June
“HOLY CRAP, BABIES need a lot of shit.” Carin staggers into my bedroom loaded with three bags. “I think your incoming babelette has more gear than Hope.”
“Not possible,” says Hope’s boyfriend, who we corralled into picking up a crib I found at a garage sale over in Dunham.
He and Tucker muscle the pieces inside and look around at the small space.
“You going to fit everything in here?” D’Andre asks dubiously.
I rub a hand over my belly. Nothing seems to fit anymore. Not my clothes. Not my shoes. And now, not the crib. My bedroom is big enough for a desk and a bed but not a desk and a bed and a crib.
I sigh. “I guess the desk is going to have to go.”
Tucker keeps his mouth shut, but I see frustration flare briefly in his eyes. We’ve been over this before. He wants me to move out, but I refuse to.
We’ve settled into a nice routine this past month, in which I’ve been doing exactly what I told Dean I would do—trying to make life as easy as possible for Tuck.
I don’t ask him for anything. I won’t let him pay for or even split the cost of all the baby stuff I’m buying. I don’t call him in the middle of the night when the baby kicks me awake and my back is throbbing. And I’m definitely not going to commit to an apartment with him. I’d never be able to afford anything decent and I need to pay my way or this is never going to work.
Still, asking John Tucker not to help out is like asking the sun not to rise. He comes to my doctor’s appointments, rubs my back and feet every
time we’re on the couch together, has read as many baby books as we can get our hands on, and is always picking me up little snacks—a pint of cookie dough ice cream, a bag of double-stuff Oreos, a jar of olives. I’ve started to keep my random cravings to myself, because if I even hint that something sounds enticing, Tucker’s in his truck on his way to the grocery store.
“Where are you going to study?” Carin asks in alarm.
D’Andre grunts and tries to re-adjust his grip on the crib.
“Out in the kitchen,” I answer. Pointing to the closet door, I ask the guys to set the pieces down. “Over there, and then I guess we’ll put this desk out on the curb and hope someone picks it up.”
As the two men maneuver the crib parts into the room, I start cleaning out the desk drawers, dumping papers on the bed. Carin hops over to help.
“Good call on Dunham,” I tell Tucker. It was his idea to head over to that posh town twenty minutes outside of Boston.
He shrugs as if it was no big deal. “I looked at property over there and the cheapest place was six figures. Figured it would have some good stuff for us.”
“What you doing over in Dunham?” D’Andre asks.
“Looking around at some businesses for sale. I’m buying one with my dad’s insurance money.” Tucker crouches beside me and starts to paw through the pieces of the crib.
“Find anything interesting?”
“Lots of franchises, but nothing feels right. I can’t see myself making sub sandwiches for the rest of my life, even if the P&L statements are good. I could buy a couple of small rentals. Good cash flow with that.”
D’Andre nods. “Yeah. You’d be able to do most of the maintenance too.
What else is out there?”
“In my price range? Mostly small businesses. There are a couple gyms, lots of foodie places, and a few other things which I think are a big money drain.”
“Gotta find something you like.”
“You know it.” Tucker hops to his feet. “I’m going to get the rest of the shit from the truck.”
I give him an absent nod as he leaves. In no time, we have the desk cleared out. Hope and I start to move it, but D’Andre stomps over and
pushes me away.
“Are you fucking kidding me? Get over there and sit down.” He shakes his head. “Fool girl. The size of a house and she’s still trying to pretend she’s not pregnant,” he mutters, but it’s loud enough for everyone in the room to hear him.
Chastised, I make my way over to the bed to start sorting things. I’m going to have to clean out my closet and dresser drawers because, as Carin said, babies require a lot of shit. Diapers are already stacked in the corner of the closet—they were a gift from Hope. I can’t imagine going through all of them, even if the books say that you change a diaper six to ten times a day.
The books I picked up at the used bookstore were old, so I’m guessing some of the information is outdated. Because six to ten times a day? Who’s got time for that? Tucker has some newer books, so I can compare notes with him later.
Hope joins me on the bed. “‘Most Likely to be a Lawyer, 8th Grade.’” She makes a face. “You were a barrel of laughs as a kid, weren’t you?”
I snatch the stupid certificate out of her hand. “I suck at science but didn’t mind telling people exactly what I thought of them, so doctor was out and lawyer was in.”
“I think that’s talk show host, not lawyer.” She reaches out to glide her hand across my stomach. “How’s our baby today?”
“Sleeping.”
“I want to feel her kick. Wake her up.”
