Little Earthquakes

by Jennifer Weiner

  “I’m Rebecca Rothstein-Rabinowitz,” she said, “and I’m twenty-nine and a half weeks. I’m having a girl. She’s my first baby, and I’m feeling pretty good, except . . .” She glanced ruefully at her belly. “I feel like I’m not really showing yet, which is kind of a bummer.” Theresa gave a sympathetic nod. “What else? Oh, I’m a chef and manager at a restaurant called Mas in Rittenhouse Square.”

  “Mas?” gasped Kelly. “Oh my God, I’ve been there!”

  “Great,” Becky said. Whoa. Her own mother hadn’t been that enthusiastic about eating at Mas. But the restaurant had just been written up in Philadelphia Magazine as one of its “Seven Spots Worth Leaving the Suburbs For,” and there’d been a very nice picture of Becky and Sarah. Well, of Sarah mostly, but you could see the side of Becky’s face at the edge of the frame. Some of her hair, too, if you looked carefully.

  “I’m Ayinde,” the beautiful woman on Becky’s other side began. “Thirty-six weeks. This is my first pregnancy as well, and I’ve been feeling fine.” She laced her long fingers over her belly and said, half defiantly, half apologetically, “I’m not working right now.”

  “What were you doing before the pregnancy?” Theresa asked. Becky bet herself the answer would be swimsuit model. She was surprised when Ayinde told them she’d been a news reporter. “But that was back in Texas. My husband and I have been here only a month.”

  Kelly’s eyes got wide. “Oh my God,” she said, “you’re . . .”

  Ayinde raised one perfectly arched eyebrow. Kelly closed her mouth with a snap, and her pale cheeks blushed pink. Theresa nodded at the next woman, and the circle continued—there was a social worker and an investment banker, an art gallery manager and a public radio producer, and one woman with her hair in a ponytail who had a two-year-old already and said she was a stay-at-home mom.

  “Let’s begin,” said Theresa. They sat cross-legged, palms upraised on their knees, eight pregnant women sitting on a wood floor that creaked beneath them as the candles flickered. The women swayed back and forth. “Let the breath flow up from the base of your spine. Let it warm your heart,” she said. Becky rocked left to right. So far so good, she thought, as Theresa led them through a series of neck rolls and mindful inhalations. It wasn’t any harder than Interpretive Dance had been.

  “And now we’re going to shift our weight to our hands, lift our tails in the air, and slowwwly ascend into Downward Dog,” Theresa intoned. Becky eased herself onto her hands and feet, feeling the sticky yoga mat against her palms, and sent her tailbone sailing up. She heard Yoga Barbie beside her sigh as she got herself into position and the beautiful woman—AyeINday—groan softly.

  Becky tried to lock her elbows so that her arms wouldn’t shake. She hazarded a glance sideways. Ayinde was wincing, and her lips were pressed tightly together. “Are you okay?” Becky whispered.

  “My back,” Ayinde whispered back.

  “Feeeeel yourself rooooted in the earrrrth,” said Theresa. I’m going to feel myself landing on the earth in about a minute, Becky thought. Her arms wobbled . . . but it was Ayinde who dropped first and rocked backward on her hands and knees.

  Theresa was kneeling beside her in an instant, one hand on Ayinde’s back. “Was that posture too challenging?” she asked.

  Ayinde shook her head. “No, the posture was fine; I’ve done yoga before. I’m just . . .” She gave a small shrug. “I’m not feeling right today.”

  “Why don’t you just sit quietly for a moment?” Theresa said. “Focus on your breath.”

  Ayinde nodded and rolled onto her side. Ten minutes later, after Proud Warrior and Triangle Pose and an awkward kneeling posture that Becky decided she’d call Dying Pigeon, which was probably a lot easier if you didn’t have breasts, the rest of the class joined her. “Shivasana,” Theresa said, turning up the sound of the wind chimes. “Let’s hold our bellies gently, breathing deeply, filling our lungs with rich oxygen, and send our babies a message of peace.”

