Little Earthquakes

by Jennifer Weiner

  “Boy, you’re lucky to have Steve here,” Becky said. “How’s his job search going?”

  Something moved across Kelly’s face at the word lucky, but the expression was gone before Becky had a chance to figure out what it might have meant. “Just fine!” she said, hitting the acceleration key until she was jogging. “Lots . . . of . . . exciting . . . opportunities!”

  Becky set Ava on her back on the floor and stretched luxuriously. “Can I just stay here for the rest of my life?” she asked.

  “Is your mother-in-law . . . really . . . that . . . bad?” Kelly asked, as she picked up her pace.

  “Heh. Really that bad doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Becky said.

  “So what did she do?” asked Lia.

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Try us,” Ayinde said.

  “Okay,” said Becky. She cleared her throat. “She wore a wedding dress to my wedding, and she sang ‘The Greatest Love of All’ during the reception.”

  Lia and Ayinde looked at each other. “Is she a singer?” Lia asked carefully.

  Becky rolled over and nuzzled Ava’s belly. “No, she is not!”

  “So she was singing it to both of you?”

  “Nope. Just to Andrew.”

  “And the wedding dress . . .” Lia’s voice trailed off.

  “Actual wedding dress,” Becky confirmed. “Versace, I believe. Tight. White. Low cut. Slit high. Lots of sixty-four-year-old cleavage, which, let me assure you, was not what I wanted to see as I was coming down the aisle. I think she recycled it from one of her previous engagements.”

  “I . . . know . . . you’re . . . kidding . . . ,” Kelly panted. Her ponytail bobbed with each stride.

  Becky sat up, rummaged in her diaper bag, and pulled out her wallet. “Here,” she said, showing her friends a photograph. “In case you were wondering, I keep this for evidence, not sentimental attachment.”

  Kelly slowed down and then hopped off the treadmill, and she and Lia and Ayinde bent their heads over the picture. “Oh,” said Lia. “Oh, my. Are those hoopskirts?”

  “They are indeed,” Becky said. “Although Mimi was in couture, my entire bridal party, such as it was, wore hoopskirts as a tribute to her Southern heritage. With matching mint-green parasols.” She giggled. “We looked like a lost tribe of Mummers.”

  “I can’t believe you’re laughing about this!” Kelly said, lifting her shirt to wipe her forehead.

  Becky shrugged. “Believe you me, I didn’t think it was funny at the time,” she said. “But it was four years ago. And you have to admit that it is slightly hysterical.”

  Ayinde stared at the picture. “I think that is the worst wedding story I’ve ever heard.” Ava rolled onto her side and passed gas noisily.

  “Good one!” Becky said, patting her daughter’s bottom. “Do you know, I was so shocked the first time she farted in the hospital that I called the nurse to make sure that was, you know, a done thing?” She shook her head. “Just one more little fact the baby books don’t tell you about.”

  Kelly smiled brightly. “In my house, we call them tushie bubbles!”

  Becky rolled her eyes. “In my house, we call them baby farts!” She leaned back against the brown-and-orange couch. “I just want to know how someone turns out the way Mimi did? I mean, the husbands! And the drama!”

  Lia shrugged and fiddled with her baseball cap. Becky wondered whether it had been a mistake to bring her, whether three little babies, two of them boys, might have been more than Lia wanted to see. “Don’t ask me. I can’t figure out my own mother, let alone someone else’s,” Lia said, “but I think . . .”

  “Tell me,” Becky said. “Please. Help me out.”

  “People like Mimi,” Lia said. “I think they’re like that because they’ve been hurt.”

  “I’d like to hurt her,” Becky muttered.

  Lia shook her head. “Come on,” she said. “Violence is never the solution. And Becky . . .”

  “ . . . She is his mother,” Kelly and Ayinde recited. Lia laughed, as Becky’s cell phone rang.

  “Honey?” Andrew said. “You’re not home.”

  “And they say men aren’t perceptive. We went for a walk,” Becky said.

  “You left my mom by herself?”

  Becky’s heart sank. “Well, you know Mimi. She’s not much of a walker. And the baby needed some fresh air.”

