by Kate Rorick
“It’s his baby too, Kathy,” she said as she wrenched her arm away and moved quickly to the balcony. Before she made her escape, she heard Marcus saying, “If you give me your phone Kathy, I’ll see what I can do . . .”
It was frigid outside. Usually, the balcony afforded a thin view between other buildings of the Santa Barbara coastline, about a mile away. But today, it was cold and gray and wind whipped through the buildings like a sea snake on a mission. But David didn’t seem to feel the cold. He was too intent on what was happening on the phone.
“Yes, I agree completely with Brian,” he was saying. “But I would also add that if we amortize the cost of acquisition over a decade, we can—no, that’s okay, go ahead, Brian.”
He turned, and noticed Nathalie for the first time.
“Hey,” she said in a stage whisper. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but they are going to do the reveal now.”
He held the phone to his chest, muffling the sound.
“Can it wait a couple minutes? It’s already evening in China, we are almost done.”
“Right, but there’s a thing with glitter on a timer . . .”
David glanced up through the sliding glass doors, appearing helpless. “Okay, well, then do it without me.”
Nathalie blinked. “What?”
“Do it without me, you can just . . . tell me what it is, boy or girl.”
“David—it’s the big reveal. Kathy threw this party for us. Can’t you just mute the call and step inside for thirty seconds—”
“No I can’t.” He brought the phone back up to his ear. “I have to—yes, Brian, I’m here. Of course Mr. Lee, I know the concerns voiced by the company about amortization, but—”
“DAVID!” Nathalie said, unable to hold back. He looked down at her with such an expression of “what?” that she was momentarily shaken. He never looked at her like that. Not in almost fifteen years of being together. He wasn’t even apologetic. He was just . . . annoyed.
“Fine,” she said. “Just . . . fine. You do what you have to do, David. I’ll go find out the sex of our child, by myself.”
She turned away from him, reached for the sliding glass door, when . . .
BANG!
Inside the party, a curtain of glitter rained down on the partygoers.
Pink glitter.
Muffled squeals of delight vibrated past the glass, where Nathalie and David were on the outside looking in.
Then, the door slid open, and the noise and cheering—and glitter—reached her at full volume.
It was Vicki and Kelly, both with pink sparkles covering their hair and shoulders. They quickly pulled her inside.
“Oh, Nathalie! We are so sorry, but Marcus wasn’t able to fix the app in time, and the balloons went off!” Vicki said.
“But come on, let’s celebrate!” Kelly grinned, then shook out her hair. “Ugh, I have no idea how your stepmom is going to get all this glitter out of the carpet.”
“Is David coming?” Vicki asked, her face flushed. It was possible she’d had more than one pink-and-blue cocktail.
Nathalie glanced back at David, who had stepped around the corner, half hiding himself for more privacy.
The coward.
“He’s . . . it’s okay.” She shook her head. Then. “Wait . . . both balloons went off?” Nathalie asked. “But there’s only one color.”
“Duh!” said Kelly. “Because you’re both having girls!”
A prickling sensation ran from Nathalie’s scalp down her spine. “A girl,” she breathed.
“Come on. Let’s cut the cake—although, it’s not a big surprise now, but I could use the carbs,” Vicki said.
A little baby girl. With pink socks and black hair and Nathalie’s green eyes. That’s what they were going to have.
That was who their family would be.
But the image that came so quickly fled just as fast, when Vicki and Kelly moved ahead of her to grab slices of cake waiting on the table.
And Nathalie was left alone again, in a sea of pink glitter. Meanwhile, her eyes fell to where Lyndi stood. She was next to her cake, which was sliced up to reveal its inner pinkness. She was in the center of it all, being congratulated by everyone, Madame Craig, the book club ladies, even Vicki and Kelly.
And surrounding her, celebrating her, was Kathy, their dad, and Marcus—the newly minted member of the family—right there by her side.
