Was the little plastic stick she held in the bathroom failure? She wasn’t sure yet. It didn’t seem like success.
I can’t be, she thought, staring at the two vertical lines like they were hieroglyphics. This doesn’t make sense. But of course she could be. She was.
Between the waves of nausea and sore breasts, she’d suspected for days, but there’d been the possibility of confusion, of a mistake. In Germany they’d said this wouldn’t even be possible. But they’d said a lot of things in Germany, some of which had proven true. Some of which hadn’t.
Mia took a deep breath, ignoring her shaking hands. This hadn’t been part of the plan—she and Jesse weren’t to even talk children for another four years—but she could adjust. She didn’t like adjusting, but Semper Gumby. Always flexible. She’d learned that in flight school and still adhered to it when she needed to.
You have time, Mia told herself. Focus on today.
Today was Sunday, the day after the engagement party, and well wishes and small talk still clouded her mind. Unopened envelopes and gifts covered their kitchen table in mounds, and her good leg ached from standing for too many hours. The envelopes and gifts could remain unopened for the time being, though, and the feet were going back into wedges. Wall Street paused for no one, even on Sundays.
Focus, Mia told herself again.
She bent over and removed her shrinker. She didn’t need it anymore but preferred sleeping with it to keep her stump warm. She grabbed her regular prosthetic from a shelf and brought it to her right knee socket. It felt cold and familiar in her palm, like an old metal spear. It popped into place, and when she set it down on the floor, the muscles in her good leg loosened with relief. Then came the skin cover and a pair of black leggings, ubiquitous to her life now, and a new sheath dress she’d been saving for today’s luncheon. She brushed her teeth, combed her hair, and left the bathroom.
The living room was empty and dim. She’d purchased the two-bedroom condo two years before with deployment savings. Her father and grandfather had wanted to contribute, and also wanted her to live uptown. “You work in the Finance District,” they said. “You don’t live there. That’s how it’s done.”
They also considered uptown safer and less likely to be attacked, but neither would ever say that out loud. They were persistent men unused to being told thank you, but no. Turning them away hadn’t been easy, but it’d been worth it. Both to maintain her independence and to be able to walk to work. Besides, there were worse kitchen views than Vietnam Victory Square.
Through the kitchen window the square sparkled like a church, a white spire shooting above the crowns of the trees. Mia wasn’t one for daydreaming, or for maudlin patriotic symbols, but she did enjoy early morning coffees thinking about what that long marble wall meant to the soldiers and marines who’d come before. She’d find them in the park, sometimes, on her way to work. Sitting on a bench, looking at the wall or at the Legionnaires statue. In suits, in ragged combat jackets, in dad jeans and fanny packs, trying to reckon with their war, with the costs of victory, with themselves, too. She found it oddly serene, watching strangers sift through the arcane past for something like clarity.
The government had done well. It was a good monument. The Council of Victors had done well, too—it’d been their first project after taking over for the old Veterans Administration. She doubted her war would ever get anything like it.
Mia walked through the living room and into the open bedroom. “Up,” she said to Jesse, who still lay facedown in bed. She turned the blinds. Lady Liberty and the blue waters of the harbor came into view, slices of late morning filling the room. This earned a deep groan into the pillows.
“Hungover,” Jesse said. “No más.”
“Hah,” Mia said. Jesse didn’t drink, something he’d never explained and she felt didn’t matter to their life together. He’d gone undercover for years for the Bureau, sent to be her handler after, as a reprieve. He had a history. So did she. Persons of consequence usually did.
She turned and took in her groom-to-be. His wide, pale frame had moved to the center of the bed, and he’d buried his head into his arms to try to ward off the window light. Her family had handled his Jewishness better than expected, but their New England conceits emerged when it came to his size and stutter. Pilgrims tended to cling to sanctimony, Mia had learned, even with their own kin.
“How’s my girl?”
“Her?” Mia looked out the window toward Lady Liberty. Still green, still corroding. Still sinking. “You can do better, I think.”
“Funny.”
Mia leaned over and kissed Jesse on the tip of the nose. “Up,” she repeated. What she couldn’t explain to her family and never would was how he’d cared for her after she came home. She’d been a wreck, and alone. First he’d done it as a job, then as a friend, then, later, as something more. Mia came from a family who valued success, stoicism, and means, not always in that order. Those things did matter to her. But the military had taught Mia that nothing mattered more in a human being than competence. And fat, pale, stuttering Jesse Stein was the most competent man she’d ever known.
Even if he didn’t look it at the moment.
“Do I have to come?” He moved his head under a pillow. Mia recognized it as progress. “It’s a lunch for Wall Street vets. I’m not Wall Street. I’m not a veteran. And I don’t want lunch.”
“What else.”
“There’s a fantasy football draft to prep for. Work league. Very important.”
“Too bad. You promised last week.”
“The last one of these you dragged me to was about inev-inevitably nuking China. Over trade. Depressing.”
“You weren’t paying attention then. Not inevitable. Just possible. And not over trade. Over Vietnam’s potential statehood, and competing mining contracts in Africa.”
“Let me sleep, woman!”
Mia smiled, thinking about the stick in the bathroom. He’d be so happy to know. But. There were biological concerns to consider. Super-biological concerns. The type of concerns a handler would need to know. The type of concerns a fiancé didn’t need to. At least for now.
“It’s two hours,” Mia continued, reaching her hand under the covers to scratch between Jesse’s shoulder blades. “There’s a guest speaker. Famous general. Bit of a role model of mine. All you have to do is sit there.”
That earned another groan into the pillows. “The only thing worse than a self-important vet,” he said, “is a self-important vet giving a speech.”
Mia smacked him on the back of the head. “I’m a self-important vet,” she said. “And this is my speech: get up, we’re going to be late.”
Jesse laughed, flipped over, and pulled Mia into the covers. “Let’s stay here,” he said, smelling of sleep and last night’s toothpaste. “Like Tupac says on his morning show. Fuck the world today.”
This is why I love him, Mia thought, turning away from his attempt to steal a kiss but settling into the crook of his shoulder. He makes me feel safe, even while driving me crazy. She wondered if he could feel her hands still trembling, but if so, he didn’t say anything. She let herself listen to his heartbeat through his chest for a few minutes. It reminded her, ever faintly, of the rotor wash from an attack helicopter.