I nodded, even though that’s not what I had meant. It wasn’t talking about it tonight that was the problem. It was talking about it at all. Jeremy rolled over and turned off his light. I did the same, although sleep was out of the question. I lay awake, staring up into the darkness long after Jeremy’s breath had deepened into sleep.
Jeremy and I didn’t continue our conversation the next day. After breakfast, Jeremy holed up in the dining room with the pocket doors closed, while I headed to my studio intending to spend the day compiling the album for the Farrell wedding and, if there was time, sorting through the maternity photos I had taken for my upcoming show. Lainey didn’t come to work with me. She went off with my mother to have her tarot cards read by one of Georgia’s poetry club friends. I was glad for the chance to be alone, and to lose myself in my work.
The wedding album went quickly, so I was able to turn my attention to the maternity proofs after lunch. I’d decided to feature ten women in the show, including Lainey. Dr. Jones had been helpful, sending a few of her patients my way. I’d asked each model to agree to pose at four different sessions, and in return, I would give each woman a copy of the portraits I used in the show. It was an agreement they’d all been pleased with. So far, each woman had sat for me three times, and I now had to go through the proofs, picking out which ones I wanted to use.
I marveled at how one of the models, Yasmin, had changed in the five weeks between sessions. At her first sitting, I’d photographed her at a local park, reclining in the grass. She’d been drawn and pale, and was barely showing. At the second shoot, perched in the bed of my old Ford pickup, she had transformed—her breasts were full, her stomach was rounded, her skin was glowing. But another model, Laura, was just the opposite. At her first sitting, she’d been about six months along, and blooming with the same sort of vitality I’d recently noticed in Lainey. But just three weeks later, she’d been exhausted and huge when I photographed her at the beach. In my favorite picture, she’d draped a striped towel around her shoulders and was staring down at her sandy feet, her eyes shuttered.
I’d been right to move the shoots from the stark white background and artificial light of my studio to the outdoor settings. The pictures didn’t look like the sort you’d find on a greeting card—they were grittily real. All of the emotions associated with pregnancy, the joy, discomfort, worry, anticipation, were reflected in my models’ faces.
After work, I stopped off at the grocery store, and by the time I got home, it was already dusk and an early moon was hanging full and low in the sky. It was what my mother had always called a “child’s moon,” because it was visible while children were still awake to see it. Both my mother’s and Lainey’s cars were parked in the driveway. Jeremy’s was not.
“Hello?” I called out.
“I’m in here,” Mom called out from the living room. The television wasn’t blaring, which, I surmised, meant Lainey wasn’t there. I was correct. My mother was alone, sitting on the sofa, reading a romance novel. I wasn’t sure how this fit in with her bleak view of the publishing industry or her claims that she only read classical literature. I was fairly sure that none of the classics had cover art featuring a shirtless Fabio.
“Hi,” I said. “Where is everyone?”
“Lainey’s in her room, napping. Jeremy went out for a drink.”
“He went out for a drink?” I repeated. Jeremy had never been much of a drinker. He’d occasionally go out for a beer if he had an old college buddy in town visiting, but that was about it. I felt a twinge of guilt. Was this a result of our upsetting talk the night before? Had he felt the need to drown his sorrows? “Do you know where he went?”
“He said something about a martini bar. I think he went with your neighbor from across the street.”
“He went out with Kelly?”
Mom shrugged. “I guess so.”
My eyes narrowed. I knew all about Kelly’s bar, the Dirty Martini. Or, at least, I knew what Mimi had told me about it, and she’s always had top-notch information. The Dirty Martini was the current hot spot for the young and horny. Jeremy wasn’t drowning his sorrows; he was getting an eyeful at the local meat market.
“Are you hungry? I bought a rotisserie chicken at the store, and I’m making butternut squash risotto,” I said, stalking back to the kitchen.
My mother trailed after me, still holding her trashy romance book, marking her place with one finger. I pulled the butternut squash out of the shopping bag, and began hacking it apart with my largest carving knife. It was an excellent way to channel my aggression.
