But he did recall now that Corinne had done the test while he was home.
That was new for her. With Thomas and Ryan, Corinne had greeted him at the door with a big smile and told him the news. But this last time, she had wanted him there. He remembered that. He had been lying in bed, flipping stations on the television. She had gone into the bathroom. He thought the test might take a few minutes, but that wasn’t the case. She had come running out of the bathroom with the strip.
“Adam, look! I’m pregnant!”
Had the strip looked like this?
He didn’t know.
Adam clicked the second link and just dropped his head into his hands.
FAKE SILICONE BELLIES!
These came in various sizes: First trimester (1–12 weeks), second trimester (13–27 weeks), third trimester (28–40 weeks). There was also an extra-large size and one for twins, triplets, and even quadruplets. There was a photograph of a beautiful woman gazing lovingly at her “pregnant” belly. She wore wedding-gown white and held lilies in her hand.
The sales pitch on the top read:
Nothing throws you in the spotlight like being pregnant!
And underneath that, a less subtle pitch:
Get better presents!
The product was made of “medical-grade silicone” that the site described as “the closest thing to skin invented so far!” On the bottom, there were video testimonials from “real Fake-A-Pregnancy clients.” Adam clicked on one. A pretty brunette smiled into the camera and said, “Hi! I love my silicone belly. It’s so natural!” She went on to explain that it had arrived in just two business days (not quite as fast as the pregnancy test, but you wouldn’t need it as fast, would you?) and that she and her husband were adopting and didn’t want their friends to know. The second woman—this time a thin redhead—explained that she and her husband were using a surrogate and didn’t want their friends to know (Adam hoped, then, for their sakes that their friends were not creepy enough to frequent this website and out them). The final testimonial was from a woman who used the fake belly to play “the funniest joke ever” on her friends.
She must have some pretty strange friends.
Adam clicked back to the cart page. The last item listed was . . . oh man . . . fake ultrasound sonograms.
2-D or 3-D! Your choice!
The fake sonograms were on sale for $29.99. Glossy, matte, or even a transparency. There were fields so you could type in a doctor’s name, a hospital’s or clinic’s name, and the date of the ultrasound. You could choose your fetus’s gender or just the odds (“Male—80% certainty”), not to mention their ages, twins, you name it. For an extra $4.99, you could “add a hologram to your fake sonogram to make it appear more authentic.”
He felt sick. Had Corinne splurged for the hologram? Adam couldn’t remember.
Again the website tried to make it seem like people would buy this for laughs. “Perfect for Bachelor Parties!” Yeah, what a knee-slapper. “Perfect for Birthday Parties and even Christmas Gags!” Christmas gag? Wrap up a fake pregnancy test and leave it under the tree for Mom and Dad. Laughs galore.
Of course, the “gag” talk was a cover for lawsuit protection. There was no way this site didn’t know that people were using it for purposes of deception.
That’s it, Adam. Keep showing outrage. Keep ignoring the obvious.
That dazed feeling was back. There was nothing more to be done tonight. He would go to bed. He would lie down and think about it. Don’t do anything rash. Too much was at stake. Stay calm. Block, if you have to.
He walked past both of his sons’ bedrooms as he headed toward his own. Their rooms, this whole house, suddenly seemed so fragile, made of eggshells, and if he wasn’t careful, what the stranger had told him could crush them all.
He entered the bedroom that he shared with his wife. A trade paperback of some debut literary novel by a Pakistani woman sat on Corinne’s night table. A copy of Real Simple magazine with folded pages for bookmarks lay next to it. There was an extra set of reading glasses. The prescription was pretty light, and Corinne didn’t like wearing them in public. The clock radio was also a charging dock for her iPhone. Adam and Corinne had similar tastes in music. Springsteen was a favorite. They’d seen a dozen live shows. Adam always lost it at some point, getting so caught up in the music that he lost control. Corinne focused and concentrated. She stood and she might move a little, but mostly her eyes were on the stage.
