At first I told myself I caught Sachi's cold. That was why I was so tired all the time. The biggest problem with that theory was that I wasn't coughing. The other problem was that I wasn't bleeding.
I visited my doctor within a week of my second meeting with Keiji and received the all-clear for any illnesses the following week. I texted him the good news; he replied asking when we could see each other again, but I couldn't bring myself to answer. I felt ashamed of overreacting to what amounted to a hook-up. It happens all the time; I just revealed how immature and inexperienced I was and more or less accused the most gorgeous guy I've ever met of being a skeevy creeper with hordes of illegitimate children. I had to go and mar the memory of one of the most thrilling experiences of my life by being a worrywart. No wonder Evan was rolling his eyes at me all the time these days – what must Keiji think?
Now it seemed like I might have a legitimate reason to be concerned. A little less than a month after Evan's play, I found myself standing in the "Family Planning" aisle at my local pharmacy. Family planning. That was rich. Maybe there were online courses on this subject or classes at the community college. I could use some pointers on how to go about planning one's family. What were the chances, I asked myself, of one random woman getting pregnant from one random sexual encounter on one random day of her menstrual cycle? Maybe Keiji shoots blanks. That would be helpful. Also, I'm 35. Aren't my ovaries supposed to resemble dried apricots by now? Maybe it's menopause. I was probably just late from psyching myself out over everything.
After spending a moment scowling at the rows of condoms, I grabbed a box of digital tests that would say "Pregnant" or "Not Pregnant." There was no way I was going to try and interpret a bunch of lines or pluses or minuses or whatever the hell in my current state of mind. Just give it to me straight, universe. I made my purchase and headed to the office.
As I rushed to my desk with the single-minded purpose of dumping my stuff and making a beeline for the bathroom, I bumped into Adam (the Auditor).
"Good morning, Cara," he said, a too-wide smile plastered on his face. Adam still didn't forgive me for the "it's not you, it's me" line. Sorry, man.
"Hi, Adam," I replied, trying to squeeze past him in the too-narrow cube farm aisle. I was lucky enough to have my own office, but it was at the other side of the building and I had to navigate a complex maze of first and second year associates to reach it.
"Whatcha got there?" he asked, blocking my passage with his wide shoulders and pointing at my CVS bag. I often brought in goodies for my underlings; with the recession the office had to cut back on providing snacks. The vending machines were empty tombs. (There were angry rumors that the Keurig coffee maker was next on the chopping block. Over our dead bodies!) I had to fill in the gaps because some days, life isn't worth living without fresh Swiss Cake Rolls.
"Nothing for you, all right?" I clutched the bag to my chest and started to duck under his arm. He either bumped me on purpose or didn't move fast enough; his elbow dislodged the four-inch binder of work papers crammed under my other arm. In yet another example of misjudging my priorities, I tried to save it and dropped everything. Papers flew hither and yon and the box of tests catapulted out of the plastic shopping bag. The box skittered across the floor, propelled by some demonic force from hell, coming to rest at the entrance to an associate's booth. I heard Adam exclaim, "Whoooooooa!" like a demented sports announcer as I dove to retrieve the tests.
The stunned associate's face flooded red as she registered her boss as the owner of such questionable paraphernalia – or maybe she thought I was a magical fertility fairy, come to rain good tidings and pee tests everywhere.
"It's not for me," I hissed, knowing my sordid lies were in vain. The associate nodded. Loyal creature. I marked her in my mind for a financial reward – maybe one of those $50 Visa cards.
I snatched up the box and turned back to Adam, letting righteous fury show on my face. To his credit, he was already stooping and scooping papers into the binder.
"What in the everloving hell is your problem?!" I whisper-screamed, knowing very well what his problem was: me, the idiot who thought she could have relationships with coworkers without it coming back to bite her in the ass. Well, that and Adam had never been the pinnacle of sensitive, mature manhood. I had a brief moment of clarity where I realized my entire sexual history was completely and utterly FUBAR. I shook my head and tried to get back to my angry place.
"I'm sorry, I—whoa," Adam said, whatever apology he had cooked up dying on his lips when he saw the tests in my hand. As on-point as his Keanu Reeves impression seemed to be that morning, I was in no condition to appreciate it. Also, I really had to pee.
"Ahhh!" I not-exactly-whisper screamed, whipping my hand behind my back. "Will you just leave me alone!"
"Sure thing," he murmured, in such a sudden hurry to get away that he forgot to call me "Cara Bear-a" (which he does because he knows I loathe it). I was thunderstruck anew by my absolute idiocy as I watched the shiny seat of his cheap dress pants scurry down the hall to his office.
"Fuck it, why should he care!" I hissed under my breath. "I have to pee."
