Читать книгу Pages For Her - Sylvia Brownrigg - Страница 21

When she looked back on this period later, Flannery would have difficulty distinguishing between the intense nausea of her pregnancy (constant vomiting, in no way restricted to mornings and often at the most insalubrious places – a Safeway parking lot, a museum bathroom) and the dizzying extremity of her leap of faith into the arms and home of Charles Marshall.

Flannery had studied the concept of the leap of faith at college one semester, during a late adolescent foray into existential philosophy. She had been trying to regain her balance after being abandoned by Anne, and delving into explorations of being and nothingness seemed the right way to go about it. Flannery sat listening to a professor who was the spitting image of Leo Tolstoy and as irascible, who spoke chiefly to himself, it seemed, or to the imagined spirit of Søren Kierkegaard, about the paradox of Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his only son, Isaac, by God’s outlandish request; the way Abraham could simultaneously be convinced he would slit his son’s throat, and at the same time entrust to God that at the last instant there would be some catch and he would not have to, after all. Sitting in her self-pitying sophomore slump on a shapeless plastic chair under unflattering fluorescent lighting, Flannery was never entirely sure she got it, but Tolstoy gave her a good grade for the final paper she wrangled for him, so he must have thought she did. Throughout her life Flannery would find that in writing she had occasional access to wisdom or perceptions that eluded her when she spoke aloud. Or acted.

‘Do you worry, though?’ Flannery asked Charles one evening at their local Thai garden. They had learned a few hours earlier that the genetic testing had all looked normal, and Flannery was carrying a girl. She had been surprised by Charles’s ostentatious relief at the news. ‘I mean,’ she tried to explain, to translate the roil of thoughts in her mind to an actual question, ‘about all the sacrifice?’

Charles frowned. ‘Of what?’

‘You know . . . time. Freedom.’ Flannery waved a forkful of green mango in the general direction of all they might be giving up. ‘Independence.’ Charles seemed baffled by the question. At the time Flannery found this endearing, a sign of her husband’s intention to throw himself wholeheartedly into fatherhood, but later she would come to wonder whether it was simply based on assumptions they did not discuss.

‘Nah.’ He shook his head.

‘Our ability to work. Having to take care of the baby all the time.’

‘Art versus parenthood? It’s a cliché, we don’t need to fall into that.’ He slid several morsels of chicken satay off their skewers. ‘We can do this differently.’

Flannery admired his certainty. That was very Charles: sure of himself and his ability to organize the world around him in the way he wanted. She had always responded to people, men or women, who had clarity and edge. She appreciated the ability to be definite, something she often lacked. Such characters aided Flannery in her own efforts to focus the large areas of her internal blur.

‘Great,’ she affirmed, hoping the tasty curries and rice would not make the return journey back up her throat within the hour. ‘I like your confidence. We’ll do this differently. That’s good! Let’s do that, then.’

Flannery decided to have faith. It was a leap, yes. But really, she had already taken it.