The Nine Month Plan

by Wendy Markham

  “If we’d invited all of Uncle Cheech’s ex-­wives, Aunt Carm probably would’ve thought it called for yet another tray of ziti. What are we going to do with all the leftovers as it is?” Nina asks, wondering if she should freeze some.

  “Take a plate of it over to Joey,” Rosalee advises. “He always likes to be fed.”

  “Nah,” Nina says quickly. “I’m too beat to go running over there again.”

  And she is exhausted. So exhausted that all of her emotions seem to be on edge. Fending off Bebe, Grandma Chickalini, and Aunt Carm has depleted every last shred of Nina’s self-­control.

  If she goes over to Joey’s now, and his hand so much as grazes hers, she’ll hurl herself into his arms and beg him to make passionate love to her. Or worse, she might find herself sobbing and telling him that she doesn’t want him to date other women after all. That she wants him all to herself.

  It’s just hormones, she decides, tossing aside another spent steel wool pad and tipping the pan to let the orange-­brown water spill down the drain.

  “Want me to take the ziti to Joey?” Rosalee asks.

  “Sure. Bring him some cake, too.”

  “How about some of those little leftover sandwiches?”

  “Nah. He won’t like the spreads. He doesn’t like tarragon.”

  “You sound like Joey’s wife already, Nina.” Rosalee smiles, unwrapping what’s left of the sheet cake.

  Joey’s wife.

  Nina stares down at the murky whirlpool swirling in the sink.

  Here’s your chance. Tell her that’s not going to happen.

  But the words won’t come, and anyway, Rosalee is leaving.

  Happy, giddy Rosalee, the bride.

  Alone in the kitchen, Nina puts Aunt Carm’s glass dish onto the drying rack and turns off the light above the sink. She moves through the house, straightening rugs, turning off lamps, gathering stray cards and placing them with the pile of gifts in a corner of the dining room.

  In the living room, Pop is snoring in front of the television set. Ralphie is sprawled on the couch, channel surfing with the remote.

  “Hey, Nina . . . got any more of that cake?” he asks, seeing her in the doorway.

  “It’s in the kitchen. Help yourself.”

  “Oh.”

  She sighs inwardly. He’s expecting her to go cut him a slice. There was a time when she would have done so, gladly. She’d have brought him cake, and a big glass of milk, and she’d have sat down and chatted with him as he ate it.

  But not tonight. Tonight, she’s too weary.

  She yawns. “I’m going up to bed, Ralphie.”

  “Already? It’s only eight o’clock.”

  “I know. Don’t stay up too late.” She heads toward the stairs. Then, remembering, she turns back to him and says, “Oh, by the way, Camille called you this afternoon.”

  Ralphie seems to stiffen. “She did? What’d she say?”

  “Just that she’d call you back.”

  “Okay.” His gaze is focused on the television screen.

  Nina watches him for a moment. “Ralphie . . . weren’t you out with Grace last night?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “So you’re seeing them both? Grace and Camille?”

  “Who said I was seeing Camille?”

  “I just thought maybe you were back with her, since she called you.”

  His jaw is set. “Nina, it’s none of your business. Okay?”

  She hesitates, then shrugs. “Fine. But if you decide you want to talk about it—­”

  “I don’t.”

  In the old days, Nina might have attempted to coax her brother into confiding in her. Obviously, he’s troubled about something.

  But tonight, all she wants to do is fall into bed and forget about everyone. Ralphie, Rosalee, Joey . . .

  Especially Joey.

  “TELL YOUR AUNT Carm that this is better than my mother’s, Ro,” Joe says around a second bite of microwaved ziti.

  “If I tell her that, she’ll bring you some every time she comes to visit us.”

  “Sounds like a good deal to me. Just don’t tell my mother. So how was the shower?”

  Rosalee, seated beside him at the kitchen table and busily cutting him a piece of cake from the large wedge she brought over, breaks into a big smile. “It was beautiful, Joey. I really felt like a bride. They made me one of those hats, you know, out of all the ribbons, and they had me tie it on and pose for pictures afterward. I always wanted to do that. Ever since I was a kid, and Nina and I would go to showers for our older cousins. I always wanted to be the bride.”

