by Glynis Astie
I cocked my head to the side. “I’ll agree to naming our son Luc—as in L-U-C—but ONLY if you come to terms with the idea that the ugly Americans, including me, will call him Luke. Your constant correction of the pronunciation of his name would not only be extremely annoying, but completely unrealistic. Do we have a deal?”
Louis thought it over. “So his name will be Luc.”
I put my finger up in the air to make a point. “Technically, his name will be Luc Theodore Michel Durand.” You’ve got to love the French tradition of two middle names, drawn from the appropriately gendered grandparents. This will be quite a mouthful to relate to people when he is born. Oh! And calling my son by his full name when he needs to be disciplined will totally cause my tongue to twist. (I had better start practicing my French accent now, because it will take a few years to bring it to a passable condition.)
While I wondered how in the world I would master an accent worthy of my husband’s approval, he began dancing around the room with happiness. “But his first name will be Luc!” he sang.
I nodded. “You can feel free to pronounce his name the French way to your heart’s content, as long as you don’t give anyone else a hard time with how they say it.”
He stopped dancing and stuck out his hand to me. “All right. I accept your terms.”
I laughed and shook it. “Pleasure doing business with you, Monsieur Durand.”
“You know, it is a good thing he will be growing up in this country anyway, since Luc spelled backwards is cul.”
I started laughing hysterically. ‘Our son’s name spelled backwards means ‘ass’ in French. Nice choice, Bluey!”
“I try.” He grinned. “How do you feel about a warm bath and dinner in bed?”
I wish the reference to “dinner in bed” could have had an entirely different meaning, but we have just been down that road. It seemed a G-rated evening of my favorite comfort foods and a romantic comedy would have to do. At least I would have a nice, long, uninterrupted snuggle with my husband. Uninterrupted being the key element. I felt a huge sense of relief knowing my mother-in-law would not be bursting through the door at any moment.
I patted the cushion next to me and Louis joined me on the couch. I snuggled into his neck and closed my eyes. “It sounds wonderful.”
He leaned down and kissed me on the forehead. “I will get the room service menu. Sit tight.”
I scoffed. My belly had grown so large I was no longer able to rise from a sitting position without either a tremendous amount of effort or being pulled up by another person. As humiliating as it was, I had no other choice.
Louis returned to the couch, menu in hand. “Can you believe we’re going to be parents in five weeks?”
I exhaled slowly. “Let’s hope he’ll be here in five weeks.” I gazed down at my tummy and murmured, “Please be on time for Mommy. Daddy and I can’t wait to meet you.” I started laughing. “Did I sound as silly as I think I did?”
Louis shook his head. “You sounded adorable.”
I regarded him for a moment before asking, “Do you ever wonder what he’ll look like? Or sound like?”
He pulled me into his arms. “I wonder about a lot of things when it comes to our son.”
I grinned. “Except his name.”
He grinned back at me. “Except his name.”
I kissed him softly on the lips. “I can’t wait to meet him.”
He chuckled. “My mother told me the other day that she cannot wait to see his cute little cul.”
A most unladylike snort came out in response to this revelation. “Does she know we’ve been considering the name Luc?”
He shook his head, barely containing another chuckle-fest. “She is still hoping for Marcel!”
I stuck my tongue out to express my disgust with this name. Aside from the fact that it made me think of Ross’ monkey sidekick from Friends, it was a very old-school name. Your name is a reflection of you—it influences how people view you (at least initially). Why would she think we would send our little boy out into the world with a name like Marcel? Pot. Kettle. (Ass.) I know. The irony isn’t lost on me.
No doubt Simone would be pleased in the end that three out of our son’s four names would be French. In her view, the French way was always the best. Of late, she had been relentlessly trying to convince Louis to move back to France, citing her belief that their home country is a safer place to raise children. Louis let her down gently, telling her we would fly her to California for visits as often as we could. The devious glint in her eyes told me she was up to something. I would definitely check her suitcases before she left. I wouldn’t put it past her to try to sneak our son out of the country in her luggage.
