by Jess Bentley
“Didi? Are you here?”
Picking my way carefully between stacked pizza boxes and nearly shredded twelve-packs of Corona, I make my way toward the sofa at the far end. A suspiciously person-shaped lump in the middle slumps toward the sound of my voice.
As the lump moves, the blanket slides away. Didi opens one bleary eye to look at me but it sort of slides back and forth in her eye socket, missing me by a few inches on either side as far as I can tell.
“Aw, hi, Joe Mama,” Didi giggles, lifting her head up and then letting it fall back to the cushion. “What’s up, Buttercup?”
I shake my head in dismay and disgust.
“Didi… You’re late for work.”
She groans and twists, flopping onto her back.
“Oh my God, no way,” she groans. “It’s morning already? I feel like I didn’t sleep at all.”
Tentatively I push the pizza box to the side of the coffee table, hoping to have a seat, but a small cockroach wriggles out from underneath it then darts back inside for safety.
“Gross!” I yell, my stomach heaving.
Immediately I realize that my stomach is heaving, for real. Sprinting, jumping like an Olympic track athlete, I find a path to the bathroom and lock myself inside.
Instantly I’m covered in sweat from head to toe, everything gray, freezing and heaving at the same time. My morning coffee swirls into the toilet bowl, leaving my throat raw and painful.
“JoJo, I need to get in there!” Didi yells, banging on the door.
Weakly, I shuffle toward the door and open it for her, then stand out the way. She limps past me on her leg cast with her arms held out for balance, eyes still half closed. My heart pounds as she does her business, paying no attention to me.
She flushes the toilet and hops to the sink on one foot, leaning heavily on it as she loads her toothbrush with Colgate.
After a couple minutes of deep breathing, my stomach starts to settle, leaving me feeling sticky and shaky. Didi spits out the toothpaste and looks at me in the mirror critically.
“You look like shit,” she observes.
“You don’t look so great yourself,” I reply meekly, gesturing at her scrawny form in just her underwear. “Have you been eating? You really don’t look okay.”
She shrugs one bony shoulder. “Mostly pizza,” she remarks before rinsing out her mouth.
“Ohhhh,” I groan, picturing the pizza box and cockroach all over again. If there were anything left inside me, I’m sure I would heave that up too.
“Seriously, Joe,” she starts again as she reaches to flip on the shower nozzle, “you’re like, all gray. What is wrong with you?”
I tried to organize my thoughts as she steps into the shower to wash off. She’s lucky she has really short hair. She could just take one of those gym class quality showers and be ready to go in ten minutes. With perfectly clear skin and those beautiful high cheekbones, all she needs is some pomade, an eyebrow pencil, and a flick of mascara to be ready.
I used to be jealous of her tomboy body, her strength, the efficiency of her good looks. But as she snaps the shower back off and reaches to grab a towel, I don’t think I am jealous anymore. She looks feral. Shrunken.
“Have you seen yourself in the mirror lately?” I ask her.
She scrubs her hair vigorously with the towel, then wraps it around her middle. That’s not her sense of modesty—she only does it for me.
“This from a woman who just threw up in my toilet?” she remarks snidely.
“Yeah, well…”
“I may have lost a little weight,” she shrugs. “It’s not a big deal. You’ve been gone… since I don’t know when. Weeks? Trying to get around with this cast is more complicated than it looks, Joe.”
Guilt washes through me. Am I being insensitive?
“Okay… but you’re not just eating pizza, right? Maybe a green vegetable here and there?”
“I don’t need you to mother me, Joe,” she sighs dramatically as she ties a patterned blue wrap around her body. I have to admit, clothes hang very nice on her. They seem to disguise what is really going on.
“I’m not mothering you,” I insist.
She stands up straight, brushing her hips with her fingertips. “So is this why you came by here? To chase me into work?”
“Martha is looking for you,” I mumble.
“Ohhhhh…yeah. Shit. I was supposed to meet with her yesterday.”
“That’s what she said.”
Didi grimaces and lets her head tip back so she can stare at the ceiling.
