24. Arrows, Rifles, Spears and Swords

“Every day when one’s mind and body are at peace, one should meditate upon being ripped apart by arrows, rifles, spears and swords, being carried away by surging waves, being thrown into the midst of a great fire, being struck by lightning, being shaken to death by a great earthquake, falling from thousand-foot cliffs, dying of disease or committing seppuku at the death of one’s master.” —Yamamoto Tsunetomo

Jen sat in bed for a long time after finishing the first chapter of Zen for Times of Crisis. She didn’t feel like reading any further just yet. Thomas Fo’s story of abandoning his acting career read like an episode from her own life. It motivated her to focus on her task here, despite her discouraging encounter with Rob last night.

She had gone to bed feeling like she had failed at her new life before it had even begun. After reading Fo’s chapter, she reminded herself of everything that she was supposed to be doing in Michigan, none of which included finding a boyfriend. Quite the contrary. She had come to focus on herself, to shed her old life, to find some space and some peace so she could focus and think.

And for one other reason, she thought, with a grimace, wrapping her arms around her stomach. She hadn’t wanted to think about it. With Becky and Paula to distract her, she had almost succeeded in forgetting all about it.

She remembered Fo’s words. “Even as I write, the tapes stand facing me…a reminder of the life I once lived, and of why I must never return to it.”

Today is the day, she resolved. Today I will think about all the things I haven’t wanted to think about. There was one thought in particular that she had been evading for weeks and weeks; now was the time to confront it.

“I think I’m pregnant,” she said aloud. She started a bit, surprised at hearing the words that she hadn’t even shaped in her head until now. She had been nauseous every day for weeks, and her period still had not returned. And here she was in Michigan, thousands of miles from home, in a place where a baby could grow inside of her without, she had hoped, any attention or notice; that was truly why she was here, she told herself, relieved to finally admit the truth. But admitting it didn’t make her future any more known. She decided that this uncertainty would not haunt her any longer; today she would discover her future.

With new drive, she rose from the bed, quickly dressed herself in sweatpants and a t-shirt, and found the keys to Paula’s mother’s SUV. It was her first time driving in Michigan; Paula and Becky had done all the driving until they left, and yesterday Jen had walked into town and gotten a ride home from Rob. Maneuvering such a large vehicle felt strange to her at first, but soon she got used to it and was able to appreciate how it smoothed out the bumps of the uneven road into town.

She parked in front of the drug store, scanning the sidewalk for paparazzi, but she didn’t see any; apparently the food co-op was their main point of attack.

Safely inside, she walked straight to the back of the store, to the aisle marked “contraceptives,” which, she remembered from her earlier visit to this store, seemed to be shorthand for any paraphernalia necessary for dealing with sex or its consequences. Alongside the condoms and spermicides, there were plastic bottles of neon-colored lubricant, a few containers of flavored “body paint,” ointments for reducing the discomfort of genital herpes, and, next to those, the pregnancy tests.

Jen spotted the box labeled “Know For Sure,” her favorite name of all the brands, and grabbed it quickly from the shelf.

Carrying it low in her hand with the label facing in towards her thigh, she began to search the store for the other embarrassing item she needed: magazines. She remembered seeing them in passing as Paula whisked her around the store, but couldn’t recall where exactly.

She passed through the long row of greeting cards, and then, next to those, found the rack of magazines. She was pleased to see that they had a decent selection covering topics from music to golf to knitting. Right in the center of the top shelf she found the section she was looking for, a large spread of celebrity magazines with more titles than she had known existed. Only one of them mentioned her on its cover. She perused the tables of contents in the other magazines—rolling her eyes at how inevitably difficult it was to find the contents page amongst the pages and pages of advertisements—and discovered three other magazines containing short articles about her.

The real tabloids, the ones with the pixilated photographs on cheap newsprint, were on a shelf at the bottom, near Jen’s feet. She knelt down to sort through them and found two that featured her on the cover, though neither as the main story. Flipping through the other tabloids, she found three more stories about herself.

She walked to the counter, where a single cashier, a blond, pimply-faced boy who was most likely a MNCMU student, awaited her. Blushing, she placed her assortment of purchases on the counter: a neat pile of four celebrity magazines, five trashy tabloids, and topping the stack like a cherry on a sundae, the pregnancy test. She had thought about adding some other purchases to dilute these embarrassing items, but she could not imagine how many bottles of shampoo and multivitamins it would take to distract the cashier from such a preponderance of humiliation.

Jen’s inclination was to bow her head as the cashier scanned the magazines and placed them into a plastic bag, but instead, she attempted to make eye contact with him. After all, he was only a kid, and he probably wouldn’t even notice what she was buying. But his shy smile and refusal to return her gaze convinced her that he did indeed notice, and that he couldn’t wait to report this exciting news to his friends.

