by Mimi Strong
I looked around at the array of autographed glossies lining the walls and tried not to get paranoid about my taxi abandoning me.
The skinny lady turned around, gave me an apologetic smile, then turned back to finish putting her wallet back in her purse.
Holy fuck, that’s Gwyneth Fucking Paltrow. The room started to swirl. My mouth dried up, and my heart started pounding like crazy.
She finished and started to leave, but I was blocking the door.
“I’m a big fan!” I said, which wasn’t even true. I mean, I like Gwyneth, but someone gave me her latest vegan cookbook as a joke gift. I wasn't a big fan, not really.
She gave me a gracious smile—almost regal—and walked out with her dry-cleaned pantsuit over one arm.
Such is life in LA.
I dropped off the dress, pre-paid, and returned to the waiting taxi. The whole way to the airport, I mused over my reaction to Ms. Paltrow (assuming it was her).
I would have thought that the whole experience with Dalton Deangelo would have changed me more, made me less starstruck when I met other celebrities. But, apparently, a brief affair with one famous person hadn’t inoculated me against other celebrities. I was, after everything that had happened over the last few weeks, not that different after all.
Or was I?
There were moments, like when I walked through the crowd at the airport and didn’t care that people were staring at the big girl in the red shirtdress—moments where I felt something harder over my entire surface, like that skin Jell-O gets after a few days in the fridge.
Seated on the airplane, I nodded my head to the right and gazed wistfully out the window. There was nothing to see but pavement, but I liked the idea of how I thought I might look to a casual observer—like the girl at the end of a movie who has grown in some way and is an adult now, which you can tell because she does something different from how she did it at the beginning of her tale.
We got in the air, and the flight attendant offered me a beverage. I’d had a Ginger Ale on the flight down, which was my third flight ever. This was my fourth flight, and I was different now, so I ordered a Bloody Mary. I’d never had one before, but people in movies order them on airplanes, and the words just came out of my mouth.
The flight attendant nodded curtly and came back with the tomato-juice-based drink. “Matches your outfit,” she said.
I paid, and she walked away, without having asked to see my ID. The nerve!
The girl sitting next to me said, “That smells so good.”
“You should get one. Call the attendant back, my treat.”
She laughed and looked pointedly down at her stomach, quite clearly swollen with a baby.
A chill went through my body. “How long?” I asked.
“Two weeks.”
“And they let you fly?”
Her lip started to tremble, then she put on a big, fake smile. “Short flight. Even if I went into labor…” She trailed off, as if she didn’t have the energy to finish the thought, to tell the lie that everything would be fine, no matter what.
She looked young—about as young as Amy, the sixteen-year-old girl who’d been my employee until recently.
I pulled out my phone and looked for a good photo of Kyle to show her.
“This is my son,” I said, showing her a picture of him pretending to eat two slices of pizza at the same time.
“Wow,” she said, looking back over at me.
“I was fifteen when I had him.”
She nodded, her eyes getting wet before she blinked them clear.
Her words burst out of her. “I’m scared. I don’t like pain.”
I patted her on the knee. “Nobody likes goodbyes, or labor pain. And it’s okay to be scared. I was, too. But I had a good doctor, and my parents were beside me the whole time. We’re so lucky to live in a time of hospitals, and medicine, and epidurals.”
Her chest rose with a deep breath I could hear, even over the whooshing white noise of the airplane.
“What about down there?” she asked, looking embarrassed. “Did everything go back to where it had been?”
“Yes, and everything works fine. No complaints.”
“Were you scared during labor?”
My skin started to tingle all over. I grabbed my Bloody Mary and shot it back.
“No,” I lied, smiling. “Your body kicks in with all the right hormones at the right time, and maybe there are a few moments where you get tired or frustrated, but you’ll know what to do. Everything’s going to be fine.”
Her face relaxed and she leaned her head back against the armrest.
I pulled a magazine out of the pocket in the seat in front of me and pretended to be engrossed in an article about natural fibers being trendy come autumn.
I felt bad about lying to the girl, but I also knew telling her the truth wouldn’t help either of us.
Me.
That night.
It’s Friday, and my stomach’s been acting up all day, but Mom and Dad are out of town I am ready to party! And by party, I mean I am going to order pizza with the money they left for groceries, and I’m going to eat it in the formal sitting room, where Dad and I aren’t allowed to eat.
I have it all planned out. I’ll put down one of my bedsheets like a drop sheet for spilled crumbs. I won’t even need to vacuum.
I wish Shayla was here, but it’s her loss, and I sure hope her babysitting money is worth it.
The pizza guy arrives, and I pay him for the pizza, plus two dollars for a tip. The look on his face tells me two dollars is on the cheap side, so I dig around in my pockets and hand over my loose change, which is humiliating for both of us. My guts are killing me with first-day period cramps. I’m sweating so much from pain, the change in my hands is wet, and he makes a face.
After he walks away, I lock the door, throw the pizza on the coffee table, and run up to the main bathroom, which I then murder with an epic poo.