Hope has baby fever. Every time I see her, she wants to rub my belly like I’m the lucky Buddha statue at a Chinese restaurant. Unfortunately for Hope, the baby and I are not on the same schedule. When I’m moving around, she’s sleeping. The moment I get into bed, she decides to wake up. Doctor Laura told me it was because my movement lulls the baby to sleep. That’s all well and good, but it doesn’t help me get a good night’s sleep, does it?
“How am I supposed to do that? Jumping jacks?”
“Would that make the baby fall out? Like if you were near your due date, could you shake shake shake it out?” Carin wriggles her arms like she’s a member of Taylor Swift’s dance squad.
I stare at her. “Please tell me that whatever science field you end up studying in grad school, it won’t be important.”
Carin flips me off and shimmies her way across the room before bending down to pick up one of the bags we filled at Goodwill. She dumps them on the floor and starts sorting the whites from the colors. We agreed at the store that everything had to be washed in the hottest water possible given the smell of some of the items.
“Did you know that when the baby starts moving that it’s called the quickening?” Hope says.
I snicker. “So she’s going to burst out of my stomach with a sword declaring there can be only one?”
“Possibly. Women have died in childbirth, right? The baby is essentially a parasite. It lives off your nutrients, saps your energy.” She taps the bottom of a hanger against her lip. “So yeah, I think the Highlander motto could fit.”
Carin and I look at her in horror. “Hopeless, you can shut up any time now,” Carin orders.
“I was just saying, from a medical standpoint, it’s a possible theory. Not here, but maybe in other less developed nations.” She reaches over and pats my belly. “Don’t worry. You’re safe. You should’ve gotten more maternity clothes,” she says, moving on to another topic while I’m still digesting that my baby is a parasite.
I shake my head. “No. That stuff was hideous. I already look like a boat.
I didn’t need to look like an ugly one.”
“I think if I were pregnant, I’d wear muumuus or housecoats like Lucille Ball,” Carin muses.
“Are those even a thing?” Hope asks. “They should be.”
I nod in agreement because hell yeah, I’d wear something like that over the awful jeans and polyester gear and their white expandable waist pouches. I know I’m going to appreciate those in a few weeks, but right now I’m not looking forward to getting bigger.
“I tried to bend over and touch my toes this morning,” I tell the girls. “I tipped over, hit my head on the desk, and then had to call for Nana to get up. I’m literally the size of an Oompa Loompa.”
“You’re the most beautiful Oompa Loompa in the world,” Hope declares.
“Because she’s not orange.”
“Oompa Loompas were orange?” I try to conjure up a mental picture of them but can only recall their white overalls.
Carin purses her lips. “Were they supposed to be candies? Like orange slices? Or maybe candy corn?”
“They were squirrels,” Hope informs us. “No way,” we both say at once.
“Yes way. I read it on the back of a Laffy Taffy when I was like ten. It was a trivia question and I’d just seen the movie. I was terrified of squirrels for years afterwards.”
“Shit. Learn something new every day.” I push my body upright, a task that takes a certain amount of upper body strength these days, and toddle over to inspect the crib.
“I don’t believe you,” Carin tells Hope. “The movie is about candy. It’s called Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Since when are squirrels candies? I can buy into a bunny because, you know, the chocolate Easter bunnies, but not a squirrel.”
“Look it up, Careful. I’m right.”
“You’re ruining my childhood.” Carin turns to me. “Don’t do this to your daughter.”
“Raise her to believe Oompa Loompas are squirrels?” “Yes.”
Hope laughs. “Here’s my theory on parenthood. We’re going to screw up. Badly. Many, many times. And our kids are going to need therapy. The goal is to reduce the amount of therapy they’ll need.”
“That’s a dark parenting outlook,” I remark. “How do these things go together? Are we missing something?” There are two matching end pieces, but the rest of the boards on the floor are like a Lego set with no instructions.
Carin shrugs. “I’m a scientist. I can estimate the volume and mass of the pieces, but I’m not going to hurt myself trying to assemble it.”
D’Andre appears in the doorway, sweat glistening on his dark skin. All three of us turn toward him with pleading eyes.
“Why you all looking at me like that?” he asks suspiciously. “Can you put this crib back together?” I ask hopefully.
“And if you do, will you please take off your shirt?” Carin begs.
D’Andre scowls. “You gotta stop treating me like a piece of meat. I have feelings.”
But he whips off his shirt anyway and we all take a moment to praise God for creating a specimen like D’Andre, whose chest looks like it was sculpted out of marble.
He smirks. “Had enough?”
“No, not really.” Carin props her chin on a hand. “Why don’t you take off those shorts too?”
I admit I’m curious. D’Andre’s a big man. I’m not opposed to seeing his equipment.
