Seeing Me Naked

by Liza Palmer

  Since I’m seated closest to the hostess, I am chosen to go first. This could be my one chance to regain some of the credibility I lost in the first game. We were told to decorate a plain white onesie for the new arrival, so I wrote, SHOW ME YOUR TITS! Needless to say, it didn’t go over well.

  I clear my throat. “Lot and Stoma,” I announce.

  The room falls silent. Julie physically scoots her steel-mesh Bertoia chair away from me. Eva sniffs delicately and writes my two names on the big dry-erase board she has set up in the front of the room.

  “It’s biblical,” I whisper to Julie.

  “Samuel is going to have a field day with that one,” Julie says, swirling her mimosa around in its flute.

  I’m surrounded by a group of thirtysomething women, all of them married with children. I’m in enemy territory. Women hopped up on the idea of the upcoming fantasy baby, smelling clean and sweet, silent except for coos and giggles—no poop, no pitiful late-night crying—no reality. I can’t wipe the fake plastered smile from my face.

  A woman in a peasant top with no bra offers up Lara and Mort to the Baby Jumble gods. The hostess squeals with delight.

  “Your safety pin is flipping in. No one can see it,” Julie whispers to me as she flips my collar out and exposes the safety pin: the symbol of all that is evil in baby-shower games. When I first arrived, the hostess gave me the safety pin, advising me to wear it on my person somewhere. “It must be visible at all times,” the woman warned. I listened intently. If, at any point during the baby shower, I were to cross my legs, another partygoer could swipe my safety pin, and I would be out of the game. Voted off the proverbial Safety Pin Island. The partygoer who manages to collect the most safety pins wins some completely useless gift: a scented candle or bath gel and, apparently, bragging rights to having her priorities completely out of order. Julie continues, “You’re not trying to cheat, are you?” Another woman offers up Marla and Lars to the Baby Name Game.

  “Yes, I’m cheating. That makes perfect sense,” I reason.

  “I’m just saying. Looks a little fishy.” Julie stuffs a small piece of lemon cake in her mouth. She quickly spits it out and takes a giant swig of her mimosa to exorcise any unwelcome remnants from her too refined palate. I sneak a quick look around the room to see if anyone has noticed. Luckily, everyone was looking at the hostess as she wrote Sara and Al on the big dry-erase board.

  “I’m going to cross my goddamn legs. I’ve been flashing that poor woman all morning,” I say. “And will you stop spitting everything out? It’s not like we’re in some junior high school cafeteria, for the love of God.” Julie is touching up her bright red lipstick. She hardly gives me a second glance. With her obvious disdain of all things domestic, Julie should stand out way more than I do.

  “This cake is dry, and there’s some kind of lemon zest, but it’s just— Is it dried?” Julie picks through the regurgitated cake on her plate like an archaeologist chipping away at a dig in the sands of Egypt. God, are we completely incapable of acting normal in the real world? She continues, “It’s straight out of one of those warehouse stores.” She flicks at the cake with disgust. I take a quick sidelong glance at the cake—I can’t believe someone would actually use dried lemon zest. Julie goes on, “And you can’t cross your legs. It’s against the rules. You’ll lose your safety pin. You’re the one who had to wear a skirt.” She hesitates and then swipes a safety pin away from the hostess’s ancient grandmother, who inadvertently crossed her legs as she bent down to check the gauge on her oxygen tank.

  Eva moves on to Julie in the Baby Name Jumble. Julie gulps down her mimosa and sets the empty flute on the steel-and-glass minimalist table behind her.

  “Greta and Saul,” Julie says proudly. Once again, she is unable to come in anything but first. Even at a baby shower, her ambition is unnerving. Eva beams at her. I tear a sugar rose from a tiny petit four and pop it into my mouth. I fight the urge to spit the entire sugar glob onto the paper plate that’s resting on my knees. Julie’s right: warehouse store all the way.

  “Well done! Well done!” Eva turns and writes Greta and Saul in print three times the size of my two names. I smile graciously, letting the room know I’m aware my names are “unusual” and that I’m in awe of Julie’s Baby Name Jumble acumen.

  In the end, Eva presents Julie with a neatly wrapped present; her names won first place. Julie bows and curtsies as she accepts the present. She takes her seat once again in the circle. The women clap politely while they search for faults in Julie. Thick ankles, maybe? Spinster in the making? Are her breasts real? Does she have her sights on my husband? They will debate these questions for the rest of the party.

  “We’re going to move out onto the deck for brunch and the big finale: present opening! Margot?”

