Photo by Shelley Pauls on Unsplash
I wake up trying to recite the alphabet backwards. I’m on “P”, and trying so hard to move to “O” instead of “Q” that my head hurts. When I get to “K”, I realize I’m awake.
In my dream, a man was holding a gun to my head, demanding that I recite the alphabet from “Z” to “A”. He was timing me; the barrel was pressed so hard to my temples that it hurt. And every time I slipped up, he pulled the hammer back with a dull click then slowly eased it down.
The clock says it’s almost five o’clock. I can’t get back to sleep, I don’t want to risk hearing the hammer slam down, so I slide out of bed and stumble to the shower, watching out of the corner of my eye for the Alphabet Man.
“My mother wants burgundy flowers.”
“Burgundy?” Why is Nick calling me in the middle of the morning, when I should be preparing for my next meeting, to talk to me about flowers?
“Maybe she said organdy. Something like that.”
“They’re two very different things.”
“Well, that’s what she wants.”
“Exactly. Why can’t she talk to me about this?”
“She doesn’t want to bother you at work.”
“Tell her the flowers are orange.” I really don’t want flowers at all. “And that’s final.”
“She won’t be happy.”
“I can’t help that.”
I’m thirty-three years old. I have a job. I have a house. I’m getting married.
But before then I have to:
Sell my house.
Pick flowers. I don’t want flowers, but they won’t be burgundy. Or organdy.
Finish my presentation.
“Nick says you want orange flowers?”
Now it’s my sister. Who doesn’t even like Nick.
“Orange,” I say. “Like—sunflowers.”
“Those are yellow.”
“Or orange. I want orange sunflowers.”
“Will those even be in season?”
“They’d better be.”
The Alphabet Man dream was preceded by the Multiplication Man dream. Multiplication Man had a knife—a wide-bladed Bowie knife with jagged chips out of its edge—that he held against my fingers while he pressed my hand down on a wooden table. He was making me recite my times tables, and would cut off a finger as soon as I failed.
The twos, threes, fours, fives—those were easy. But the sixes—I don’t know the sixes. I never knew the sixes, eights, or nines. I should have flunked third grade; I got by on penmanship.
“Six times eight,” he says. I can feel the sweat dropping off my nose. “Six times eight.” My palm is sliding, it's so wet, and he jams my hand into the table until my wrist aches.
“Six times eight.”
I am thirty-three years old. I have a house and a job. I can have my own wedding.
Why do I want a wedding? Because I’m in love? Because my womb has been empty too long, and Nick probably has motile sperm? Because I’m thirty-three years old and have a house and a job?
I need to sell my house, pick flowers, finish my presentation, and have a baby.
What if Nick is infertile?
“What do you mean, how do I know?”
Nick sounds offended. He called to verify that his mother meant organdy, so I asked him if he’s fertile. That seems fair.
“You claim to be fertile. How do you know? Is there some secret you’re keeping from me?”
“No! No. I just—I don’t feel infertile.”
“It’s hardly something you can feel.”
“Do you want me to get tested?”
“If you want to have burgundy flowers.”
“There’s a better way to find out, you know.”
“The flowers will be orange.”
Six times eight is forty-eight. I know this because I know that six times six is thirty-six. Then I just add twelve. Multiplication Man looked disappointed.
But I was so smug that I didn’t think ahead to six times nine. Do I add six or nine? The blade breaks the skin of my ring finger just enough to draw blood.
“Are you going to wear Mom’s dress?”
My sister again.
“I don’t know. The wedding’s still three months away.”
“You’ll need to have it taken out.”
“That’s not true. I tried it on—what, two years ago? It fits fine.”
“Well, yeah, but in three months …”
“In three months, what? I’m going to swell up like a giant blueberry?”
“Well, in your condition…”
“I don’t have a condition.”
“You’re not --?”
“No.”
“Then why on earth are you—“
I wish my phone at work was an old fashioned bakelite brick like we had in the rec room. It made a more satisfying sound than these flimsy plastic phones when you slam them down.
I have to call my realtor. I have to find a florist. I have to finish my presentation. In three months I’ll be thirty-four. I’ll be married and thirty-four, but I may still not have a condition.
“Ivory.”
“Who is this?”
“I really think you should at least think about ivory. With your coloring—“
“Mrs. Andersen?”
“Orange would be all wrong. You’re a redhead.”
I close my eyes. I’m thirty-three years old. I want orange flowers.
I recite: “Z … Y … X … W … V …”