Infinity.

by Layne Harper

“At your service Mrs. McKinney,” I say in a goofy accent. Yes. I’m an idiot.

  She rolls onto her back. “Let’s see if I can wake up our baby this morning.” She does this thing where she runs her hands quickly back and forth over her stomach. Sometimes she can get the baby to move. Charlie has been the only one able to feel the action. I desperately want to feel the baby kick.

  I can physically look at her and know that she’s pregnant. God knows, we’ve been through the hormonal swings of having a baby, but as the dad, I don’t get to do shit. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. I want to feel our son or daughter kick my hand. I want the baby to respond to my voice. Every night I sing to Charlie’s stomach, hoping that the little guy is learning who I am.

  This baby needs to know that I’m the daddy, and I already love our bean with everything that I’ve got.

  As Charlie moves her hands, I start talking to the bump. “Hey, kid. It’s your old man. Today, I’ve got a big football game. Your mommy’s bringing you. I hope you’ll cheer me on.” Then I pause, and kiss Charlie’s belly button. “Tomorrow, we’re going to celebrate an early Thanksgiving, because Daddy’s playing an away game. You’re going to get to enjoy some great food that Mommy and all your crazy aunts and grandmothers are preparing.”

  Charlie grabs my hand with a squeeze. “Keep talking,” she instructs as she places my palm on the right side of her body, about two inches from her center. I hold my breath, waiting, hoping to feel the kick.

  “Feel that?” she asks with hope dancing in her gorgeous lavender eyes.

  I shake my head no, feeling deflated.

  “Keep talking,” she encourages.

  I pick up where I left off. “Then, I’m hoping that I can take Mommy shopping for a new car, because last time I checked, babies can’t ride in a two-seater.”

  Then I feel a slight flutter against my fingers. It’s like butterfly wings dancing beneath my fingertips.

  “Did you feel that?” she shrieks, with a gigantic smile on her face. “Keep talking.”

  “Mommy’s going to have to get a big, safe car for the two most important people in the world to ride in. What do you think, sweetie? An Audi SUV? A Lexus?” I feel the flutter of movement again.

  It’s magical. PFM. It’s an acronym that the guys use on the team when they pull off a play that is out of the realm of possibility. It’s PFM… Pure Fucking Magic.

  I kiss Charlie’s full lips, and taste her morning breath. She normally slaps me away until she’s brushed her teeth, but she’s not pulling that off today. I got to experience PFM. Once I’m done making love to her mouth, I pull back and look into her twinkling eyes.

  “Thank you,” I can feel the smile on my face stretching from ear to ear, “For sharing this with me. I’ll never forget feeling our baby for the first time.”

  “You have a new job. Every morning, you need to wake our baby up,” she says in her know-it-all voice.

  “Almost as good of a job as waking up the baby’s mother,” I say, giving her boob a squeeze.

  She laughs and rolls out of bed, heading towards the bathroom. Over her shoulder, she tosses out just before she disappears into the next room, “Don’t think for a second that you’re getting rid of my car for some slow-moving military-owned tank.”

  I don’t bother to respond. We both know that I’m going to get my way. Plus, I’ve had the new car, which does look like a tank, on order since the day after she showed me those baby Nike shoes.

  I lie back down and stare up at the ceiling. Yup! No matter what the anniversary is, today is going to be a PFM kind of day.

  Chapter Four

  Charlie

  “You look great,” Doctor Starr reassures me. “I know that you’re experiencing some tightening across your abdomen, but they aren’t contractions. They’re preparing your body for the birth of your baby. Let me reiterate. You are not in labor. This is perfectly normal for thirty-five weeks into your pregnancy.”

  I let out a sigh. “Okay. That’ll make Colin feel better.” I sit up as best as I can, and spread the white sheet over my waist so I can talk to Doctor Starr in a less vulnerable position. I adjust the examining gown, making sure that my ginormous breasts are covered.