Chapter 10
JANUARY MOVED LIKE A FREIGHT TRAIN, ONE that had been too long delayed and now needed to make up for lost time. Everyone seemed in a hurry. This was no doubt because most people justified holding off on doing things until “after the holidays.” And now that it was “after the holidays,” everyone was suddenly overwhelmed by what needed to get done.
And when you’re having a baby, Nathalie thought, the amount of stuff you need to get done is exponential.
She’d made no progress on the nursery. Oh, she had cribs and changing tables and layettes and WubbaNubs bookmarked on her computer. She’d swung by the hardware store and selected a dozen or so carefully curated paint chips. But no actual decisions had been made. This was because she couldn’t make these decisions without David’s input.
After the debacle of the gender reveal party, David had apologized profusely for missing the big moment. He was even super excited for a little girl. He’d gotten a little misty when he was on the phone to his parents in Italy (whether or not his parents were misty, was unknown—but unlikely).
And since the Big Deal had managed to be finalized before the end of the fiscal year, David had taken a much-needed New Year’s Day off. They watched football and ate popcorn and didn’t clean anything.
But when Nathalie tried to bring up baby stuff later that day, David just hummed, and said, “We have time to think about it, right?”
And she said yes, sure, and they went back to watching football.
In Nathalie’s estimation, “time to think about it” was a day—a couple days, tops. But apparently to David it meant weeks—or perhaps never. Because on January 2nd, David was back in the office an hour earlier than normal, and home late.
“I’m sorry, hon,” he’d said, seeing the cold dinner she’d labored over (well, the dinner she’d taken out of the box and heated up—her culinary bravado had been tempered by the events of Thanksgiving). “They loved the work I did on the foreign acquisition, so they handed me a new one . . . it’s smaller but I’m taking point.”
He’d said it with excitement. And he deserved to be excited. It was a big deal that they gave him this kind of responsibility, considering he’d only been in-house counsel a couple months, he’d told her.
And she’d kissed him, and told him she was happy for him.
And she was left holding the paint chips a little while longer.
Honestly, it wasn’t a big deal . . . but it would be, soon. Because they needed a plan. If she couldn’t get his attention when it came to the color of the nursery, what was she supposed to do with the stuff that actually mattered—like writing a will and trust? Like how they should go about saving for the baby’s college plan?
But all of this took a backseat while school started up again, and time began to speed forward for Nathalie, too. Most of her students, who had been so lackadaisical in the last few days of December, had suddenly awoken to the new calendar year with a panic. Her juniors were panicked about the SATs. Her seniors—those that had not gotten in early admission—were panicked about college applications and the impending AP exams (a mere four months away!). Their panic translated into more test prep, more after-school counseling, more student hand-holding. So much so, that even Nathalie was tired enough at the end of the day to not want to come home and discuss the baby.
But that didn’t mean the baby wasn’t there, and growing, and making herself known in the most, er, audible of ways.
This was most readily apparent during the super in-depth ultrasound, where she had to drink all the water and then hold it while a technicia
n spent half an hour grinding a detector into her uterus, to get high-resolution photos of every conceivable part of the baby.
When the tech was done she’d peed for longer than Tom Hanks in A League of Their Own.
The screening went well—the baby was growing beautifully—and Nathalie was given a sleeve of pictures to take home of their little girl, Shirley. At least, Shirley was her name today. The day before it had been Madison, and tomorrow it would probably be Sarah.
Just another decision she couldn’t make without David.
Yes, the screening went well . . . except for one, surprisingly loud thing.
“Oops! It’s okay.” The technician smiled, while she covered her nose. “Gas happens.”
“I’m so sorry,” Nathalie replied, beyond embarrassed.
“Seriously, don’t worry about it,” the technician said. “I’ve had worse on my table. But I’ll be more gentle with the detector, okay?”
“Honestly? It’s been really bad,” Nathalie had replied. “I feel like a hot air balloon.”