I walk back downstairs, feeling pounds lighter and thinking my problems are over. I open the box and the smell of the double-pepperoni pizza nearly puts me off, but I push myself to take a few bites, thinking I’ll feel better any minute. I’m usually hungry for salty, greasy food when Aunt Flo comes to visit, but I’m strangely disinterested tonight.
I turn on the TV and begin my planned marathon session of re-watching the entire first season of Veronica Mars.
My guts are really killing me by the second episode, and I’m pretty sure it’s punishment for eating pizza in the formal sitting room. My mother has hired a gypsy to put a curse on the room, and now I will pay, in pain.
This idea of a curse gets less funny over the next few hours, as I toss and turn on the sheet-covered sofa, unable to get comfortable. My lower back hurts like someone’s kicking me in the kidneys with pointy boots.
These are the worst period cramps I’ve ever had, and the weirdest part of all is that I haven’t started bleeding yet. I go to the bathroom to check, and my tampon has only watery stuff in it.
My ankles are swollen like crazy, either from the salty pepperoni or my mother’s gypsy curse. All this from eating pizza in the living room. Can you imagine what would have befallen me if I’d touched the dandelion wine? My head would have just split right open.
It’s only ten o’clock, too early for bed, so I lie down on my parents’ big bed, still wearing my clothes. They have a zillion pillows, which I use to make a comfy nest for myself.
I wake up to the sound of myself whimpering. The house is dark and quiet. I’m curled up, and my hands are balled up in fists. I punch the bed a few times, but the sharp pain in my back is relentless. Did I herniate one of my discs today during my epic, naked, interpretive dancing? Fuck me, but it doesn’t seem so hilarious anymore, all the hip wiggling and towel snapping.
Still whimpering, I slide off my parents’ bed and start to crawl toward their en suite bathroom on my hands and knees. Technically, I’m not allowed to use this bathroom, unless it’s an emergency. I’m
getting an urge to push, though, so I think it’s an emergency.
The phone rings. I know it’s my parents calling to check up on me. The ring just has that sound, and nobody else would call the land line at this time of night.
The pushing feeling has faded to more of a general ache, and my back feels better now, strangely. Maybe I just needed to get some crawling exercise.
I shuffle to the bedside table and pick up the ringing phone.
My father says, “Peaches? Is that you?”
Oh, right. I forgot to say hello.
“Yessssss,” I say.
“Are you drunk? What the hell’s going on? Are you having a party?”
I groan. “No, Dad. I was just having a nap.”
“Why were you having a nap?”
A sharp pain sends a tremor through my body, and I feel heat between my legs. Moisture. I put my hand on the crotch of my sweatpants. I did not just piss myself, did I? Holy shitfuck how embarrassing.
“Uhh. I think I have, like, a stomach thing.”
“Oh.” He does not sound like he’s buying it.
I shuffle into the en suite bathroom, praying I didn’t get any of the carpet wet.
“What’s really going on?” he asks.
“I have the worst period cramps of fucking all time, if you must know. And I just made a mess, okay? Aren’t you glad you have a daughter? Because I’m sure happy to be a woman on days like today.”
“Did you take a Midol?”
“Dad, I—” The pain in my back returns, and I curl up on my side on the tile floor in the bathroom, panting.
He says, “You should take a Midol before the pain gets really bad. Pain-killers work better if you take them right at the beginning.”
My voice pitches up like a squeak. “Okay.”
“And try taking a hot bath,” he says, repeating what my mother is saying in the background.
“Yup.”
“Peaches?”
I can barely breathe, let alone speak, but I gasp out, “Yes?”
“If there’s ever anything you’re scared to tell me, don’t be scared. I love you, and your mother loves you, and nothing will ever change that. If you promise to always tell us things, we promise to not be angry. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Now, you’re really at home right now? You didn’t have the calls forwarded?”
“Yes, I’m at home.”
“Did you take any drugs tonight?”
“Just Midol.”
“Okay, sweetie. We love you and we miss you already. Do you want a souvenir from Arizona?”
“Nope.” What I do want is to get off the phone so I can try to get some relief on the toilet, or maybe draw a bath, like he suggested.
“Are you sure?”
“No souvenir. Love you! Bye.”
I click the button to end the call, then strip off all my clothes during a pain-free flash. On the toilet, I have a small pee, but nothing else. My vagina seems to be leaking fluid now, so… I guess that’s just another weird puberty thing people don’t talk about. I can’t comprehend all this. It’s too weird.
I start running water into the tub, and then I climb in. I’m not even naked. I still have my socks on, and my bra. This makes me laugh.
I look down at my stomach, and the way the water is over my body, it looks like my body is moving even when it isn’t, with ripples moving across my belly.
I close my eyes.
I sleep.
The phone rings.
Nobody answers it.
I hear a car with a loud stereo drive by outside.
The water drips into the tub rhythmically. Drip, drip, drip. I drift.
I’m awake again.
I will just push and push until I feel better. I’m on my back, one leg hanging over the edge of the tub.
The pain is worse than before.
Something terrible is happening to me.
I’m going to die here.
I need to drain the water before I drown, but I don’t want to.
The phone is ringing.
Someone is at the front door.
I just want to sleep, escape the pain.
I try to take off my wet socks so I can be comfortable, but I can’t reach with my hands, and it’s too hard.