  Doctor Starr leans against the counter in the examining room and crosses her arms. Her dark hair falls across her shoulders, framing her face in a rather angelic way. “I can’t imagine the amount of stress you’re under: Colin playing for a trip to the Super Bowl. You’re weeks from giving birth, and still working.” She unfolds her arms puts her hands in her lab coat pockets. “You’re not only growing a human being, but you are trying to be Superwoman. You can’t do it all, Caroline. And I’ve seen Colin at all these appointments with you. Yes. He wants you by his side, but he wants a healthy you and baby more.”

  I nod my head and tear up. Stupid pregnancy hormones. “I know,” I sniff. “I want to be at the game on Sunday. He needs me there as much as I need to be with him.”

  “Then, go. Go to the NFC Championship game. Come back and see me on Monday. But, no heels. Drink plenty of water, and sleep.”

  I laugh. “Easier said than done. Sleep is like a mythical creature that lives in the fairy forest and drinks rainbow water.”

  Doctor Starr kicks up the left side of her lip, and turns her head in confusion.

  “Never mind,” I respond. I make a note to save that metaphor for Brad. He’ll appreciate it.

  “On to another subject, how are you doing with your eating disorder?”

  Direct much? Why didn’t she just ask how many miles I’m running a day? I know that I haven’t gained the amount of weight that she would like, but I’ve been so sick. Even now, if I catch a whiff of Colin’s brand of cologne I get nauseous. It’s not my eating disorder. It’s this pregnancy. “I guess I’ve finally come to terms that out-of-control is my new normal.”

  “I want you to consider taking something for postpartum depression after the baby is born. You’re a doctor. Do I need to review statistics with you?”

  Mentally, I have to catch myself. I’m very well aware of how beneficial antidepressants can be. Doctor Benson has broached the subject at a couple of my appointments. My past issues with control make me more susceptible to PPD. I guess listening to Doctor Benson discuss it with me in the comfort of my home is easier to swallow than hearing the words exit Doctor Starr’s mouth in an examining room.

  I shake my head. “I promise that I’ll discuss it with my therapist, Doctor Benson. Thanks for bringing it to my attention.”

  I do feel relieved that that’s why she asked the question. I can’t eat anymore, and I don’t need that pressure to shove more food in my mouth, on top of everything else.

  She smiles and walks toward the table, offering me her hand. I gladly accept it, and shimmy to a standing position.

  “Tell Colin good luck, and go Cowboys,” she says, her way of telling me goodbye.

  “I sure will.” But, I’ll leave out the part about postpartum depression. That’s the last thing that my husband needs on his plate right now.

  Brad’s sitting in the waiting room, flipping through a pregnancy-health magazine. Colin has attended every single appointment with me, but he’s already left for the NFC Championship game. He was so disappointed that he couldn’t make this one.

  Brad offered to tag along, so I let him. I can sense Colin’s growing uneasiness with the amount of attention and care Brad’s been paying to me since I told him that I was pregnant, but there’s nothing that I can do about it. Colin pays Brad to be my assistant. He’s just doing his job. Right?

  I stop in my tracks, taking in the scene. There’s a darling couple about my age that are huddled in the corner, looking at something on one of their phones. His arm is lovingly draped around her shoulders, and she is resting her hand on his thigh. There’s a very pregnant Indian women draped in her sari. Not even the loose material can hide her very prominent bump. Her husband is playing with their young son at the kid’s activity table.

&nbs
p; Then, there’s my very gay assistant. He has on a pair of Kelly green skinny-jeans with fur-lined leather boots that come up to his calf. He’s wearing a white dress-shirt, tucked in with a parrot-colored wool scarf draped perfectly around his neck. His tortoiseshell glasses—for fashion, not vision—rest on his nose. Brad’s auburn hair is styled in a perfect, gelled mess. He’s letting his auburn facial hair grow to stubble. He says that it makes him look like Robert Pattinson. It so does not, but I can’t fault him for trying. I shake my head, and love him even more for embracing exactly who he is. He’ll be the perfect Guncle.

  He catches me staring, and says, while he checks his watch, “It’s about time. I was pretty sure they were keeping you. Then I was going to have to break the bad news to Que Bee. We all know how touchy he gets where you’re concerned.”

