Luscious Lemon

by Heather Swain

  “Manelli my ass,” he says to me playfully.

  “She’s as much mine as she is yours,” I answer.

  He leans in close to me. “You’re just trying to stick it to my mother,” he says into my ear.

  “We’ll see,” I say, but I kiss his neck. All I want to do is go home, get in bed, and spend the last few hours before Eddie leaves on his trip curled up in his arms.

  “Isn’t this great?” he asks me, pointing toward his mother in the middle of my aunts, fawning over Trina.

  I know how important it is for him to see my family and his family coexisting. He’s a sucker for stuff like that. As part of my ongoing effort to be a better girlfriend to Eddie, I squeeze his hand and say, “Yes, it’s great. I’m glad you organized this party. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He wraps his arm around me and laughs. “It’s nice of you to lie.”

  “Any time,” I say and lay my head against his shoulder. As I watch my aunts, my grandmother, and ’Scilla, I realize how much love our child will have in this world, and I know for the first time that having this kid is absolutely the right thing for me to do. I only wish my mother could be here, too. I have no idea if she would’ve been a better grandmother than she was a mother, but I would’ve liked the chance to find out. I also realize that I have no idea what kind of mother I’ll be, but I’ll have plenty of help, probably more than I want. That’s a nice problem to have. I press Eddie’s hand firmly against my belly. “She’s going to have a great life,” I tell him. “And we’re going to be just fine.”

  Twelve Weeks

  Congratulations, you are now a fetus. Lucky you. No longer an embryo, half-formed blob. But don’t let it go to your grotesquely large head. Half your weight comes from your noggin, where your ears have migrated from your neck to the sides of your face. You’re looking mighty human these days.

  Now you have nail beds and the beginnings of bones and spontaneous twitching from your minuscule muscles. You can squint, open your mouth, and move your separate fingers and toes. Your intestines are tucked nicely into your abdomen. Hairs sprout across your body. Tiny genitalia announce your sex to the world, and your pituitary gland is switched on. You no longer fit so nicely beneath your mother’s belly button. You are beginning to protrude and announce yourself in the primordial line of hair drawn down her taut belly. She often finds her hand resting there, touching the idea of you inside of her.

  Despite your gradual showing, you remain largely an abstraction to your mother. As if you are someone that she once knew and holds now only in memory. Or a character in a book. Or a famous person she glimpses on the street and finds vaguely familiar. Sometimes it frightens her to think of your reality. Of how completely you will be inserted into her life. And yet she loves you dearly, no matter how afraid she is.

  Chapter

  Fifteen

  E ddie’s gone. Left Monday morning on the heels of his parents, who offered to stay and keep me company while he’s away. This after a long weekend of cheery, not-so-subtle hints about how much nicer, easier, and better our lives would be if we moved to Georgia, where Eddie could have a steady job and our child would get a decent education. I politely declined all offers of assistance and secretly threatened to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge if Eddie didn’t get Bucky and ’Scilla out of our place soon.

  Eddie was the perfect peacekeeper and never lost his composure, with either his parents or me. On the morning of their departure, he dutifully ushered them out the door, packed the dogs into the Caddy, and sent them on their way home with a crate of olive oil and vinegar and promises for another visit soon.

  Now it’s time for me to get serious again about Lemon. The past three months have been pure chaos, and I feel like I’ve abandoned my restaurant. I have to get everything in order so that when this baby comes, things will run smoothly. With Eddie gone for two weeks, I can throw myself into work, come home as late as I want, and not feel guilty.

  Despite my intention to work like a dog while Eddie’s away, I did promise that I’d read the latest crop of pregnancy books he bought. I never thought I’d want to read about every gory detail of fetal development. Women have been having babies for a million years, and nobody needed to know exactly when the fingernails form on a fetus. But the further I get into this pregnancy, the more fascinated I become with what’s going on inside me.

  As I ride the train to and from work, I look at the books. I trace on colorful diagrams the path of this embryo that has lodged between my hipbones. First a blob, then a sea monkey, eventually a viable fetus. I have hemorrhoids, constipation, and engorged breasts to look forward to. All of this is labeled the Miracle of Childbirth, but I’m skeptical. Most of it sounds like hell.