  “Two hours’ worth?”

  Had it been that long? “Look, Andrew, your mother’s a grown woman . . .”

  “She wants to spend time with her granddaughter,” Andrew said. “And Becky . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah, right, I know,” she said. “Don’t even say it. I’m leaving right now.” She hung up the phone and picked up her baby. “Hey, were you supposed to fax something to the candle man?” she asked.

  Kelly clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh my God,” she muttered and hurried to her computer.

  “No rest for the wicked,” Becky said, wheeling her daughter out of the door.

  LIA

  “Get job” had been on my list, right after “get money” and “find place to live.” But when Becky offered me a job at Mas on our way home from Kelly’s, I turned her down.

  “I’m not a good cook,” I said, as we walked side by side, pushing Ava down Walnut Street. “I used to get Zone meals delivered. I never even turned on the stove in my old apartment.”

  “Not to worry. It isn’t rocket science.” Becky pushed the stroller into a coffee shop and bent down to readjust Ava’s pink sun hat, which coordinated nicely with her pink overalls and pink-and-white-striped shirt. “Do you know somebody stopped me on the street yesterday and said, ‘What a cute little boy’?”

  “Weren’t you supposed to go home?” I asked.

  “And I am!” Becky said cheerfully. “Just as soon as I have some coffee. And nurse the baby. For half an hour or so. Anyhow,” she continued, settling herself at a table in the back. “The job I’m talking about is about as entry level as you can get. Washing spinach, peeling shrimp . . .” She shot me a sideways glance. “You’re not, like, a vegan or something? No philosophical objections to cooking living things?”

  I shook my head, remembering how my mother had asked a version of the same thing.

  “It’s not much money,” Becky said. “And it’s not glamorous. And you’re going to be on your feet a lot . . .”

  “I’m used to that,” I said. “Acting’s a lot of standing around.”

  “Ah, but it’s standing around Brad Pitt, as opposed to Dash the dishwasher,” Becky said. She looked over her left shoulder, then her right, like a spy in a movie. “Cover me,” she muttered out of the corner of her mouth. She draped a pashmina the size of a picnic blanket over her shoulder, picked up the baby, and lifted her blouse. “Okay, can you see anything?”

  I looked down. I could see Becky, and the blanket, and a vaguely Ava-shaped lump underneath. “You’re fine.”

  “Good,” said Becky. “Watch her, though. She’s a sneak. Yesterday she pulled the blanket off, and I wound up with my boob hanging out at the Cosi on Lombard Street. Not good. So, you gonna take the job?”

  “If you’re serious. And if you don’t mind that I’ve never done this before.”

  She shook her head. “Believe me, everyone will be delighted to have you. Especially Dash the dishwasher.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “De nada,” she answered. She burped the baby, wiped her mouth, spent ten minutes in the bathroom changing Ava’s diaper, and finally, regretfully, and very slowly, I noticed, headed toward her house.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  I started work the next afternoon, standing in front of the sink in Mas’s steamy kitchen, and peeling carrots until my fingers were numb. “Are you doing okay?” Becky asked, over and over. “Are you doing all right? Do you want to take a break? Do you need anything to drink?”

  “I’m fine,” I told her. I straightened my back and flexed my fingers. I
t was hard work physically, boring and repetitive, but everyone in the kitchen was nice (especially, as Becky had predicted, Dash the dishwasher, who I guessed was about nineteen and was also, if I had to bet, a fan of some of my early direct-to-video work). It was the first time since I’d left Los Angeles that my mind was truly quiet. And Sarah was going to show me how to make vinaigrette. Things were okay.

  The following Monday, my first day off, I unfolded the list I’d made for myself. Every single thing had been checked off except for the last item. “Get help.” I couldn’t put it off forever, I thought, bundling my hair underneath my baseball cap again and walking into the twilight.

  I’d come across the listing for Parents Together in the same newspaper that had led me to my apartment, but three minutes into the meeting, I didn’t think the group would turn out as well as my sublet had.