  Becky’s stomach growled. Peace, she thought, knowing that it wasn’t going to work. She’d felt exhausted for her first trimester, queasy on and off for her second, and now she was just hungry all the time. She tried to send her baby a message of peace but instead wound up with a message of what she was going to have for dinner. Short ribs with blood-orange gremolata, she thought and sighed happily, as Ayinde sucked in her breath again.

  Becky pushed herself up on one elbow. Ayinde was rubbing at her back with her eyes squeezed shut.

  “Just a cramp or something,” she whispered before Becky could ask.

  After Theresa had clasped her hands over her enviably firm chest and wished them all namaste, the women made their way down the twisting staircase and walked out into the twilight. Kelly followed Becky. “I just love your restaurant,” she gushed, as they walked south on Third Street toward Pine.

  “Thanks,” Becky said. “Do you remember what you ordered?”

  “Chicken in mole sauce,” Kelly said proudly, pronouncing the Spanish word with a flourish. “It was delicious and . . . oh my God!” Kelly said for the third time that night. Becky looked to where she was pointing and saw Ayinde leaning with both hands against the passenger’s side window of a tank-size SUV with something white fluttering on its windshield.

  “Wow,” said Becky, “either she’s taking that parking ticket awfully hard or . . .”

  “Oh my God!” Kelly repeated and race-waddled away.

  Ayinde looked at them helplessly as they approached. “I think my water broke,” she said, pointing at the sopping hem of her pants. “But it’s too early. I’m only thirty-six weeks. My husband’s in California . . .”

  “How long have you been having contractions?” Becky asked. She put her hand between the other woman’s shoulder blades.

  “I haven’t had any,” Ayinde said. “My back’s been hurting, but that’s it.”

  “You might be having back labor,” Becky said. Ayinde looked at her blankly. “Do you know about back labor?”

  “We were going to take a class at the hospital in Texas,” Ayinde said, pressing her lips together, “but then Richard got traded, and we moved, and everything just . . .” She sucked in a breath, hissing, with her forehead pressed against the car window. “I can’t believe this is happening. What if he doesn’t get here in time?”

  “Don’t panic,” said Becky. “First labors usually take a while. And just because your water broke doesn’t mean you’ll be having the baby soon . . .”

  “Oh,” said Ayinde. She gasped and reached for her back.

  “Okay,” said Becky. “I think we should go to the hospital.”

  Ayinde looked up, grimacing. “Can you hail a cab for me?”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Becky. Poor thing, she thought. Being in labor all by herself—no husband around, no friend to hold her hand—was about the worst thing she could imagine. Well, that and having her midriff appear on one of those “Obesity: A National Epidemic” news reports. “We’re not just putting you in a cab and abandoning you!”

  “My car’s right here,” said Kelly. She raised her key chain, hit a button, and a Lexus SUV across the street started beeping. Becky helped Ayinde up into the passenger’s seat and buckled herself into the back. “Can we call someone for you?”

  “I see Dr. Mendlow,” Ayinde said.

  “Oh, good, me, too,” said Becky. “So his number’s in my cell phone. Anyone else? Your mom or a friend or someone?”

  Ayinde shook her head. “We just moved here,” she said, as Kelly started the car. Ayinde turned around and grabbed Becky’s hand. “Please,” she said. “Listen. My husband . . .” Her forehead furrowed. “Do you think there’s a back door to the hospital or something like that? I don’t want anyone to see me like this.”

  Becky raised her eyebrows. “Well, it’s a hospital,” she said. “They’re used to seeing people come in with gunshots and stuff. Wet pants won’t faze them.”

  “Please,” Ayinde said, squeezing her hand even
tighter. “Please.”

  “Okay.” Becky pulled her big black sweater out of her bag, along with a baseball cap. “When we get out, you can wrap this around your waist, and if you think you can manage the stairs, we can get to triage that way, so you won’t have to wait for the elevator.”

  “Thank you,” Ayinde said. She pulled the baseball cap over her eyes, then looked up. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember your names.”

  “Becky,” said Becky.

  “Kelly,” said Kelly. Ayinde closed her eyes as Kelly started to drive.