“Shit. Shit. Shit.”
“So, come on, let’s get going,” I suggest.
“She’s totally gonna fire me,” Didi groans.
My mouth pops open. “You don’t really think that?”
With a sigh, Didi lowers her head to look at me, then frowns apologetically. “I guess I have sort of been fucking up.”
My mind goes back to the artist biography on the wall, to Desi and Hannah’s shared critical glances.
“Why don’t you just go in, and let me stay here?” I suggest helpfully. “I can get this place cleaned up in a hurry since I have two good legs. When you get back, we can talk. It’s been a while.”
She offers me a sad smile.
“Sometimes I forget that you are the best,” she murmurs.
“Control freaks get shit done,” I shrug.
With a sigh, she begins hobbling toward the front door, picking her bag up off the small table. I grab a stack of pizza boxes to begin tidying up, and a swarm of fruit flies drift into the air, covering my face and hair immediately. With a gasp, I realize I’m woozy all over again and drop the boxes, hurtling back toward the bathroom.
There’s nothing in my stomach, so I just retch for a couple minutes, my knees wobbly and weak.
“Jeez, Joe, what’s up with you?” Didi asks gently, running a washcloth under the tap and handing it to me so I can wipe my mouth.
“Just go on to work,” I beg, embarrassed by myself. “It’s nothing… Just some crazy PMS. You’re already late. Go.”
“No, you’re sick, sweetie,” she simpers. “You need to take it easy. Do you feel like you have the flu? Fever?”
“I think I’m fine. You have an extra toothbrush?”
Rummaging in a drawer, she drags out a shiny new box and hands it to me.
“At least you know you are not pregnant! I know you’re kind of grossed out by my place, but you can stay here as long as you want to.”
I nod, breathing in slowly through my nostrils.
“Joe? You can’t be pregnant, right? Because you never have sex?”
Defensive, I rip open the toothbrush package and scowl at Didi in the mirror.
“I have sex sometimes,” I inform her, pointing with the brush. “I’m not a nun.”
“Right, you’re just frigid.”
“I’m not… You know what? Let’s just get going.”
“Because you can’t be pregnant?” she continues, needling me. “Right? At all? Are you sure?”
“Didi, come on.”
Straightening, I check myself out in the mirror. I really do wish I had a cleaner dress to wear today. I think I still look okay. I probably do.
Didi leans over to another drawer and rummages around for a second, finally straightening and producing a box with a smirk.
“Why don’t you pee on this stick?” she suggests, pushing it toward me.
“Because I’m not pregnant. I’m on the pill.”
She quirks one eyebrow. “Because you’re on the pill? Not because… you haven’t been having sex?”
“I’m on the pill, Didi,” I repeat, pushing aside the thought of that day and a half where I was not quite timely with my pills.
“So, you have been having sex?”
“You know what? Give it to me,” I reply, snatching it from her.
She leans against the sink with her arms folded, watching my every move as I unwrap the package with fumbling fingers and drop my bottom on t
he cold toilet seat. It takes a few seconds to convince my body to pee in front of her, but I make it happen just to spite her.
“There, you happy?” I ask as I snap the cap back on the dampened tip.
“I’ll be happy in about two minutes,” she shrugs. “While we wait, why don’t you tell me about who you have been boning?”
Stubbornly, I don’t want to. I have been enjoying this secret all by myself, like a piece of candy that I could keep between my cheek and back teeth, savoring it just a tiny bit at a time. Sturgill has been crossing my mind like a ghost, just dropping into scenes where he doesn’t even seem to belong.
When my grandma’s clothes arrived, I briefly wondered what he thought of these dresses. When I pass by the clinic on my way to the subway, I briefly wonder if he has ever done clinic work in a big city. When I walk to work, I sort of expect him to turn up, just materialize in front of me.
The truth is, being around him was strangely easy. Now that I’m not, I feel like something is missing.
“Well?” Didi continues.
“You remember Dr. Warner?” I start.