  In fact, the more I learn, the more vulnerable I feel. For the first time in my life, I stand on the subway platform full of trepidation. What if someone pushes me? Accidentally or on purpose? And I go careening out of control to the lip of the platform, then windmill my arms and tumble just as the train comes charging into the station? Even when I sit on the bench, I imagine a group of high-school-age delinquents bullying their way down the stairs. They spy me. Alone, because I’ve come early to avoid rush hour. I’m an easy mark in my cooking clogs and heavy bag of pregnancy books. They surround me, taunt me, throw jabs at me, punch me in the gut, leave me half dead on the platform.

  Or what if I eat the wrong thing? The books are full of lists of things a pregnant woman can’t have. They’ve done an excellent job of naming all my favorite foods. Soft unpasteurized cheese, rare meat, liver, raw fish, booze. Even if I stay away from all of those off-limit foods, I could get a hold of something bad. The cream cheese on my bagel could turn rancid; then my baby will end up three-legged and with gills.

  Today as I sit in my seat and read about the best exercise for women in my condition (as if), the doors of the train open, and I look up. A woman steps on board, but something is terribly wrong with her. She has no arms. Not even stubs. Nothing. Just two empty sleeves hanging from her shoulders. Her back is twisted, and she walks with a limp. I stare stupidly. Can’t stop looking at her. How did she make it through the turnstile? Hell, how has she made it through life? And for God’s sake, what happened to her arms? Was there a horrible accident? Did she get thrown in front of a train or beaten bloody by a gang of juvenile marauders? Did she eat rancid cheese?

  I stare at her. Watch her find a seat. Thank God she has a seat! How could she stand on a moving subway without holding on to a pole? Do people always give her a seat? What if they didn’t? What if she fell? Could she get up? I stare because I am a horrible person. I stare because I am sickened. Was she born this way? Some tragic congenital birth defect? Did her mother eat rancid cheese? Drink too much coffee? Work too many long hours? I look away, hold my breath, wanting not to inhale any bad luck from this poor soul.

  I’m sure that I’ve cursed myself with these horrid thoughts. Cursed the growing baby inside of me. My baby will have no arms now. This is, of course, entirely stupid, since I’ve seen my baby’s arms on the ultrasound. But it doesn’t matter. The woman with no arms is an omen in my mind. A harbinger of all the things I’ve done in my life that will be visited upon the innocent head of my child, who will pay dearly for my mistakes.

  I try to shake myself out of this stupor. Since when did I start reasoning like a midcentury Appalachian woman afraid of the evil eye? I can’t help it, though.

  I force myself to look up at her again. I resolve this instant to be a better person. A better mother. The woman is looking blandly at me. I try to smile. Try to breathe. She blinks at me indifferently, then turns her attention to the Dr. Zizmor dermatology ad above my head. I shudder and go back to my book, wondering if I could handle a child who came out so deformed.

  I put my hand on my belly. Touch the presence of my child. You will be all right, I tell her, and then I know it’s true. No matter if she has no arms or a cleft palate or a hole in her tiny heart, she will be all right because I will lo
ve her as I already do. Nothing will change that, but please, I pray to some murky, invisible God, despite everything I do wrong, please let my daughter be okay.

  Chapter

  Sixteen

  I t’s Thursday, and we’ve already plated more dinners since Monday than we usually do in a whole week. That’s not even considering the full house we had at last Sunday’s brunch. I’ve been here since seven-forty-five this morning going over the books, checking stock, ordering for next week, and struggling to pay overdue bills. Makiko came in at eight to get a jump start on her lemon wine mousse with raspberry sauce. Franny and Ernesto closed last night, so they sauntered in around noon today and started prepping. Everyone is tired and grouchy and a little bit snippy with each other. Franny’s pissed at me for planning the specials without her input. I’m ticked at Ernesto for accepting a crate of heirloom tomatoes that are as hard and green as Granny Smith apples. Makiko’s mad that Franny used all the whole cream in a leek and potato soup.