I rubbed my temples. “Please tell her the decision is final. If she tries to discuss it with me once I return to my incarceration, I may have to hurt her.”
“You sure talk a big game, but you do not have much crazy left, mon coeur.”
I winked at him. “Perhaps I’ve been lulling you into a false sense of security.”
Louis handed me the menu. “I hate to tell you, Syd, but you are a terrible actress. I believe your current state of rationality to be real.” He paused. “Minus the occasional appearance of pregnancy hormones.”
I threw my hands up in the air. “You’re such a stick in the mud.” I was actually thrilled with my husband’s acknowledgment. It had been a tough road, but it appeared I had been able to make my proscribed deadline for the sake of my child. In theory, I still had five weeks to go. Five long weeks to eradicate the remainder of the crazy created by Sydney Bennett, allowing me to continue on with my life as Sydney Durand. I really liked her. She had spunk.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Louis and I returned from our babymoon in excellent spirits and spent the next week enjoying the residual bliss from our pampered alone time. There was nothing like a lecture from your OB/GYN to bring it all crashing down. Unfortunately, our appointment with Dr. Bauer this morning didn’t go very well. Finding my labs barely within the normal range led her to remind me of the imminent threat of hospitalization should my numbers climb even a hair higher.
Truth be told, I was already in prison, but at least it was my prison of choice. I didn’t need to be in a foul-smelling, beep-laden, illness-infested prison. Although with Simone’s complete lack of interest in cleaning as of late, it seemed we were on our way to having some kind of infestation of our own. The novelty of staying with us had worn off and once she had tended to my basic needs, she sat on the balcony with magazines or spent time in the bathtub.
Of course, none of my horrible mood could be attributed to my being in the thirty-sixth week of pregnancy, carrying an extra thirty pounds and having massive hormone surges, random sharp shooting pains and a great deal of muscle aches (along with the dance parties Luc was hosting in my uterus), right? Neither could the fact that I have been confined for the past five weeks, spending the majority of my time with my privacy-averse mother-in-law. I mean, honestly, why would any of those things put a person in a bad mood?
I massaged my neck and willed myself to retain whatever positive mood I had left from today’s visit with Kate and Sam when I realized I had to pee. Again. I peered down at my belly. “Really?”
I got up, waddled to the bathroom and found the door locked. Strange. I thought Simone was on the balcony. I shrugged my shoulders and knocked on the door. That was when I noticed the music radiating from the bathroom. Was that flamenco? Simone was quite the sucker for both dance and Spanish culture, so her selection made perfect sense.
Surprised my bat-like hearing didn’t pick up her tunes earlier, I waited impatiently for Simone to open the door. Assuming she was getting out of the bathtub, I waited another minute to give her time to dry off before knocking again. There was still no answer.
The pressure on my bladder was becoming unbearable. I pounded as hard as I could on the door, with no answer. Crap! I had to pee. What could I do? None of my neighbors were home duri
ng the day and I knew there was no time to get to the bathroom in the lobby. (Oh, and I’m not supposed to use the stairs. Minor detail!) Tears spilled down my face when the humiliation of what I had to do set in. There wasn’t any way around it. Unless Simone came out of the bathroom in the next five seconds, I was going to have to face a rather unpleasant task.
I frantically searched the apartment, wondering what kind of receptacle I could find, when inspiration struck. I squared my shoulders, opened a kitchen cabinet and took out a large disposable Tupperware container. Just get it over with, Sydney. Unsure of what else to do, I put the plastic tub on the floor. How in the world was I going to maneuver myself properly? With no other options, I shook my head in disgust and went for it.
I will leave the rest of the story out as I have forced you to listen to far too much already. Suffice it to say, my aim was not as good as I had hoped, but I think we can both agree how difficult it is to aim when a) you have a vagina and b) you cannot see your target.
I had just finished cleaning myself up when the phone rang. With tears still streaming down my face, I squeaked, “Hello?”