Hope throws a palm up in the air. “No, no stripping. We’re here to help put the crib together. Baby, what can you do?”
“I’m an accounting major,” he reminds her. “Remember? I’m good with numbers and lifting. Tucker’ll put it together. He’s out there talking some stranger into hauling away the desk.” He directs a pointed glance to my belly. “So we wait for your man.”
“She doesn’t need a man,” Hope says. “She has us.” “Then why am I here?”
“Because you love me and don’t want to sleep on the sofa,” Hope says sweetly.
“That’s not a sofa, Hope. That’s a piece of wood with some foam on it.”
I giggle. Hope’s new place in Boston is full of items from her grandma’s attic, which contains enough furniture to fill about three houses.
“That’s an original Saarinen.”
“Still don’t make it a sofa,” he insists.
“You sit on it. It has three cushions. Hence, it’s a sofa.” She sniffs. Conversation over. “We need an engineering friend.” She points a finger at Carin. “Go back to Briar and hook up with an engineering student.”
“Okay, but I’ll need to actually have sex with him beforehand, so I won’t be back until,” she pretends to check the time, “ten or so.”
“We’re all college graduates,” I proclaim. “We can put this together ourselves.”
Clapping my hands, I motion for everyone to get on the floor with me. After three tries of trying to lower myself to the ground and making Hope and Carin nearly pee their pants laughing in the process, D’Andre takes pity on all of us and helps me onto my knees. Which is where Tucker finds us.
“Is this some new fertility ritual?” he drawls from the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame. “Because she’s already pregnant, you know.”
“Get yo ass in here, white boy, and put this thing together,” D’Andre snaps. “This is ridiculous.”
“What’s ridiculous?” Tucker stops next to me, and I take the opportunity to lean against his legs. Even kneeling is hard when you’re toting around an extra thirty pounds. “We took it apart. How can you not know how to put it back together?”
D’Andre repeats his earlier excuse. “I’m an accounting major.” Tucker rolls his eyes. “You got an Allen wrench?”
“Are you mocking us right now?” I grumble. “I don’t have any wrenches, let alone ones with names.”
He grins. “Leave this to me, darlin’. I’ll get it fixed up.”
“I want to help,” Hope volunteers. “This is like surgery, except with wood and not people.”
“Lord help us,” D’Andre mutters.
“Come on.” Carin tugs on my arm. “Let’s start washing some of this stuff we bought.”
With a boost on my ass from Tucker, I get to my feet and waddle after Carin.
“How does it feel to not be waiting tables?” she asks as we make our way into the laundry room.
“Weird. It’s hard finding a job for three months that doesn’t require some heavy manual labor. I went to a temp agency to see if they had anything for me, but they weren’t hopeful. Apparently pregnant women aren’t on the top of the candidate list.”
“So Tucker’s really not going back to Texas?”
“Nope. He wants to stay close to the baby.” I grimace. “But his mom… he’s so close with her. I think there are problems there.”
“Oh Lord. You don’t want to mess with a southern boy’s mama,” Carin warns. “I’ve heard endless complaints about grits from Hope.”
I have too. Still, what are my options? “So I should leave Harvard and move to Texas?”
“No. Just eat your grits. Whenever she offers them to you. No matter how sick they make you.”
“That’s morbid.”
“Have you thought about what you’re going to do about the baby when you’re in class?” she asks as we load the washing machine.
“I don’t know yet. Harvard doesn’t offer day care. I’ll try to find an in- home care provider, I guess.”
Thinking about all these issues is stressing me out, but I don’t want to complain about it too much. Carin and Hope are already feeling guilty about not being able to help out more, but fuck, they have their own lives to worry about.
“What about your grandmother?”
“God. You should’ve seen her face when I asked. She told me she’d already raised one kid—” I point a thumb at my chest, “—that didn’t belong to her, and she wasn’t raising another one.”
“Harsh.”
We move into the kitchen and start in on the baby bottles. “Harsh but true. I can’t dump this load on her.”
“What about Tucker?” Carin shakes out a clean bottle and sets it in the dish rack.
“What about him?”
“He’s the dad. He has to help. You can take him to court and force him to pay you child support.”
My jaw drops. “I’m not going to do that. And he is going to help.” I pause. “As much as I’ll let him.”
Carin makes a disgusted noise. “You’re so stubborn. You don’t have to do this all on your own, B. You make it sound like he’s just along for the ride. What’s going on with the two of you?”
I pick up one of the clean bottles and twist a nipple, trying to imagine myself holding the baby and feeding it with one of these. “He never intended on staying here. He’s just here because of me and the baby, and I feel like I’m ruining his life.”
