Excerpt from "His Little Hand in Mine": Why Lucy Hates Pregnant Chicks

So I am writing a novel about a couple who is experiencing infertility.  I've decided I want to occasionally include an excerpt I've written and see what people think.

The following is from the middle.  Lucy and Phil have decided to adopt.  Lucy's best friend, Meredith, is pregnant.

“So, have you heard anything from the adoption people,” Mark asks Phil one Sunday when we meet at T Meldrum’s for breakfast.

“Nah,” Phil says, “they like to keep us guessing. We put together these crazy magazine things,” he gestures to Meredith, “you’ve seen them--and then we have to mail them, like, 25 at a time or so. They say they don’t tell us when somebody asks to look at them, so we don’t get our hopes up. So, we’re keeping our hopes down, right, Lu?” Phil puts his arm around my back, lays his hand on my neck under my hair, squeezes.

“It’s all ridiculous,” I continue where Phil’s left off. “We have to sell ourselves; it’s worse than dating. Honestly, I think I put less work into my portfolio for work than I have into this thing. Lied less, too.” Phil and I smile and raise our eyebrows at each other.

“Whaddya mean, ‘lied less’?” Meredith asks through a piece of muskmelon. “You two are the Barbie and Ken of adoption, aren’t you? Why would you have to lie?” She sets the rind back on her plate, cleaned of all fruit.

“Well, not so much lied as, I guess, stretched, I should say. We have to say the things that the profile coordinators say the birth parents want to hear. You know, it’s like memorizing your philosophy of education when you’re interviewing for teaching jobs. It’s just one of the hoops we have to jump through.”

“Well, I think they should have to jump through hoops to get to you,” Meredith says, picking up the piece of muskmelon on Mark’s plate and starting in on it. “You’ll be fantastic parents. They should be fighting each other trying to get your attention.” She nods, takes a bite, and lets the juice run down her chin a bit. “God, I love melon right now. Lu, I’m sorry you never get to enjoy how good some food tastes when you’re pregnant.”

Phil squeezes my leg under the table. Sometimes Meredith just doesn’t know what she’s saying, or that it hurts. I know she’d be horrified if she knew she hurt me.

“You about ready to head out?” Phil asks. We have to clean the house, trim the yard, get everything Martha Stewart special at the house, because our home study lady is coming tomorrow.

“Yup, just need to use the restroom,” I say.

“I’ll join you, hang on,” Meredith says as she scoots her butt forward in the chair, pushes with her hands, and resembles a Weeble as she comes to a stand.

“I’ll never get why women do that,” Mark says as we start walking away.

“Duh, so they can talk about us,” Phil says and laughs. True, so true.

We’re washing our hands when Meredith launches into her inquisition about the home study. “So, what all is she asking you about? Why’s she gotta check the house? Like, are you supposed to have a nursery ready or something? Is it supposed to be all safety cleared and stuff? Geez, I have half a human being hanging out of me and Mark and I haven’t even started the nursery yet. I just think this whole stupid thing is some kind of government power trip. Somebody’s knocked up somewhere, you need a baby, I don’t see what the freaking big deal is.”

A little wave moves across her belly, starting on the right and flowing across. She’s so used to it--the baby must be shifting its legs—she doesn’t even look down, but I am transfixed. Now on the left, the ripple moves up, then down again, and still Meredith doesn’t even notice. I can’t pull my eyes away. My heart stops beating, my tongue goes dry, my eyes sting. The ripple moves back now, from the left back to the right. 

Meredith’s eyes follow mine down to her belly. She takes a step toward me. “Wanna feel?” she asks quietly.

I nod. I’ve never felt it, never known that touch of life before it breathes its own breath. Meredith takes my hand, lays it flat across her belly, slides it with the movement of the ripple. I can feel something hard—is it a knee?—and then the shift, the movement, and now there’s a big flat area.

“That’s the baby’s back,” Meredith says. “Boo-boo likes to lie against my side, but those legs and feet are going all the time.” She smiles at her belly and the light behind her eyes is blinding. I feel as though I may shatter into a thousand pieces at her feet. “Oh, that’s a good one!” Meredith says, and pulls my whole arm over to feel a kick on her right side.

I have to get away. “That was cool, Mere, thanks,” I say, trying not to sound funny, trying not to look at her, trying not to scream. I walk out of the bathroom, hold the door for her, walk toward Phil. I put my hand in his back pocket, stand near him, smell his sweet, Philly smell. It’s comforting. I know that he feels this too, this grief, though we don’t talk about it. I know he doesn’t think I’m selfish or a bad friend or a nasty person, when I hate Meredith—just a little bit—for being pregnant.

But, I do. I hate her. I hate them all. I hate their round, taut bellies. I hate their protruding belly buttons. I hate their full, saggy boobs. I hate the way it takes them a year to sit down, and a decade to get up. I hate the way they constantly rub their bellies, without even realizing they’re doing it. I hate when I see their babies move beneath their skin.

I hate them, because I will never be them. I will never, ever feel a baby move within me. I will never watch a foot go from the left side of my body to the right. I will never rub my belly, and know my child is in there. I will never feel the kick. I will never deliver a baby, be sweaty and joyous, and feel that amazing sense of accomplishment. I will never hold a baby to my breast, feel milk come to the surface, and watch my child nurse. I will not be the first person to see my baby on the ultrasound screen. I won’t be able to decide whether or not I want to know the gender of the baby before it’s born, because it won’t be my baby yet. I will not be the first person to hold my child.

When the baby is born, I won’t be able to speculate whether he has Phil’s dad’s chin or my grandmother’s eyes, because all of these physical characteristics will come from some other family, from strangers, from a whole generation of people who have nothing to do with me. After the baby is born, he will not recognize my voice, because he will have heard someone else speaking for nine months. In his first days, my baby will strain to hear that voice, his birth mother’s voice, when he seeks the comforts of home. The fact of the matter is, my baby won’t be my baby, not at first, and it is this more than anything that makes me hate Meredith, hate pregnant women, hate them all.