“Duck! What’s the matter?”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Daddy!” Apparently my inner seven-year-old came out in times of trauma. After I assured him my tears did not pertain to anyone’s life threatening condition, he let me whimper for a few minutes while he soothed me.
“Now, Duck, tell your father what happened. Let me guess—it involves your mother-in-law.”
I sighed as I carefully sat down on the bed. “I have to pee every five minutes, Dad.”
He laughed. “It can’t be that bad. Do you have to go now?”
“Not now. I think I cried most of the water out of my body. Well, after the incident.”
I heard my father’s breath catch. “What incident?”
I played with my hair in frustration. “Simone has started taking very long baths every day.”
My dad coughed. “She does leave the door unlocked so you can pee, right?”
My lip curled in disgust. “That’s gross, Dad. I’m not going to pee while she’s in the tub.”
“Why not? What’s the big deal? She can’t even see anything. She’ll get much more of an eyeful when the baby is born.”
I exhaled slowly. “Dad, Simone will NOT be in the delivery room. She can be in the waiting room with Mom.”
My dad gasped. “Your mother doesn’t get to be in the delivery room either?”
I leaned my head into my hand and tried to knead the irritation away. “Well, I can’t let Mom in without letting Simone in and three extra people would be too many during such an ordeal.”
“You’ll be so drugged up, you won’t even notice. I guarantee it.”
My dad was a master at pushing my buttons. “What do you know about it? You were in the waiting room when your daughters were born! And I was six when you met me. YOU have never seen the inside of a delivery room.”
He chuckled. “Sure I have, Duck.”
I was getting dangerously annoyed. “Really, where?”
He paused. “What’s the name of that show you always tell me to watch? Grey’s Anatomy?”
My voice trembled. “Please, Dad. I’m in a very bad place.”
“All right, all right! I’m sorry! I was only trying to get you to laugh. I thought you could use some comic relief.”
I closed my eyes and laid my head back on my well-loved full-body pillow. “I’m sorry, Dad. It’s not you.”
“What happened, darling?” He started humming bars of “The Candy Man,” one of my favorite songs from my childhood. How could you not feel better at the prospect of candy? It worked like a charm every time.
I relayed what had happened as succinctly as possible, glossing over the detail of the, um, spillage. When I finished my tale of woe my father remained silent.
I wondered if he were still there, when he said, “I always knew you were a real pisspot, Duck!”
I burst out laughing. Perhaps it was my dad’s use of one of his favorite expressions and the resulting joy he experienced in his cleverly profane pun. Perhaps it was the realization of how ridiculous the entire situation was. Or perhaps it was my inability to cry anymore due to sheer exhaustion. Whatever the reason, it felt really good to laugh.
After swearing my dad to secrecy (which gave me about two hours until the story spread), I hung up the phone and set out in search of my laptop. I doubted Dr. Bauer would mind this small infraction of my rest schedule, especially since it was for the sake of my sanity as well as for the sake of my mother-in-law’s very existence.
Three hours later, my weary husband came into the bedroom to find me scrolling through real estate listings on my laptop. This action appeared to make him uneasy rather than induce the euphoric state I had been expecting.
Louis approached me warily. “Uh, Syd?”
I glanced up at him and smiled brightly. “Yes?”
Apparently my intense smile freaked him out even more, because he hesitated before saying anything else.
He narrowed his eyes while examining my screen. “What are you doing?”
I kept my smile securely in place. “Looking at real estate listings.”
He carefully sat down next to me on the bed. “May I ask what prompted this?”
I thought about it. “No.” There was no way in HELL I was going to tell him what happened. He wouldn’t be able to forgive his mother. Upon her emergence from the bathroom an HOUR after the Incident, I was able to discern she had been wearing headphones in the bathtub, which is why she couldn’t hear me. (Given the volume of the music through the bathroom door, I had a much better understanding of her sudden hearing loss.) We are going to skip over the questionable decision of wearing headphones in the bathtub and jump to the part where I take matters into my own hands. Because this is precisely what the new, mature Sydney does.
