by Kate Rorick
Nathalie watched him, oddly dispassionate. She had to stay cold. Because otherwise she would have disintegrated into tears from his overheated words.
“So excuse me, if I’m late home from work occasionally, or need to take a call, while I try to make myself so indispensable to my bosses that I’ll have a job so we can stay on this insane and stupid roller coaster!” he finished through gritted teeth.
She waited one second. Two. Stared him down. And finally he seemed to realize that not only had he lost his temper.
He’d lost it in the middle of IKEA.
Then, Nathalie—the Nathalie who dealt with ninety-seven students on a daily basis as well as administrators and parents and Kathy and her dad and Lyndi—emerged.
“So let’s just not have the baby,” she said, utterly dispassionate.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not the one being ridiculous.”
He threw up his hands. “I can’t talk about this now.”
“No, you don’t get to testify without hearing counterarguments, counselor,” she replied, rounding on him. “You don’t get to have buyer’s remorse. You don’t get to pretend that this isn’t happening, by ‘neglecting’ to mention to your boss that we’re pregnant. It is. Nor do you get to pretend that you never wanted it. I’m not having this baby alone, no matter how much you seem to wish that was the case.”
David opened his mouth and closed it, unable to come up with words. But then, luckily to him at least, he didn’t have to. Because at that moment, the cell reception stars aligned and his phone buzzed again.
“I have to take this,” he said.
“No you don’t,” she pleaded.
“Just . . . just stay right here. I’ll step outside to take the call, and then we’ll pick out a crib. Okay.”
“David,” she said, her heart and voice cracking. “If you take that call, not only will I not be here when you get back, I won’t be home when you get home.”
But he’d already raised the phone to his ear. With one last look back at her, and a mouthed I’m sorry he walked away.
“I’LL GET IT!” Sophia called out as she stepped toward the door. Not that Maisey was going to raise herself from her cocoon of her bedroom. She wasn’t expecting anyone—Sebastian was back out on the road—so maybe it was for Maisey. Sophia had caught her texting with someone named “Foz” more than once, and the only explanation she could get out of her daughter was that he was from work.
God, she hoped it was this Foz person, so she didn’t have to stalk her own newly reticent daughter at the flower co-op to be updated on her life.
But when she opened the door, it was to find that it was most definitely not for Maisey, but for her.
“Hey, Sophia,” Nathalie said, putting on a brave face, but it was obvious she had been crying. “Um, do you mind if I come in?”
Ever since their parent-teacher meeting, Nathalie and Sophia had been texting like fiends. At first it had been about Maisey, Sophia happy to learn that her daughter had filled out all of her college applications (because she certainly didn’t tell Sophia about it). Then, it segued into talking about pregnancy (they had a running tab of how many people asked “how are you feeling” of them that day—Sophia was ahead, if only because she worked with so many different people on a daily basis) and then just silly jokes and memes and sighing over the same actors. They’d even snuck away a couple of times for brunch or a movie—always with a contraband Diet Coke, of course. It was not simple making friends with other women in your thirties, so it seemed precious to have begun to do so.
But now, Nathalie was on her doorstep. And that was a huge leap ahead in their nascent friendship.
“I . . . I’m sorry. I know it’s weird I’m here.”
“No, it’s okay—”
“It’s totally weird, but I just had a huge fight with my husband, and didn’t know where to go.” She gulped and forced a watery smile. “It was either this or a hotel, and I hate hotels.”
Leaps of friendship be damned. She felt oddly touched that Nathalie had come to her. Because whether Nathalie was aware of it or not, Sophia had been there when it came to having fights with one’s husband while pregnant.
“Of course!” she exclaimed, and pulled Nathalie inside. Then, she called out, “Maisey, you’d better finish up your English homework, because Ms. Kneller is staying for dinner!”
NATHALIE MIGHT NOT have felt very celebratory when she walked into the restaurant the next day for the joint Nathalie and Lyndi Kneller Baby Shower, but she sure as hell looked good.
“Thank you so much for doing my makeup,” Nathalie said, sotto voce to Sophia who stood by her side, as they entered the unbearably cool Ora Café. “And thank you for coming with me.”
“Are you kidding?” Sophia said with a wide smile. “You promised a pregnant lady all the canapés she could eat—I wouldn’t miss this for the world!”
“There will be food . . . although I cannot vouch for its edibility,” Nathalie said. “The last time Lyndi brought me here I ordered something that turned out to be eighteen-dollar sliced cucumber, served by a guy who took his man bun more seriously than I have ever taken my hair.”
But for the first time in practically ever, Nathalie did not feel hopelessly untrendy in Lyndi’s favorite Echo Park restaurant. Nor did she feel judged for what she was sure was an obvious love of cheese, meat, and other nonvegan treats. This was credited to the perfect winged eyeliner, sculpted brows, and gently contoured cheekbones that she sported, thanks to Sophia’s expert hand.
And as she scanned the room, looking for some sign of a Kathy-devised baby shower, it was almost enough to forget that the one person she hoped to see was nowhere in sight.
