by Kate Rorick
“Aw, honey, look—it looks like a little wiggly bean.”
Maisey glanced down at the screen. Then her eyes fell somewhere in the region of her mom’s knee, and she looked right back up at the ceiling again.
The doctor gave Sophia a conspiratorial wink.
Once the ultrasound was over, and Sophia could sit up again, Maisey’s eyes returned to a more horizon level stare.
“So, we have you coming back in next month, to moderate a high-risk pregnancy,” the doctor had said, marking things down on her chart.
“High-risk?” Sophia’s brow came down.
“Because you’re over thirty-five. That’s considered advanced maternal age.”
From her chair next to the wall, Maisey snorted. “I told you, you’re old.”
Sophia shot her daughter a look that she hadn’t often had to employ with her firstborn. “I’m barely over thirty-five,” she retorted.
“Don’t worry,” the doctor said. “Everything looks normal, it’s just a categorization that means you’ll get a little extra monitoring. No big deal.”
When the doctor had said “no big deal,” it actually had a quelling effect on Sophia’s nerves. That is, until the doctor continued.
“What is more concerning is your pregnancy history.”
“What history?” Maisey asked, her eyes flying to her mom’s.
“You,” Sophia replied. “You are my pregnancy history.”
“Yes . . .” the doctor said, examining the chart. “And you were hospitalized for preeclampsia?”
“I was. For four weeks.”
“Wait—you were hospitalized? For a month?” Maisey asked. “What’s preeclampsia?”
“It’s uncontrolled high blood pressure. It can lead to a lot of complications, threats to internal organs, and threaten the vitality of the pregnancy itself.”
Maisey went pale.
“But everything turned out fine, sweetie,” Sophia placated.
But the truth was a little more complicated.
After seventeen years, her first pregnancy was a bit of a blur, but she’d remembered that the warning signs had begun with headaches. She’d sailed through the first two trimesters, full of energy and excited to be starting her life with Alan. Once they got married, they moved into Alan’s parents’ guesthouse (really, their converted garage) in the backyard.
Where Alan’s mother could make sure that Sophia was treating her boy the way he deserved to be treated. For his mother, this seemed to mean waiting on him hand and foot.
Alan didn’t know how to do his own laundry. He didn’t know how to cook. Neither, Sophia came to learn, did Alan’s father. His mother had dedicated her life to upholding the more traditional marriage roles, and as Sophia was now Alan’s wife, Sophia had been fully expected to do the same.
And Sophia, at the time, was eager to please. Part of it had been being young and in love. Part of it had been Alan’s mother was terrifying.
So when she started getting crazy headaches, she brushed it off, even though her own mother told her to listen to her body and take it easier, let Alan help her. But Alan’s expectations aligned with his mother’s, and so Sophia focused on keeping their little guesthouse/garage clean, Alan’s meals hot, and still working at Sephora so they could save money to get their own place someday.
Then she had gone to the doctor for her third trimester checkup.
Her blood pressure had been crazy high. Sophia thought it must have been the stress. The doctor saw things differently.
She had been admitted to the hospital with preeclampsia at thirty weeks pregnant. Her emotions hugely conflicted. On the one hand, she felt like a failure. Like she couldn’t do everything she needed to do to be a wife and a mother and build the life she was trying to build. On the other hand . . . she was relieved. Because she was tired. She needed to rest. She needed to concentrate on having a healthy baby, and that wasn’t easy to do when your mother-in-law burst into your little guesthouse at 7:30 in the morning and criticized you for not having the bed made or the breakfast dishes put away yet, while you were trying to get ready for work.
She’d hoped that Alan would take the situation as seriously as she did. But mostly he seemed confused. Now, not only did he have to go to work every day, but instead of coming home to a clean house and a cooked meal, he had to go sit in an uncomfortable chair in his wife’s hospital room and spend his money on bad takeout or hospital food?
His mother of course, was of the same opinion. It took a little while for Sophia to realize that it was actually his mother’s opinions that were coming out of Alan’s mouth. It took only a little longer for Sophia to understand that Alan’s mother blamed her for “trapping” her baby boy before he could even start out in the world.