  Margot is leaning over and offering her congratulations to Julie. Eva glares at them. Margot quickly stands.

  “Do you even know what a stoma is?” Julie steps down onto the patio and holds the dupioni silk curtains open for me.

  “Well, I can certainly use it in a sentence, if you’d like. Stoma. If I have to hear about attachment parenting or the wonders of hemp anymore, I’m going to stab myself in the stoma. Stoma,” I say.

  “So, how do you know Margot? Are you family?” a woman asks me and Julie as I check out the deck’s seating arrangements. She has a baby slung across her chest, and we’ve all been treated to a view of her exposed breast more times than we’d like to remember. I can’t stop staring at her runaway eyebrows and unshaved legs.

  “We’re friends of Samuel’s,” I say.

  “You could be family,” she says to me. “You and Margot look like sisters. You two have the same build, and you know . . . it’s really in the eyes,” she says as her baby whimpers at her chest. She rests her hand on the baby’s head, absentmindedly caressing its wisps of hair. While both Margot and I both do have blue eyes, my black hair is wavy and nothing like Margot’s straight, thick, and very blond tresses. While her skin is tanned and perfect, my own pale skin burns every time I go out in the sun. I tuck a rogue bit of hair behind my ear.

  “Oh, thank you,” I answer. I notice that Julie is flagging me down. She’s secured two seats at a table on the outer fringes of the party. The woman with the baby stares at me. I fight every urge to find my purse, grab my tweezers and possibly a razor, and just hold this lady down while I make her look a little less like the love child of Andy Rooney and the ever elusive Sasquatch.

  “Is it . . .” I hesitate. I have never known how to ask a mother if her baby is a boy or a girl—it seems so impersonal to refer to the baby as an “it”—and I find myself at a loss again. Julie is still standing by the chairs. She is no longer flagging me down because she’s anxiously scanning the deck area for another mimosa: her own personal coping mechanism for dealing with the thirtysomething marrieds.

  “Bode,” the woman says. That confuses me, and now I have that Creedence Clearwater Revival song “Lodi” stuck in my head. She waits for it to register. Stuck in Lodi again. It doesn’t. She continues, “He’s a boy.” I should introduce her to Rascal and have him elaborate on how having a fucked-up name has worked out for him. The woman continues smiling, and I know The Question is coming.

  “How do you know Margot?” I offer before she gets the chance. I switch into party mode: asking questions, giving an engaging smile, making the person feel like she’s the center of the universe.

  “I’m her doula. Joanne.” We shake hands awkwardly as I introduce myself to her. She goes on, “I’ll be helping Margot with her birth. And you . . . do you—”

  “I don’t know her that well, so I don’t really think that’d be appropriate,” I interrupt. Bode is officially crying. Joanne doesn’t seem to notice. I wonder if midwifery or doula-ing or whatever you call it is the best calling for a woman so completely immune to crying and what it might mean. Pain, maybe?

  Joanne laughs. “Children. Do you have any children?” Hey, speaking of children, Joanne,
why don’t you take a quick peekaboo at what might be causing your little one to become absolutely hysterical?

  “Oh, no. Not yet.” I smile shyly, trying to convey the proper level of regret. I catch a glimpse of Julie proudly hoisting two flutes of mimosa. I extricate myself from Mother Earth and quietly dismiss visions of pushing little yellow-headed kids on swings as I weave my way over to Julie.

  The crisp fall air moves lazily over the canals near Eva’s Venice home. This is my favorite time of year. The season is stubbornly changing. We Angelenos hold our breath for the days of summer to be officially over. We’re constantly taunted with a few days here and there of beautiful autumn weather, slowly morphing into a lovely winter chill, and then it’s back to the summer heat. I breathe in and hope this weather sticks around. I watch as a gaggle of geese waddles down the narrow walkways of this Boho-chic neighborhood. Multimillion-dollar houses averaging no more than a thousand square feet of living space. Eva is a set designer for some sitcom, so her home looks like a layout for one of those glossy lifestyle magazines, modern yet plush.

  Margot and Samuel haven’t told anyone the sex of little Lot or Stoma, so Eva has draped the five round tables with apricot and cream tablecloths. Translucent silvery runners spill effortlessly over their sides. She’s accented each table with framed pictures of anonymous yet diverse children in silver frames. Eva has obviously tried to be politically correct, seeing as how Samuel is African-American. She’s desperately trying to incorporate this wrinkle into her life and, far more urgently, into the party decor. Maybe that would explain why one Al Jarreau CD has been on repeat throughout the entire event.

