I had to deliver a few hours later. At the first bite of my Kind Bar, the same chocolate cereal bar I had been eating for years, a rather unusual taste pervaded my mouth. I slowly chewed on it, waiting for the known salty and sweet almond and dark chocolate aroma to hit my tongue. Something was off. I looked at the plastic wrap, to check for its expiry date, before remembering that the bar came from the same box of twelve I had opened several days before. I put my nose on it, and I could smell that same bitter taste I had in my mouth.

Was I working on something so kinky that even my senses were impacted by it? I was finishing an article on American Gods, a TV show based on a fantastic novel by Neil Gaiman. In the latest episode, Spring herself had been the guest star, in a jubilation of flowers and spirituality. And the usual deaths, of course. But not too many.

Was it something I had eaten the previous night? I had to focus really hard to remember the last meal. Mike and I had had a very quiet Sunday dinner at home, where the main dish had been a plain salad with chicken. While cooking the chicken, he hadn’t even added any partminger, his favorite Nigerian herb. Mike’s mom always put it on every meat she cooked for the family, now like twenty years ago, when he had still been living in London with his parents and siblings. It was even quite unique for Mike not to include any spices in his dishes: his mother’s traditional recipes kept him hooked to his origins anywhere in the world he was. Maybe the lack of spices was the issue that morning.

I didn’t recognize my moment, so I shrugged it off. I thought I was simply getting older, and I never noticed any other change in the bars. I got back to work without giving the matter a second thought, but I would later realize that my Kind Bars never got back to taste the same again.

THE WEEK WITH ONE FRIEND

And you say you love your job!

Rachel had always had the superpower to bring me back on track, especially when I dared to complain about work. She knew there was nothing else I would rather do for a living than spending my days watching movies and TV shows, and then critiquing them on Vanity Fair, eviscerating them on my blog, tweeting about them. And then starting again with attending events about them, going to Comic Cons for them, predicting award results around them. I had painted myself in a corner, as it so frequently happened with her, and now I had to try to get away with it.

I do, but some movies are real crap!

As much as I adored my job, summer sometimes brought the worst out of studios, which ended up releasing the most random movies they could find in their closets. As part of my agreement with the magazine, I had to watch all movies that belonged to a certain selection of genres, from science-fiction to black comedy, with anything in between. I didn’t have to review them all, at least, but I had to be able to properly contribute to magazine activities that might revolve around them, like the occasional podcast, or a group article, or a press conference that nobody else could attend.

She responded to my text with the poop emoji. Not one of our most mature exchanges, but it was always soothing to pretend we were still in college.

And I hate to think about crap right before vacations, I replied.

I always forget: are you doing Spain or Portugal first?

Portugal. We land in Lisbon on Saturday morning. We take the rental car and we drive around for a few days. Then we cross the border to go to Spain—

She responded with the dancer emoji.

—and we spend a week in Seville and the south of Spain. Then a quick stop in London on the way back.

Mike’s family?

Exactly.

Say hi to his brother!

Rachel, you know Martin is married, right?

I’m not jealous, she texted after about one second, before adding, What time is your flight on Friday?

Some 8:00 pm? Any chance you have time before we leave?

A crying emoji popped up.

I have the worst case ever, talking about crap at work. My client is an ass-hole and everybody knows it: the lawyers on the other side, even the judge. Not sure what tricks I can pull out of my hat this time…

You always find something, I responded right away, and I really meant it. She was the best attorney and the sharpest person I had ever met. She had always loved her job, even at the beginning of her career, when she used to be just an associate spending days and nights in the office, going home only to shower and change. No wonder she had made senior partner so quickly.

Thank you darling! I will miss you these two weeks.

No, you won’t. You always find stuff to do.

I added an eggplant emoji, sure she would remember the joke the TV host John Oliver had made in one of his shows, some time ago.

She definitely got it, as she responded with the guy and girl with heart emoji.

