I Don't Always Like You

For the first time in their marriage, Tenley Bloom wakes up before her husband. In the bathroom, she lights the Pumpkin Devil candle that's been on the counter, unused, since buying it at the Syracuse Farmers' market, two years earlier. The flame crackles, burning through a layer of dust, before the sickly-sweet aroma permeates the room. It's September and Tenley is momentarily embarrassed by how obvious it all feels. She's never been the candle type. And yet, she'd been possessed to light it that morning, to what, encourage a sense of calm? No... To invoke the dread she still feels every fall, though she’s well beyond the drudgery of back-to-school. Anxiety begets anxiety, isn't that how the saying goes?

From the cabinet under the sink, she reaches for the two-pack of pregnancy tests, stashed behind Nate's shaving cream and extra bottles of shampoos. She pees. And then she waits, pajama bottoms a puddle at her ankles. She does not move from the toilet seat. Pregnancy test gripped between thumb and forefinger, two blue lines appear within seconds—positive. Carefully, she places it on the counter, a participation trophy. She steadies her breathing, then rips open the second test, focusing her mind on running water, waterfalls... Grateful for the bladder she normally curses, Tenley pees, again. She waits, again. The lines appear within a minute, again. Saliva fills her mouth as nausea comes rolling in, though it is far too early for morning sickness. She stands and looks down at her belly, the light casting a yellow glow on her skin. She's never had a flat stomach, despite always planning to. If I work out three times a week. If I work out five times a week and cut out dairy. If I work out six times a week, cut out dairy, sugar and carbs. No matter what, her pouch remains. And it is still pouchy. She analyzes her reflection, side on. Pouchier?

This moment, the knowledge that she is pregnant, is meant to be savored, heady pumpkin spice and all. The gap of time when no one knows her poppy seed-sized secret. It is just Tenley and the pregnancy tests. The outcome a revelation to be relished, not sullied by screaming, "Naaaaaaaate!" from the toilet.

She could tell him over a romantic dinner at a restaurant downtown. No, that's not Nate's style, or hers for that matter, though she sort of wishes it was.

Maybe a letter is best. Leave it on his pillow... Too immature. Besides what would she say beyond, "Dear Nate, I'm pregnant"?

However she delivers the news, a calm, rational approach is best. Nate is the one wary of having kids, not her. They had discussed it, of course, had the requisite pre-marital chat, brief though it may have been. Tenley delivered the quasi-threat two months before their wedding.

"I'm certain I want kids. If you don't, then we need to break up."

Nate's shrug was better suited for a diner, faced with the decision between corned beef hash and a Western omelet. "I don't want to break up. So I guess we'll have kids." Commitment always was his strong suit.

Yet, it was Nate who, ultimately, decided they were done with condoms—seven months after Tenley's IUD was removed. For five months, he quite willingly participated in sex during her ovulation window, nary a complaint to be heard. He never asked if she was pregnant or showed disappointment when she got her period, his sigh of relief saved for his morning commute, shouting "Freedom" like William Wallace, as he merged onto the highway. Tenley gnashed and stewed through her own commute. Acknowledging Nate's disinterest would put him on the defensive, which would result in Tenley going on the attack, which would lead to no more sex. Or, at least, not sex when it needed to happen—they were trying to have a baby here, a schedule was important. But Tenley might as well get her IUD replaced because what was the point in all this if Nate didn't care?

Yes, a calm, rational approach is necessary. For both of them. And so, with all the panic she'd planned to subdue, Tenley shouts, " Naaaaaaaate", from the bathroom.

He doesn't answer.

She opens the door to find him lying face down on their bed, arms and legs tucked at his sides like a lowercase "l".

He turns his head a half-inch. "You're pregnant," he says, flat as a chalkboard, before burrowing back into his pillow. The thrill and fear of Tenley's BIG REVEAL ripped straight from her lips.

