Although I worried about this, I didn’t ask India about it. I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to hear the answer.
I turned back around in my chair and tried to focus on the character outlines I’d spent the morning working on. It was busywork, but it made me feel productive and, hopefully, would spur on my elusive inner Muse to do something other than sit on my shoulder and blow raspberries at me.
“Hey.”
I looked up to see India standing in the doorway. She brushed her hair back behind her ear.
“Do you have a minute?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said.
“I don’t want to interrupt you if you’re in the middle of something.” India looked poised to flee.
“No, I’m not doing anything important,” I said. To prove my point, I capped my red pen and set it down on top of the still-unedited pages. Then I gave India my friendliest smile.
“What?” she asked, looking alarmed. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re the Big Bad Wolf getting ready to eat me.”
I pressed my lips together.
“Now you look like you’re trying not to throw up.”
“Was there something you needed?”
“Stacey called,” India said portentously.
“What did she want? She never calls.”
“And thank God for that,” India said. “You wouldn’t believe how hard it was getting off the phone with her. She insisted on describing every single symptom of her pregnancy to me. It’s as though no woman in the history of the world has ever been pregnant before.”
“Very annoying,” I agreed.
“It gets worse,” India said. “Brace yourself. They’re coming here this weekend.”
“Here here? To our house?”
India nodded. “They’re driving down to Fort Lauderdale to look at some boat Peter is thinking about buying. They want to stop by on their way back north.”
I felt a twinge of jealousy. Peter was making enough money to afford a boat? On top of the mortgage for the five-bedroom McMansion he and Stacey had settled into three years earlier? The news stung, especially now that I had to think twice about whether I could afford to eat lunch out at Chick-fil-A.
“Anyway, she said they’d be driving back up through West Palm in the late afternoon,” India began.
“Very subtle,” I said.
“Exactly. There was no way of getting out of inviting them for dinner.” India winced. “Oh, well, I suppose it could be worse.”
“How so?”
India smiled. “At least your mother isn’t coming with them.”
That night, over dinner, India tentatively suggested that Lainey sign up for a Lamaze class.
“I saw a flyer for it at Dr. Jones’s office,” she said. She looked hopefully across the table at Lainey, who was tucking into a bowl of chicken-and-white-bean chili. “What do you think?”
Lainey reached for the corn bread. “No way. Pass the butter.”
India handed over the butter dish and also nudged a bowl of sautéed collard greens toward Lainey. Lainey ignored the greens, but helped herself to a large dollop of butter, which she smeared on her corn bread.
“You want to be prepared for the birth,” India tried again.
“First of all, I’m having drugs,” Lainey had said. “And second, those classes are stupid. I already know how to breathe.”
“Mimi said that Lamaze was useful,” India said. I think she knew in her heart that this was an argument she wasn’t going to win, but clearly felt obligated to pursue nevertheless.
“I thought Mimi had C-sections?” I asked, reaching for the collard greens.
“Only with Luke,” India said.
I privately thought Lainey was right—the classes were stupid. I’d never been to one, but had seen so many of them in television sitcoms and comedy movies that I had the general idea. Basically, it always went down like this: A hugely pregnant wife guilt-trips her husband into attending the birthing class with her. The instructor is a new age hippie with a weird name and fanatical ideas about childbirth. The other couples include one set of eager beavers who volunteer to answer every question, a Jersey girl with spiked hair who curses out her hapless husband, and a humorless lesbian couple. The husband goofs around, winning himself a lecture from the hippie instructor about the spiritual beauty of the birthing process, until he’s squirming on his mat and his wife is hissing at him to be quiet. Then the class takes a break, and all of the pregnant women jump to their feet and waddle off to the cookie table to exchange complaints about pregnancy discomfort and idiotic husbands.
Pretty grim stuff.
India opened her mouth, but before she could continue to make her case, Lainey sighed and said, “Look, I’ll make a deal with you. If you promise not to say the word Lamaze to me ever again, I’ll eat some of those collard greens.” She pointed to the dish.
India weighed this over for about five seconds, before reaching the obvious conclusion that she had no chance of ever talking Lainey into attending a birthing class. She pushed the bowl of greens across the table to Lainey.
“Are you going to be around Saturday night?” India asked Lainey.
Lainey shrugged. “I was going to go out clubbing, but then I suddenly remembered: I’m the size of a hippo and I can’t stay awake past eight. So, yeah, I guess I’m free.”
I wondered if all pregnant women were this crabby, or if it was just ours.
India just smiled indulgently. “Since your clubbing plans are out, would you like to have dinner with us?”
“I always have dinner with you,” Lainey said.
This was true, even though there was a serviceable kitchen in the guest cottage. India probably worried that if left to plan her own meals, Lainey—and our fetus—would subsist on Cheez Whiz and Funyuns.
“Jeremy’s brother and his wife are coming over. I want you to meet them,” India continued.
“Why?” Lainey and I said at the same time. We looked at each other. Lainey’s lips twitched up in a smile.
