Signs of Life Read Free Page A

to know that this is not a normal doctor’s visit and he realizes that.
    He goes on to tell me that my body is fine. Everything ismoving along wonderfully. He says I can get an ultrasound today or any other day I want. I tell him I’m nervous. I’m nervous because my whole body is in so much pain, it’s hard to imagine something growing inside of it. I have this strange anxiety that my grief will somehow physically manifest itself and attack the baby. He does not acknowledge this as a crazy emotion, which I deeply appreciate. I tell him I haven’t been eating as much as I used to, my appetite has decreased substantially. He says, “Natalie, there are women on this earth who eat dirt and ice for nine months and deliver perfectly healthy babies. You will be fine. Your body knows exactly what it needs to do.” He pauses. “But you need to work on your brain. Your brain isn’t fine, and it shouldn’t be.”
    I feel the tears well up in my eyes.
    He asks me a few questions. Then he takes a card out of his breast pocket: DR. ELLEN GURIZA, PHD. PSYCHOLOGIST .
    “I’m not suggesting that you go see her,” he says. “I am instructing you, as your obstetrician, that you
have
to go see her. The sooner the better. Call her today. If she doesn’t answer the phone, leave a message and say that I referred you and that you would like to come in as soon as possible.” I nod. He looks at my mom.
    “Make sure she does this. It is
imperative
that she does this.” She nods too.
    I don’t go back to my house. I stay at my parents’. I sleep on the futon in my old room every night. Maggie sleeps with me every night. Mathews doesn’t go back to work. He spends the night in my parents’ basement for over a week. He and I never talk about Josh, but in a strange way he is the most comforting person I have. He is the only person who can make me smile. A few days after the funeral we went out to dinner with our friendsfrom out of town. Mathews and I sat next to each other. I told him if he was still single at thirty and hadn’t found a man yet (he’s gay), we should get married for the tax break. We could be Will and Grace, but I’d be a much more pathetic, less attractive version of Grace. Maggie overheard us and said she wanted to marry Mathews too; we’d have to flip for it. After she turned away, Mathews leaned toward me and said, “I’ll marry you, but I am
not
marrying Maggie.”
    During the days before the funeral, people kept dropping off food. Platters and platters of fresh fruit, cheese, lunch meats. It was so generous. We never had to think about food. After a few days Dubs (Moo’s husband, David—we call him Dubs) asked if we could do something different for dinner—he was “kind of sick of cold cuts.” Mathews and I heard him say this and exchanged a look, a “what a jerk” look. Later that night, Mathews found me in my room, lay down with me, and said, “Nat, are you so sick of cold cuts or what?” Mathews provides me with glimpses of relief. A few seconds where I smile. These moments are nearly impossible otherwise.
    I lie on the futon in my old room. I cry hysterically. I heave and sob. I can hardly see. My mom is there next to me. She cries too. Her hand is on my head.
    She says, “If I could take this away from you I would.” I know she would.
    “If I could do this instead of you, I would do it in a second.” She sounds desperate, as if she is truly negotiating with someone.
    “I never want to be alone again,” I say, through my heaves of air. She shakes her head. “You don’t have to be. You don’t have to be.”
    I look at the ceiling. I try to wipe my face off. “I never want to go back to my house and I never want to be alone again.”
    The last book I read with my eleventh-grade class before school got out a few weeks ago was
The Color Purple
. In the beginning of the book there is an epigraph based on Stevie Wonder’s lyrics that reads: “Show me how to do like you, show me how to do