It doesn’t matter, she told herself, as she walked out the door with her shameful bag wrapped around her wrist. The whole point is to confront the things that embarrass me. But she could feel her face glowing hot and red and she returned to the SUV, and she was certain that everyone on the sidewalk was staring at her.

Back at the lake house, she placed the magazines and the pregnancy test on the coffee table. Then she made some tea, taking a long time tidying up the kitchen and washing a few dishes that were in the sink. Finally, when she could find no further diversions, she carried her cup of tea into the living room and sat down cross-legged on the floor next to the coffee table. She would start with the magazines, she decided, and then the tabloids. Then, when she could stand no more of her public persona—the thing she had been trying to avoid for years, that she had moved to Michigan to escape—she would move on to the pregnancy test, and then finish the rest of the magazines, after which her project of self-knowledge would be complete for the day.

The top magazine on the pile had a two-page spread near the middle devoted to Jen’s yoga injury. There was a large photograph of her being rushed out of the health club lobby, clutching an ice pack to her side. “Addicted to Asanas,” the headline read, and below that, “The ‘health’ routine that’s tearing Jen’s body apart.” A smaller inset picture on the opposite page showed a picture of Jen with her long hair, taken at the height of her fast she was fairly certain, looking emaciated and haggard as she wrapped her arms around herself on a Los Angeles sidewalk.

Jen winced in embarrassment as her hand reached down reflexively to slap the magazine closed. But she pulled it back to her tea cup, took in a long, calming breath through her nose, and vowed to fulfill her plan of reading the article, and all the articles about her, all the way through.

“On the big screen, Jen appears to be the model of physical fitness, with that lean physique that many women try to emulate through their own diet and exercise regimens. However, as so often happens in Hollywood, Jen’s slender figure comes at a price—and now those close to Jen worry that her extreme lifestyle might be destroying her health.

“Hollywood insiders have noted that Jen’s appearance has gone from skinny to scary as her weight has plummeted in recent months.

“Physician Camilla Jones confirmed that Jen broke her rib after fainting during a yoga class. ‘The fracture was a direct result of Jennifer being dangerously underweight,’ said Jones, who treated Jen at the scene of the accident.

“Students in the yoga class found themselves unwitting witnesses to the shocking mishap. ‘She just turned white and fell over,’ said a woman who was doing yoga next to Jen at the time of the injury. ‘It was really freaky.’ The woman described Jen’s disheveled appearance during the class, noting that her hair and clothing were messy and that her face looked tired.

“The yoga teacher supervising the class, who is also a personal friend of Jen’s, cited concerns about Jen’s health, agreeing that ‘Jen has been engaging in some rather extreme dietary restrictions.' A dietitian who has not worked with Jen personally speculated that she may have been practicing one of several ‘cleanses’ that have become popular with celebrities eager to lose weight.

“One well-known actor who is a frequent visitor to Jen’s house discussed possible reasons behind Jen’s weight loss. ‘She’s been having a rough time,’ said the actor, who did not want to be named. ‘There has been some tension between Jen and her best friend, and it’s causing her a lot of stress.’

“Other friends speculate that Jen may be distraught over the ending of her brief relationship with Skipper Engels, the San Francisco based pornographer who has been rumored to have involved Jen in an illicit party scene of drugs and prostitution, although those close to Jen claim that these rumors have been exaggerated. ‘Jen’s not into that kind of thing,’ said a friend who has known Jen since childhood.

“Whatever the reason, one thing is clear: Jen’s weight is dangerously low, setting a bad example for girls and young women who idolize her. ‘Jen’s unfortunate experience breaking her rib should send a message to her fans, and all women who seek to maintain an unreasonably low weight,’ said the dietitian we consulted. ‘We all want to be thin, but when we go to extremes to get there, we are hurting our bodies more than helping them.’"

Jen had been eager to get to the end of the article so she could close the magazine, but now that it was over she just sat and stared at the words on the page. She felt angry and embarrassed that this was how she would appear to the public, as a neurotic anorexic who was a bad role model for women.

That’s not fair, she said to herself, grasping for the explanation of why not, exactly. I wasn’t on a diet, she said to herself; it was a fast.

Still, she had to concede that to most of the public, this distinction would be meaningless. In fact, nothing in the article was untrue; the information was simply presented through a filter. Still, it was a filter that Jen highly disliked.

How could that doctor say those things to the press, she asked herself? Jen remembered the imposing woman at the health club, lecturing her about her bone density as she sat clutching ice to her broken rib. Despite the doctor’s rather cold, clinical manner, Jen had trusted her, felt instinctively that this outsider, the only African American and the only woman over forty in the class full of gym princesses, had her best interests in mind.