“I just thought it would be nice for you to meet,” India said defensively. “Stacey—my sister-in-law—is pregnant, too. Their baby and our baby will be cousins. They’ll grow up together.”
“Aren’t you leaving out one not-so-insignificant detail?” I asked.
“What?” India asked.
“Stacey is a pain in the ass.”
This got a laugh from Lainey.
“No, she’s not,” India objected.
My eyebrows shot up, and I stared at her with incredulity.
“That’s just a little harsh,” India said. “Stacey’s not so bad. She’s just …”
India groped for a word that would encompass Stacey’s shallow, grasping personality.
“Shallow and grasping?” I suggested.
“Insecure,” India said.
“She sounds like a blast,” Lainey said. “Thanks for the offer, but I think I might be coming down with a migraine on Saturday.”
I laughed. “Maybe I will, too.”
“What about me?” India asked.
“You’re the one who invited them over.”
“What choice did I have? They basically invited themselves over. What would you have done?”
“What’s the point of having caller ID if we don’t use it? Always, always check before you answer.” I rolled my eyes at Lainey. “Okay, here’s the deal. Stacey and Peter are a pain in the ass. They like to talk about how much money they have, what they spend it on, what they’re planning to spend it on, and what their friends spend money on. I just want you to know what you’re signing up for. It’s not going to be a fun evening.”
Lainey shrugged. “What the hell? I’m in.”
“Really?” I asked.
“How could I pass up meeting them when you’ve made them sound so …” Lainey smirked at me, and I knew she was well aware that I’d been trying to talk her out of coming, not for her own
sake, but because I really didn’t want her there adding an awkward element to what would already be a tiresome evening. “Interesting.”
Stacey had a voice that was a cross between a bassoon and a slide whistle. It started loud and deep, and then, as she grew excited, would slide up into a higher, nerve-jangling pitch.
“Look how BIG I am!” she shrieked, when India and I opened the front door. “Can you BELIEVE it?”
“Yes,” India said sweetly. “You’re huge.”
Everyone hugged and kissed, except Peter and me, who were not and had never been the sort of brothers who hug. We shook hands instead. Stacey was hugely pregnant, much bigger than Lainey was. I had to lean over her bump to hug her. India led everyone into the living room, while I took drink orders—mineral water for Stacey, a Scotch and soda for Peter.
“So my OB/GYN told me he didn’t think it was a good idea for me to drive down here, but I told him he was crazy if he thought I was going to let Peter go look at a boat all on his own! As if! If I wasn’t there, Peter would have ended up buying it right on the spot!” Stacey yammered on.
“What kind of a boat is it?” I asked, handing Peter his drink.
“A Sea Ray. Only twenty-six feet,” Peter said modestly. “Just something to take out on the weekends, catch some fish.”
“Like you’re going to have time to do that after the baby’s born!” Stacey laughed loudly.
Whenever I was around her, I had to constantly fight the urge to press my hands over my ears to blunt out the noise. I handed her the mineral water, hoping she’d start drinking and stop talking. But she just stared at the glass. “Don’t you have any lemon?”
“I’ll get it,” India said, disappearing into the kitchen, and returning a moment later with the lemon, along with a bottle of Guinness for me and a glass of wine for herself.
“We don’t have anything stronger?” I murmured as she handed me the beer.
“So, Peter and I have an announcement,” Stacey said. She tucked her chin down and looked up coyly. “We’ve known for a while, but we wanted to tell you in person. We found out we’re having”—she paused for dramatic effect and then opened her eyes wide and threw her arms up in the air—“a baby girl!”
Stacey and Peter beamed at us with matching, bleached-tooth smiles. India and I blinked back at them for a few beats longer than what was really socially acceptable.
“Wonderful!” India finally said.
“Great!” I added.
“Isn’t it?” Stacey purred. She rubbed her round stomach. “Ooh! The baby is kicking! Do you want to feel, Jeremy?”
To my horror, Stacey pushed her swollen abdomen in my direction. I leaned back. “No, that’s okay. I’m good.”
Stacey looked disappointed. “Are you sure?”
“It’s really cool, bro. You should feel it,” Peter chipped in.
“Thanks, but no,” I said firmly.
“India?” Stacey asked, turning toward her.
If I were a better man, I would have run interference for my wife. As it was, I was just glad that it was her, and not me, being forced to pat Stacey’s tummy and say, “Mmm, yes, she is a strong kicker.”
“I keep saying I think she’s going to be a ballerina,” Stacey said. “Don’t I, Peter?”
India suddenly brightened. I followed her gaze and saw that Lainey had arrived. She was standing in the doorway, barefoot with her hair pulled back in a ponytail.
“Lainey! Come in, let me introduce you,” India said. “Peter, Stacey, this is Lainey Walker, our birth mother. Lainey, this is Jeremy’s brother, Peter, and his wife, Stacey.”
“Hey,” Lainey said without enthusiasm.
“Well, hello there,” Stacey said, with the overly bright sort of voice one normally uses with a small child. “It’s nice to meet you, Lainey.”
