The Paris Review - Fall 2016

EMILY CALLED DAVID when she got home. He was at lunch with his
brother and the bride.
He said, “I’m sorry you’re doing this alone.”
“Oh, it’s fine. It’s not so bad.”
“My mom and my brother, everyone here really, says it’s awful you have
to do it by yourself. Bad timing.”
“You told them?” she said.
“Don’s wife was like, Poor Emily. The miscarriage, and now this. She
must feel like, First I killed my baby, then I killed my dog. Does everything
I touch just die?”
“I never thought I killed my baby,” Emily said. They were quiet for a
while. Then she said, “Well, sometimes I thought it was because I drank tea
in the mornings. Or took hot baths. I thought maybe it was because I took
a Valium that one night, before I knew I was pregnant, when my mom came
for dinner.”
“But Dr. Marsh said one wouldn’t do anything.”
“I’m just saying how it felt.”
“I know. Sometimes I thought it was my fault. Because I wasn’t sure I
wanted a baby.”
“Really?”
“I wanted our baby, but I wasn’t sure I wanted a baby, until we lost it.”
“Remember that doctor they brought in to tell us, who talked to us with
his eyes closed?”
“After the sonogram?” David said. “Old Shut Eyes.”
“It was kind of sweet actually. And then he barked at the sonogram
technician for having the light off.”
“Sometimes he’d take a peek, and then shut them back.”
They were quiet. Simha came and sat on the couch next to Emily. She
had her green stuffed dragon with her. She wanted to play. She let it sit
between her paws, inviting Emily to try to take it from her.
Emily said, “Actually, Simha can’t go in the backyard ever again. Or
at least, not for a year, or she’ll reinfect with whipworm. The eggs just
never die.”
“Oh. Never again? Maybe we could put a garden in back then.”
“No, because then we’ll get whipworm.”
“Really?”
94