He was supposed to be here.
She hadn’t seen David since yesterday in the IKEA. She had, at least, spoken to him—or whatever you called texting. Like rational, sane people who love each other despite being in the middle of a fight, she’d sent him a message to let him know where she was and that she was okay.
* * *
staying with my friend Sophia tonight.
* * *
* * *
. . . okay. I’m at home. RU all right?
* * *
* * *
yes. A little sad. You?
* * *
* * *
The same.
* * *
Then, after several breath-holding seconds . . .
* * *
Sleep well.
* * *
She and David had been together for fifteen years. He knew well enough when to give her some space. And vice versa.
The difficulty was, they had never needed this much space before.
Their fights were usually small, more like discussions wherein they took opposite sides and tried to convince an unseen jury of the virtues of their own point of view—civilized, like debate club. Everyone shook hands at the end, as there was no doubt in either of their minds that the right decision had been made on the kind of dishwasher they should buy, and whether or not they needed to hire a gardener to keep their drought-tolerant front yard weed-free. They were after all, not just adults, but partners in their lives.
And if they did have a larger-scale decision to make, usually the spouse who was less affected deferred to the thought process of the other. Like when Nathalie chose which school for her master’s in education, or when David lost his job and had to decide next steps.
The difficulty was, this baby—their daughter—affected them both, equally. And to hear the anger and disinterest coming from David yesterday in the middle of IKEA made her heart hurt like it never had before.
She’d told Sophia all about it last night, while making up the couch. And Sophia upped her new friend game by being both sympathetic to Nathalie and thoughtful about David.
“Unbelievable—like he’s under some huge burden,” she had said. “Like he’s the one who has swollen feet.”
“And weird leg cramps at
night.”
“And a uterus that feels like a basketball.”
“You guys are so weird,” Maisey had said, shaking her head and removing herself from the conversation by redirecting her attention to a text on her phone.
“You’ll be weird, too, when it happens to you, honey. But not for another decade, please.”
“At least,” Maisey snorted as she walked away.
“Say hi to Foz for me,” Sophia singsonged.
An exasperated “God, Mom!” was followed by a slammed door.
Nathalie’s eyes followed the trail Maisey had left. “Foz Craley?”
“I . . . I actually don’t know. My daughter has become much too secretive for my liking. It’s someone she works with.”
“Well, if it is Foz Craley, he used to be in my classes. Great kid. It was a shame he had to leave school.”
Sophia’s eyes had gone wide. “My daughter is texting with someone who dropped out of school?”
“No—not like that. He had to relocate for his family. His grandfather . . . well, I don’t want to tell tales out of turn, but suffice to say, he had to take on way more responsibility than anyone his age should.”
“Hmm . . .” Sophia said, looking back at her daughter’s closed door. “Responsibility is such a double-edged knife. Especially between the sexes.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, look at you and your husband. He’s freaking out because of the responsibility of the upcoming baby. Grasping for a way to handle it. But you—it’s already real to you in a way it can’t be to him. Because you have swollen feet and weird leg cramps and a basketball uterus. So you feel the responsibility in a different way. And handle it differently.”
Nathalie was silent, letting Sophia’s words sink in.
“What about you?” she said finally, nodding to Sophia’s slightly rounded belly. “How are you handling it?”
“It’s getting harder,” she replied after a few moments. “Sebastian’s been on the road for a while now. He says he’s doing it so he can have time once the baby’s born, but . . . I don’t know. I don’t actually have a lot of experience with relationships.”
“You don’t?” Nathalie asked, utterly shocked.
“I spent the last seventeen years focused on Maisey. So it’s been a struggle finding the right balance with Sebastian, which is even harder when he’s not here. I don’t know what I’m doing half the time, and I just want it to work. But sometimes it feels like this is happening to me and only me, not to all of us.”
“All?”
Sophia nodded her head toward Maisey’s door. “But . . . I just have to tell myself constantly that it will be better tomorrow. As always, as women . . . we handle it. Don’t we?”
“Yes,” Nathalie agreed, holding up her contraband Diet Coke to clink glasses with Sophia’s. “That we do.”
It would be better tomorrow, Nathalie had decided. She and David would talk. They would remember that they were best friends and not only needed each other, but wanted each other. They would be able to figure out how to handle it—together.
She had regretted not going home to David as soon as her head hit the pillow on Sophia’s couch.
And when tomorrow arrived, she and Sophia drove over the mountain to Echo Park and the baby shower, ready to do just that.
But now that she was here, and she could see David wasn’t, she felt adrift all over again.
But then again, it didn’t seem like the baby shower was there either.
There wasn’t a hint of pink. No baby booties in sight.
Did they have the right place?
Finally, after standing there awkwardly for what seemed like an eternity, a man-bunned server (potentially the same man bun that had alarmed her before?) shoved them through the Sunday brunch rush and pointed them to a set of doors at the back.
“I guess the party’s on the patio.”
“So what should I expect?” Sophia asked, as they wedged their pregnant bellies past vegan diners. “Outside of cucumber canapés?”