  By the time our first diners arrive, I’m already dead tired, achy, and my stomach hurts. Probably because I haven’t eaten anything decent all day. Just grabbed bites of bread and bits of chicken or stuck my finger in soups and batters. Eddie would be appalled.

  At least everyone else has pulled it together. All around me, they are poised and ready for the night. Franny raises a gleaming butcher knife above a silver trout. Ernesto dunks a hook-end ladle in the giant stockpot of soup. Makiko puts the finishing touches on forty individual chocolate pudding cakes, and Manuel hauls a bag of fresh baguettes from the delivery entrance. Kirsten is halfway in the kitchen door, Lyla halfway out. Hopefully, my staff can carry me through this night, like they’ve been carrying me every other night for the past twelve weeks.

  An order comes in. “Lamb, roasted chestnuts, braised chard on one,” I shout out to the kitchen. “Where’s my filet for twelve?”

  “Up,” says Franny and slides the plate my way.

  I garnish it with sprigs of quick-fried lemon thyme and send it out. I’m slowly getting into the groove. Forgetting about how my body feels as the multitasking frenzy of the kitchen takes over. Ernesto dances around me with thick cuts of sizzling filet mignon. I dunk a batch of cumin-dusted Vidalia onion rings into the deep fryer. Franny whisks up a fresh batch of bleu cheese sauce. We put it all together on one gorgeous plate with mashed celeriac and asparagus spears.

  Despite my grousing, I love the easy chaos among us. The way everything outside this kitchen ceases to exist for the hours while we cook. No matter how I feel when I walk into the restaurant, by the time Franny, Ernesto, and I hit our stride and turn out a plate like the bleu-cheese-smothered filet with onion rings, I’m happy.

  My euphoria is short-lived, though. In an hour we get slammed, and I’m quickly in the weeds.

  “Where’s the poulet for five?” Franny asks. She’s got a plate ready and waiting. The other orders for the table are in the window.

  “Sorry,” I mutter. “Got it.” I grab a plate that’s too hot and send the chicken careening to the floor. “Motherfucker!” I yell. Manuel is already at my feet, scooping up the lost chicken, and Ernesto has another one out of the warming oven and onto the grill in a matter of seconds.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I mumble as I dunk my hand in ice water. “Where’s three?” I search frantically for the ticket with my free hand.

  “Out,” says Franny.

  “But whose trout is this?” I stare bewildered at the bacon-wrapped fillet left in the window.

  Franny is behind me with a tray of miniature crab cakes. “Don’t know. Maybe table four. The soup’s just going out now.” She scoots ramekins of green tomato mint chutney to the salad prep area, then is back at her station, saucing another trout.

  “Shit,” I say to myself and try to pull it together. I haven’t felt this lost and incompetent since I worked in a high-volume tourist trap in the Alps where I didn’t speak a word of German and the chef had a penchant for pinching my ass every time he walked by.

  “Why don’t we switch?” Ernesto says when he sees me standing utterly confused.

  “I can do it,” I tell him, but it comes out bitchy and I immediately feel badly. “Sorry. I’m just—”

  “It’s okay,” he says and goes back to prepping salads and soups.

  We have no time for my nonsense. It was stupid for me to say I’d work the grill tonight, but I was trying to make up for all the shifts I’ve missed lately.

  “Lamb’s up,” Franny calls.

  The kitchen doors swing open, and Mona carries in a bowl of bouillabaisse. “Hey, guys,” she chirps.

  “Who’s at the bar?” I bark at her as I try to catch up on the orders.

  She looks over her shoulder. “Uh, nobody right now, I guess.”

  “You can’t leave the bar when we’re getting slammed like this!” I yell and try to remember—which order was next, the scallops or the veal?

  She shoves the bouillabaisse in front of me. “I just—”

  “Get the hell back out there!” I yell.

  “But the guy eating at the bar wanted trout, and you sent out this fish soup stuff.” She drops the bowl by my grill and slops broth onto the counter.

  “You ordered bouillabaisse!” I insist. I flutter through the tickets discarded behind me to find hers.

  “We don’t have time for this,” Franny says. She swipes the bowl from my station and hands it off to Manuel. “Just get the trout for her.”