THE WEEK WITH ONE TRIP TO PORTUGAL

Mike and I were relaxing on a beach not far from Lisbon, the wind from the Ocean kissing our skins. We were holding hands while I was reading the last issue of Vanity Fair, which I had bought at the airport following an old habit of mine, and he was leafing through The Economist. We had always enjoyed our vacations more than anything else in the world: that was our time to be ourselves, free from the constraints of work and the habits of our well-engineered life in New York.

Did your sister ever get to start Game of Thrones? I suddenly asked him, prompted by an article discussing when the next season of the show was going to air. An article that, for once, I hadn’t written myself.

Mike laughed at my random question, his eyes widening up behind his sunglasses, I have no idea!

I thought you asked her last time on Skype.

I totally forgot: Alexandra monopolized the conversation! he apologized, mentioning his sister’s daughter, a very bright four-year-old.

You should tell her that this is the best time of the year to get started: we are widely off season, and next year the show will probably air later, since production becomes more and more complex and expensive every year.

He looked at me as if I was speaking another language, my entertainment fixations so far from the article he was reading about Brexit. He removed his sunglasses to look at me, and he pinched my cheek just like he used to do at the beginning of our relationship, many years ago.

You’re such a nerd, he grinned.

I know, that’s why you married me, right? For the never ending thrill.

Lisbon was a vibrant city, and we took full advantage of it that night. We ate tapas in a fancy covered market, where the best local restaurants had food corners with their specialties; we tasted Portuguese beers and we finally dragged ourselves home much more than tipsy.

I woke up in the middle of the night with the worst of headaches, and with the heavy feeling of someone being in our second floor hotel room. I stood still and I slowed down my breath, to focus on each sound: Mike was peacefully breathing next to me, voices were coming in from afar through the open window, a night bird was scurrying on the railing. Suddenly I heard it, the noise that had woken me up, a sort of metallic grumbling, so close to my ear. I got so scared I almost woke Mike up. Then the sound burst again, this time mixed with a car engine, maybe a truck. A truck couldn’t reasonably be in our room. I stood up from the bed, fighting the nausea and the headache, and I peeked outside the window. A trash truck was picking up bins in the street.

How did that noise sound so close? Was I really that drunk? My heart was pounding for no reason, as I scrolled my head in self-disdain and I went back to bed. I promised myself I would try to control my drinking moving forward through that vacation: I didn’t want another useless scare.

Before falling asleep, I grabbed my phone to check the time and I found a text from Rachel, just a heart with a How are you? as if she knew I needed some comfort right then. My only, irreplaceable Rachel.

THE WEEK WITH ONE TRIP TO SPAIN

How is Seville? Rachel texted me a few days later.

The city is incredible! The hotel is downtown and we get to walk through these old alleys, between multicolored houses. There’s a beautiful cathedral, and many monuments.

Anything juicier? Rachel asked.

Well, did you know they filmed some Game of Thrones scenes in the royal palace, the Alcazar? The gardens were used for some Dorne sites, and they are even more beautiful than in the series - but don’t tell Mike this is the main reason why I wanted to come here!

I added a winking face, but she quickly blew it away with the emoji of the facepalm, a woman slapping her forehead. She didn’t share my enthusiasm for TV show filming locations.

You asked for juicy stuff, isn’t this at least interesting?

I meant interesting for me: are Spanish men sexy hot stallions as they say? I’ve never been to Spain.

Mike and I had already been to Spain many years ago: we had spent a week in the island of Formentera, about a month after we had first met. Days and nights had gone by in a heartbeat, as we had rolled from bed to beach to bar, and back to bed, at the speed of light. I couldn’t say what had been crazier at the time: going on vacation overseas with a guy I had barely known, and who could have turned out to be a weirdo or a murderer, or the fact that I had shown no hesitation when he had asked me to go with him. We had been on just two or three dates before that getaway to Formentera, after we had met at a Vanity Fair event. Mike had already been working as a business consultant for McKinsey & Company for a few years, and Condé Nast had been his client at the time. He had been very excited to participate in the Tribeca Film Festival party, and he had picked his favorite navy tuxedo for the occasion. In some game of destiny, my gown had been the exact same shade of blue, and he had approached me with the lamest move one could think of: I’m glad you got my message and you picked the right color. What a jerk, I had thought, just before falling under the spell of his green eyes, gems nestled in the glowing darkness of his face.