Her eyes go wide with shock. “Joe! He’s like ninety years old!”
“No! Wait!” I laugh, holding my hands up. “No… Boss Warner is retired. But his son, Sturgill—”
“Dr. Stud?” she asks incredulously.
“Do people really call him that?” I marvel. “I could have sworn that his nurse called him that, but then I thought, no—”
“No, wait, go back!” she insists. “Are you being serious with me right now? This really happened? You had sex? Actual sex? With Dr. Stud?”
I just shrug mischievously.
Didi’s mouth opens as she processes this information.
“Hold on, did you get a lady treatment?” she asks slowly, her eyes accusing me.
I just shrug again. Didi grabs my upper arm and shakes me.
“No, you have to tell me! Did you? Did you get your lady parts treated?”
I want to hold back, but I have to tell her. Holding all this information inside me is just too much.
“Yes! Yes I did!” I finally admit. “I mean, it was more like dating. Like, he came over. We talked… He came to the gallery opening.”
“Oh, that is a surprise!” she nods avidly. “You know, he never does that. He’s practically a hermit. Everybody kind of hates him for that.”
“Hates him for what?” I ask, confused.
“Well, you know,” she shrugs. “I mean, with the treatments and all, and him being a bachelor, there was a whole line of ladies who thought they had potential. But he just doesn’t date. It’s unprofessional, he says. He is all business.”
Didi glances down at the pregnancy test, then covers it with the palm of her hand.
“So, are you guys a thing? Like, a secret thing? Are you going to go visit him, or just do dirty Skypes or something?”
“Oh! No, it’s nothing like that. It was just a temporary thing, because I was only going to be in town for a minute. He’s not even there anymore.”
“What?”
“He went to Costa Rica to do charity surgeries. Seriously.”
“Are you kidding? He’s gone?”
“Yeah… it’s all right. I mean, it was just a temporary thing. He probably just figures I am one of those million women who are trying to snag a doctor anyway. It’s all right.”
Didi nods slowly, breathing out through her nose. She glances down at her hand meaningfully and I follow her gaze as she removes her palm, leaving the pregnancy test exposed on the edge of the sink.
Two bars.
Holy shit.
I’m having a baby?
Chapter 19
Joe
“Okay, do you have his number in Costa Rica?”
“Didi, no,” I cut her off, tapping the arm rest of the back seat of the Uber.
“Oh, right, I guess it would just be his regular phone number,” she sighs distractedly. “Why don’t you call him now? I will be here for support.”
“No. Stop.”
“What do you mean, stop?” she huffs. “Are you not going to tell him? I mean… Wait. What if I hadn’t found out? Were you even going to tell me?”
My mind is spinning. There’s so much to figure out. Pregnant? Me?
I’ve been on the pill since I was fourteen. Having children is not on my horizon, much less something I’ve actually workshopped as far as figuring out what I would say to the imaginary father, to the imaginary employer, and which of my friends would find out and in which order.
This is insanity.
“Joe? Would you have told me?”
“Of course I would’ve told you. Please keep your voice down.”
Her eyes flicker toward the Uber driver. “I really don’t think she cares. But I do. What is the plan, Joanna? You are always fifteen steps ahead of everybody. What are we gonna do?”
What can I do? Can I see myself in this Manhattan gallery, nine months pregnant? Bring my baby to work during the day? Single mother… Yes. I can do that. It’s a surprise, but there are so many inspiring stories of single mothers out there. I could find a way.
But is she right? Should I call? I try to imagine the sound of his voice and it sends shivers down my spine. I would love to talk to him. I long to talk to him. But I don’t want to talk to him if it seems like I’m swooping in with an agenda. That’s not fair to him. And what am I going to say, how can I explain that in a town full of women he has successfully avoided, I stormed the gates, forgot my birth control, and managed to get knocked up in the space of a week? That sounds ridiculous. It sounds manipulative, conniving.
We had an arrangement: one week of no-strings exploration. A “staycation” for both of us. No strings means no strings.