Peter held out a hand, which Lainey didn’t shake, forcing him to do a jokey wave instead.
I cleared my throat. “Lainey’s staying in our guesthouse until the baby’s born,” I said. I hadn’t gone into the details of our unusual arrangement with my family. I figured the less they knew, the fewer things they had to criticize me for.
“When are you due?” Stacey asked.
“June thirteenth,” India said.
Stacey looked taken aback. “Really? Wow. I’m not due until the end of July, and you’re tiny compared to me.”
We were all forced to compare Lainey’s and Stacey’s girths.
“You’re not that much bigger,” India lied.
Stacey rubbed her stomach again and looked petulant. “My doctor said I’m very healthy. In fact, I’d be worried if I was too small. It might mean the baby was failing to thrive.”
India glanced worriedly at Lainey’s smaller belly.
“I have really strong ab muscles. It keeps me from popping out as early. Women with softer abs show sooner,” Lainey said authoritatively.
I had to fake a coughing fit to cover my snort of involuntary laughter at Stacey’s sour expression. Stacey opened her mouth—clearly prepared to loudly and shrilly defend her pre-pregnancy abdominal definition—but India stepped in.
“You two timed your arrival perfectly. Dinner is just about ready. Why doesn’t everyone head into the dining room, and I’ll bring out the salad,” India said, pointing toward the dining room, which was, for the night, cleared of my office stuff. My computer, files, books, and papers were all stacked in our bedroom closet, behind the dirty clothes hamper.
Peter led Stacey from the room, his hand firmly on her back, as though to prevent any last-minute predinner swooning. Lainey turned to flash a smile at me. I grinned back at her. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad having her around for dinner, after all.
The strain from the predinner abdominal-strength comparison lasted well into the salad course. Peter and I filled the space as best we could—I asked some more questions about the boat, he questioned me about the new book I was writing—but we were already back to babies by the time India brought out the mahi-mahi and roasted corn salad.
“Carol and I have been planning the menu for our baby shower. I know it’s officially our baby shower.” Stacey made bunny ears around the word our. “But we didn’t think you’d mind if we went ahead and took care of the details.”
“No, of course not,” India demurred.
“We’re going to have chicken salad and these delicious little croissants a bakery in town makes. Then there’s going to be fruit salad, and cookies, and a cheese plate. And the colors are going to be pink, of course, because I’m having a girl.” Stacey’s brow furrowed. “Do you know what you’re having?”
“No,” India said. “We decided not to find out.”
“Do you mind the pink? I supposed we could do something more gender neutral, like green or yellow, it’s just that we found these adorable pink floral plates and paper napkins at the party store, and I just had to have them,” she said. She smiled at Lainey. “Pink’s my favorite color. It’s a good thing I’m having a girl.”
“But what if I have a boy?” Lainey asked Stacey.
“What do you mean?” Stacey asked.
“You just said you’re having a pink shower, right? Pink plates, pink invites, pink everything. I assume the guests are going to bring girl presents, right? So what if I have a boy? India isn’t going to want a bunch of baby girl clothes,” Lainey said.
“It’s okay, Lainey,” India said calmly. “We’ve talked about it. The invite is going to specify that although the shower is a joint shower for Stacey and me, the guests are only to bring presents for Stacey.”
“What? But that’s total bullshit!” Lainey said.
Stacey’s eyebrows arched so high they disappeared under her bangs. “Excuse me?”
“Who would want to have a baby shower and not get presents?” Lainey asked.
“Lainey, it’s fine,” India said.
“No it’s not. It’s bullshit,” Lainey said again.
“She has a point,” I said. I’d thought the who
le concept of a joint shower was doomed for disaster, ever since India had first told me about the plan.
“None of the women attending the shower know India. Well, except for a few of Carol’s friends, but mostly it will be my girlfriends who will be there. It would be weird to ask them to bring presents for India,” Stacey explained.
“You’re right, it would be strange,” India said. “Really, it’s fine, Lainey. Would anyone like some more salad?”
“Then why are they bothering saying it’s your shower at all? If it’s all pink, and all for Stacey, why bother putting your name on the invitations?” Lainey demanded.
“Carol wanted me to be included,” India explained.
“It doesn’t sound like it to me,” Lainey muttered.
There was an awkward pause.
“So, Lainey, what do you do?” Stacey asked.
“What do I do when, Stacey?” Lainey shot back.
Stacey blinked and then tried again. “I meant, what do you do for a living?”
“At the moment, I’m a mule for a heroin dealer, but I’m hoping to get promoted to the position of assistant dealer.” Lainey held up one hand and twisted her fingers together. “Fingers crossed.”
Stacey and Peter stared at her.
“She’s joking,” India said. “Lainey’s a manicurist, but she didn’t want to be around the nail salon fumes while she’s pregnant, so now she’s working at my studio.”
“Are you a photographer, too?” Peter asked Lainey.
Lainey hesitated. “Not exactly. I’m learning.”
“She’s being modest. Lainey is a natural,” India said proudly.
When You Least Expect It Page 21