Adam, meanwhile, danced around like an idiot.
He headed into the bathroom and brushed his teeth. Corinne used some newfangled sonic boom electric toothbrush that looked like something from NASA. Adam stayed old-school. A box of L’Oréal sat out. He could still get a whiff of the chemical smell from the hair dye. Corinne had probably touched up the gray before heading down to Atlantic City. The gray seemed to come in one long strand at a time. For a while, she would pull them out and study them. Then she’d frown, hold up the hair, and say, “It has the texture and color of steel wool.”
His mobile rang. He checked the caller ID, but he already knew who it was. He spit out the toothpaste, quickly rinsed, and picked it up.
“Hey,” he said.
“Adam?”
It was, of course, Corinne.
“Yep.”
“I called before,” she said. He could hear the slight panic in her voice. “Why didn’t you answer?”
“Thomas was driving. I wanted to focus.”
“Oh.”
In the background, he could hear music and laughter. She was probably still at the bar with her colleagues.
“So how did it go tonight?” she asked.
“Fine. He’s on the team.”
“How was Bob?”
“What do you mean, how was Bob? He was a buffoon. As always.”
“You have to be nice to him, Adam.”
“No, I don’t.”
“He wants to move Ryan to middie so he doesn’t compete with Bob Junior. Don’t give him an excuse.”
“Corinne?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s late and I got a big day tomorrow. Can we talk tomorrow?”
Someone in the background—a male someone—broke into guffaws of laughter.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“Fine,” he said before he hung up.
He rinsed off the toothbrush and washed his face. Two years ago, when Thomas was fourteen and Ryan ten, Corinne had gotten pregnant. It had been a surprise. Adam had some issues with a low sperm count as he got older, so their birth control had been closest to the silent-prayer method. This was, of course, irresponsible on their part. At the time, he and Corinne had never discussed the fact that they wouldn’t have more children. It just seemed—up to that point anyway—to be an unspoken agreement between them.
That was new for her. With Thomas and Ryan, Corinne had greeted him at the door with a big smile and told him the news. But this last time, she had wanted him there. He remembered that. He had been lying in bed, flipping stations on the television. She had gone into the bathroom. He thought the test might take a few minutes, but that wasn’t the case. She had come running out of the bathroom with the strip.
“Adam, look! I’m pregnant!”
Had the strip looked like this?
He didn’t know.
Adam clicked the second link and just dropped his head into his hands.
FAKE SILICONE BELLIES!
These came in various sizes: First trimester (1–12 weeks), second trimester (13–27 weeks), third trimester (28–40 weeks). There was also an extra-large size and one for twins, triplets, and even quadruplets. There was a photograph of a beautiful woman gazing lovingly at her “pregnant” belly. She wore wedding-gown white and held lilies in her hand.
The sales pitch on the top read:
Nothing throws you in the spotlight like being pregnant!
And underneath that, a less subtle pitch:
Get better presents!
The product was made of “medical-grade silicone” that the site described as “the closest thing to skin invented so far!” On the bottom, there were video testimonials from “real Fake-A-Pregnancy clients.” Adam clicked on one. A pretty brunette smiled into the camera and said, “Hi! I love my silicone belly. It’s so natural!” She went on to explain that it had arrived in just two business days (not quite as fast as the pregnancy test, but you wouldn’t need it as fast, would you?) and that she and her husband were adopting and didn’t want their friends to know. The second woman—this time a thin redhead—explained that she and her husband were using a surrogate and didn’t want their friends to know (Adam hoped, then, for their sakes that their friends were not creepy enough to frequent this website and out them). The final testimonial was from a woman who used the fake belly to play “the funniest joke ever” on her friends.
She must have some pretty strange friends.
Adam clicked back to the cart page. The last item listed was . . . oh man . . . fake ultrasound sonograms.
2-D or 3-D! Your choice!