  “Thank you, Franny,” Mona says as if they are best friends in the whole world. Then she gives me an insipid grin as she plucks the trout from the window.

  “Christ,” I mutter. My hand is killing me. It’s bright red, and already a blister is filling with water on my palm. My head is pounding and my belly aching. Clearly I need a break. I hand my tongs to Ernesto, and without a word, he takes over the grill.

  My body feels as if I’ve been hit by a truck and dragged for a few miles over potholes and dead animal carcasses. And of course, I have to piss like a racehorse. The peeing never ends. So far, pregnancy seems to be mostly about the peeing. That, and this constant churning in my stomach, plus a new ache down deep in my gut.

  In the tiny staff bathroom, I splash cold water on my face and press a damp towel into my tired eyes. I catch my reflection in the mirror. I have a slightly greenish tinge. I thought pregnant women were supposed to glow. Maybe later, when I’m huge and fat and waddle around. How will I maneuver through our tiny kitchen with a giant belly? The books say I should have an energy surge in my second trimester. It better get here soon, or I’ll be flat out on a pallet in the walk-in.

  I sit on the toilet and close my eyes. It feels wonderful to be off my feet. I could fall asleep just like this. Pants around my ankles, elbows on my knees, head cradled in my hands. It’s the most comfortable position in the world now. Just a few minutes, I think to myself. Just a few tiny moments of rest before I go back out there.

  When I open my eyes and reach for the toilet paper, I see it. There, in my panties. Some dark spots. I immediately think of meat drippings, and for the slightest moment in my delirium I wonder how I managed to spill gravy in my underwear. Then I snap out of my stupidity and realize that it’s not gravy, it’s blood. Like the first drops of a period, those brownish splotches. That’s not supposed to be there, says my brain, but my body is much quicker on the uptake. My heart has sped up, and my breath has become shallow without me realizing it. I’m in panic mode, but I’m stuck. There is gravy in my underwear. What should I do?

  Think! I command myself. Think! What do the books say? I haven’t read anything about this. All the books talk about the wonderful changes in your body. The amazing route of your baby’s development. And anyway, I mostly look at pictures and think about how weird those alien fetuses look inside the womb. I think of myself as an oven. A stupid useless oven that has one job, to bake the bread. Stay closed and warm and bake the bread. But something has gone wrong. I have a leak.

  Move! I tell mysel
f. Get up and get help. But from whom? Franny? What would I say? It might be nothing. I could be totally overreacting. What time is it in Italy? Eddie would tell me to go to the doctor’s office right now. I look at my watch. It’s not even seven. I know Dr. Shin works late some days. I could call her. Run over there. Calm down, I tell myself. It’s okay. It’s just a little bit of blood. I get up and wash my hands carefully. Am I in pain? I close my eyes and try to feel my body. It’s what Eddie told me to do when I first realized I might be pregnant. Hello? Hello? I silently call to my wee babe. Are you okay?

  Please be okay, I beg. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything I’ve done wrong. Please please please be okay. I’ll be a better mom. I’ll take naps. I really won’t drink coffee anymore. Not even decaf. And I’ll read all the books. Cover to cover. Just be okay.

  I have to leave. I need to get off my feet. That much seems apparent. Even to me. The woman who has no idea why her body does what it does. I wish I were a yogi now. One of those bendy, twisty people who could put herself in a tiny box and breathe at the rate of a hibernating snake. Then I would know, really know, what’s happening to me, instead of panicking like this. The armless woman from the train pops into my mind. No! I beg God or whoever’s listening. Please, please no. I hurry into the kitchen.

  Franny glances up at me. “What’s wrong?” she asks as she garnishes two plates of scallops.

  “I can’t do this,” I say, but I can’t finish my sentence and tell her why. “Can you guys get by without me?”

  “Of course we can get by,” Franny snaps. “We’ve been getting by for weeks now.” Her eyes go immediately to my belly, then she shakes her head as if I’m simply using pregnancy as an excuse to get out of work.

  I don’t have time to deal with her grudges, as if my pregnancy has been designed to make her life harder. “I have to go,” I say. “Right now.”