Salvation at the Supermarket
It wasn't until I was standing in the grocery store, nearly 40 weeks pregnant and shaking, that I came to understand the value of sisterhood. I was hunched over a cart, my basketball belly resting against the metal, staring at a display of fruit roll-ups, wishing I could go back to the days when they were my favorite food. If I could fix my mistakes, I reasoned, my husband would not be in a bar three states away with his girlfriend. And I would not be on my way to the hospital alone.
That morning, I'd decided to relax in a bath. As I swung my weight into the water, I realized it was too hot, scalding even. But still, I sat and considered: It would be so hard to get out of the tub. Then I saw my belly turning reddish purple.
The on-call doctor suggested I conduct a "kick count," to make sure the baby was moving. Three-and-a-half hours later, I had my panic-inducing childbirth books fanned out in front of me, but no kicks.
"She might just be sleeping," the doctor said. "But you should come in to the hospital tonight and get hooked up to a monitor. Just in case."
I felt surprisingly calm. I called friends to take care of Emma, the dog. Then I called my soon-to-be-ex-husband. We had a plan for the trip to the hospital.
At first I didn't understand what he was saying: It was his girlfriend's birthday; he was out of town, something about a party. Then I did. He wasn't coming. Once on the road, I could hardly see through the tears, so I pulled into the Giant parking lot. Grocery stores relax me -- the bright white lights, the racks of magazines, the towers of muffins. I always absorb some of the cheery order.
The store was nearly empty, except for a heavy-set older woman with curly, cropped hair and skin tags covering her neck. Grocery lady plodded behind a cart, partially obscured by economy-size paper towels. Then she pulled alongside me and offered a tissue.
"Honey, believe me, I've been there," she said, and waited.
"I need to go to the bathroom . . . and then to the hospital," I answered. From inside the stall, I poured out my story. They were co-workers. I'd met her several times, chatted over beers at happy hour. While I was out of town, they had stayed out drinking and talking. "She told me she had a crush on a married man," my ex had told me later. "It planted a seed in my head."
He and I had been married for a year and a half, best friends for seven. That summer, we'd laced fingers around subway poles, played one-on-one basketball in the park and house-hunted. That fall, I found his secret e-mail account. Everything unraveled from there. The affair became increasingly brazen: He phoned her from his office while I waited downstairs, texted her lyrics he'd once sung to me. He didn't want to try therapy and thought we should terminate the pregnancy.
"I just couldn't go through with it, you know?" I said to grocery lady as we rambled toward our carts, glancing to see if she was judging me. "We were . . . a family."
"You stop that talk right now, sister," she said. "You are a family. Men, they come and go."