“Is everything okay?” Mom asked.
“Fine,” I said through gritted teeth.
“You don’t seem fine. You seem angry.”
Butternuts were a pain in the ass to slice, but according to the Bradley pregnancy diet—which I was preparing for Lainey, despite her insistence that french fries count as vegetables—a well-balanced pregnancy diet should include five servings of yellow or orange vegetables per week. Lainey categorically refused to eat anything orange, so I’d taken to sneaking her weekly ration in where she wouldn’t suspect it, for example, adding pumpkin puree to homemade brownies. The squash in the risotto was harder to hide, but if I grated enough Parmesan cheese over the dish, maybe she wouldn’t notice it.
“I’m not angry. I’m pissed off.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Yes,” I said. “One makes you want to reevaluate your life. The other makes you want to hack things up with big knives.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” Mom suggested.
“Not really.”
“I thought Jeremy seemed out of sorts, too. A bit sad. Did you two have a fight?”
“Not exactly,” I said.
“It would be understandable. You’re both under a lot of pressure and going through some big changes in your life together. It would be odd if you weren’t feeling the strain. Do you have any wine?”
“Check the fridge. There’s an open bottle of white in there,” I said. “If you’d rather have red, I think there’s a bottle in the pantry.”
My mom retrieved the red wine from the pantry and, after rummaging around in the kitchen drawers for a corkscrew, opened it. She poured generous servings into two wineglasses, and set one beside me on the counter, with the air of a nurse tending to an ailing patient.
“The important thing is that you and Jeremy talk things out, and don’t let small hurts pile up into something more serious,” Mom continued.
“I can’t talk to him.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s not the person I thought he was. Because it turns out that when the going gets tough, Jeremy shuts down,” I said.
My mother settled herself into a kitchen chair and took a large gulp of wine. “This all has to be hard on him,” she commented.
“On him! How is this hard on him?” I said, placing the knife down on the counter with a bit more force than necessary. I wiped my hands on a towel, yanked a pan out from under the counter, and plopped it onto the stove. I splashed some olive oil into the pan and turned on the burner. “What exactly does he do? I’ll tell you: He does nothing. He spends all of his time closed up in his office.”
“He’s probably working,” Mom said.
“That’s just it, I don’t think he is working. Every time I’ve gone in there, he’s on the Internet.” I dumped the cut-up squash in the pan. It sizzled pleasantly, giving off an earthy, caramel fragrance.
“That doesn’t mean he’s not working at other times. He’s an artist, after all. We can’t predict when the Muse will inspire us.” My mother looked thoughtful as she sipped her wine. “You know, I’ve never been one to believe in archaic gender constructs, but it is very common for men to feel that they bear the ultimate responsibility for the family finances.”
I turned on her, the full force of my anger and frustration bubbling up to the surface. “Oh, really? Then why am I the one working day and night trying to get the e
xtra money we need to cover all of the adoption costs? Why am I the one who has to worry about everything all of the time? I’d love to check out for weeks on end like Jeremy, but you know what? I can’t. I have too much responsibility! Oh! And I didn’t even tell you! Do you know who called me today?”
“Who?”
“Carol, asking me if I’d like to be included in Stacey’s baby shower!”
“That was nice of her,” Mom said grudgingly. She and my mother-in-law had endured a strained relationship for years, dating back to my wedding, when words were had about whether a passage from the Bhagavad Gita would be read aloud during the ceremony.
“No, it wasn’t! She didn’t say, ‘I’d love to throw both of you a baby shower.’ Oh, no. Her exact words were, ‘I’m hosting a baby shower for Stacey in late May, and I thought I’d check with you to see if you want to be included. I don’t think it’s appropriate to ask Stacey’s friends to get you presents,’” I paused, the words choking in my throat. “‘But we can put your name on the cake.’”
My mother’s face darkened with anger. “I hope you told her to stick that cake right up her bottom.”