She scoffs. “He was part of this too. You’re not the Virgin Mary. There was no immaculate conception.”
“I know. But I still could have gotten an abortion.” Honestly, that’s a thought that weighs on me every minute I spend trying to figure out how I’m going to make this all work.
“But you didn’t, so stop looking backward.”
“I know,” I say again.
“You have feelings for him.”
I busy myself with finding a place for the clean bottles and other baby gear. “I like him.”
“You can say the other L word. It won’t kill you.”
Annoyed, I glare at Carin. “Like you’re any better, Miss Commitmentphobe. Since when have you run around telling guys you’ve hooked up with that you love them?”
“Never, but I’m not afraid of it like you are.” “I’m not afraid of it.” Am I?
She rolls her eyes.
“Whatever. It’s irrelevant, anyway. Tucker’s in this because he’s in love with the baby and that’s good enough for me.”
Carin opens her mouth to rebuke me, but Tucker strolls into the kitchen before she can get a word out. “Ready?” he asks me.
I flick a gaze toward the microwave clock. Crap. It says we have about twenty minutes before class starts.
“Yup. You guys are going to have to leave,” I tell Carin. “Tuck and I are going to a breathing class.”
She raises a brow. “For what?”
“To help her when she’s in labor,” Hope explains as she enters the kitchen with D’Andre on her heels. She comes over and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “Call us later, okay?”
“I will. And thanks for helping out today. All of you.”
“No thanks necessary,” Hope says, and Carin and D’Andre nod in agreement. “We’re here for you, B. Now and always.”
Emotion wells up in my throat. I have no idea how I wound up with such amazing friends, but I’m sure as heck not complaining.
*
“YOU DON’T SOUND too excited about this,” Tucker comments twenty minutes later. He holds the door to the community center open for me.
“And you are?” A yellow sign decorated with balloons greets us. “This process is so hard that I have to learn how to breathe? That’s not normal.”
“You watch any of those YouTube videos?”
“God no. I didn’t want to psych myself out. Did you?” “A few.”
“And?”
He gives me a thumbs-down. “I don’t recommend them. I’m wondering why we use brass balls to describe someone who’s really strong, because after the second video, my balls tried to climb inside my body. Plus, my YouTube history is officially fucked.”
“Ha. Exactly why I didn’t watch any.” I wag a warning finger at him. “Stay by my head during the birth or you’ll never want to have sex with me again.”
“Naah, I can separate the two.” He drags his hand down my spine to rest it on top of my butt, which, like my boobs, is growing in size. “This ass is made for tapping.”
“So anal is all I’m going to get after childbirth?” He grins broadly. “Why not both?”
Before I can respond, a curly-haired older lady wearing a rainbow- colored peasant skirt sweeps forward to greet us. “Welcome to Labor of Love workshop! I’m Stacy!”
“John Tucker and Sabrina James.” Tuck introduces us both.
Stacy doesn’t shake his hand. Instead, she makes a prayer gesture. “Please find a mat on the floor.”
“This is going to be too hippy dippy for me,” I murmur as we make our way to the three rows of yoga mats spaced out on the floor. The room is mostly full, but we find an empty mat in the back.
“It’s a lesson on breathing. I think that’s the definition of hippy dippy.” Tucker helps me into a seated position. “Want me to practice giving you injections instead?”
“Maybe?” I’m only half joking. I read that there are complications with medications, and I haven’t decided if I’m going to opt for the epidural.
The lights dim and Stacy moves deeper into the room, hands still folded in prayer.
“I think she knows something we don’t,” Tucker murmurs in my ear. “That’s why she’s praying all the time.”
“She knows that no amount of meditation is ever going to make childbirth pain free.”
The man next to us clears his throat. Tucker chuckles softly, but we both shut up.
In the front of the room, Stacy turns on a projector. The words “Welcome to Labor of Love” appear. And then she proceeds to read off the slide.
“We’re here to help ease you through the labor process. The mainstream media and health organizations feed you an endless supply of fear and paranoia, but the truth is that childbirth does not have to be a painful experience. Today we will start our journey to a joyful and pleasurable labor. These three classes will help you refocus your negative feelings, drawing in serenity and pushing out fear.”
“Are we in a breathing class or signing up for a cult?” Tucker whispers.
Cult. Definitely cult.
“Partners, helpers, move into position behind the mama.”
“I already hate this woman,” I hiss as he crouches behind me.
“Because she called you mama or because she says it’s not a painful experience?”
A man a few mats down raises his hand. “Where should we put our hands?”
“Great question, Mark.”
Oh God, she remembers all our names.
“During labor, the appropriate position will be the lower back, but for today, we’re concentrating on relaxation, so please place your hands on your partner’s shoulders.”