Louis frowned. “OK…”
I turned to him with purpose. “Why don’t you show me the listings you’ve found?”
My husband was still trying to deduce how he had gotten his way without a fight. Apparently my complicity with his wishes had left him at a complete loss for words.
Putting on my best husky voice, I said, “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” My dorky attempt at seduction finally snapped him out of his confusion and he held his hands out for my laptop.
“Mind if I drive, mon coeur?”
I handed it over with pleasure. “Not at all, Bluey. Show me what you’ve got!”
We spent the next hour poring over his choices, my choices and hundreds of other listings on every real estate website we could find. The number of available features made my head spin. Renting an apartment had been so much easier! Aside from the very scary aspect of having a monthly mortgage payment, we would now be responsible for all home repairs, as well as a yard! Egad! Suddenly, buying a house seemed incredibly overwhelming and I remembered why I had pushed the decision off in the first place.
Rather than share these feelings with my elated husband, I practiced my breathing techniques and broke down my concerns one at a time. The first thing we had to do was find a home on which we could both agree. Then we had to be able to afford it. No big deal, right?
I was suddenly struck with inspiration. “Bluey! I have an idea!”
He observed me skeptically. “Fire away.”
Determined to show him Sensible Sydney, I said, “It would be easier to search for houses if we each picked our top three requirements. Right now, we’re throwing too many elements into the mix. We have a clear idea of our budget, so that narrows down our choices, but not enough to make this whole process doable.”
He nodded. “Good idea. You first.”
I beamed at him. “OK. My top three requirements are: 1) at least two full bathrooms, 2) a decent-sized kitchen and 3) a fireplace.”
He mulled over my choices. “Hmm. I agree with the bathrooms. We can go for size on the kitchen, but keep in mind we can renova
te later. I do not know what to say about the fireplace.”
I pouted. “I’m an East Coast girl. One of my favorite things about growing up was bonding in front of the fire with my family. It was so cozy.”
He chuckled. “I grew up with a fireplace too, but it did not leave me with any fond memories. You are a true original, Syd.” He tapped me on the nose to emphasize his point.
I decided not to point out that the fireplace he grew up with was in his grandmother’s kitchen, which lacked the comfortable furniture you needed to properly enjoy a fire. There was no need to get him into a bad mood during our negotiation process.
“So, Bluey? Are you going to tell me your requirements?”
“Mine are very different than yours, mon coeur.”
I smirked. “Why am I not surprised? Let’s hear ’em.”
“My top three are: 1) a total area of at least two thousand square feet, 2) a minimum of three bedrooms and 3) a two-car garage.”
I hadn’t even thought about the bedrooms! Of course we would have to have at least three. One for us, one for the baby and one for out-of-town visitors. And we would also have to find a spot for his office. Wait a second…
“Why do we need a two-car garage? We can easily fit your motorcycle and a car in a one-car garage.”
He considered me intently. “We are going to need to buy a second car.”
I shook my head at my stupidity. Duh. I totally suck at this remembering pertinent information thing. When we toured the daycare centers, we realized we would need two cars. Given the hours of operation of the center and our work schedules, one of us would drop our little man off and one would pick him up. And last I checked, it wasn’t a good idea to strap a car seat to the back of a racing motorcycle.
I met his eyes. “Are we going to be able to afford to buy a house and a new car?”
Louis’ new job paid very well, but real estate prices in California were astronomical, so even if we bought the cheapest car possible, things were going to be difficult. My heart sank as I thought of all the baby expenses on top of everything else. Daycare certainly didn’t come cheap, but neither did the volume of diapers, wipes, clothes and assorted baby toiletries necessary to keep this boy well cared for. I did my best to remain calm. Having a panic attack wasn’t going to do anything but make me question my ability to be someone’s mother. And as far as I’m concerned, those days are over.