  Now everyone in the waiting room is looking at us. Yes! The best assistant in the world just announced that my husband is a quarterback. I’m sure that the two dads in the waiting room instantly make the connection.

  I roll my eyes and walk to Brad—or, maybe I more waddle, because his head tilts from side to side with my movements. I say, under my breath, “Thanks for letting the cat out of the bag.”

  “Whatever. You and Colin are on the cover of Talk Magazine anyway. They’re still speculating on whether or not you’re pregnant. Hello… you’re either preggers, or swallowed a beach ball.” He holds up the magazine, showing me a paparazzi shot of us.

  I’m in a light pink button-up maternity blouse and dark jeans. My hair is draped over one shoulder, and my sunglasses are acting as a headband. Colin’s in faded, hole-in-the-knee jeans, that I’ve encouraged him to donate, and an aqua-blue T-shirt that’s squeezing his biceps. After seeing this picture, we’ll be keeping the jeans. He’s leaning up against the brick façade of a health-food store that we frequent. I’m just exiting the shop and walking towards him. The picture was snapped before I entered the weeble-wobble phase of pregnancy. A bag filled with our purchases is in my right hand, and it’s slightly hiding the profile of my stomach. My left hand is resting on the top of my swollen abdomen, further obscuring it. But it’s the look on Colin’s face that makes the picture cover-worthy. He’s watching me draw near with a hunger in his eyes that no one can deny. This picture could replace the definition of lust in the urban dictionary.

  I’m half tempted to steal the magazine, and frame the picture. It’s a candid shot that speaks volumes about Colin’s devotion to me, and this child.

  The headline reads, “We’ll know for sure in a couple of months.”

  I just shake my head, and walk out of the waiting room while Brad follows, continuing to tell me all the latest gossip about my relationship with my husband.

  ****

  Brad and I had two simple surgeries today after my appointment with Doctor Starr. When we were finished, Carter picked him up from the circle drive out front of the hospital, and the two headed to East Elm to sample the best pumpkin ravioli ever. They invited me to join them, but I decided to head home and spend the evening hanging out with Pancho.

  On my way home, I call Rachael. I haven’t been able to shake the whole postpartum-depression comment that Doctor Starr made at my earlier appointment. So instead of talking to Janis, who’s had four kids and gives sage advice, I call Rachael. Why? Because she makes me laugh. Her ability to marginalize anything is a skill that I wish that I possessed. Really, if someone could bottle it, they’d be billionaires.

  “How’s my favorite chief of staff to the future President of the United States?” I ask in such a chipper voice that I giggle at myself.

  “My feet are on the verge of falling off, because Manolo Blahnik couldn’t design a pair of comfortable shoes if his life depended on it. I haven’t peed since lunch, and if one more goddamned reporter asks me some asinine question like ‘What did the candidate have for breakfast,’ they’re going to lose talking privileges to me for the next twenty-four hours.” She pauses for a second. “You know you’re best friends with someone when you can take the phone into the restroom”

  A belly laugh comes spilling out of my mouth, and it feels so good. I can imagine my child-sized friend rocking five-inch heels just so she can look at the media somewhere higher than their chests. I’m sure her white-blonde hair is twisted back in a tight knot. She’s so polished that somehow Rachael manages to look just as fresh late in the evening as she does when she wakes up in the morning. Sometimes I hate her.

  “I don’t mind you taking me into the bathroom with you. Go for it,” I reassure her.

  “How are you feeling? I bet your stomach is absurdly big.” Leave it to Rachael to state the obvious.

  “I’m good, and yes, I can no longer see my feet.” I hear the toilet flush in the background, and the sound of running water. She really did take me to the bathroom with her. “Leaving for the game tomorrow.”

  “Yeah. About that. Tell Colin good luck from me, and the future President. I, unfortunately, will not be watching it. I’ll be attending an all-day campaign event in Florida.”

  “At least it’ll be warm.” I try to use her minimizing-everything tactic back on her.

  We chat for about ten minutes, which is epically long for us. It’s so good to talk about normal things with her. She informs me that she has a new guy in her life. He’s actually the Deputy Chief of Staff. Her description: “He’s hot, knows how to use his hips and tongue, and doesn’t want to marry me. He’s perfect.”