You know me, I don’t even see other men, especially when I’m with Mike, I typed back to Rachel.

Then I added, I got my own black stallion! and I could see her laugh, proud of her friend.

I see you are feeling better than the other day, she regained her poise, a few seconds later.

Definitely, but no more wild drinking, at least for now.

Any other symptoms? she added with a smiling face.

Nope. We’ve been eating everything and anything in the past three days and I’m perfect. Maybe I should reduce the raw meat and fish: you never know how well they are preserved, and I wouldn’t want to get food poisoning. We’re not in New York after all.

THE WEEK WITH TWO REASONS TO LOVE SEPTEMBER

Coming home had always been a rich feeling for me: a mix of nostalgia for the places and people I had just left behind, especially the times we had gone to Mike’s family in London, and the relief of finding again my house, my bed, my life. I was more attached to my normality than I cared to admit, and I loved the comfort of having a routine, knowing what was going to happen the following morning or the following day, planning for my date nights with Mike, receiving the almost-daily Welcome to another hopefully ok day text from Rachel. I cherished those recurring moments, the quiet expectation before them and the satisfaction due to them. I wouldn’t change my life for anything in the world.

Even going back to work never annoyed me: I always found a kind of safety in having a schedule, even a tight one, especially for things that I was genuinely interested in.

September meant the beginning of Fall TV season, with all the new shows planned by the networks, and the new releases on Netflix and Hulu. The annual critique article was waiting for me to bring it to life, compiling a lush collection of must watch and can avoid shows for my readers and Twitter followers. That was one of my favorite times of the year: the networks sent me screeners for many new shows, that I devoured in a few days and nights, taking furious notes for each episode and making mental comparisons with previous seasons or older shows, to provide the most complete judgments and opinions. This endeavor usually helped me go through Mike’s first week back to work: some years he had to travel to the other side of the world right from the first day, the price to pay for being a partner in one of the top management consulting firms. This year he spent that first week in New York, but he came home every night so late that I was already asleep on the sofa, my computer on my lap, an episode of something still rolling.

September also marked the beginning of movie award season. Like every other year, the month was going to be a perfect storm of events and excitement, new movies to watch and critique, waiting for even more new movies to come out and blow journalists and viewers off their seats with emotions and powerful stories. I couldn’t ask for more. The stress for all the deadlines and to-dos, and the slight stomach pain that usually accompanied me in the heaviest month of the year, were manageable side effects, compared to the adrenaline that roared through my veins day by day. This year I was less stressed and even more enthusiastic than usual, if at all possible, but also somewhat more bothered by the stomach pain. My stomach had always been my weakness, as all my anxieties had always converged towards the center of my body, giving me a wide range of symptoms through the years. I attributed the increased abdominal annoyance to the pressure, the hot humid air that still oppressed the city, and I forgot about it.

THE WEEK WITH… TWO?

I kept working on my series of articles on the award season, compiling the first reports from the Toronto Film Festival, where the new Damien Chazelle movie had been presented and it had received dazzling standing ovations. I published a nerdish perspective on the Venice Film Festival, titled How can the normal movie-goer enjoy art-house films?. I chronicled the premiere of the latest Marvel blockbuster, which this time enjoyed the presence of a high caliber actor like Nicole Kidman, and Denzel Washington in a very exceptional role for him. I did all this with a hand on my stomach, as the pain had decided to increase day after day.

The tenth morning in a row that Mike heard me complaining about it while we were still in bed, he insisted with a firmer voice, You ought to go to the doctor, this is not normal. Or at least take the test.

Take the test?