  “What about Nina?” he asks, casually. At least, he hopes he sounds casual.

  “Nah, not Nina. She was always bored stiff at those things. In fact, I think she still is. She didn’t seem to be having a very good time today. Bebe said she’s probably just jealous.”

  “Jealous?” Joe searches for the right words to say. “I don’t think Nina’s jealous, Ro. In fact, I know she’s really happy for you.”

  “I know she is, too,” Rosalee runs her finger along the cake knife, gathering frosting and crumbs. “But lately she seems really . . . I don’t know . . . wistful. Like maybe she wishes that you two were having a big wedding, or something.”

  Joe swallows a suddenly sodden lump of ziti. “I don’t think that’s it.”

  “Well, I can’t imagine what else could be bothering her.” Rosalee, looking thoughtful, licks her finger. “I mean, she’s got everything now. She’s got you, and a baby on the way, and she doesn’t have to go chasing all over the world after all.”

  “Have to go?” Joe echoes. “I think she really wanted to go. Don’t you?”

  Rosalee shakes her head firmly. “Nina always felt like something was missing, and she thought she had to leave home to find it. But it’s been right here under her nose all along.”

  “You mean . . .”

  “I mean, you, Joey . . . what else?”

  “Oh.” He puts his fork down, wishing he hadn’t invited Rosalee to stick around for a while.

  “I keep telling Nina she should just move in with you now, instead of waiting till after you guys are married. I never thought she’d be so old-­fashioned about it. I guess she’s worried about what Pop or Grandma Chickalini would say about you two living together . . . which is ridiculous, since she’s already pregnant. You know?”

  “Mmm-­hmm.” He can’t stop thinking about what Rosalee said about Nina being wistful.

  Why is she wistful?

  She really does have everything she wanted. She’s having the baby, and then she’s leaving Astoria. What could possibly be missing?

  “Do you think you can get her to move in here by any chance, Joey?” Rosalee is asking. “I mean, she’s up and down all night going to the bathroom lately, and she keeps thrashing around in bed. I know she’s uncomfortable, but it’s been keeping me awake, and—­”

  “I really don’t think Nina should move in here, Ro,” Joe cuts in, irked for once by Rosalee’s self-­centeredness.

  “But—­”

  “I know it’s hard on you, Ro, but just think, in a few more months, you’ll be sharing a room with Timmy instead of Nina. In fact, maybe you should move in with him now.”

  “Are you kidding? He lives with his parents.” Rosalee sighs. “And anyway, I don’t want to live together before we get married. I think it’s more romantic not to.”

  She chatters on, talking about the apartments she and Timmy have been looking at, and the Poconos honeymoon they’re planning.

  Joe picks at the ziti, his appetite gone.

  He keeps picturing Nina as she looked this afternoon.

  She did seem pensive. Distant.

  He used to be able to tell what’s going on in that head of hers. But it’s been a long ti
me since he’s felt as though he could read her mind.

  And today, when they were together in the kitchen, he was relieved that she couldn’t read his.

  He doesn’t want her to know how much he still wants her . . . or that he can’t bring himself to so much as look at another woman.

  Eventually, he knows, he’ll have to.

  Hell, he’ll probably want to.

  But for now, he’s still hung up on the one who’s given him so much, far more than he ever expected . . .

  And wondering why it seems like even her monumental gift to him will never be enough.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “HEY, THERE YOU are! It’s about time. Happy Saint Patrick’s Day, guys!” Barb shouts over the rowdy merriment in the small Irish pub on Queens Boulevard. “Nina, where’s your green? You had on that cute Pea in the Pod jumper this afternoon when I saw you at the restaurant.”

  “I changed.” She makes a face. “Trust me, it was for the best. I looked like a watermelon with a head.”

  “She did not.” Joe takes off his overcoat to reveal a kelly green crewneck sweater.