  Rachael asks the most common question these days besides, “How’s Colin?” which is, “Any names yet?”

  My laugh is over-dramatic, and very fake. I roll my eyes for affect, even though she can’t see me. “Not even close. He throws out the worst names for this child. Like he has good taste in every facet of his life, except for baby names. Seriously, if you ever decide to marry, Rach, before you say yes, ask what some of the names are that your future husband likes. I wish I’d known that Colin had such poor taste before I married him.”

  Rachael laughs. “Remember? No desire to get married, and especially not to have children. I’m looking forward to being an Auntie. I’ll swoop in, smother Baby McKinney with love, gifts, and sugar, and retreat back to my quiet townhome.”

  “Bitch.”

  “Oh, honey, that’s what us aunties do,” she says in her best Southern accent.

  I reluctantly tell her bye, knowing that I will not see her again until she’s meeting her godchild. I miss her so much. She’s my anchor when life gets out of control. It makes me sad to hear about the new guy. I guess I still held out hope that Aiden and Rachael would find their way back to each other. I know that Aiden isn’t seeing anyone—at least, for more than one night—since they broke up. But Rachael’s right, if she and Aiden aren’t moving towards the same goal then it’s cruel to continue torturing each other.

  I pull into the garage, thinking about what I need to pack for tomorrow. My plane leaves at ten in the morning, and I haven’t begun to organize my clothes. I’m mentally going through my closet looking for any grey or blue ensembles when I spot it.

  Colin’s maroon Escalade is gone, and its spot is now occupied with a Mercedes Benz G-class SUV. My first thought is, “It belongs in a jungle, or traversing the Sahara Desert.” Then, I notice the six-loop red bow covering the roof that further makes it look like a rectangular box on wheels. The beast is silver, but if it were painted camouflage instead it could be used in a military battle. I can’t even imagine what this tank cost. In fact, I don’t want to know. Much more than my Viking stove, and Carrera marble kitchen countertops combined.

  Then, the realization hits me. This is the car he bought for me to drive when the baby arrives. “That bastard,” I say out loud as I slam my cute little convertible’s door. “He did this on purpose.” Colin left for the airport earlier today. He chose to bring this beast home because I’ll probably not see him for a couple of days. He’s hoping that my pregnant brain will forget our previous talks about buying a baby-friendly car.<
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  We’d discussed purchasing a family-suitable vehicle. I thought we were trading in the Escalade and getting something small that I didn’t mind driving, like one of those cute little SUVs. I never agreed to this huge hunk of metal.

  I stomp toward the beast of burden, and note that the gigantic red bow on top of it is truly accentuating its box-like structure. I shudder at how horrible this hunk of metal must be for the environment. Then, my eyes are drawn to a yellow sheet of paper taped to the driver’s door window.

  I stalk over—more like waddle—and rip it off the glass.

  “Dear Doctor Collins, I believe that this is the definition of bamboozlement.” I pause. I’m so fuming mad that he better be glad he’s thirty-thousand feet in the air, and I can’t get my hands around his thick neck. “You see, I let you ramble about the small family car that you were WILLING to let me purchase for you. When this has been on order since you showed me the tiny pair of Nikes. Think of this as asking for a post-nuptial agreement, but agreeing to drop the fight if I accept Collins as your professional name. I love you, darling, and I love the life growing in your body. This car is so I can sleep at night. Infinity. Colin.”

  I stand there, staring holes through the sheet of paper. How’s it possible to want to smother him with kisses and at the same time long to twist his balls while he writhes in pain?

  I reason there’s nothing I can do about it right now. Although, there’s a brief moment I contemplate going to the nearest car dealership and purchasing the reasonable SUV I agreed to. I quickly dismiss the idea, because I’d be lowering myself to his levels of childishness. When McKinney returns home, and he will have to walk through our doors sooner or later, I’m going to just have to persuade him to return the tank for a practical family car like a small SUV.

  Crumbling the note into a ball, I toss it toward the recycling bin, noting that at least I’m doing something to save our planet for future generations.