  AYINDE

  “Well, your water’s definitely broken.” The young resident pulled off her rubber gloves with a snap and took her umpteenth peek toward the door, as if she expected the great and exalted Richard Towne to come walking through it at any moment. Not an unreasonable thing to wish for, Ayinde thought, smoothing the flimsy blue gown over her bare legs. In the past forty-five minutes, she had left dozens of messages at a dizzying array of numbers. She’d called Richard’s cell and his pager; she’d left messages with his agent and his coach, the team’s front office, the maid at their new house in Gladwyne. So far, nothing. No surprise there, she thought bleakly—it was the first round of the play-offs, and everyone had their game faces on and their phones turned off. Just her luck.

  “But you’re just one centimeter dilated. When this happens, we generally want to see a baby within twenty-four hours, or the risk of infection goes up. So you’ve got a few choices,” the resident said.

  Ayinde nodded. Kelly and Becky nodded, too. The resident—DR. SANCHEZ, her name tag said—peeked toward the door again. Ayinde looked away and wished she could put her hands over her ears to block out the chatter coming from the bed next to her own.

  “Richard Towne! From the Sixers!” There was a curtain between Ayinde’s bed and the next one. Evidently, Ayinde’s neighbor had decided that a curtain was as good as a wall, and she was stage-whispering at the top of her lungs in spite of the PLEASE DO NOT USE CELL PHONES sign. “Yes. Yes! Right next to me!” She dropped her voice incrementally. Becky and Kelly and Ayinde could still hear every word. “I don’t know if she is or not. Mulatto, maybe?” The woman giggled. “Are we allowed to say that anymore?”

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Ayinde closed her eyes. Becky put her hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” Ayinde murmured.

  Kelly poured her a glass of water. Ayinde took a sip and set it aside.

  “No, no, not here,” yakked the woman in the next bed. “I haven’t seen him yet, but he’s got to be around here somewhere, right?”

  You’d think so, Ayinde thought. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and yanked off her blood-pressure monitor. The ripping sound of the Velcro made her neighbor shut up. The resident managed to turn her eyes away from the door.

  “Can I go to labor and delivery?” Ayinde asked.

  “Ayinde, are you sure?” Becky said. “You could go home, walk around, try to take a nap and get some rest in your own bed. You know, studies show that the longer a woman labors at home, the less time she spends in the hospital, the less risk there is of an emergency C-section or the use of forceps or vacuum during delivery.”

  “Huh?” asked Kelly.

  “I’m taking natural-childbirth classes,” Becky said, sounding slightly defensive.

  “I don’t want to go home. I live out in Gladwyne,” said Ayinde. “It’s too much trouble to go out there and come back again.” And, she thought, there’d be no way she could—how had Becky put it?—“labor at home” in full view of the cook and the maid and the driver who’d be there.

  “Do you have someone to stay with you?” Becky asked. “We could come and drive you back to town when you’re ready . . . or you could just come to my house for a while.”

  “That’s very nice of you, but I’ll be all right here.” She handed her cell phone to Becky. “Would you mind stepping into the hall and calling my house?” she asked. “Ask to speak to Clara. Tell her that I need my suitcase—it has a yellow ribbon tied around the handle and it’s right inside my dressing room—and then have her ask Joe to drive it to the hospital.”

  “Are you positive?” Becky asked. “There’s no reason for you to be in the hospital unless you have to. And this could take hours.”

  The resident nodded. “First labors are often on the slow side.”

  “Just come,” said Becky. “I’m a fifteen-minute walk from here, or we can drive you back in no time.”

  “I couldn’t . . . ,” Ayinde said.

  “I’ll come, too,” said Kelly. “It’s better than spending another night sitting home reading What to Expect When You’re Expecting.”

  “You’ll be perfectly safe. My husband’s a doctor,” Becky said.

  “Are you sure?” Ayinde asked.

  “You shouldn’t be here all by yourself,” Becky said. “Even if it’s just for a few hours. We’ll call your husband, and you can try to relax.”

  “That would be my advice,” said the resident. “If you want my opinion, go with your friends.”

  Ayinde didn’t bother to correct her. “Thank you,” she murmured to Becky. Then she took her clothes and disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind her.

