Astonish Me. Maggie Shipstead

      He rolls onto his back, looks at the ceiling. She likes his profile: his strong chin with its dense, clipped beard, his long nose with a bump just below the bridge. “Unobtainable.”

      “Oh, Jacob. I have been obtained.”

      Behind his glasses, his eyes briefly close. “You know what I mean. It’s vestigial.”

      She considers climbing on top of him, kissing him, but he will recognize the cheapness. She could tell him there is no one she would rather be married to, that her love is growing, but slowly, accumulating imperceptibly the way trace minerals in dripping water build rock structures in caves, and it would all be true. But what he wants is impossible—he wants to change the past, for everything to happen in the right order. He wants them to love each other equally, but he is afraid of what it would be like if they did.

      “I haven’t laughed like that in a long time,” she says. “I used to lose it in high school when someone would get in trouble. Remember? It was the same at ballet. If Tchishkoff really tore into someone, I’d get the giggles. I felt like a monster. Some poor girl would get ripped apart, and I’d have to leave because I was laughing so hard. What is that?”

      “You’re what’s known as a sociopath. You have no empathy.”

      “Oh, okay. Glad to have a diagnosis.” After a moment, she says, “You know, if I had loved you right away, like I should have, when I was fourteen, you would have gotten tired of me, and I wouldn’t have you now. I had a whole plan, you see. You fell for it.”

      He turns to look at her. “I am such a dupe.”

      She slides across the sheets, hooks one leg over him, and sits up so she is straddling his belly. She rests both her hands on his chest and looks down at him. The beauty of sex, Elaine said once, is that you don’t have to talk. Jacob’s hands come up to clasp her thighs. His chin lifts; his eyelids droop. Desire looks like something going away at first, an ebbing. Sex is something they do well together. With Arslan, fear had made her ravenous. Even his laziest, most perfunctory touches had thrilled her because they meant he was not yet gone. She had clambered around doing his bidding, neither of them considering what she wanted. There is no thrill with Jacob, but there is comfort and pleasure and the freedom that comes from trust.

      He shifts. His hands move to her hips. “Why don’t we ever talk about having another baby?”

      He must feel her unease because his hands stop moving, and his eyes lose their dreaminess. “We do,” she says.

      “Not really. I hint, and you dodge.”

      Sitting on him has become awkward, but she is afraid he will take it as a rejection if she moves away. “No, I don’t.”

      “You do. Look, if you don’t want another one, you should at least say so.”

      “How can you be sure you want another one?”

      He nudges her off him, not roughly but with an apologetic grimace. “You’re sitting on Sandy’s cake. I just am. I see us with another. I liked having sisters.”

      “God, a girl.” Joan sits cross-legged, one of her knees against his thigh, and picks at her fingernails. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I want to risk all the things that can go wrong. Everything would be different if we had another. Why take the chance? Why mess with something that’s working?”

      “No,” Jacob says, excited, lifting onto his elbows. “No, you have to be biologically brave. It’s in our nature to take that chance. I understand the fear, but I don’t think fear should be enough to stop us.”

      “You’re not the one who has to be pregnant and give birth. You don’t have to push another person out of yourself. I hear women say they forget all about birth as soon as it’s over, but I didn’t. I don’t know why nobody seems to take birth into account when they think about having a baby.”

      “A few stretch marks aren’t the end of the world, Joan.”

      “I’m not ready.”

      After a moment, he pulls her down beside him, her head on his shoulder. “I wish you wanted one.”

      “I know.”

      After another silence, he sets his glasses on the nightstand and switches off the light. In the dark, lying against his body as though it were a gently respiring bolster, she imagines she can feel his thoughts coming through his skin like a fever. She feels his disappointment, his accusatory argument that she had been willing to trick him into conceiving a baby when he was young and unprepared but now that he has spent five years proving himself as a husband and father, she is unmoved by his desire for another. She feels him criticizing her vanity, rejecting her concern for her body as unjustified, even pathetic, now that she doesn’t perform. She feels his sadness that the family he imagined isn’t to be. She feels his love grow less dense around her, like fog lifting.

      But, really, all she can feel is his breathing. It strikes her as strange that two people lying quietly in the dark, remote in their thoughts, locked away in their bodies, have everything necessary to make a third person who will, barring tragedy, lie quietly through darknesses long after they are dead. She had excused herself from Jacob’s love when they were teenagers because she was young and unprepared, a luxury she hadn’t granted him. But now she is his, they are each other’s, and for him to be unhappy, to love her less, is intolerable.

      “There’s still time,” she says. “I need a little more time.”

      Under her ear, she feels a pulse in his shoulder. That his heart has begun to pound with hope makes hers pound with fear. She should give him what he wants. She will, just not quite yet.

      “When?” he says.

      “Soon.”

      He shifts to lie squarely on her. She touches his face. In the early days, his weight had felt oppressive, suffocating, but now the burden of him is comforting. “I can live with soon,” he says.

      She doesn’t want to have to say anything else. She pulls his head down and meets his mouth with hers.

       August 1984—Disneyland

      Merlin tilts a long finger over the heads of children and parents, over mouse ears and Peter Pan hats, through the strings of their balloons, and, in his booming wizard voice, bids Tim approach the stone and remove the sword. All the children raising their hands, straining to show their worthiness, subside in disappointment that a grown-up has been chosen. Tim squeezes through the ranks of families and goes to stand beside Merlin. He strikes a silly body-builder pose.

      “Valiant knight,” says Merlin, opening his arms to show off his robe’s voluminous purple sleeves, “are you the one we seek? Do you possess the strength to free this mighty blade from yonder stone? Are you destined to become ruler of the realm?”

      “You bet!” says Tim.

      Tim’s daughter Amber, who has rejected Sandy’s offer to hold her up so she can see better, stands on tiptoe and whispers, “My dad is really strong.”

      Sandy suspects she’s right. She had met Tim the previous afternoon on the artificial white sand beach by one of the pools at the hotel, the pool that Chloe and Harry love because it has waterslides made out of big, fake rocks. Except for his ponytail, he reminds her pleasantly of the frat boys she used to date: burly, soft in spots, sunburned. Tim is a carpenter, divorced and in the middle of a weekend-long attempt to bribe Amber into forgetting she has anything to be unhappy about. Chloe, barely deigning to watch as Tim makes a show of pushing up his sleeves and pretending to spit on his palms, says, “He’s not going to do it. I’ve seen this before.”

      “He can do it,” Amber says desperately. Her father braces one foot on the stone, grasps the sword’s hilt, and pulls. Nothing happens. Tim crosses his eyes and sticks out his tongue. Most