  He holds out his arm and Nina drapes her coat over his, saying, “Yes, I did. Ralphie thought so.”

  “That’s a load of blarney. What does Ralphie know?” asks Danny in a halfway decent brogue, festive in a glittery foil leprechaun hat.

  “Well, hopefully, enough to graduate this June.” Her brother really has Nina worried. He hasn’t cut any more classes in the last few weeks—­at least, not as far as she knows—­but his grades have been slipping. And Father Michael, who coaches the basketball team, has benched him twice this month for missing practices.

  Nina knows that she can’t hand-­hold her brother and guide him through the rest of the year. He needs to learn to take responsibility for his actions, and to take care of himself. He’ll be on his own at college all too soon.

  But she can’t help feeling guilty, as though Ralphie might be sailing along as usual if she weren’t so tired and distracted by her pregnancy these days.

  “What’s up with Ralphie? He’s not doing well in school?” Danny asks.

  “Not as well as he was.”

  “He’s got a bad case of senioritis,” Joe says, as if that explains everything.

  Maybe it does. Nina isn’t so sure. When she tries to talk to Ralphie, he insists that everything’s fine. But Grace hasn’t been around lately, and never calls anymore, either. When Nina asked Ralphie if they broke up, he said it was none of her business, so she dropped it.

  “I’m going to find a place to throw our coats,” Joe calls above the din. “I don’t suppose there are any empty tables in the back?”

  “If there were, do you think we’d be standing?” Barb peers over her bulging belly, down at her olive-­color hose and flat shoes. “My ankles and my feet are so swollen Danny’s going to have to hire a ­couple of strong men to carry me to the subway. We’re not staying long.”

  “We’re not either,” Nina assures her, as Joe disappears with the coats.

  She didn’t want to come in the first place. She’s been feeling a little woozy all day, as though she’s coming down with something.

  But she couldn’t reach Joe at work to cancel. When he showed up on her doorstep, he coaxed her into coming.

  “You need to have a little fun, Nina,” he said. “And you never miss Saint Paddy’s day at McBrien’s.”

  Which is true, of course. It’s another one of those all-­important local rituals, and the setting is all too familiar: the run-­down pub strung with green Christmas lights, the scent of boiled cabbage hanging heavy in the air, and Johnny Mathis’s “Danny Boy” playing over and over on the jukebox.

  “Nina, try this lime punch.” Barb offers her a glass. “It’s nonalcoholic. If you like it, Danny’ll get you one.”

  “No, thanks, Barb. I think I’m getting sick. I don’t want to give you my germs.”

  “You do look a little pale.” Barb puts the back of her hand against Nina’s forehead.

  Danny grins. “There she goes, practicing to be a mother again. This morning she told a little kid in the supermarket to stop standing up in the cart.”

  “He was going to break his neck, and his mother was more interested in inspecting every artichoke in the bin. It doesn’t feel like you have a fever, Nina, but I can’t tell for sure. My hands are always so cold these days. My circulation is shot.”

  “Nina’s sick?” Joe has reappeared, wearing a concerned expression.

  “I think I’m getting a cold or something, that’s all. I’ll be fine.”

  Joe touches her arm. “You want an orange juice, Neens?”

  Nina shrugs. She doesn’t want anything, really, except to be home in her warm bed. She sidesteps to get away from a woman talking loudly on her cell phone and nearly knocks a drink out of somebody’s hand.

  “Sorry,” she mumbles.

  “Yo, it’s okay. Cheers!” the drink’s owner replies, flashing a grin.

  Nina tries to smile back, but her cheek muscles feel strained.

  “I’ll go get the orange juice, and another punch for Barb,” Danny offers. “You want a green beer, Joey?”

  “Yeah, I guess. Just a wee one though,” he adds in his own fake brogue. “I’ve got an early shuttle tomorrow morning.”

  “Where are you going now?” Barb asks, as Danny shoulders his way toward the bar.

  “Boston for a ­couple of days. I’ll be back by the weekend.”

  “But you’re going to miss celebrating Saint Joseph’s day, Joseph.”