Yes. Or am I the only one who observed the symptoms? he widened his eyes. You completely abstained from raw fish and meat after Portugal. You didn’t drink any alcoholic beverage in London with my family, even if Martin kept offering you—

Well, I didn’t want to drink the night we had dinner at your brother’s, that’s not my fault!

You didn’t drink at my parents’, either, he smiled back at me, as if he were speaking to a child who couldn’t admit her mischief. Or last weekend while we were dining with Rachel.

This didn’t mean anything: I hadn’t felt like drinking or eating sushi for some time, so what? Was it a crime?

And your stomach has been aching for several days now: don’t you think perhaps this might be the right time to take the test, and see if that could be the explanation?

His eyes were becoming brighter with every word, as if speaking out loud was making the possibility more real.

Take the test.

I touched my stomach and I sighed.

We had decided to have children at the beginning of the year. We had both always known we wanted them, but he had been the one pushing to give ourselves a deadline: we were still quite young, but we weren’t getting any younger, so why increase the risks of having troubles? Some of our friends had recently had painful stories of miscarriages and hormonal treatments, so right after Christmas we had agreed that the time had come for us to give it a try. Our approach had maybe been more rational than other people’s, but we were both way more rational than other people. That was how we worked.

I had spoken to my doctor and I had found out the right week to stop my birth control. Mike had gone the full length, buying the little computer to test for urine hormones in the morning, to identify fertile days, and stocking for pregnancy tests. He had applied the structured diligence of the seasoned business consultant to this other aspect of our lives, and now he was trying to logically convince me to take the test.

My period is supposed to arrive today, so why don’t we give it a couple of days, and we see what happens? I promise I will take the test if nothing happens, and I’ll go see the doctor, I tried.

Amber, let us stop turning around this. It’s Saturday, we have all the time we need, so let’s do this.

I tried my best puppy eyes to pity him out of it, but it didn’t work. He went to the restroom to grab a box of tests, and he came back to bed to read the instructions out loud. He got some sort of comfort from the fact that the test should be repeated after three days to confirm the result: whatever the response, we still had a second chance in just a few days.

Without saying a word, because none came to my mind, I slid out of bed and I locked the bathroom door. I peed on the test stick, my mind still a blank canvas. I left the test on the sink and I went back to bed, where we waited for a couple of minutes, Mike talking about something else while I was staring at the wall.

We both went back to the restroom and we checked.

Pregnant.

I knew it, I didn’t know why I said that.

I hoped for it! he whispered as he took me in his arms, his voice shaking. Let’s do it again in three days, and we’ll see if it still shows the same result, his struggle to keep calm was evident.

I was way more relaxed than him: that was not real. Nothing would be confirmed until the second test, and even then. There were many false positives, so only a blood test could give final confirmation. I still had time.

We didn’t talk about it for three days.

We didn’t even mention the test when we had dinner with Rachel on that Saturday night, and I laughed the usual laugh when she asked me if I had any news, yet. I had told her about The Reproduction Plan as soon as I had stopped the pill, and since then she had never missed a beat, asking me every week if the bun was already in the oven.

I didn’t even think about it when we were home after dinner, watching a French documentary recommended by Mike’s father. Called Demain, tomorrow, it presented the consequences of climate change not as a remote possibility but as a clear development of today’s global habits. According to the documentary, agriculture, energy, economy and governments were currently managed in a way that didn’t leave any hope for the future. Twenty years from now all global oil reserves would dry up, and we would not have any form of energy to replace carbon fuels, if we didn’t do anything today. Since food today required energy to be produced, people would also starve, in a chain reaction that would cause the collapse of the world as we knew it. The collapse could be avoided, though, if we changed things right now. Food could be produced locally and without the use of fossil energy, as some examples all over the world were already showing. Oil could be fully replaced with renewable energies, from wind to solar to geothermal, in a process that many countries had already undertaken. The economy could become more local, and governments could focus on their people, rather than on the interests of their own components.

The documentary had me