Gestation by Adam Bloom

Gestation

by Adam Bloom

I lie to get her in the car.

I tell her it’s a surprise vacation. That I already cleared things with her boss for her to take a week off; that I already called her parents, and her sister Eileen, and told them where we’d be; that I told them how to get a hold of us in case of emergency.

She believes me, of course. Karen has to believe me. She loves me very much.

And I love her. It’s been almost four years now.

“Come on, David. Where are we going?” Karen asks, smiling.

I help her zip her overstuffed suitcase. “You know I can’t tell you. I’d spoil it.”

Karen bites her lower lip, still smiling. “But I packed the right clothes? I packed enough?”

She’s expecting a joke about her packing.

“You should probably bring two or three more bags,” I say. “To be safe.”

She laughs.

Later, in the car, Karen flips through a road atlas. We’re driving north, and she’s trying to guess our destination. I have refused to tell her anything, doing my best to playfully change the subject every time she asks.

“Is it a resort? Just tell me that.” Karen plies me with dimples, running her fingers through her straight brown hair.

“Why should I tell you anything?” I return my eyes to the road. The exit is a long way off, but I’m nervous I’ll miss it. I’ve been to the cabin only twice: once, years earlier, and again, a few days ago.

Karen plays with the glove box, running her index finger across its surface. She’s just had a manicure. “Because we can’t really afford a resort, David.” She pauses. She considers. “I mean, if that’s what it is, I’ll love it. I really will.” Her hand strays to my knee, where it rests. “Only, you don’t have to do this for me.”

“But I want to,” I blurt out, too quickly, as I tighten my grip on the wheel. “You need this. You need time to relax, to think.”

Karen removes her hand from my knee and drops it in her own lap. She smooths down her blouse with her thumbs, sighs, and lowers her eyes.

The car sputters as we climb up the mountain, and I worry that we may not make it to the top. It’s still light out, but climbing the rest of the way on foot wouldn’t be easy. I wouldn’t want Karen to struggle that much, to exert herself. There are no signs up here except for mile markers. I’m not sure of our elevation, but the view is miraculous.

“You do know where you’re going?” Karen asks, half-joking, an open magazine across her legs.

I force a smile. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

As the sun sets, we arrive at the cabin. It belongs to Bruce Connelly, a coworker and friend. His health has declined, and so he rarely, if ever, braves the altitude. The cabin is in a remote location. It was difficult to find using only my spotty recollection of a single hunting trip that has faded from memory with time. Still, Karen and I have made it, with sunlight to spare.

“Oh, David. It’s wonderful.”

We open the front door to the modest living room, flip on the light, and survey the scene. The cabin is about half the size of our apartment. To the right, an open kitchen. To the left, a stone fireplace. And beyond the living room, two doors. One leads to the bedroom, the other to the bathroom.

“It’s not such a bad place, is it?” I ask Karen, setting down our luggage.

Karen plops down on the big cloth couch that faces the fireplace. She is grinning as she pats the cushions, checking for dust. “It’s a marvel, David.” She wipes her eyes. “You’re my prince.”

At that I move to her, bend toward her, and kiss her softly. “I’ll unload the car.”

Before I bring in the last of our luggage, I remove the siphon from the glove box and set it on the roof of the car. I then remove the gas can and hose from the trunk, slam it shut, and make my way to the gas tank. I have to suck on the hose much harder than I expected before the fuel rushes into my mouth. Gagging, I pinch off the hose, move its pinched end to the siphon, and fill the gas canister.

When the car’s tank is empty, I march into the woods along a barely visible trail with the canister in my left hand, my flashlight in my right. I lower the canister to the ground next to the other gas canisters, then unfold the camouflage tarp to cover it all.

When I go back into the cabin, I find that Karen has started a fire. She is sitting on a quilt, on the floor, leaning against the couch. She is waiting for me. She is beautiful.

I remove my jacket, boots and socks. “Mind if I join you, miss?”

Karen giggles and pats the space beside her. “I was hoping you’d want to.”

I ease down next to Karen and put my arm around her slender shoulders. She lays her head against my chest. “The refrigerator works,” says Karen. “I checked it.”

“I know it works.” I stroke her hair, hoping she can’t smell the gasoline on my fingers. “I checked it too.”

Karen glances up at me. “What if it gets too cold? We might run out of wood.”

I kiss the top of Karen’s head. “We have plenty of wood, sweetness. And if we do run out, there’s a generator outside and a brand new space heater. It can heat up a whole house in an hour, so this little cabin will be a cinch.”

Karen nuzzles her face against the flannel of my shirt. “You bought a space heater?”

I nod, still stroking her hair. “The plumbing works too. I don’t know how much it cost to run pipes to this place. I don’t even know where they’re run from. But the water is clean. It shouldn’t be any problem.”

“It’s a wonderful place, David. Wonderful.” She props herself up for a moment to kiss my cheek. “I should call my mother to let her know we got here okay.”

I’m staring into the fire. Perfect orange flames lick the logs I so recently chopped. “You can’t call your mother, sweetness. The phone doesn’t work.”

Karen sits upright. “You checked it?”

“Yup. A couple days ago. No dice.”

Karen pinches my arm. “You should have told me. I’d have brought the cell phone.” She leans against the couch again, beside me, my arm falling from its place on her shoulders.

I nod my agreement. She's right. Had she known, she would have brought the cell phone.

Karen doesn’t speak for a few moments. She stares with me at the perfect fire. Then, I feel her lean away from me and reach around the side of the couch.

“I have a surprise,” she says.

I pull my gaze from the flames and turn to look. She sits upright again, having grabbed several items from their hiding place. Two clear glasses and a bottle of wine.

“Let’s make a toast,” she says.

I say nothing. I only stare at Karen.

“Come on, David. Let’s make a toast.” She clinks the glasses together, very gently.

At the sound of the glasses touching, a tear forms in the corner of my eye and slides onto my cheek. I make no attempt to wipe it away. “We can’t make a toast, Karen. Not with that.”

Karen, stunned to see me cry, glances down at the bottle. “With the wine? Why not?”

“Because you shouldn’t be drinking,” I answer, my voice cracking. “It’s not safe for the baby.”

Karen sets down the bottle. She sets down the glasses. She crosses her arms and stares at the fire once more. “We decided, David. We’re not keeping the baby.”

I'm staring at the fire, too. “I’ve decided, Karen, that we are.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Adam Bloom is 29 and lives in San Deigo. He’s written three novels and about a dozen screenplays, three of which are currently under contract. He has also written two short film scripts starting production this summer.

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