Next to me, one expectant mother is taking copious notes, as if Stacy in the peasant skirt is the oracle of laborhood, speaking the ten commandments of birthing.
“If she says, ‘There’s nothing to fear but fear itself,’ we’re out of here,” I say a little too loudly.
The gunner and her equally serious partner turn around to glare at me. A burble of laughter threatens to escape. Can we get arrested for disturbing the peace in a breathing class?
Stacy waves her hand toward the projection screen. “First we’ll watch a short video of the appropriate breathing pattern, and then we’ll practice.”
The video consists of five minutes of a woman panting, her lips forming different shapes while her partner counts off.
“You think she’s really got a baby in there or is it one of those foam things?” Tucker asks, his hands lightly squeezing my shoulders.
“Foam,” I say instantly. “She’s not even sweating. I sweat just trying to get my shoes on.”
After the video ends, Stacy goes around the room to check on all our breathing positions. “Deeper breaths, Sabrina. John, please rub a little harder. Place your fingers closer to her neck. Her neck needs more attention.”
His fingers start rubbing a long path along the side of my neck, drawing out a low moan. Shit, that does feel good. I guess Stacy’s right. I did need more attention on my neck.
“Good job, John,” Stacy coos. She straightens and addresses the class. “Now, I’d like you all to imagine a favorite memory. Something very good in your life. Close your eyes and bring that recollection to the forefront. Pin it to the wall of your mind’s eye.”
“I’m envisioning one of us is a Cyclops.” Tucker’s breath tickles my ear, and I start to feel something completely inappropriate downstairs.
“Maybe the one eye is your dick,” I counter.
The couple next to us huffs loudly. We both ignore them this time.
“All this shushing reminds me of the library.” His lips brush my earlobe. “Actually, it’s worse than the library because there’s no tables to hide my hand creeping inside your skirt.”
I squirm. “Shut up.”
“She told me to go to a favorite memory. Most of those involve either my big head or little head between your legs.”
“The important thing,” Stacy says with a raised voice and a pointed glare in our direction, “is to find peace. Now close your eyes and picture your happy place.”
Tucker hums.
Gotta admit, my recent good times all involve Tucker too, but this is definitely not the time or place to get horny. So I pull up the crimson shield and try to channel the euphoria of the news of my law school admission. That was a good memory too.
“Partners, as your mama is breathing, please give her a good massage around the neck and shoulders. Many mamas hold their tension there. Don’t
be too gentle. Your mamas are pillars of strength. The next video we will watch is of the birth itself.”
Stacy taps something on the laptop attached to the projector. An image of a pair of giant cooking tongs appears on the screen. Okay, maybe they aren’t cooking tongs, but they look a hell of a lot like them. The camera pans out and we see the tongs being held by a masked surgeon. As the scene unfurls, a gasp fills the room.
A woman’s spread legs appear and it’s not pretty. I cover my eyes.
Tucker’s hands tighten around my neck.
Stacy’s cheery voice narrates the scene. “Remember your happy place as we watch these next few videos. The implement being used is not a torture device but rather a forceps. If you’re not able to push with sufficient strength, your doctor will be forced to use these to pull the infant from your uterus, which can affect the shape of your child’s head and possibly lead to brain damage. Keep breathing, mamas. Partners, keep massaging. This is what will happen if you can’t conquer your pain. Remember that your mind controls the outcome.”
There’s another collective intake of breath as the screen shows a scalpel cutting into the flesh of a woman.
Tucker’s grip grows tighter.
“You’re choking me,” I mutter.
He doesn’t release me. If anything, the constriction gets tighter.
“And here we have the C-section. The infant will shy away from the light when the stomach cavity is cut open. The doctor has to reach in and drag the baby out of your stomach. Again, if you are unable to do your duty as a mother and push your baby down the vaginal canal, your doctor will be forced to cut the baby out.”
I tug on Tucker’s fingers. “You’re choking me,” I repeat.
Stacy taps to another scene. A gush of fluid and blood and, is that shit? pours out of the woman on the table.
“This is the most natural thing in the universe as evidenced by births in nature,” she says in a dreamy voice.
A montage of the bloody birthing scenes of different mammals follows. I grab Tucker’s middle finger and wrench as hard as I can.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, falling away immediately. “You were choking me!” I snap.
“I thought you said I was joking you!”
We stare at each other, filled with equal parts horror and hilarity. “Communication is always the key,” Stacy sings from the front.
Laughter wins out. Tucker and I collapse against each other. We can’t stop laughing, and after a few seconds of calling our names and clapping for attention, Stacy finally asks us to leave.