“My stepmom is throwing it, so . . . slightly cheesy décor, some low-pressure crafting . . . basic baby shower stuff, I assume. She went a little overboard for the gender reveal party, so my dad told her that she should scale it back for—”
The first thing that assaulted Nathalie was an ultrasound photo.
Her ultrasound photo.
Blown up on a canvas so the baby in the picture was roughly the size of a motorcycle.
Opposite was a separate canvas, with another ultrasound photo, equally disturbing in size. And in between, was a banner with the words “Happy Babies Shower #Lyndalie!”
“Wow,” Sophia said.
“I just remembered something,” Nathalie breathed, unable to take her eyes off the . . . everything.
“What?”
“Kathy rarely actually listens to my dad.”
Moving past the banner—and the looming photos of her unborn daughter and (presumably) her niece—Nathalie was assaulted by a sea of pink. Now that the sex of both babies was known, Kathy had dedicated herself to the color scheme. But whereas most people would have just had some streamers and tablecloths in their chosen color, Kathy had imported pink everything. The chairs were painted pink. The stones of the patio floor had been given a pink wash that made Nathalie pray for rain—and unfortunately, the rainy season in LA was decidedly over. The patio fence had been wrapped in pink tulle. There was even a pink step-and-repeat—a pink wall canvas that you could take pictures in front of—emblazoned with the phrase #lyndaliebabies!
“It’s like the inside of my old Barbie Dream House, isn’t it?”
Nathalie turned, and saw her sister, ethereal as always. It took all of the power of her wingtipped eyeliner to overcome her jealousy over how buoyant she looked. Her belly now protruding gently underneath her flowy, flowery gown that hung off her frame like a maternity model. Like her pregnant stomach was filled with little more than wisps of air, instead of the sloshing weight that Nathalie felt in her own belly.
“Let me introduce you to Sophia,” Nathalie said after greeting her sister.
“Wow, you look so much like someone I work with, it’s uncanny,” Lyndi said, as she shook Sophia’s hand. “You have the exact same eyes and mouth. Do you have a little sister?”
“No, I have a daughter, Maisey.”
“Oh my goodness!” Lyndi cried, clasping Sophia’s hand. “You’re Maisey’s mom! That’s not possible!”
“I got an early start.” Sophia shrugged.
“She talks about you all the time. Says you’re an amazing makeup artist.” Lyndi looked between Sophia and Nathalie, her mouth forming a perfect O. “You must have done Nathalie’s makeup! It looks fabulous. I love the wingtips. I could never get those right.”
“I’d be happy to show you—” Sophia began, but Nathalie cleared her throat.
“Sophia’s not here to work, Lyndi.”
“It’s all right,” Sophia said. “If you don’t enjoy your work, what’s the point? I did bring my makeup bag.”
Nathalie felt annoyance—however unjustly—rise in her throat and sting at her eyes. She knew it was petty, but she wanted her makeup to look this good—not Lyndi’s, too.
God, she would give anything for a distraction. A celebrity sighting. A minor earthquake. Anything.
“Yoo-hoo! Nathalie!”
As if on cue, Kathy parted the seas of the patio and trotted up to the new arrivals.
“Honey, you look marvelous!” she said, embracing Nathalie, bussing her cheek, and coming away with no doubt half the contouring. “Pregnancy agrees with you! My goodness you look better than you did on your wedding day!” She turned to Lyndi. “You remember I told her she should have hired a professional makeup person, but your sister was all about ‘saving money.’ Oh here honey! Have a ‘momosa’! Nonalcoholic, delicious . . .”
Kathy had pulled one of the servers into her orbit, and grabbed three champagne glasses off the tray.
&n
bsp; “And pink,” Nathalie commented.
“Yes, well, I had a difficult time finding any decorations in a ‘feminine blue.’ And your sister approved of the décor, didn’t you Lyndi?”
“It’s great Mom,” Lyndi said judiciously. “Thank you so much for doing this.”
Nathalie cleared her throat. “Sophia, this is my sister Lyndi, and my stepmom Kathy.”
Kathy’s smile froze on her face as she turned to Sophia.
“Welcome Sophia,” Kathy said. “So glad Nathalie brought a friend . . . even though I wish she would have told me.”
Nathalie decided to ignore the dig.
“Kathy, what’s #Lyndalie?”
“It’s your names, silly! Lyndi and Nathalie!” Kathy replied.
“You couldn’t have written ‘Lyndi and Nathalie’? Instead of Lyndalie?” Which sounded like Lyndi swallowed Nathalie, and merely burped up the last syllable.
“It’s a hashtag,” Kathy said. “The blog I read said that everyone hashtags their events. I suppose it’s for good luck, but I have no idea.”
“No, it’s for social media, Mom,” Lyndi began, but Kathy just smiled at her blankly. “So people can follow the tag and see what’s happening at an event?”
“Why would anyone want to follow a tag? Why not just come to the party?”
Rather than for Lyndi to explain why the entire world might not want to come to a party, but would take thirty seconds to peruse the pictures on Facebook, Nathalie stepped into the fray.