I shook my head. “Of course not. I never do. Because for some insane reason, I never want to hurt her feelings.” I gave the pan of squash a vigorous shake. “Besides, if I had turned her down, or hinted in any way that her offer was less than gracious, she would have just made a big stink about it.” Tears stung at my eyes, and I wiped them, forgetting that I had squash goop on my hands. “So now I’m going to be forced to spend hours watching a hugely pregnant Stacey open presents, while I just sit there like a great big infertile freak! Not to mention it’s the weekend right before my show, so it’s about the worst possible time for me to have to drive up to Jacksonville! This is all Jeremy’s fault.”
“You can’t blame Jeremy for what his mother does.”
“Watch me.”
“This is hard on him, too. The changes, the pressure … I’m sure Jeremy is doing his best.”
I snorted. “Jeremy is an emotional cripple!”
I was just about to tell my mother how Jeremy had basically admitted he was having second thoughts about the adoption, when a movement by the door caught my eye. I turned my head, already knowing who it was. Lainey. How long had she been standing there? But I already knew: long enough to witness that I wasn’t the patient, calm, perfect adoptive-mother-to-be I’d been pretending all along to be. My stomach tightened, and a ripple of fear passed over me.
“Hi,” Lainey said. She looked from me to my mother. Otis got up off his bed and, tail wagging, greeted Lainey. She petted his head.
“Hi. Come in and sit down. Can I get you anything? Would you like a cup of herbal tea?”
Lainey wrinkled her nose. “Gross,” she said.
“Hot chocolate?” I suggested.
She hesitated. “Do you have any marshmallows?”
“Yes, of course!” I began rushing around, putting the milk in the microwave to heat, getting out the cocoa and the marshmallows. “Did you get some rest?”
“Yeah, I guess,” Lainey said. She yawned widely, not bothering to cover her mouth.
“Good for you!” I said cheerily while I spooned some cocoa into the mug.
I could hear myself—I sounded like some sort of a maniacal Stepford wife. What the hell I was doing? Why was I trying to convince Lainey of my perfection, even now after she’d seen me coming unglued? I stared down at the mug, gripping the handle in one hand, while fatigue rolled over me like a damp fog.
“Sweetheart?”
I looked up. Mom and Lainey were both staring at me. My mother’s eyebrows were drawn down in concern, and Lainey looked confused.
“Are you all right?” Mom asked gently.
“Yes.” But even as I said the word, my head began to shake from side to side. “No.”
“You’ve lost all of your color. Here, you sit down. I’ll make the cocoa. I wouldn’t mind a mug myself. Do you have any Bailey’s Irish Cream to put in it?”
I sat down woodenly, still clutching my wine. I could feel Lainey’s dark eyes watching me. I met her gaze and smiled weakly.
“Sorry,” I said. “I plead temporary insanity induced by my husband.”
To my surprise, Lainey’s face lit up with a smile. “I know how that goes,” she said. “I was once so pissed off at my ex I dropped his iPod in the toilet.”
My eyes went round with surprise. “Really? Wait, I thought you said you took his iPod when you moved out?”
“Oh, I did. I took the new one he bought to replace the one I flushed.”
My mother stirred the hot milk into the two coffee mugs, added a dollop of Bailey’s to her mug, and passed the virgin one to Lainey.
“You should be careful with revenge,” Mom advised. “Even if it’s justified, you can still create bad karma.”
Lainey and I looked at each other and we both smiled.
“What?” Mom asked indignantly. “It’s true.”
“Lainey, remind me to rub a crystal over your forehead later to dispel the bad karma,” I said.
Lainey giggled into her cocoa. With her face bare of makeup, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, and a genuine smile lighting her face, Lainey looked like a sixteen-year-old, hanging out after school.
Lainey stood. “I want more marshmallows,” she announced, retrieving the bag from the kitchen counter and grabbing a handful. She stopped to look into the pan. “India, I think something over here is burning.”
I jumped up and ran to the stove. “Oh, no! The squash!” I stared into the smoking pan. “Damn. I think it’s ruined. I had the heat up too high.”
