Sample chapter of book I

Sample chap of 1 -

“Alex, you need to learn that you can’t control everything in life. Sometimes things just happen and all you can do is deal with it.”
At the time my husband Michael said this to me, he was referring to my possible pregnant state. What we didn’t know was that he was unconsciously defining our entire stay in South Africa.
However, on this particular brilliant January morning in Cape Town I was awaking to deal with only the first test of our new adventure. I opened my eyes and my skin prickled in the early morning cool, but a deep inhale revealed the smell of heat and the promise of a warm day. I turned and gazed at Michael. His blond hair was attractively ruffled and grazed the eyelids closed over piercing blue eyes. He was such a handsome British lad. I wanted to snuggle right back down into our California king-size bed and curl up next to his warm body. But I had given him my word I would take the test first thing this morning.
“We can’t keep worrying. If you are pregnant, you need to start taking care of yourself. If you are not, we can move on and stop having these useless hypothetical discussions.”
I yawned. The late night had resulted in much discussion but few solutions. It did, however, trigger the consumption of copious amounts of excellent wine. We refilled glass after glass seeking courage, comfort and wisdom.
What if the wine damaged the fetus? Cripes.
As we sunk deeper into a state of inebriation, we assured each other that everything would be fine. We tallied up the facts and focused our attention on the incredible stress I had endured due to the move: Michael’s new assignment, my masters, the new climate and the new culture.
“Alex, you are probably not pregnant, just exhausted.”
Wine creates schools of bullshitters, and Michael and I were two active pupils. This was not a pregnancy scare, but a reality.
It must have been the night Michael’s office held the Christmas bash in celebration of the company’s official announcement of branching into South Africa. Alcohol flowed freely, and by the time the taxi brought us home, we were drunk. The sexual tension ran high, and we threw caution to the wind – no thoughts given to diaphragms or condoms.
I slipped out of the bedroom and pressed my back against a cool wall. Taking deep breaths, I tried to find clarity of mind and strength. I could not decide what I dreaded more: confirming that I was pregnant or having to tell Michael. I foresaw us falling into the trap of useless retrospect. We would tell each other that it would have been better if one of us had drunk less and thought about protection.
Another lie. We have both been more intoxicated than that and managed to remember. Deep down, I did not think that it would really happen and I believe, although he will never admit it, that Michael was secretly hoping that it would.
Another deep breath and I began to descend the stairs. The ever-stunning view greeted me. The house, a “holiday” home of one of the directors, came with the assignment, allowing us to enjoy a lifestyle far above our means. Tucked in to the mountains just past Camps Bay, it offered a panoramic image of the sea and the Twelve Apostles. I stood at the window and slowly counted the mountain peaks again, and, as always, came up short of the promised twelve.
I turned my attention to the waves pounding against the shore. Their rhythmic dance along the coastline was like nature’s attempt to soothe my soul. Try as I might to relax, though, my heart continued to pound. As much as I knew I was pregnant, I was not ready for it to be official.
How ready can you ever be?
Another deep breath and I walked into the main bathroom where the test was stored. It was necessary that the test be far from my room. If allowed to dwell close to where I dreamed, in the en suite, the test would have taunted, nagged and plagued my sleep with nightmares.
To my mother’s annoyance, my older sister Naomi and I have always had these superstitions. We never slept with any textbooks in our room before a test. Uniforms before a big game had to be placed far away. Nestled together in our big bed, we only allowed objects of peace nearby.
The main bathroom, the keeper of the test, was still as spotless as Elizabeth had left it on Friday. I ran my finger over the pressed linens she’d lined up on the racks, straighter than a soldier’s stance. The room sparkled and gleamed, as if it came straight out of a television commercial.
I had such misgivings about the company providing a housekeeper. She was just one of their many bribes. Who, at our age, has a housekeeper? Naomi had laughed at my reservations.
“Enjoy it, you nutty thing. She needs an income, which, if I may point out, will cost you both nothing.”
Elizabeth could probably care less about whether or not I felt selfish having a maid. Only six months older than I, she already had two mouths to feed.
But last night Elizabeth no longer looked like a luxury. Idealistic views on co-parenting were shoved aside as reality fell at our feet. Actually, reality was falling on me. Michael’s new assignment was demanding and allowed little flexibility. I, who had agreed to quit my promising PR job, now had the flexible schedule. I, who had arranged to do my masters at the University of Cape Town so that I could join Michael in South Africa, now earned no income. Michael didn’t need Elizabeth – he had me. I needed Elizabeth.
Michael suggested that I drop my studies only once.
The roar of outrage that burst forth ensured he would never suggest it again.
I suggested terminating the pregnancy only once.
The look on Michael’s face cut to the bone.
“We will have Elizabeth – all will be fine,” we assured ourselves.
Sighing, I opened the cupboard where I had tossed the pregnancy test. I found it now stacked with the rest of our toiletries in an orderly fashion. Elizabeth had tidied this cupboard as well – few secrets can be hidden from the person who washes your underwear.