Why is everything so…
Am I awake?
Someone is banging on the door downstairs.
It’s the pizza man. No, it’s not.
I roll onto my side. I don’t want to hurt anymore.
There’s a crash.
I should be scared, but I’m not.
The phone is still ringing, and I know it’s my father. I know his ring.
He won’t let anything bad happen to me.
The airplane dropped from the sky, the engines roaring as we came in for the landing. The pregnant girl next to me was holding my hand and praying.
Pray for me, too, I thought. Pray for us all.
The wheels went RZZZZT on the pavement, the plane bounced like a car losing control, and then my seat felt more upright again. We slowed.
I let out a nervous laugh and turned to the girl. “See, everything’s fine.”
She released my fingers and looked around like someone waking from a nap. “My first time flying,” she said.
I nodded like an old pro of four flights. “You’ll get used to the landings.”
We got off the plane, and I hugged my new-yet-nameless friend goodbye. I gathered my luggage and set out for the taxis to take me to the bus station.
Beaverdale is too small to have its own airport.
The night the EMT guys found me barely conscious and in labor, I heard them talking about a helicopter, and how they might need to transfer me elsewhere for an emergency C-section. I was delirious with pain, and I had pre-eclampsia, so my blood pressure was sky-high. Everything seemed like it was happening to someone else—someone on TV—so I wasn’t at all worried. I struggled to keep my eyes open just to see what would happen next.
We drove to the hospital, siren on the whole way. The siren is louder inside the ambulance than you’d think, which only made me respect the calm EMTs more.
The next part happened quickly, with me barely getting transferred off one rolling bed to another, and there was an entire human being coming out of me.
They took him away, and I began to wail and wail, inconsolably. I didn’t know I was pregnant, and now I was so sure I’d fucked up this little human who deserved so much better than me. I was so sure he was going to have everything wrong. When they brought him back into the room, bundled up in a pale yellow blanket, I thought they’d brought me someone else’s child.
He was so perfect, so precious.
And I couldn’t look at him.
I couldn’t hold him, because I was too ashamed. The nurses would take better care of him, and they didn’t argue. They just took him away, checked my vitals, and whispered outside my door.
I stopped talking to everyone there, except for yes and no answers. I didn’t want to look anyone in the eyes. I wanted to die.
My parents arrived at the hospital in the morning, having come straight home as fast as they could. They didn’t say anything except that they loved me. I rolled over and said I was tired. They took turns staying in the room, so I was never alone.
For that, I will always be grateful. For their love, their forgiveness, and for never leaving my side.
By the time the bus pulled into the Beaverdale depot, I felt like those hobbits at the end of the Lord of the Rings. There is nothing glamorous about traveling, unless you own a private jet that can land on a regular driveway, but I don’t think those have been invented yet.
The plan had been for my father to give me a ride home, since Shayla, my usual taxi, would be working. To my surprise, I stepped into the bus terminal and saw three familiar faces between the potted ficus trees. My mother held up a hand-made sign covered in stickers, reading Welcome Home. Kyle was holding a Mylar balloon shaped in a heart. His little
orange T-shirt had Team Peaches written on the front with those standard block letters you get at T-Shirt Bonanza. My father looked embarrassed, but his expression turned to happiness as soon as he spotted me.
My mother called out in a stage voice, “Isn’t that Peaches Monroe? The world-famous superstar?”
I ran over to them quickly, my rolling suitcase wheels unable to handle the speed, the bag rocking back and forth with a thwap-thwap-thwap. I dropped everything and grabbed all three of them in a hug. Kyle wrestled free, so I had to chase him around the potted trees, threatening him with big, sloppy kisses as he squealed and squealed.
I nabbed him finally and spun around with him in my arms. “I missed you so much!”
He squirmed out of my arms and used his chin to point over to my suitcase. It was a gesture I’d seen my father make a thousand times. “What did you bring me?”
We walked back over to my parents, then proceeded out to the car, still talking.
“What makes you think I brought you something?” I asked, teasing.
“Mom said.”
“You don’t believe everything Mom says, do you? She puts vegetables in the chocolate cake.”
My mother elbowed me. “Libel and slander.”
My father cleared his throat. “Technically, it’s either libel or slander, but not both. It’s more of an accusation, but given what I’ve seen happen to zucchini in our kitchen, not a baseless one.”
We climbed into the car, both of us kids in the back. I gave Kyle the package from inside one of my shopping bags, and he tore through the wrapping.
It was a science kit I’d picked up at LAX, with over three hundred separate pieces to delight him and drive my parents crazy. We spent the short car ride to my house arguing over whether or not the package could be opened in the car, or if doing so violated my father’s rules for in-car conduct.
At my house, my father brought my bags into the house, and all three of them came in. My mother tidied up the living room (making some very big eyes over the ashtray full of evidence of Shayla’s recent downward spiral), then she karate-chopped the pillows. My father checked that the railing on the staircase was still secure (he’d fixed it two months earlier) and looked around for other hazards. Kyle went straight for the new fridge, as though he had a special psychic sense for new things, and started filling cups with ice cubes and water, much of it ending up on the floor.