The Greenhouse

Twenty-three

The expectant mother of my child phoned me around New Year and asked me if I could meet her in a café. When I was seated she told me straight out that she was pregnant.

— We’re expecting a child next summer.

I was totally flabbergasted, but couldn’t think of anything better to do than to call the waiter over and order a glass of milk. She had a hot chocolate. For a brief moment I stared at the crumbs on the tabletop; they hadn’t wiped the table after the last customer.

— Do you normally drink milk? she asked.

— No, actually, I don’t.

She laughed. I laughed, too. I was relieved she was laughing. Now, as I try to recall it, what I mainly remember is her profile as she stirred her cup of hot chocolate. We were both silent for a moment; she sipped her chocolate and I drank my milk. I couldn’t quite imagine a child in my life. It was invisible and therefore unreal to me, but there was also a chance that it would simply never be born. We didn’t know each other very well, but even though I’d already made my plans, which she and the child weren’t a part of, no more than I was a part of hers, I liked her. There wasn’t supposed to be any epilogue to our visit to the greenhouse. Should I tell her that I was sorry, that I regretted having invited her to see the tomato plants in the greenhouse and apologize for not having done anything to prevent the child’s conception? Would she maybe be offended by that? Or should I tell her that I wouldn’t run away from my responsibilities for the child that was growing inside her, whether I liked it or not?

— When is the baby due? I asked her.

— Around the seventh of August.

That’s Mom’s birthday. I felt I didn’t have an awful lot to say on the matter. Maybe I should have asked my friend, while she was sitting opposite me at the table, what she thought about all this, how she felt about having a child with me. But instead she said:

— I don’t really expect anything of you.

This triggered mixed feelings in me, that she should have decided in advance not to expect anything of me.

— Still, I’m sure I could become fond of a child, I said.

She sipped her chocolate and wiped the cream off her lips; she was as skinny as a reed.

— Wouldn’t you like something to eat? I said, handing her the menu. There was mainly a selection of soups and sandwiches, but I also spotted fried catfish and pointed it out to her.

— I wouldn’t be able to keep it down, she said.

At that moment I should have maybe asked myself what kind of mother my child was getting, but I was somehow unable to connect to this woman’s child; I couldn’t build that bridge between the child and me. I couldn’t place my deeds into any context, connect cause and effect, hadn’t entertained the possibility that my seed might fall on fertile soil and take up residence inside the woman who was now sitting in front of me, stirring a cup of hot chocolate.

In fact, there was nothing I could do but wait for her phone call to come and have a look at the baby. It was difficult to imagine that the child would ever have any need for me, whether her mother would ever call me to come and babysit while she went to the cinema, presumably with the child’s stepfather? The child had to be born first.

— I’ve got to dash, said the genetics student, pulling up the zipper of her blue hooded parka. I have to go to a lecture on faulty chromosomes.

I finished the glass of milk and paid for it and the chocolate. She held out her hand to me and I held out mine. You just had to look at her running across the street and hopping on the bus to see that she’d manage, there was nothing to feel guilty about.