I crammed the box of tests inside my suit jacket, threw the mangled binder in my office, and headed to the ladies' room. The biggest stall was taken, of course, so I took the one farthest away from it and tried to open the box as silently as possible. It seemed like the tests were triple-wrapped and I couldn't get one of the sticks out of its foil pouch without dropping it twice. At this rate I'd be dipping the thing into the toilet to get a sample.
I scanned the instructions in a pee-fogged panic and decided to just go for it. This wasn't my first time at this particular rodeo, and my motto lately was "Just do it," right? I aimed my stream at what I hoped was the appropriate area, sprinkling my hand with generous amounts of pee in the process, and then squeezed my eyes shut for the next minute. After a decent battle of wills – a devil telling me to jam the test in the trash can and bolt, an angel telling me I had to know – I managed to unclench my fist and look in the little window on my future.
Welp.
Unlike the moment when I discovered Evan's impending arrival, my initial reaction wasn't crushing dread. Instead I gasped, "Oh, shit!" sounding almost cheerful. (Okay, so I still failed at maternal beatitude.) If someone asked me how I felt at that moment I would have replied that "Pregnant" was not my desired result, but my treacherous subconscious was hard at work again, delighted to have a reason to contact Keiji. My hand slipped to my lower belly as I considered his probable response to this news.
***
Two days later I stood in front of an older building in a part of the city I didn't frequent, mostly because I wasn't an art student in my twenties sharing an apartment with five other art students in their twenties. The exterior of the building was well-maintained, but I knew that as soon as the door opened I'd be greeted by a long, rickety staircase. (Shag carpeting optional.) An organic açai smoothie bar sat across the street, and a bedraggled young man busked with a glockenspiel on the corner. I saw two cyclists wearing skinny jeans ride by on one-speed bikes.
"Cara," I said to myself. "You have been impregnated by a hipster."
I took a deep breath and walked up the short flight of steps to the front door of the building. There was a small intercom set underneath a doorbell; I pushed the button labeled "K. Nakamura." He answered immediately, sounding a little out of breath. I heard him bounding down the stairs through the front door. Not sure where the guy gets his energy. Must be the smoothies.
"Hi!" he cried as the door swung inward. Not allowing any time for awkward greetings, he took my hand and pulled me inside. He kicked the door closed and we started up the stairs (no shag, although the carpet was a predictably hideous shade of dead frog green). He was talking a mile a minute, reminding me of Sachi at the play.
"I'm on the top floor, I know it's a long way, sorry, no elevator, you know how these old buildings are. But wait until you see the place, it's great! Have I ever told you what I do, you know, for money?"
"I think Sachi mentioned graphic art?" I said, taken aback by his manic small talk – it seemed so unusual from his typical disposition. Then again, I'd only met the guy twice. How could I know what was typical for him?
"Yeah, I do that, you know, websites, business cards, basic design and layout for whatever, wedding invitations, menus, signs. I used to work for an ad agency and a newspaper but they both kinda fell through when things started getting rough. I'm freelancing now, and—" we reached his door, which he pushed open with some fanfare "—mostly painting."
He led me into a single room space with tall ceilings; three large skylight windows made the room very bright, although the day was overcast. At first I couldn't process what I was seeing – it was all white and brilliant colors with a jumble of belongings set underneath like rocks at the foot of a mountain. When specific objects came into focus I saw that open metal shelves jammed with books and computer or art supplies lined nearly every wall. There was a lumpy, dark blue couch with a coffee table stacked high with two laptops, papers, pens, and sketchbooks. A low bed most definitely from IKEA was made with rumpled sheets; a half-wall separated this "bedroom" from a small kitchen area that appeared to be almost spotless. The counter displayed a lonely electric tea kettle. One large corner of the room was taken up by several easels, none of them empty. What caught my gaze and held it were the murals. Each wall sported at least one large painting, some partially obscured by the shelving but so bright in color that I could almost hear them – visual clarions. I couldn't make out a coherent theme or style apart from the exuberant use of color. One painting reminded me of graffiti but there didn't appear to be any actual letters, just letteresque shapes. Another paid homage to Hokusai's
The Great Wave
with the sea rendered in azure. Still another seemed pixellated and depicted a large, crimson bird lying on its back, feet in the air. A realistic portrait of a severe but strikingly beautiful woman wearing a peach kimono filled the last large wall, almost floor to ceiling. No wonder the guy wore so much black. The cones of my eyes would be worn out after spending a day or two here.
"I'm kind of a slob," he said after I rolled my eyeballs around the room a few times.
"They let you paint on the walls?" was the first thing I could think of to say. I had never known an artist before and didn't have a trained eye, didn't know if he was good or bad; I only knew that I was overawed by what I was seeing. He laughed and shook his head.
"I don't think I actually asked for permission. The bug guy who comes to spray has never said anything to the landlord, I guess, because I'm not evicted."