  Friends, Ayinde thought as she pulled on her pants and smoothed her hair with shaking hands. She hadn’t had a real friend since something like second grade. Her whole life she’d felt out of place; half black, half white, not quite one thing or the other, never fitting in.

  Be brave, her parents used to tell her. She remembered them bending over her bed when she was little, their faces serious in the darkness, her mother’s the color of milk chocolate and her father’s the color of snow. You are a pioneer, they’d explain, their eyes shining with earnest good intentions. You are the future. And not everyone’s going to understand it, not everyone’s going to love you the way we do, so you have to be brave.

  It was easy to believe them in the nighttime, in the safety of her canopied bed at the center of her bedroom, which was on the second floor of their eight-room Upper East Side duplex. The days were harder. The white girls she went to prep school and boarding school with had been perfectly nice, with a few notable exceptions, but their friendship had always had a kind of cloying undertone, as if Ayinde were a lost dog they’d rescued from the rain. The black girls—the handful of them she’d known at Dalton, the scholarship winners at Miss Porter’s—hadn’t wanted much to do with her, once they got past the exotic name and found out that her pedigree made her more like the rich white girls than like them.

  She opened the door. Becky and Kelly were waiting. “All set?” Becky asked. Ayinde nodded and followed her outside.

  She’d known there were risks to marrying a man like Richard, and if she’d had any doubts, her mother, the former Lolo Mbezi, 1970s supermodel, was all too eager to fill her in. “You’ll have no private life at all,” Lolo proclaimed. “Public property. That’s what athletes are. Their wives, too. I hope you’re ready for it.”

  “I love him,” Ayinde told her mother. Lolo had tilted her face, the better to display the perfection of her profile. “I hope that’s enough,” she’d said.

  Up until now, she thought, as Kelly started the car, it had been. Richard had been more than enough; his love had more than made up for everything she’d missed during her childhood.

  She’d met Richard at work, when she’d been a reporter for the CBS affiliate in Fort Worth, sent off to interview one of Richard Towne’s teammates, an eighteen-year-old third-round draft pick named Antoine Vaughn. She’d gone striding right into the locker room as if Gloria Steinem herself had been holding the door. She almost kept walking, right into an open locker, when the first player ambled by, still wet from the shower with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist.

  “Just keep your eyes above the equator,” Eric the cameraman whispered. She swallowed hard and cleared her throat.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen. I’m Ayinde Walk
er from KTVT, and I’m here to see Antoine Vaughn.”

  She heard silence. Sniggers. Whispers she couldn’t quite make out. “They finally got some hot reporters, huh?” called a man who was, blessedly, still wearing his warm-up suit.

  “You replacin’ old Sam Roberts’s tired ass?”

  “Hey, baby, never mind the kid. Come over here. I’ll give you an interview!”

  “Keep it down, fellas,” called the obligatory team minder from the corner, a middle-aged guy in a rumpled suit who didn’t look as if he had much interest in keeping the peace, or moving at all.

  She swallowed again and squinted through the shifting field of half-clad male bodies. “Does anyone know where Antoine Vaughn is?”

  “You can call me Antoine!” offered the guy who asked if she’d be replacing Sam Roberts, the station’s sports reporter. “You can call me anything you want, lovely!”

  She shot the guy in the corner a desperate glance, which he pretended not to see.

  “I’m right here.”

  She turned . . . and there was Antoine Vaughn, lounging on his back on one of the benches. She recognized him from the picture the team had sent over. Of course, that picture had been just head and shoulders. And he’d been wearing clothes.

  “See, it’s true,” he said, gesturing south and starting to laugh—clearly, he’d had this line prepared—“everything is bigger in Texas!”

  Ayinde lifted one eyebrow and locked her knees so that none of them would see how they were shaking. The whole thing brought back bad memories. At her very exclusive private school in New York, a few of the other girls (whitegirls, she’d thought of them then, just one word) had shoved her into the boys’ bathroom. Nothing had happened—and, really, the boys had been more upset than she was—but she’d never forgotten her initial terror when the door had swung shut behind her. Now, in the locker room, she drew a deep breath, the way she’d learned, so that her words would come from her diaphragm and would carry.

  “If that’s so,” she said, “then you must be from out of town.”