By Lacy

Downstairs, the requested cab arrives in record time, and I wave goodbye to Dr. Wilborn from the sidewalk, as I climb into the back seat of the vehicle.

As the cab turns the corner onto my street, I notice with no small amount of trepidation that Josh’s rental is parked in front of the house. I pay the driver the fare, plus a tip, and exit the vehicle. I watch him drive away before striding up the walk.

Even though I shouldn't be, I’m startled when Josh throws the door open before I can get the key in the lock.

"You want to tell me where the hell you’ve been?" I examine his face closely; searching for signs of imminent explosion, but mostly what I see there is concern.

"Out," I answer.

He takes a deep breath to corral his increasing anger. "I called. No answer."

"I had my cell phone," I shrug.

"Check it," he orders.

I fish my phone out of my bag only to discover that the battery is dead. After two weeks away from work, I’ve grown lax in charging the thing. "I’m sorry, Josh. I forgot to charge it."

"Your car was here, but you were nowhere to be found. I got nothing but your voicemail on the cell. Do you have any idea the kind of thoughts that were going through my head?"

"Did you check my closet?"

"What?"

"Did you check my closet to see if the clothes were still there?"

He shifts back and forth on his feet for a moment, his hands deeply in his pockets. "Yes." For just a moment, he is unguarded and I see how vulnerable his concern makes him.

"I didn’t think I’d worry you," I apologize. "I thought you’d be gone the rest of the day. Why aren’t you gone the rest of the day?"

"I was able to win two votes back this morning when I met with Shears and Whitehead."

"Congratulations!" I say sincerely.

"Where have you been?" his face softens.

"I had an appointment. What’s that I smell?"

"I thought I’d bring some lunch home. What kind of appointment?"

"A doctor’s appointment. What did you bring me?" He follows me into the kitchen where there are two white styrofoam containers sitting on the counter.

"I brought you an Oriental salad. What kind of doctor?"

"Believe it or not," I ignore him as I open one of the containers, "I’ve actually been craving food from the Mess." Suddenly, I’m hit with the pungent odor of the White House version of the Oriental dressing, and the last thing I can think about is eating. My gorge rises and I’m plotting the quickest route to the ground floor bathroom under the stairwell.

"Donna?"

I wave him off because I can’t afford to open my mouth. I haven’t moved this fast in weeks without some sort of bodily retribution. The bathroom door swings wide as I dive for the porcelain bowl and empty this morning’s light breakfast into the toilet.

When I finish, I collapse against the wall, my legs shaking as they always do after I empty my stomach. Josh stands there with a glass of water and squats down to hand it to me. I sip carefully; enjoying the cool water as it wipes away the sensation of burning acid in the back of my throat.

"You overextended yourself, Donna," he lectures as he flushes the toilet. "You should’ve spent another day in bed."

"I had to get out of the house. I just couldn’t sit around any more. Besides, that had nothing to do with the concussion."

"The doctor said your equilibrium could be off for as long as a month."

"I’m telling you it wasn’t my equilibrium. It was the smell of the salad."

"You like the Oriental salad from the Mess," he reminds me.

"Yeah, I love it. But, clearly the baby does not."

"You mean, that was…?"

"Yep. Morning sickness, in all of its disgusting glory."

"What kind of doctor’s appointment, Donna?" He segues clumsily with none of my meticulously honed skill. He makes an attempt at blasé but underneath I can see him trying to mask the desperation in his eyes.

"I went to see Dr. Wilborn, Josh."

"The Kreskin lady?"

"That’s the one. And she was not having a psychic day."

"So you didn’t…?"

"No," I stop him before he can finish that thought. "I wouldn’t do something like that without telling you. Maybe you could put the salad away for later," I suggest quickly, before he can respond. "I think I’ll have some dry toast for lunch instead. Help me up." I extend my hands and he grabs hold of them, lifting cautiously until I’m back on my feet.

"Nausea?" he asks, wrapping an arm around my waist to support my sea legs. I’d forgotten how good it felt to have his arms around me. I mean, I remember in theory, but the actuality is so much better.

"No," I whisper, glancing over at his profile. "I’m good."

"Good." He nods, but says nothing more as he leads me to the living room and deposits me on the couch.

"Dry toast, huh?"

"Yeah, and a glass of milk."

"Okay." He pivots and heads into the kitchen.

"And maybe an apple, cut into little wedges," I raise my voice to be heard in the other room.

