False Impressions
If I’d known I would be visiting the morgue just weeks after I saw my husband sitting with Pam at Pueblo’s Café, I’d have gone over to say hello that sunny Monday afternoon in July and maybe changed destiny. But I was late for a five o’clock appointment. Later that night, I told Tom I’d seen him at Montreal’s trendy downtown café. undoing his tie and tossing it on the bed. “I was waiting for a client when this blonde comes over and sits down at my table. I didn’t recognize her until she introduced herself as your boss and mentioned the Christmas party last year.”
“She’s also the friend I told you about. The one I go to the movies and have dinner every week. Didn’t she mention that?”
He nodded absently, as if it were a vague memory, then looked at me.
“What did the doctor say?”
My eyes began to sting. I fought back the tears. “I’m not pregnant— again. So much for those home pregnancy tests.” I tried to rationalize the situation. After all, we’d only been trying for six months. Statistics showed it took most couples up to a year or longer to conceive. “The doctor told me to relax and not think about it. Same conclusion as the shrink.
“Neither of us had siblings. It’s what makes having a baby so special. Is it too much to ask? I mean, we’re both healthy.”
“It’s my fault, Megan. I’m never home. All those business trips to dig up new clients—” “It’s not your fault. Besides, those new clients got you that promotion to senior manager. Maybe now that you’ll be home more often, I can relax and—” “Not really. I have to travel even more now.” My heart sank. “You’re not serious. I miss you so much already.
” He shrugged. “That’s why BOCOR pays me the big bucks— to sell their software.” BOCOR Dynamics customized multimedia-training programs, to be precise. Way over my head.
“Okay, so the upside is that we’ll have more money to invest in the new house.” For three years, we’d pooled every extra dime into a savings account toward the purchase of a two-story brick home in the prestigious west end of the city— an area renowned for its tall trees and spacious parks.
According to my calculations, we’d be able to leave the leased condo apartment and move into a house by next spring. “What do we have so far? About forty thousand?” I asked him. “Yeah… almost.
” Tom dropped his shirt on the bed, then unzipped his pants and stepped out of them. He walked over and slid his arms around me.
“You know that trying to get pregnant is the most important part, don’t you?” I kissed him on the lips. He responded with a passion that made me want him even more and reminded me how much I loved him. We lingered in bed later, my head resting against his back. Even in the dim light, I could see the small tattoo of two intertwining roses on his lower back— the same one we’d both had engraved on our lower backs while honeymooning in Nassau.
“I wish we could just pack a few things and fly away to an exotic place. When was the last time we took a vacation? I mean, a real vacation. On our honeymoon?”
“Yeah.” He turned to look at me. “Mmm… tell you what. I’ll try to take some time off. We’ll go away for a weekend. Okay?”
“How? You’ve been working every weekend for the last six months.”
“I’ll make it happen. I promise.”
* * *
I managed to get a seat on the bus to work the next morning— a rare occurrence on a weekday in this city of multitudes. I took it as a good luck omen on this hot, humid day and enjoyed the view of the majestic maples and historic sites along Sherbrooke Street even more. Half an hour later, I got off and walked down the block to the fifteen-story building that housed Bradford Publishing. I crossed the lobby, flashed my ID card at Carlo at the front desk, and took the elevator up to the sixth floor. Lucie, the fresh-out-of-college receptionist Pam had hired last month, greeted me with a wave from across her desk as she spoke into her headset.
I made my way down the corridor and passed the glass-framed boardroom. Kayla Warren, the project coordinator, was sitting in a closed-door meeting there with a client and a woman named Helena who was a freelance ghostwriter like me. Next up was the admin assistant’s office. Emily Saunders was tapping away on her computer while talking into her headset. Lots of giggling and weird lingo going on. Definitely not work-related, but typical for the twenty-one-year-old.
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