“I’m not supposed to advise you medically—I’m just an ultrasound tech,” the technician replied. “But I can tell you with my pregnancy, it sorted itself out eventually. Your body’s just rearranging itself to make more space. But if it’s causing you pain, you should talk to your doctor.”
“Thanks,” she’d said. “I will.”
And she did, at the next appointment.
And was given the same answer.
“It’s a fun symptom,” Dr. Duque said. “You could start your own section at the symphony.” Which made Nathalie crack a smile. “Here are some things you can do to relieve gas . . .”
As she left Dr. Duque’s office she felt marginally better, but was once again confronted by the dreaded feeling of Not Knowing.
Not knowing what else to expect. Not knowing what would likely happen, or come next.
After that appointment, Nathalie went home in a funk. And amazingly, David was there.
“Hey!” she said as she opened the door. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
She shook out her umbrella as she took in the sweet, warm smell of onions cooking. January in Los Angeles meant winter—and winter in Los Angeles meant rain, if they were lucky. And this January was luckier than most.
“We sent out the paperwork this afternoon, the client won’t get it until they get into the office in the morning, so I thought I’d spend some time with my wife.”
Nathalie smiled, running forward to embrace her husband.
“What’s that marvelous smell?”
“The one thing I found in the cupboard that I thought I could reasonably make,” David answered with an irrepressible glee. “Franks and beans!”
Nathalie’s smile froze on her face. Considering what byproducts her intestines were currently manufacturing, franks and beans were not an ideal dinner.
But David looked so proud of himself. Like a puppy who just figured out how to fetch. So she swallowed, and kept her smile up as she said, “Great! I’ll grab us drinks.”
Water, she thought. Dr. Duque had prescribed lots and lots of water.
Dinner was served quickly, and they settled into the IKEA table, still with their old metal folding chairs—David had been so busy, he hadn’t had time to assemble the new ones that Nathalie had finally chosen.
“Pretty soon there will be a high chair sitting right there,” Nathalie said, as she took a bite of beans. And a big sip of water. “We have to start getting this place ready.”
“Hm. Yeah. It’s really coming down out there,” David said, tilting his ear toward the dining room window. Raindrops pelleted the glass in angry fistfuls. Being a SoCal native, Nathalie loved rain like this—it was so rare, and always so, so necessary. And when it cleared, the air would be crisp and you could see the mountains clearly for miles beyond miles. But right now, she was happy to just be in her little house, safe and warm with her dinner-making husband.
Blllllllllurrrrrrfffffttttt . . .
And a disturbing amount of gas, she thought as she shifted in her seat uncomfortably.
“What was that?” David asked, whipping his head back, concerned.
“Nothing!” she replied quickly. “I’m just a little . . . gassy.”
“What did you eat?” he asked, doing his best to not breathe through his nose.
Nathalie felt inexplicably embarrassed. It was kind of ridiculous. She and David had been together since they were in their late teens. She’d farted in front of him before. Millions of times.
But for some reason, she felt the need to maintain the ladylike fiction that the pregnancy was not causing her any form of discomfort. Which was equally ridiculous, because it wasn’t as if she hadn’t spent her first trimester puking up breakfast every morning.
“It’s not me, it’s the baby,” she said, defiant. There. She was going through this pregnancy, so he had to go through it, too.
“Oh,” David said, a pained look crossing his face. “Is that . . . normal? Nothing’s wrong, right?”
“Completely normal,” she said, nodding fervently.
“Good,” David said. Then, looking down at his food, “Good.”
Water, Nathalie thought. More water.
“We should also talk about some stuff,” Nathalie said, breaking the silence.
“Like what?”
“Like . . . what’s the plan for saving for college? Do we want to put the baby under your health care or mine? Estate planning. Whether we want your parents to visit when the baby comes, and if so, where we’re gonna put them. When should I go back to work—tangentially, I am planning on breastfeeding but I have no idea what kind of pump to get for when I go back to work.”
He blinked twice. “Is that stuff we have to decide now?”