This realization came when Alan actually said those words.
Never mind how trapped Sophia was, in her body, in that bed, in the hospital.
Sophia hoped things would change when Maisey arrived. And they did. For Sophia. Because when that tiny baby, weighing less than five pounds, emerged loudly into the world at thirty-four weeks, the entire world shifted for Sophia. Everything was going to be about protecting and raising her child. And everything else—her recalcitrant mother-in-law, her immature husband, her unmade bed—was secondary.
But Alan didn’t feel the same way. He felt put-upon, aggrieved. Like this was something done to him, not something that happened to all of them, that had to be dealt with. Like the preeclampsia—hell, even the pregnancy—were her fault, and her fault alone.
But this time—this new baby, this new pregnancy—would be different. It already was. Because after that doctor’s appointment, when she had dinner with Sebastian that night and told him everything the doctor said, he wasn’t angry—he was worried.
About her.
About the baby.
“That—what’s it called—preeclampsia? That sounds really serious, babe.” Sebastian’s brow furrowed under a sweep of his hair.
“It can be,” she had admitted. “But I don’t have it yet, and I might not get it—they say that the babies having different fathers has an impact on whether or not I develop it again. But the doctors are going to be vigilant, and so am I, about my blood pressure and my health.”
“Okay,” he’d said, taking a calming breath. “But we should talk to another doctor, right? Like, I’m sure Vanessa knows the best ob-gyn in the city. And we should get you one of those blood pressure machines, just so we can keep tabs on it at home, right? We can do that.”
She gently put a hand on his arm. “Right now, all I have to do is go about life as normal. This isn’t something that develops this early in pregnancy, it comes later.”
“Oh, you’re not going about life as normal!” he’d said. “We’re getting you a cooking service, and a maid, and you are not moving off the couch for the next nine months!”
She’d laughed then, but the look in his eyes said he was at least half-serious.
“And maybe you should move into my place—it’s bigger, you’ll have more space.”
“Yes, but you’re never there,” Sophia said, reeling a little bit. “And you share it with the band.” She’d never even considered giving up her little apartment. It was her home. Her and Maisey’s.
“That’s just more people to take care of you. And I’ll make sure I’m here more often. I’ll cancel our spring tour dates if I have to!”
“I still have Maisey.”
“Oh,” he said, calming. “Right.”
Eventually, Sophia talked him down a little, and allowed him to go online and research home blood pressure machines. Men, in Sophia’s limited experience, were never really good at the “wait and see” parts of life. They always wanted to be doing. And if a blood pressure machine made him feel like he had some control over the situation, it was the very least she could do for him.
Even now, as they stood in the bar/bowling alley, the music pumping and the atmosphere festive as they laced up tacky bowling shoes at
the Fargone Season 3 Holiday Party, she could sense that Sebastian’s mind wasn’t on trying to beat her 150 bowling average, nor was it on the Fargone signature cocktail, or the fact that they were currently playing his least favorite album over the loudspeakers, Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust (who didn’t like Ziggy? she often wondered, but never said). No, Sebastian’s mind was on her. And making sure she was okay.
“You didn’t tell Vanessa yet, did you?” he asked in a low whisper as he selected a neon-green bowling ball from the rack. His fingers too slim for the holes, he moved to an electric-blue one.
“No,” Sophia whispered back. Why was that a concern? “Did you?”
“Didn’t tell me what?” Vanessa’s bright voice came from behind them.
Sophia spun around so quickly that she almost dropped the purple bowling ball she had chosen on her foot. As it was, she dropped it on the floor, causing a loud thud and everyone in a twenty-foot radius to stare at her.
“Babe, be careful,” Sebastian said, bending to pick up the ball.
“Seriously.” Vanessa laughed. “I know a Golden Globe nom is shocking, but nothing to break your toes over! Besides, I’m going to need you on your feet.”
“A Golden Globe nom is not a surprise!” Sophia said with a big bright smile on her face. “At least not to me. You were amazing in that movie. Congratulations!”