The fake sonograms were on sale for $29.99. Glossy, matte, or even a transparency. There were fields so you could type in a doctor’s name, a hospital’s or clinic’s name, and the date of the ultrasound. You could choose your fetus’s gender or just the odds (“Male—80% certainty”), not to mention their ages, twins, you name it. For an extra $4.99, you could “add a hologram to your fake sonogram to make it appear more authentic.”
He felt sick. Had Corinne splurged for the hologram? Adam couldn’t remember.
Again the website tried to make it seem like people would buy this for laughs. “Perfect for Bachelor Parties!” Yeah, what a knee-slapper. “Perfect for Birthday Parties and even Christmas Gags!” Christmas gag? Wrap up a fake pregnancy test and leave it under the tree for Mom and Dad. Laughs galore.
Of course, the “gag” talk was a cover for lawsuit protection. There was no way this site didn’t know that people were using it for purposes of deception.
That’s it, Adam. Keep showing outrage. Keep ignoring the obvious.
That dazed feeling was back. There was nothing more to be done tonight. He would go to bed. He would lie down and think about it. Don’t do anything rash. Too much was at stake. Stay calm. Block, if you have to.
He walked past both of his sons’ bedrooms as he headed toward his own. Their rooms, this whole house, suddenly seemed so fragile, made of eggshells, and if he wasn’t careful, what the stranger had told him could crush them all.
He entered the bedroom that he shared with his wife. A trade paperback of some debut literary novel by a Pakistani woman sat on Corinne’s night table. A copy of Real Simple magazine with folded pages for bookmarks lay next to it. There was an extra set of reading glasses. The prescription was pretty light, and Corinne didn’t like wearing them in public. The clock radio was also a charging dock for her iPhone. Adam and Corinne had similar tastes in music. Springsteen was a favorite. They’d seen a dozen live shows. Adam always lost it at some point, getting so caught up in the music that he lost control. Corinne focused and concentrated. She stood and she might move a little, but mostly her eyes were on the stage.
Adam, meanwhile, danced around like an idiot.
He headed into the bathroom and brushed his teeth. Corinne used some newfangled sonic boom electric toothbrush that looked like something from NASA. Adam stayed old-school. A box of L’Oréal sat out. He could still get a whiff of the chemical smell from the hair dye. Corinne had probably touched up the gray before heading down to Atlantic City. The gray seemed to come in one long strand at a time. For a while, she would pull them out and study them. Then she’d frown, hold up the hair, and say, “It has the texture and color of steel wool.”
His mobile rang. He checked the caller ID, but he already knew who it was. He spit out the toothpaste, quickly rinsed, and picked it up.
“Hey,” he said.
“Adam?”
It was, of course, Corinne.
“Yep.”
“I called before,” she said. He could hear the slight panic in her voice. “Why didn’t you answer?”
“Thomas was driving. I wanted to focus.”
“Oh.”
In the background, he could hear music and laughter. She was probably still at the bar with her colleagues.
“So how did it go tonight?” she asked.
“Fine. He’s on the team.”
“How was Bob?”
“What do you mean, how was Bob? He was a buffoon. As always.”
“You have to be nice to him, Adam.”
“No, I don’t.”
“He wants to move Ryan to middie so he doesn’t compete with Bob Junior. Don’t give him an excuse.”
“Corinne?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s late and I got a big day tomorrow. Can we talk tomorrow?”
Someone in the background—a male someone—broke into guffaws of laughter.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“Fine,” he said before he hung up.
He rinsed off the toothbrush and washed his face. Two years ago, when Thomas was fourteen and Ryan ten, Corinne had gotten pregnant. It had been a surprise. Adam had some issues with a low sperm count as he got older, so their birth control had been closest to the silent-prayer method. This was, of course, irresponsible on their part. At the time, he and Corinne had never discussed the fact that they wouldn’t have more children. It just seemed—up to that point anyway—to be an unspoken agreement between them.