Yes. Her mind screamed. Yes, let me start planning this. “Well, not this second. But sometime in the next nineteen weeks might be good.”
“Okay. We’ve got time then.”
Time. Time tick ticking down. It was already the New Year. January speeding by, soon it would be February, then March, then . . .
“I don’t get it,” she finally said. “Why don’t you want to talk about any of this stuff? It’s important, and we need to—”
Brrrrffffffttttttt . . .
David choked on a laugh.
“I’m sorry,” he said immediately. “But—” and he was laughing again, as the brffffttttt echoed out again.
And then, Nathalie, ruefully, was laughing with him.
After a solid minute of enjoying the giggles, David slid his folding chair over to Nathalie, the chair making its own brfffftttt noise, which set them to giggling again.
“It’s not that I don’t want to talk,” he said, once they’d calmed down. “I just didn’t expect to be talking about wills and estate planning. I came home tonight to spend some time with you,” David said, closing his eyes. “Because I was a shitheel at the gender party thing, and this is the first chance I’ve had to do anything about it.”
“Okay, okay . . .” she said, holding up her hands.
“I’m sorry. I promise, we’ll talk about all that stuff. Tonight, even,” he said, taking her hand. “But for now, let’s turn down these overheads . . .”
David flicked the lights off.
“Maybe light a candle to take care of that smell . . .”
She smothered a reluctant chuckle, wrapped her arms around his waist. But he’d gone completely still.
“Oh, shit,” David said, looking out the window.
“What?” Nathalie said, standing immediately and rushing to the window.
“Our driveway,” David said. “It’s flooded.”
Nathalie squinted out the window, into their driveway. With the lights out, she could see out into what was now a bona fide river in their driveway.
“The pump stopped working,” David said, as he rushed to put on shoes, a raincoat.
The pump, rarely employed in their desert climate, was installed at the base of
their driveway next to their house. The land their home sat on was flat, and drainage was bad, so when it did rain, the water pooled and collected at the back door of the house, next to the driveway. The pump collected it and sent it via pipes underneath the driveway to the street, where it could flow into a gutter.
Without that pump, they basically had an aboveground pool for their backyard.
“Oh shit,” David said again, as he rushed out the door and into the dark, cold wet. “Stay inside! I don’t want you getting sick.”
“I’ll call a plumber,” she said, reaching for her phone.
As she dialed the number, all thoughts of 529 plans and breastfeeding—heck, even a candlelit franks-and-beans dinner with her husband—fled her mind.
LATER THAT NIGHT, as she lay awake, unable to sleep from what the few bites of beans were doing to her intestines, Nathalie snuck out of bed and to the guest bathroom. Last second, she grabbed her phone. Seriously, who knew how long she’d be in there?
She knew she had every right to use her own en suite bathroom, but she didn’t want to wake David with her . . . er, midnight musical endeavors. At the moment, it just felt like . . . like she didn’t have the right to burden him with anything.
Not even flatulence.
After David had rushed out to try and adjust the pump, she’d called the emergency plumbers. Together, the guys had gotten the pump working again, and David spent a freezing cold hour shoving water with a broom down the driveway and away from the house.
When he’d finally come in, he immediately took a long hot shower to get feeling back into his extremities, and then promptly went to bed.
They didn’t talk. Not about college plans, or paint chips, or even share any more jokes about Nathalie’s current most persistent pregnancy symptom.
Which was fine. The last thing she wanted for David was for him to be spending his one night off in forever dealing with her questions on top of dealing with a household emergency.
But she did have questions—planning the future, about what to expect in her pregnancy . . . about all of it. And no one to talk to.
She couldn’t talk to her dad, he didn’t remember how her mom dealt with her symptoms. She couldn’t talk to Lyndi, who no doubt was wrapped in the blissful cocoon of being completely taken care of by their parents and therefore not having to worry about a thing. Even her friends who’d had kids, like Vicki and Kelly . . . she couldn’t imagine calling them up with questions about college savings plans and breastfeeding pumps.