Vanessa squeezed Sophia hard, and Sophia prayed that Sebastian wouldn’t try to stop her enthusiastic hug.
“Why do you need my toes intact?” Sophia asked when they finally pulled away.
“Because I’m going to need someone to do makeup for awards season! I’ve already cleared it with the studio publicity department,” Vanessa cried, her eyes bright and shining. Maybe Kip was right—maybe she was only high on the congratulations. But given the size of her pupils she could easily be high on something else. But Sophia couldn’t think about that—because her jaw had dropped at what Vanessa had said.
“Of course I’ll do your makeup! I’d be honored!”
Yes, she’d gotten her start doing makeup for ladies-who-lunched, but awards season was different. It was international—your work would be seen (and hopefully it would be done so flawlessly it would go unnoticed) by tens of millions of people when it ended up in glossy magazines. It was an entirely new market, and it was a lucrative one.
With a kid about to go into college and another one on the way, money would never go out of style.
“Excellent, I’ll put you in touch with the publicity department, you’ll need to coordinate with the stylist and—”
“Hey, Nessa, hold on a sec,” Sebastian said, interrupting their planning. Then, he pulled Sophia aside and said in a quiet undertone, “Babe—are you sure you should do this?”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“The stress of it,” he said. “I’ve been to a couple of these awards things and they’re just madness.”
“It’s fine. I can absolutely handle it,” Sophia said. Honestly, his overprotectiveness was endearing, but tonight, it was getting a little thick. “It won’t be any different than being on set, seriously.”
“Of course she can handle it, Bass,” Vanessa said, using Sebastian’s nickname in the band. “Why wouldn’t she?”
“Because . . .” Sebastian started, then hesitated.
Sophia bit her lip, and did what Sebastian couldn’t.
“Because I’m pregnant,” she said. “And Sebastian thinks I can’t grow a baby and do your makeup at the same time.”
Vanessa’s eyes, already wide, seemed to jump out of her head. “You’re . . . oh! Oh wow!”
“Thanks,” Sebastian said, slinging his arm over Sophia’s shoulder, and pulling Vanessa into an awkward three-way hug with his other arm. “You know it’s all due to you, right?”
Vanessa gently extracted herself. A second later, the smile on her face became exuberant. “Well, I guess we both have things to celebrate then, don’t we?”
Relief washed over Sophia. She’d been oddly worried about telling Vanessa—more so than telling the executive producers, her bosses. But of course Vanessa would be supportive. She’d set up Sebastian and Sophia, for goodness’ sake. And obviously she could see how happy they were.
“And I will happily do your makeup for awards season, Vanessa—I’m honored you want me to.”
“Hmm,” Vanessa purred in agreement. Then, she pulled on Sebastian’s arm. “Oh my God, I almost forgot—there’s karaoke! And you know what you said about always being my karaoke buddy!”
As Sebastian let himself get pulled away, he sent Sophia a shrug of “you gotta do what you gotta do.” She gave a rueful smile and waved him off. Let him karaoke with her blessing. But then, she looked down at her shoes, at the purple bowling ball in her hands. She’d lost her bowling partner.
No worries, she thought, rolling her shoulders back. Time to find Kip. There was always a bowling partner in the wings when you needed one.
IT WAS NEARLY midnight by the time Sophia and Sebastian got back to Sophia’s apartment.
And oddly, they hadn’t spoken the entire Uber ride home.
Until they walked through the door.
“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” Sebastian said.
“Do what?” she replied, bewildered. She was tired, sleepy, her feet hurt after those pinching bowling shoes and Kip made her go for a third round to break their tie. She was hoping for a nice shoulder rub on the couch before she guided Sebastian to bed, but instead, he was lurking in the doorway.
“Say I didn’t think you could do two things at once,” he said. “To Vanessa. That wasn’t fair, babe. She mocked me all night for that.”
“I’m sorry,” Sophia said immediately. “I didn’t realize that hurt you. But I can do things. I’m not on bed rest. In fact, it’s better if I do continue to be active.”
