Number Nine

Eric Gabriel said his lucky number was 9. Married for three years, I've been pregnant eight times—and lost them all. Every time he mentioned that number, his eyes held a kind of 'devotion' I couldn't understand. I used to think it was a blessing for our future. The first time I got pregnant, I clenched the freshly printed Prenatal Checkup Form, my fingertips burning against the paper. Sunlight filtered through the office blinds, dancing on the pearl buttons of his dark gray suit, making my eyes sting. He was on a transcontinental call, speaking fluently in English about work. When he saw me burst in, he just raised a hand to signal 'wait a moment,' not sparing me a single glance. After hanging up, he frowned and tapped the table. "Linda, how could you be so careless? Don't you know I'm busy with the IPO?" I pushed the Prenatal Checkup Form toward him, my voice trembling. "Eric, we're having a baby." He was silent for half a minute, no trace of joy in his eyes. "Let's wait two years more. This is a critical time for the company." Somehow, I nodded without thinking. On the day I went to the hospital, he drove me there, occasionally tapping the back of my hand. "Don't be nervous. There will be time later." As the anesthesia flowed into my vein, I stared at the diamond patterns on the ceiling—maybe when he's done with work, we can walk and watch movies like any normal couple. After the surgery, he drove me home. The chicken soup on the dining table was made by Nanny Lee, but I drank it without a trace of warmth—missing the warmth of his own hands. When my period was late for the second time, I secretly bought three pregnancy tests. Only after all three showed two red lines did I dare to tell him. He sat on the sofa, staring at files. The computer screen was filled with reports. Without even looking up, he said, "The project has been super demanding lately. I don't have the energy to be a dad. Please wait a bit longer." I hid the pregnancy tests in the drawer. At night, when I reached to touch the back of his hand, he instinctively pulled away, as if bothered by my touch. He didn't stay with me during that miscarriage. He only sent the driver to pick me up. When he returned, the driver handed me a hot milk tea: "General Manager Gabriel asked me to buy this—said you'd feel cold after the surgery." I held the milk tea, my fingertips cold——he had long forgotten that milk tea kept me awake at night, this so-called 'concern' was just a formality. On my third pregnancy, I lost five pounds from morning sickness, almost vomiting up bile. He wrapped his arms around my waist from behind, placing his hand on my belly: "The intervals are too short, it's not good for you." At the hospital, the doctor frowned: "Miss Scott, your uterine lining is already very thin. Another miscarriage and conceiving will be difficult." I didn't take it seriously, always thinking that having the ninth child would fix everything. After the operation, he gave me white roses, saying 'To cheer you up,' but he forgot I'm allergic to pollen. That night, I sneezed until my eyes were red. He just patted my back and said, "Don't be sad, there'll be chances later." I silently threw the flowers into the trash bin, never saying I was allergic—because even if I did, he probably wouldn't care. The fourth time I got pregnant, I waited until after the early stage to tell him, and made his favorite braised pork: "Eric, the baby is two months old and very healthy." He picked up some meat and said, "Linda, didn't we agree to wait until the ninth? Why do you always not listen?" The smell of the braised pork suddenly made me nauseous. I fell silent. While cleaning the dishes, the water flowed loudly. I looked at my reflection in the bubbles and felt more and more like his accessory. After surgery, I lay in bed for three days. He kept saying he was "with clients," but one night I overheard him on the phone: "Ruby, get some rest early. Don't overwork yourself." "Ruby" felt like a tiny thorn piercing my heart, but I kept telling myself: it's just a work partner. The fifth time I got pregnant, he said, "Mom thinks we're still too young; it's not the right time for having kids." The sixth pregnancy, it was raining and I held an umbrella going to the hospital. He said, "The investment lost money; I'm not in the mood to think about kids." After surgery, I sat on the hospital bed. The husband in the bed next to me rushed back and forth, but my bedside was always empty, with only the nurse occasionally asking, "Hasn't your husband come?" On the seventh pregnancy, he said, "I had a feeling that the baby was unhealthy; if something goes wrong, it won't be good for either of us." I looked into his eyes, saw the 'worry,' and obediently went to the hospital. Only now do I understand, those were all excuses—he never truly wanted to have a child with me. After the eighth miscarriage, I sat on the hospital bed, staring at the phoenix tree leaves: "Eric Gabriel, do you simply not want children at all?" His hand paused while peeling an apple, eyes full of grievance: "Linda, why would you think that? I'm just waiting for the ninth one—the lucky number that will keep the child safe and strong."