And Paula, who was supposed to be her friend, and Chase—and even Becky seemed to have given a statement. Jen fumed for a moment, vowing to confront her friends as soon as she got a chance to call them up in LA.

But truthfully, she knew how the reporters had gotten their quotes, through bombarding their so-called informants and startling them into speech. She thought of the reporter at the co-op: “What do you think about Bradley’s baby?” If Rob hadn’t intervened, who knows what she would have said. She could just imagine one of them barging into Paula’s yoga class, asking “Don’t you think Jen has been engaging in extreme dietary restrictions?” with Paula’s affirmative nod interpreted as “agreement.”

Tired of looking at the skinny picture of herself, Jen finally closed the magazine and pulled one of the tabloids over. This one had a headline that promised to be more lighthearted: “Jen to Her Pimp Boyfriend—It’s over!” There was a photograph of Skipper at a party, wearing the same yellow cowboy shirt he had worn at the bar with her. She was startled to see his face, and realized that she had forgotten what he looked like, aside from a vague caricature of a scrawny rag doll in flamingo shorts. The article also featured several unflattering pictures of Jen appearing to be screaming or crying, although she was pretty sure the photographers had just caught her in a yawn or a sneeze.

“After discovering Skipper in the arms of yet another woman, Jen finally decided enough was enough and told the infamous pimp to leave her Los Angeles mansion, where he had been living for the past month during their brief, tumultuous affair.

“‘Things were pretty crazy over there,’ said a neighbor, describing the scandalous orgies that Skipper held at Jen’s house several times a week. ‘Limousines would be pulling up at all hours of the night. There was always loud music and all these naked girls running around outside everywhere.’

‘It’s no wonder Jen would get sick of that,’ the neighbor added.

“Other neighbors said that Jen had been seen fighting with Skipper outside the house, and that she had frequently stormed away in tears. ‘It was pretty obvious it wouldn’t last,’ said Jen’s housekeeper.”

Jen was almost done with her second article. This isn’t so bad, thought Jen, although her hands were shaking and the room seemed to be spinning slightly. In fact, reading such flagrant lies helped her gain perspective on the previous, more accurate article. Both articles are interpretations, she thought, and neither one is the truth. Heartened, she read the final lines in the tabloid.

“Although the two have split, Jen’s troubles may not be over yet. Jen’s friends fear that she is carrying Skipper’s baby. ‘That would be a true nightmare,’ said a mutual friend of the actress and the pimp. ‘Neither one of them is fit to be a parent.’”

Jen sucked in a sharp breath and looked up at the box lying on the coffee table. “Know early, and Know For Sure,” it said. Yes, she thought. It was time to know. She took the box into the bathroom, feeling every bit as humiliated as the only other time she had used one of these tests, when she was nineteen years old and terrified of having to have an abortion, though now she was a grown woman who had every intention of keeping the baby. Really, there’s no reason to be mortified by this process, she thought angrily; you’d have to find out somehow or other.

While she waited for her little plus or minus sign to appear, Jen passed the time by reading another tabloid article: “Jen Hires Assassin to Take out Bradley.” The photograph illustrating this story—one of Bradley looking nervously over his shoulder, the other of her whispering into the ear of an ominous man in a dark suit who happened to have been a lawyer from the divorce, though the article didn’t identify him—made Jen think of Bradley again and wonder if his girlfriend was really pregnant.

It would be so odd, she thought, if we had babies at the same time. She wondered whether the babies could be friends, once they were a little older, and whether she and Bradley could also become friends when they were both parents. She had heard that the birth of a child could negate all kinds of longstanding hostilities, could unite estranged families and heal wounded friendships. Maybe the adorable innocence of a tiny baby would purify the foul murk hanging between her and her ex-husband.

She still had three minutes left, according to the clock on the living room wall. She looked back down at the article. “Furious at rumors that he has impregnated his girlfriend, Jen vowed to take revenge on her movie-star ex, but friends never suspected that she would go to these extreme lengths. We spoke with a hit man who says that Jen paid him fifty-thousand dollars in cash to ‘do what you have to do,’ as she put it.”

When she went to the bathroom and picked up the little white stick, the mark was as clear and dark as fresh ink: minus. That meant no baby. “No baby,” she said aloud. She wondered whether she should make an appointment with a doctor to get a second opinion; but she also knew that two months into a hypothetical pregnancy, the results were pretty reliable.

She walked back into the living room and stood by the coffee table. She stared at the stack of magazines and tabloids, her project for the rest of the day. She looked down at the article still open on the table. “Jen would do anything—and I mean anything—to keep Bradley from having that baby,” it said. She bit her lip and sat down on the couch.

Well, she told herself, with a sigh, now I really have no excuse to skip taekwondo tonight.

Chapter 25