“I know . . .” Sebastian ran that hand through his hair again, a gesture that made him look vexed and vulnerable all at once. “I just hate when she teases, man. I don’t need that. And, of course . . . I just care about you. I care about you so much.”
Sophia wrapped her arms around her chest, pressed her head into his jacket. She knew he cared about her. She knew he loved her—even if those words weren’t the ones he used. It was all so difficult to navigate, this new place they found themselves. They’d been going about their relationship like crazy kids. Now, they suddenly had to grow up.
But, they could still be a little crazy.
“Come inside,” she purred, letting her eyes become hooded and coy. “I borrowed a little something from the wardrobe department I think you’ll enjoy.”
But Sebastian didn’t respond with his usual eyebrow waggle and display of libido. Instead he pulled back. “I’ve got an early day tomorrow, babe.”
“Oh. So . . . you’re not staying?”
“Wish I could. And wish I could see that thing from wardrobe.” He leaned down and gave her a kiss—a kiss she felt zing through her body, straight to her toes. It was the kind of kiss that made her fall for Sebastian in the first place . . . and made her really, really wish he didn’t have an early day tomorrow.
“The thing from wardrobe can wait until Baja,” she said, once she could find her voice again.
“Yeah,” Sebastian replied, letting her go. “Baja—are you sure you still want to go? With the—”
“I think a stress-free Mexican vacation is exactly what I want.”
“Alright then.” He gave his media-trained smile. He reached out and bopped the tip of his finger against her nose. “Sleep well.”
And he slunk off into the night, whistling as he walked down the block.
“Did you have to let him shove his tongue down your throat, for like, twenty minutes?” Maisey’s voice came from behind her. Sophia whirled around. Her daughter was leaning against the living room door frame, her arms crossed in front of her, defiant.
“You didn’t have to watch,” Sophia replied.
“No, but the whole neighbo
rhood did,” Maisey countered as she walked over and shut the door behind her mother.
Sophia reached out to her daughter for a side-arm hug. “One day, sweetie, you are going to know what a kiss like that feels like, and then, you can tell me how much you care about the neighbors seeing.”
But Maisey shrugged out of her mom’s embrace. And something—her demeanor, how pale she was, the fact that she hadn’t smiled—turned off Sophia’s lust-brain and kick-started her mom-brain.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” her daughter said, walking back to the kitchen. “Just doing some stuff.”
Sophia followed her, and was immediately hit by the smell of “burnt” pervading the kitchen.
“Oh God, what did you make?”
“Make?” Maisey said innocently. Too innocently. “Nothing.”
“Kid, the kitchen window is open. In December. You’re obviously airing out the place.”
“I didn’t make anything. It’s no big deal.”
Maisey settled in at the table, piles of papers spread out in front of her. Judiciously ignoring her mother.
“You can’t have schoolwork—today was the last day before Christmas break.”
“It’s not schoolwork.” Head down. Scribble, scribble, scribble.
Uh-huh. Mom-alarms going off in seven different directions.
But Sophia knew better than to pry—at least, not directly. Instead, she let Maisey keep her diligent focus on her papers, and followed her nose to the source of that burnt smell . . . which turned out to be the trash can.
She expected a burnt lasagna. Or a cake experiment gone awry (Maisey had lately tried baking as a soothing pastime/distraction). Hell, she would have even taken a smoldering cigarette.
She was not prepared for the tattered shards of a cardinal-red T-shirt. With a big, blocky S in the center.
It was the shirt they had bought in the Stanford student center when they drove up over summer break to take the college tour. They had hit a few other schools on the way—Caltech, Pepperdine, UC Berkeley, a detour to UC Davis—and of course, Maisey was familiar with the USC and UCLA campuses already, having been born and raised in Los Angeles. But the moment they had stepped onto the Stanford campus, Maisey’s entire being changed. She became excited instead of contemplative. She’d asked a thousand questions of their poor sophomore tour guide, when she usually restricted herself to a hundred. It was like with every step, her feet were taking root in the fertile ground where she would grow.