  What I wanted—what I needed—was to know when I’d stop waking every morning in pain, when I’d stop in the trench of a sorrow so deep and wide that I didn’t think I’d even make my way out of it. How long would this hurt? When will Caleb not be the first thing I think of in the morning, the last thing I think of at night? When will I stop seeing his face every time I close my eyes? I didn’t think I’d find my answers in Pennsylvania Hospital, in the fifth-floor conference room with its faint smell of illness and institutional cleanser. The walls were beige, the carpet was gray, and the long table was surrounded by people sipping from Styrofoam cups of coffee and tea.

  The woman who spoke first was named Merrill. She had frizzy shoulder-length brown hair, horn-rimmed glasses too big for her face, a gold wedding band too big for her finger. Merrill was forty. Her son’s name was Daniel. He’d had leukemia. He’d been eleven when he died. That had been four years ago, but Merrill still sounded as bewildered and brokenhearted as if she’d gotten the news that morning. It’s still happening, I thought, gripping the table as the ground seemed to lurch underneath me.

  “And those Wish Foundation people just keep jerking us around,” Merrill said. There was a blossom of shredded tissue in her hand, and every few minutes she’d raise it to her cheek, but she looked too angry to cry. “It’s make a wish, right, not make a politically correct wish, not make a wish some do-gooder who’s never had a sick kid thinks is okay, and if Danny’s last wish was to meet Jessa Blake, who are they to say they don’t work with porn stars?”

  The man sitting beside her—her husband, I guessed—laid a tentative hand on her shoulder. Merrill shrugged it off. “He only knew her from the music videos. It wasn’t like we let him watch porn,” she said. “And then they wanted to send him Adam Sandler, and I know for a fact it was only because Adam Sandler was already coming to Philadelphia to see some girl in renal failure . . .”

  I tried to disguise my snort of laughter as a cough gone wrong. The leader looked at me. “Would you like to go next?”

  “Oh, no,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Well, why don’t you tell us your name?”

  “I’m Lisa.” It popped out just like that, even though I’d been Lia for years. A few months back in Philadelphia and, hey, presto, I was Lisa again. “But really, I don’t want to talk. I’m not even sure I belong here.”

  “Jessa was his favorite,” Merrill said again. She lifted the tissue blossom to her cheek. “His favorite.”

  “Okay, Merrill. Okay,” the leader said gently, as Merrill’s husband drew her head onto his shoulder, and she started to cry. Suddenly, I hated Merrill. Her son had been eleven. She’d had eleven years’ worth of birthday parties and Christmas presents, skinned knees and soccer games. She’d gotten to watch him crawl and walk and run and ride a bike. Maybe she’d even gotten to deliver the birds and the bees speech, sitting across from him at a kitchen table, saying, There are things you need to know. What had I gotten? Sleepless nights, dirty diapers, basket after basket of laundry. A shrieking bundle of bad temper who’d never even smiled.

  I squeezed my eyes shut as I felt the world slide sideways and balled up my fists on my stupid Gloria Vanderbilt jeans. “Lisa?” asked the leader.

  I shook my head. I was thinking of Becky nursing her daughter under the pink blanket. When Caleb nursed, his hands were never still. They would move from my breast to his head, exploring the texture of my skin. They would wave in the air. Sometimes, they would float against my chin or my cheek like leaves.

  “Excuse me,” I said, hoping my good manners would outweigh the fact that I’d gotten up so fast that my wheeled chair had whacked into the wall.

  “Lisa,” the leader called. But I didn’t slow down until I was out the door, out of the elevator, out of the hospital, leaning against its sun-warmed brick wall, sucking in great gusts of air with my head dangling near my knees. The sky had gotten dark. I had to go somewhere, and Mas seemed as good a place as any.

  “Hey!” Becky called, as I pushed through the door. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m . . . I thought I’d . . .” I looked around and remembered that it was Monday; Mas wasn’t even open. The dining room was empty, swept clean, with all of the tables empty, except for one that was surrounded with three chairs and covered with appetizers. Ayinde was sitting in front of a plate of empanadas. Kelly’s Kate Spade diaper bag was looped around another chair, and Kelly herself was standing in the corner talking into her cell phone headset.