"Sure," he calls back.

"And a thirty percent raise," I shout. He’s being just a little acquiescent for my tastes, but while he is, I might as well take advantage of it.

Silence reigns from the kitchen before he steps back into the living room. "What?" His head tilted to one side, as though doubting the veracity of his hearing.

"Too much?" I ask, looking up at him. "I just started there so I could negotiate my way down to something agreeable between the both of us."

"I’m sorry?"

"Okay," I give in. "Twenty-five percent."

He says nothing, but simply stands statue-still with his mouth gaping slightly. When he moves, he tilts his head down and his brow furrows.

When practicing the art of negotiation it’s always good to place yourself on the same level as the person with whom you’re negotiating. So, I decide to stand. Examining the dumbfounded expression on his face, I make another offer. "Twenty-percent? Work with me here."

He narrows his brown eyes suspiciously. I can see that he’s warring with whatever promises he made to himself to be a good little Josh, and his need to be the Josh he really is.

"Not a chance," he says finally.

"Fifteen percent?" I ask weakly.

"Nope." He places a hand on each hip and shifts the majority of his weight to one leg, jutting his chin out with finality.

And that’s when I see him. A glimmer of the old Josh that he’s kept buried beneath the new and improved Josh, and all the acts of penance he’s decided he needs to perform. I smile, because this is the first time I’ve seen him in three weeks. I smile because this is the man I fell in love with. This man makes me feel healthy and alive.

I launch myself towards him, wrapping my arms around his neck before he has a chance to realize what’s happening. His whole body tenses beneath me, and as much as want his arms to embrace me, they don’t. But I don’t let go. I just hang on.

"You’re still not getting a raise," his muffled voice decrees.

"I know," I whisper.

"Then why the--?"

"I miss you Josh."

He places his hands on my waist and sets me away from him, stepping back. "You were just sick," he clears his throat uncomfortably. "You should be sitting, or something."

"I feel fine now."

"Just sit. I’ll get you some lunch." Just like that, the old Josh disappears like a cheap magic trick. Abracadabra. Poof!

"Josh–"

"Toast, right?" he interjects.

"Yeah," I sigh.

A few minutes later, he sets a plate and glass of milk on the coffee table in front of me. I thank him, but he only nods in response, before heading back to the kitchen. I hear him rifling through the silverware drawer before he emerges with his white carton lunch. I’m hoping that he’ll sit with me and we can talk, but instead he stalks toward the study and closes the door behind him.

What did I do wrong?

I dazedly munch on the toast and apple wedges to ease the gnawing in my stomach. I really wanted the Oriental salad, but when I was assaulted by the smell, I couldn’t control the nausea.

My concussion makes me ill when I move too fast, or when my skull feels like it’s going to split open. But this was different. It was completely unexpected. The second the smell of the salad reached my nostrils I was completely overwhelmed. It was like my senses had become hyper sensitive. Strangely, the foods I’m eating now are having no adverse affect.

****

Lying in bed, I have never been more aware of the empty space beside me.

Josh is across the hall — probably sleeping soundly. Maybe even snoring a little. While here I am, staring at the ceiling and wishing his arms were around me. It felt so good to touch him today, and when he set me aside I felt like I was standing naked before him. And not in a good way.

We didn’t talk at all after that. I mean, we spoke to each other, but the opportunity for real conversation — real communication — never came up. He’s pulled away from me because he thinks it’s what I need. Or because he thinks it’s what we both need. He’s trying not to pressure me. Problem is…I’m ready for a little pressure.

I’m feeling a lot of strange and scary things right now and I want to share them with him. I want him to be here to share them with.

The baby chose to announce its presence today -- as if it knew, by some instinct that I had too much to worry about with my injuries. That any other day would have been too soon. Or maybe, it was just tired of being ignored. My fingers travel gently over my abdomen, just below my belly button. There’s no visible change, but I feel firmer. Or it could just be my imagination.

Eleven weeks. I wonder what’s going on in there.

I want to share with Josh all the things Dr. Wilborn, I mean Stella, and I talked about today. About letting him off the hook, and letting him be the old Josh. About my sudden fear of motherhood and being alone. About how I have to be absolutely sure of the choice I make. I want to tell him how her eyes smiled when she told me she thought I’d made my decision a long time ago.

I want to tell him that I think she was having a psychic day, after all.

The End