  “I know. Nina’s going to save me some sfinge,” Joe says, referring to the deep-­fried creampuff-­like pastries, a traditional part of the Italian feast.

  “You’re making sfinge, Nina? Do you know how much work that is?” Barb shakes her head. “I got the recipe from Danny’s mother and made them for him for the first year we were married. Never again.”

  “I’ve got to make them,” Nina tells her. “My grandmother’s coming to our Saint Joseph’s table, and she’s a stickler for all the traditional foods.”

  “So you’re making all those braided sweet breads, too?”

  “Rosalee’s going to help.”

  Joe snorts. “So she says.”

  “Speaking of Rosalee . . .” Barb looks tentative.

  Uh oh. “What about her?” Nina asks.

  “She called me earlier about throwing you a surprise shower, Nina.”

  Nina’s heart sinks. “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, yes. Don’t worry. I think I talked her out of it. I told her that you and Joey would probably rather be in on the planning, and that a ­couple’s shower would be a nice idea.”

  “No shower at all would be an even better one,” Joe says. “That would be awkward for Nina. I can just go out and get whatever I’m going to need for the baby. Nobody has to—­”

  “But everyone wants to,” Barb tells him. “They still think you guys are getting married and doing the whole happily ever after scene. Remember?”

  Nina sighs. “I know. We’re going to tell them that we’re not. As soon as you get back from Boston, Joey, we need to do it.”

  “How about if you do it while I’m gone?”

  “How about if you deliver this baby while I’m gone?” Nina shoots back, irritated.

  “I was only kidding, Nina,” Joe says mildly.

  “Never kid a pregnant woman, Joe,” Barb advises.

  “Sorry, Nina.”

  “It’s okay. I’m just too exhausted to deal with telling everyone on my own, Joey. Be there when I tell Pop, at least.”

  “I will. Whatever you need. And you do look exhausted.”

  “I told you I was.” Her voice sounds high and shrill. All at once, she, Nina, who prides herself on being strong, is feeling terribly fragile.

  “
I’m sorry I talked you into coming tonight, Nin. You just seemed down or something, and I thought maybe it would help if you got out. But . . . look, do you want me to bring you back home?”

  Suddenly, Nina finds herself fighting back tears. She nods, afraid that if she speaks, her voice will break.

  “I’ll go get our coats,” Joe says quickly, and hurries away.

  “You’ll feel better after you get some rest, Nina,” Barb says reassuringly. “I’m not in the mood for this scene, either. I only came because Danny insisted. The music’s too loud, and this place reeks of smoke, and it’s freezing in here besides.”

  “Freezing? I feel like it’s the opposite.”

  “You’re warm, Nina?”

  “Too warm.”

  Barb is watching her with a concerned expression. “Maybe you’re coming down with the flu. Didn’t you say Cara had it?”

  “Yeah, and I probably caught it when I worked with her the other day.” Nina rubs her forehead.

  Where the heck is Joe? Why is it taking him so long to get their coats?

  “I’m back, at last,” a voice says, but it’s only Danny, juggling their drinks. “Man, this place is a zoo.”

  “Joey and Nina are leaving,” Barb tells him. “Can we go with them?”

  “Already? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m just tired. I haven’t been sleeping very well. You guys stay.” A tendril of secondhand smoke seems to wrap around Nina’s head, choking her. “You know what? Joey can stay. Tell him . . . I just have to get out of here . . . now.”

  She pivots and begins making her way toward the door, pushing her way through the crowd, not bothering to be polite. Everything seems blurred, distorted; the strings of green lights are garish and “Danny Boy” seems to be playing on slow speed.

  Fresh air . . . that’s all I need. Fresh air. . .

  At last, she’s pushing through the door and onto the street. Sleet is falling and the March wind is harsh, but Nina doesn’t care. She stands leaning against the plate-­glass window of the bar, gulping the damp air, face tilted up to the weeping sky.

  After a few moments, she shivers and hugs herself, hugs the baby, arms wrapped around her swollen middle.