  I turned toward the door. “I’m sorry. I got confused, I guess.”

  “We’re having Moms’ Night Out,” Becky explained. She pulled down another chair and motioned for me to sit.

  I shook my head. “No, really, I shouldn’t, I . . .”

  Becky led me to the chair and handed me a glass. I looked around.

  “Where are the babies?”

  “Ava is with Mimi,” she said, “who showed up with a manicure kit and didn’t believe me until I called Andrew to confirm that you can’t put nail polish on a newborn. Julian’s with . . .” She looked at Ayinde.

  “Clara,” Ayinde said. “She works for Richard and me.”

  “She’s your maid,” Becky teased.

  “Household helper,” Ayinde said. “And she loves the baby.”

  “Steve’s taking care of Oliver,” Becky said, pointing her chin toward Kelly, who was still talking into her cell phone.

  “Honey, you have to pull his foreskin back gently—don’t hurt him!—and then you just use the washcloth a little bit . . . okay, okay, don’t panic, it won’t fall off.” Kelly hung up the phone, shaking her head. “When did I become the world’s expert on penis cleaning?” she asked.

  “Just be glad you don’t have a girl,” Becky said. “The first time Andrew had to give Ava a bath, he called me in the middle of the dinner rush to ask how he should—and I quote—‘handle the area.’ You’d think they’d have covered that in medical school.” She looked at Ayinde. “How does Richard do with the baths?”

  “Oh, Richard doesn’t do baths,” she said, sipping from a glass of what looked like sangria. “I’m the only one who does baths.”

  “In your Priscilla Prewitt–approved tub,” Becky said.

  “Actually, I take him into the tub with me,” Ayinde said. “It’s wonderful.”

  “I used to do that,” I said. I ducked my head. Once, Sam had come into the bathroom to take pictures of the two of us in the tub together, and I’d been so self-conscious about my stretch marks that I’d thrown a bottle of shampoo at his head. But it had been wonderful. I remembered cradling Caleb’s slippery body, the feel of his wet skin against mine, holding him under his armpits and swirling his legs through the water. What had happened to those pictures?

  Becky handed me a napkin. “Are you okay?”

  I nodded, blinking rapidly, determined not to cry and ruin their night. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?” I asked. “I think we’re low on chicken stock.”

  “Don’t be silly.” She handed me a plate. “What’s going on?”

  I took a sip of the sangria, feeling it warming my chest and belly.
“I went to this group. This grief group. It . . .” Another swallow. “I kind of left abruptly.”

  “How come?” Kelly asked.

  “Because it’s just a bunch of sad people sitting around telling their sad stories, and I don’t . . . I can’t . . .”

  Becky sat quietly, looking at me. “Do you think it would help to talk about it? It sounds like an okay idea to me. I mean . . .” She gave a nervous chuckle. “I don’t know what it must be like for you, I can’t even imagine, but I guess being around people who’d been through the same thing . . .”

  “But they hadn’t been through the same thing. That’s the problem.” I took another sip of sangria. And another. “The thing is . . .” I took a deep breath and stared at my hands. “I didn’t even want to be pregnant in the first place.” I wrapped both hands around my glass and spoke without looking at any of them. “The condom broke. I know how stupid that sounds. It’s like the reproductive version of ‘the dog ate my homework.’ And we weren’t married; we weren’t even engaged.” I remembered Sam’s quick indrawn breath, my own gasp once he’d pulled out of me, still half hard, and the condom nowhere to be found. I’d fished it out later with my fingertips, counting the days since my last period, thinking, This could be trouble.

  I’d been on the Pill before I’d moved to Los Angeles, eighteen years old, with my diploma from George Washington High, where I’d been voted Best Looking and Most Dramatic and Most Likely to Be Famous, and three thousand dollars I’d gotten for selling the ring that I’d inherited. After I started going on look-sees and auditions and noticing that all of the women around me were a little blonder, a little more busty, and fifteen pounds thinner, I stopped taking it, figuring it might help me lose weight.

  “You’re underweight already,” the nurse at Planned Parenthood said while I stuffed my pockets with the free condoms laid out in cut-glass bowls like after-dinner mints.