She has been lied to. Brainwashed by commercials, movies, and TV. Couples embracing amidst swells of happy tears. Characters announcing, "I'm pregnant!", followed by kissing and declarations of undying love. Lies, lies, lies. Tenley wants that. She deserves that. She has a living thing inside her. Her body is going to change, not Nate's. She is going to push a nearly eight-pound human out of her vagina. She will morph into a human-cow and feed that child from her udders, which will deflate a cup-size when she is done. She will be encouraged to gain weight and then whiplash to lose that weight. She sees it clearly as a pregnancy movie montage. And yet it is Nate, Nate, who can't handle the news. Fine. Go ahead and suffocate. At least she'll cash in on that overpriced life insurance policy their financial advisor conned him into. Nate has always been the most well-rounded person Tenley knows. As she watches him push his face deeper into the pillow in a half-hearted suicide attempt, she realizes he is really more of a semi-circle.

#

Tenley has wanted to be a mother ever since tenth grade, when she was assigned the infamous flour-baby for sex education. She spent a month caring for an eight-pound sack of flour like it was a real baby. The project backfired on Tenley, kick-starting her biological clock instead of encouraging abstinence. After sixteen years spent playing with dolls and stuffing a pillow under her nightgown, she excelled quite naturally at parenting an inanimate object. Further fueling the onslaught of maternal, gluten-based hormones, was Mason Dennis, the eternal love of her high school life, and his swoop of Zac Efron circa 2004 bangs. When Mason picked up the Cabbage Patch doll Tenley had strapped to the sack of flour and cooed at it, her knees gave way, overcome by tenderness. Mason loved Tenley's child as much as she did, even though it wasn't his—it was King Arthur's stone ground whole wheat.

#

Tenley glowers into the depths of her toaster and her nostalgia. Already she and the baby are a team. Nate is on the sidelines, a donor rather than a player.

Had Mason Dennis reacted any better than Nate when his wife announced she was pregnant? From Facebook, Tenley gleaned they have two kids with twins on the way. Guess Mason is still into babies, whole wheat or otherwise.

Having survived the battle with his pillow, Nate shuffles into the kitchen, as Tenley scrapes cream cheese onto a bagel. They freeze on opposite ends of the counter, eyes locked like the stars of a Spaghetti Western. Tenley breaks first, sinking her teeth through the crisp outer layer of her bagel. Nate takes a mug from the cabinet and fills it with the coffee Tenley brewed. She rarely makes coffee, incapable of figuring out the right proportions. Her brew this morning is reminiscent of fermented gasoline. Nate swallows a gag along with the coffee, before pouring the contents of his mug down the drain.

"I hope you're a better mother than barista," he chokes through the silence.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence." Tenley is sulking. Sulking for two.

She and her half-eaten bagel flop into a chair at the kitchen table. Actually, table isn't an accurate description—it's more of a large stool understudying for the role of table, mismatched with wicker chairs Nate's sister foisted on them from her old patio set. They repeated, "We really do need to replace this shit", so often it was closer to a mantra than goal.

At the sink, Nate fills the kettle with water, chooses a tea bag from the Black Teas of England box his dad bought Tenley for Chanukah—she is capable of brewing tea. He leans back against the counter, jaw set as he braces himself for the lengthy lecture she has no doubt prepared, the myriad of ways he could have reacted better to her their announcement.

"Did you ever do that flour baby thing in high school?" Tenley says.

Nate's grip on the counter eases, the tiniest bit. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he says, the faintest trace of amusement on his face, anger (was he angry?) receding.

She opens her mouth to elaborate, ready to tell him about Mason Dennis and the Cabbage Patch Kid. But now isn't the time. "So, I guess we're doing this?" she says.

Nate cracks a smile. "Having a flour baby?"

"Apparently."

The kettle whistles. Nate pours the steaming water into his mug, sets a timer for five minutes. He sits across from Tenley, the wicker creaking beneath him. "It'll be good," he says.

"I'm not the one who needs convincing," Tenley says.

"I needed a minute. It's big news."

"Not as big as my stomach is going to get."

"Tenley, it will be good. It will be okay."

"Yeah, but is it okay?"

"It will be," Nate says.

Neither of them is convinced.