I sat on the toilet and glanced down at my panties while I read the directions. I glumly noted that my period had not made an appearance. My dependable could-set-your-clock-by-it cycle was now over two weeks late.
Damn it.
As I continued sitting on the toilet and reading the directions, my passing thoughts kept distracting me. In truth, I could probably have quoted the directions word for word. Yet my eyes were glued to the text, as if there was a deeper meaning embedded in those simple words.
Bloody hell, Alex, you just pee on the blasted thing. Hold downward, pee, put cap on, set aside, wait five minutes, and then look. You don’t get graded; you just do it.
I did it.
But five minutes is such a long time to wait.
What the hell am I going to look like with a belly?
I stood up and turned sideways, tossing my long black hair out of the way, and unsuccessfully tried to stick my stomach out. I had been an athlete for years. I had never yearned for the “bloom” that pregnancy brings.
And my mother says I never listen. Naomi and I were watching her closer than she imagined.
Naomi and I listened all too well. As little girls we played a variety of playground games. Among soccer, blind-man’s-bluff, doctor, basketball and hopscotch Naomi and I played the innocent child fantasy game of “what if.” Naomi and I adored “what if.” We confessed dreams of becoming doctors, engineers, poets, firefighters, and mothers. As we speculated on our potential futures, serious debates erupted on the playground swing. We established rules and guidelines. We would never consider motherhood as a success on its own. We had to become firefighters and great lovers as well as being mothers.
We developed other rules for becoming the quintessential woman, because the quintessential woman was what our mother held herself up to be. Don’t drop out of school. Go to a good university. Visit countries outside the United States. Never get married unless you’re old enough to drink at the wedding. In fact, do not get married at all. Have lovers.
I finished high school with honors. I obtained a degree from Berkeley. I lived in Britain and am now in South Africa. I could even drink at my own wedding.
But at no point in the playground did Naomi and I create a rule for motherhood. Our mother had already laid down the rules. Babies come after an established career. Pregnancies in high school or university years are terminated. We never even considered being young, married and pregnant. My mother held us both above such silly mistakes. Naomi and I forgot that my existence was the result of my mother’s mistake.
Is this going to be a case of “Like mother, like daughter”?
I glanced at my watch – the five minutes were finally up. The dot was pink – bright pink. There are often warnings that the test may be a bit hard to read; the pink may be very pale, giving you the impression that perhaps you are not pregnant. There was no doubt about this one – it shouted, “You’re pregnant!”
With all the emotional energy spent on just taking the test, I expected a new wave of anxiety or depression to hit. I felt obliged to burst into tears or laughter, feel all-consuming guilt for last night’s alcoholic indulgence, or yell for joy or scream in anger – just a reaction.
I need a shower.
I turned on the taps and finished undressing. I allowed the air to touch my hot, sticky body. I yearned to be clean.
As I began to scrub away under the hot water, I thought of the child I was allowing to dwell in me. I had to believe that the child’s existence was my choice. My choice – the only mental statement that allowed me to accept the pregnancy.
In my heart I knew that the notion of “my body” had evaporated with the bright pink dot. I now had to share myself in a more personal way than I had ever been required to do. But I needed to feel that I had chosen this path, regardless of whether I ever would have seriously considered the alternative. Because of the idea of a different choice I could have made, the decision to remain pregnant felt powerful. The illusion of self-control.
But the power did not keep the self-doubt at bay. With a degree in women’s studies, I already knew that advice was sparse for a married twenty-something. Plenty of articles exist on teenage motherhood. Numerous books and magazines spout modern feminist theories on thirty-somethings struggling to balance career and motherhood. But being married and pregnant at twenty-four is no longer a common dilemma.
Can you achieve success if you have children this early? How can I return to a career if I haven’t built one yet?
But my heart was not into the unanswerable debate. I leaned back into the shower, allowing the water rush over me. Gradually my thoughts began to empty and tension released. I remained in this state until I heard sound of the bathroom door opening.
“Knock, knock. Alex, may I come in?”
I remained still, as if I could hide. I was now calm and did not want to revisit my unanswered questions. We had talked this to death.
Michael began to softly sing, “Oh Alexandra, oh don’t you cry for me, I come from Alabama with my banjo on my knee…”
I cracked open the shower door and his head immediately peeped in.
“Well, hello there, little lady,” he said in the phoniest American accent, that jarred like nails on a chalkboard.
Amused, I opened the door wider. Michael stepped in. He scooped up my loofah and began to wash my back. It felt heavenly, but the knowledge of the pregnancy nagged.
I shifted towards him. “I took the test.”
His long arms embraced me. I rested against his soapy chest and he gave me a kiss on the top of the head. “I saw.”
“It’s positive.”
“I know.”
Then we started to kiss, slowly at first, then deeper. Our bodies touched and our hands explored, and there was no further need for words. And maybe that was just what we needed, not to think, not to ponder, just to be. A communication in a conversation that did not require us to speak. This allowed our minds to ease, our souls to relax, and our bodies to rejoice in their ability to provide pleasure.
For now, we thought life had thrown at us our only challenge – one we could possibly handle.
We have Elizabeth; all will be fine.