to women like myself. I tried them all. Nothing took. After years of “trying,” Serge (my husband) and I withdrew our petition from Nature’s court, and traded our baby-making budget for an extended vacation.
Our luxurious suite had a private pool so wide it merged with the sky and the sea. Serge and I took advantage of the heavenly views and treated ourselves to good old-fashioned sex morning, noon, and night. For the first time in ages we didn’t treat our bodies like vending machines that stole our money but kept our goodies trapped behind some faulty metal spiral.
It was not until two months after we returned from our vacation that I noticed menses had stopped making an appearance. One particular suspicion nibbled at my heart, but I didn’t dare give in to it until the Extra-Thyme Soap and Body Potion woman looked at me and gushed: Michelle, girl, I know that glow!
I purchased a home pregnancy test; read and reread the directions a few times before using it. When I saw the Extra-Thyme woman again, I gave her permission to add psychic to her list of gifts.
* * *
I called my gynecologist for an appointment. My life was about to change. I needed confirmation.
“Congratulations!” the doctor intoned. Wide, scrutinizing eyes were partly condemnatory, partly approving. Hadn’t she told me this would never happen?
“Can you believe it?” I asked her.
She assured me that in her line of work there wasn’t much she had not seen. So, yes, she could believe it.
I thought about tricking Serge into joining me at his favorite restaurant and slipping a note into his pumpkin pie, but we’d been through too much for that. I called his cell phone and said: “We’re pregnant, chéri.”
“We’re going to have a boy!” Serge shouted.
Next, I telephoned my sister. Freda congratulated me as if I’d won a championship with one second left on the clock. “If you need me,” she said, “I’ll be on the next plane.” I would never ask Freda to leave her work. That clinic was all the children had for miles.
* * *
I spent the first trimester memorizing What to Expect When You’re Expecting. Serge and I declined the “highly recommended—particularly in your case” amniocentesis. The doctor took every opportunity to remind us that my pregnancy was “high risk,” due in part to my advanced age of thirty-six. We would keep our baby whatever the prognosis, we knew this. Also, we decided that boy or girl, we would name our child Dieudonne. Serge was not particularly religious, but there was no question this baby was a gift from God. A few months later, during one of our endless sonograms, the doctor confirmed our baby was a boy; Serge nearly collapsed with joy.
* * *
One morning when Dieudonne tried to karate-chop his way out without any assistance from me or a doctor, Serge rushed me to the emergency room. A team of doctors poked, prodded, and photographed me inside and out. Serge and I kept our eyes on the monitor, watching our little Dieudonne’s fully developed face. The pursed lips said he would have his own opinions and voice them whenever and however he chose. Little fists were ready for battle. The umbilical cord appeared to be wound around his neck. He seemed to be resting from all the thrashing around he had done earlier.
“How is the baby?” Serge and I asked the doctor.
The doctor’s posture slackened when she informed us in an apologetic tone how there appeared to be “umbilical complications.”
Our baby was born that morning. The doctor asked what name we had chosen. Serge squeezed my hand and said we didn’t have to use that name.
“No hurry,” the doctor said, not looking at Serge or me now that she had been shoved from her upper rung of authority. “This is a difficult time,” she added superfluously.
“Dieudonne,” I told her through clenched teeth. “My son’s name is Dieudonne.”
* * *
Serge and I held each other and cried for a long time. When we returned to our house, we drifted like deflated balloons between rooms. Years ago, when we converted our garage to a recording studio, Serge had joked the commute was hard on his feet. Perhaps that was why he lived there now. Music, his loyal concubine, kept him busy all the time. I stayed in our bedroom.
When I called Freda to tell her what had happened, she said, “Take heart, you’ll get pregnant again.” I thanked her, knowing there would not be a next time.
* * *
Several months after Dieudonne, Serge and I tried but still couldn’t get on with the business of being. The fact was, we mourned best alone—one of those details couples don’t discover about themselves until they’re submerged in a crisis. We kept to our own spaces, sparing our marriage the strain. Nothing would have been worse than to follow “umbilical complications” with a divorce.
I used to love to work with Serge in his studio. He would give me a microphone and I would make up a melody to go with whatever he was playing. Now, I stayed in the bedroom. Neither music nor Serge interested me.
My husband had a reputation for mixing down songs in such a way that would reach into your very soul. For that reason, Protestant groups brought him music project after project. They came with tambourines, violins, and choirs of men and women with clashing but angelic voices. January was always a busy month for Serge. The Protestants wanted their CDs in time for Easter; konpa bands had to have their theme song ready for Kanaval. “It’s going to be awhile before I can touch your stuff,” Serge would tell the Protestants. The upcoming Kanaval in Port-au-Prince took precedence. Even God knew that.
* * *
Serge was standing in the bedroom. His eyes had a faraway look in them. “How’s it going?” he asked reluctantly, knowing what my answer would be.
I said nothing.
The snowflakes in his hair glistened like crushed glass. He stared at the floor, not sure how to proceed. He would return to the studio in a few seconds. I would not see him again for hours, maybe the next day.
“What are you working on?” I asked.
“Kanaval stuff.” He almost smiled. The New Year was ten days old already; the rapture that was Kanaval was fast approaching.
“When are you leaving?” I managed a smile.
“I don’t plan to go this year,” Serge said, turning to leave.
I sat up for a better look at the imposter pretending to be my husband. This would be the first time Serge would miss Kanaval in all the years since we’d known each other. “You will go,” I announced. “And I’m going with you.”
* * *
When I was five years old, a chaloska clown on stilts startled me so much that I tumbled down a ravine, breaking my legs. Another time, a man covered in tar had spread his makeshift wings so wide and shouted words so terrifying through grotesque strap-on lips that I hid in one of the old cast-iron pots in the calabash grove. There I was now, telling my husband how lovely it would be to revisit the mayhem of Kanaval.
“There’s always next year,” Serge said, shoulders sagging.