“Were you doing that thing where you hide vegetables in my food?” Lainey asked.
“You know about that?”
Lainey rolled her eyes. “Duh,” she said. “There were orange blobs in the brownies you made the other day. So gross.”
I dropped the still-sizzling pan into the sink and ran cold water into it. “Well, dinner’s ruined. I vote we order a pizza.”
“Can we get it with pepperoni?” Lainey asked hopefully.
I hesitated only a moment, before deciding that if there was ever a time to relax my ban on processed meat products, this was it. “Absolutely. We’ll get it with everything,” I said, and reached for the phone. “And for dessert, we’ll eat ice cream right out of the carton. The real stuff, not the low-fat yogurt I’m always pushing on you.”
Lainey cheered.
“Excellent,” my mother agreed. “I’m glad I decided to stay for dinner.” She tossed back the last of her spiked cocoa and then looked up. “You did invite me, right?”
Eleven
LAINEY
Lainey was covering the phone and front desk at the studio while India was at a photo shoot at the beach. She sat perched on a tall stool behind the reception counter, slowly flipping through one of the black leather-bound portfolios of her work that India kept in the waiting room for clients to look at. This one featured pictures of babies. A tiny newborn asleep with one hand flung over his head. A little girl with plump cheeks wearing a fancy bonnet covered in flowers. A mother holding a naked baby up over her head.
Lainey’s cell phone rang. She checked the caller ID and blinked. It was her mother. Lainey hadn’t heard from Candace since the night Trav kicked her out of their apartment. She considered letting her mother’s call go to voice mail, but curiosity overcame her. She clicked the phone on.
“Hello,” Lainey said.
“Hi there, stranger,” Candace said. “Where’ve you been? I haven’t heard from you in ages.”
“I didn’t think you cared,” Lainey replied.
“What sort of a thing is that to say to your mother?” Candace asked. “Especially since I just called to see how you are.”
“I’m fine,” Lainey said. “Still pregnant, but otherwise fine.”
“That’s why I called. How are you feeling?”
“Better,” Lainey admitted. “I was really si
ck in the beginning. It felt like I threw up for four months straight.”
“It was the same way for me when I was carrying you,” Candace said. “How far along are you now?”
“Almost seven months,” Lainey said.
“Have you been to the doctor?”
“Yep. I go every month.”
“Good. That’s real important,” Candace said.
Lainey rolled her eyes. Knowing her mother, Candace probably drank and smoked throughout her pregnancy. What did she know about the importance of prenatal care?
“Have you heard from Trav?” Candace asked.
“No. And I don’t want to.”
“He wasn’t that bad.”
“He kicked me out of our apartment because I wouldn’t get an abortion,” Lainey said flatly.
“Well, yeah, that wasn’t his best moment. But the problem with you, Lainey, is that you get in a temper, and you don’t give people a chance to make up with you,” Candace said.
“I don’t want Trav to make up with me. I want him to die a painful death.”
“Why? Are you seeing someone else?”
“No. But if the choice is between Trav and being alone, I’d rather be alone,” Lainey said, knowing as she said it that this was something her mother would never understand.
There was a long pause. Lainey could hear Candace inhale deeply on a cigarette.
“Is there anything you need?” Candace finally asked. “Diapers or anything?”
“No. I’m fine,” Lainey said. “Look, I have to go.”
“But you’ve hardly told me anything. Where are you staying? What have you been doing?”
“I can’t talk right now. I’m at work,” Lainey said.
“Oh, okay. I guess we’ll catch up later,” Candace said.
“Bye, Mom.”
Lainey ended the call. Resting her hand on her stomach, she drew in a few deep breaths, feeling suddenly dizzy. Her phone rang again. Please don’t let it be my mother again, Lainey thought. But no. It was Flaca.
“Hey,” Lainey said, relieved. “Guess who just called?”
“Trav?” Flaca guessed.
“God, no. It was the Mother of the Year.”
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