Finally I twist toward her, taking her hands in my hands and pulling her forward so she has to look me right in the eye. She blinks a couple of times, startled.
“Didi, right now we are on a mission,” I explain tersely. “We are going to Martha Adler to make sure that your drunk ass still has a job. Okay? Let’s just do one thing at a time.”
“I’m not drunk,” Didi scowls, snatching her hands back.
“Fine,” I say as we pull up in front of the gallery. “Now let’s make sure you are also not unemployed.”
Didi walks in front of me and I can tell by the way her spine stiffens that Martha has already seen her. The stiletto heels ring out as she approaches, sharp as gunfire.
“Didi, can I have a moment?”
I step out from behind her, smiling as I catch Martha’s eye.
“Martha, I finally got ahold of Dusty,” I interrupt, pretending that I don’t know how rude I am being.
Martha flinches and scowls, turning her attention toward me.
“Um... all right? Thank you for doing that.”
“I have some bad news,” I announce, cutting Martha off before she can get Didi back into her sights. “Dusty was snaked by another gallery. They saw her at the opening and… she took the job.”
Martha looks affronted. “Who was it?” she snarls.
“I will find out for you,” I assure her, slowly inching my body between her and Didi. “But in the meantime, there’s no one there. We need to be open on Thursday, and so I was thinking… Well, actually, Didi suggested—”
“Didi?” Martha repeats sarcastically. “Yes, please tell me what Didi’s suggestion was.”
Martha folds her hands in front of her chest, tapping her upper arms with her shiny red fingertips. I take a moment to swallow and arrange my story in the most compelling possible narrative.
“Well, the opening was a success,” I begin in a hurry, “but we don’t really have a second show planned. So with Martha Schindler so successful in this space, we were thinking that a co-located show could be a nice way to pivot off of the Manhattan reputation and bring more prestige to the Willowdale location.”
“Co-located?” she repeats slowly. “As in, a double opening?”
“Exactly,” Didi pipes in, hobbling forward. She offers Martha a tight, brave smile. “Your Florida collectors are slightly less sophisticated than New York, which makes Schindler a fantastic choice. Her color palette is really on trend for the Naples area.”
I offer a silent prayer of thanks to Didi for paying attention. I forget sometimes that she really is good at her job, when she bothers to show up to do it.
“Oh, yes… The blue lady. I suppose those large pieces will perfectly match some local sofas. Heathens.”
“I know, right?” I laugh brightly, aware that she is almost bought in. “So Didi and I would like to go down and handle the Florida location.”
Martha purses her lips, flaring her nostrils as she thinks it through.
“Both of you?”
“Well, I know that I can’t do it by myself, and Didi is almost healed,” I explain quickly, hoping it sounds remotely possible.
But as Martha glances at Didi, I realize that this really was her last chance. Martha is only happy to have Didi out of her sight. Dusty getting snaked was a stroke of luck.
“You would have to stay until… through the high season, I suppose,” Martha adds, nodding to herself. “Would you be willing to do that? Through, say, January?”
I take a moment to calculate, and it seems to be just about the right amount of time. After that, maybe I could just take a very convenient vacation, to make sure it all works out.
“Well, then,” Martha announces, casting a brief accusatory look at Didi, “looks like you two are going to be heading out of town.”
It’s not until we are practically within the city limits that Didi actually seems to work up the courage to talk about logistics.
“So, are you going to stay with your parents?” she asks, narrowing her eyes.
“I’ve been staying at the cabin, actually…”
But maybe I shouldn’t. I pause, weighing it against the possibility of staying with my mother, under her eagle eye, while I ruminate over my choices. I mean, I haven’t figured out if I’m planning on staying pregnant. I’m sure my mother would like to make that decision for me.
“My mother’s in the hospital,” Didi announces uncomfortably, her eyes flickering up toward the rearview mirror to make sure the Uber driver who picked us up at the airport isn’t listening. He is a older guy, sort of looks like a farmer with a wrinkly, tanned neck the color of a leather handbag. He just stares out the windshield, bored and listening to his talk radio.