Celestial Navigation by Anne Tyler Page B

motorcycles were all they had in common. But they did do a lot of trail-biking together, and sometimes Guy would bring John home with him after a rally. Guy would come in all excited, blaming some fool who’d run him off the road, cursing some flaw in his bike (which
he
had bought in two minutes flat, on impulse, with money he didn’thave). He would yank the cap off a beer and chug-a-lug it, stomping around the kitchen. And meanwhile there stood John in the doorway, remarking on how nice my kitchen smelled and searching through his pockets for Darcy’s present. Dressed like someone in a sports magazine, in slacks and a polo shirt.
Now
do you see why I say he was so far removed from Guy?
    It’s as if I have to keep trying different lives out, cheating on the rule that you can only lead just one. I’d had six years of
Hot Rod
magazine and now I was ready to move on to something new. I picture tossing my life like a set of dice, gambling it, wasting it. I have always enjoyed throwing things away.
    Darcy said, “Hurry, John, I got to go to the toilet,” and John laughed and snapped the picture. Then he rose, brushing off his knees, and I took Darcy to the restroom. There was sand in her scalp; I could look down and see it, glinting under the white of her hair. “When I come out,” she said, “I’m going to ride the merry-go-round. Can I?” I said, “All right, baby.” I looked back at John. He was smiling after us, turning some knob on the camera that he knew so well he didn’t even have to look at it. “Come
on
, Mom,” Darcy said, and she reached up and took me by the hand. Her fingers were cool and sandy, and she smelled like sunshine, and she let me bend down and press my face against her hair for exactly one second before she freed herself and danced off again.
    Motherhood is what I was made for, and pregnancy is my natural state. I believe that. All the time I was carrying Darcy I was happier than I had ever been before, and I felt better. And looked better, At least, to myself I did. I don’t think Guy agreed. He was funny about things like that. He didn’t want to feel the baby kick, wouldn’t even touch me the last few months, acted surprised whenever I wanted to go out shoppingor to a movie. “Won’t it bother you, people staring?” he asked. “Why would it bother me?” I said. “Why would they stare?”
He
was the one that was bothered. He didn’t even want to come with me to the labor room the night she was born; my mother had to do it. She had thawed out some since I got pregnant. She stayed with me all through the pains, talking and keeping my spirits up, but most of my mind was on Guy. I thought, Wouldn’t you think he could go through this with me? He’ll worry more, surely, out there in the waiting room not knowing. The doctor had been upset about my age. He had told Guy I was still growing, much too young to have a baby of my own. What if I died? Shouldn’t Guy be there holding my hand? But no—“I’m scared I might pass out or something,” he said, and laughed, with his face sharp and white. Then he whispered, “I’m scared the pain will make you angry for what I done to you.” “Oh, but
Guy
—” I said. Then my mother said, “Never mind, honey, Mama’s here.” She sat by my bed and rubbed my back, and sponged my forehead, and read aloud from yesterday’s newspaper—any old thing she came across, it didn’t matter, none of it made sense to me anyway. When it came time to wheel me into the delivery room she said, “I’ll be right here praying, honey, everything’s going to be fine,” but I saw that she was worried. I suppose she had taken to heart what the doctor said. Well, doctors don’t know everything they claim to. Having that baby was the easiest thing I ever did. I was
meant
to have babies. Age has nothing to do with it.
    When I think back on it—on my mother reading to me from that newspaper, smoothing the hair off my forehead—it seems that starting