  My apricot-and-cream-striped plate sports tiny cakes and sweets that Julie still can’t stop taking apart and tasting. Her blouse is covered with safety pins, as if she’s a punk-rock kid from the 1980s.

  Margot comes over and leans in conspiratorially. “How do you like the food?”

  “Oh . . . ummm.” Julie and I try to think of something vague yet complimentary.

  “Eva hired the caterer,” Margot finally whispers, and gives us a tiny wink. Julie and I both let out a relieved burst of laughter as Margot continues, “Samuel made a batch of his killer beignets. They’re inside in a Tupper on the kitchen counter, under my coat. I figured only you guys would really appreciate them. And Elisabeth, there’s a thermos of yogi tea in the kitchen as well. I was assuming your stomach would be a bit . . . iffy. Especially today. Samuel said you guys had a late night at the restaurant.” Margot places her hand on my arm. I melt into her.

  It’s not lost on me or Julie that I was the only one offered yogi tea. I figure Margot is all free love and hugs for everyone until it comes to solidifying her husband’s position at the restaurant.

  As the autumn wind blows the scent of fireplaces across my face, something about the quiet and calm of the day makes me start to take a look at my life. I don’t like what I see. The fact that Julie is the only person I can at all relate to here is more than a little alarming. Sure, I’m the most balanced person in the kitchen at Beverly. But that’s like being crowned King of the Dipshits.

  I refocus on Margot, who’s presenting an adorable yellow chenille blankie. I ooh and ahh absently. Yes, Julie, I’d like another mimosa—shit, now more than ever. No wonder every single woman I know hates baby showers. It’s too hard to be confronted with what you don’t have.

  I confronted Will about staying, and he said no. So where does that leave me? Do I go back to believing that love is a beautiful intangible comet that shoots through the night sky every seventy-five years? Or do I force myself to admit how empty and lonely those other seventy-four years, three hundred and sixty-four days, twenty-three hours, and fifty-nine minutes are without him?

  I sip my mimosa as the world muffles and mutes around me. The partygoers clap, and Julie leans in to tell me something. I smile but can’t make out her words. I look at Margot, holding up a little light green sweater that she then sets on her belly. The crowd coos in synchronization. I grind my teeth and set my jaw. My five-now-eleven-year plan is losing credibility as well as momentum. Separating and severing myself from the giants I grew up with, trying to create something of my own, is beginning to feel like a childlike attempt at rebellion, which usually manifests in some horrible body piercing or pink-tinted Mohawk. Except my act of rebellion has been my entire career—my entire identity. Not something you can hope grows out. I can feel something giving . . . something melting . . . something eroding . . . something bubbling up.

  No.

  I sit up straight and snap myself back to reality. It’s this fucking baby shower. That’s all it is. The fucking baby shower.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I wake up the next morning, still hungover from the mimosas, even though I stopped drinking midafternoon. (Champagne and I have never really gotten along.) I roll over in bed; the hardwood floors creak under the iron frame. Eight-twelve A.M. I pull the duvet cover up over my shoulders and try to get a bit more sleep before the alarm sounds in eighteen minutes. My brain is running through its usual lists of things to do. I can’t stop sighing, can’t stop rubbing my eyes and face. Trying to wipe away . . . everything. Feelings. Can you do that? Just wipe it all away? I decide to get up, despite the eighteen-minute discrepancy.

  My apartment is already bright with the morning sunlight. I get dressed in my running gear and sit on the side of my bed to lace up my running shoes. The quiet of my apartment seems to encourage reflection and introspection. Best to head out, then. I breathe deeply and forge ahead. The phone rings. I push my pant leg down over my sock and head to the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Sweetie, please don’t scream into the phone.”

  “Morning, Mom,” I say.

  “Yes, darling—well, I was just calling to schedule your baking lesson. I’m sorry it’s taken almost a month, but we’ve collected the money, and the bidder would like to know when he can begin to learn from the premier pastry chef of Los Angeles.”

  I wonder if that ticky-tacky Daniel Sullivan posted the final bid. Jesus, who am I kidding—of course he did. Except for me and my imaginary army of bidding minions, my clipboard was as unpopular as— Wow, I can’t think of anything more unpopular than that clipboard. Awesome.

  “Dear? Are you . . . can you concentrate for just a second? I’d like to set up this baking lesson before my lunch meeting with the Junior League,” Mom presses.

  “Who was the final bidder?” I ask.

  “One of the gentlemen who donated his time to playing basketball with the kids. Some UCLA boy. Daniel Sullivan.” That worked out well. I’ve painted myself into a corner where the only way to get out is give a cooking lesson to someone who plays basketball for a living. Maybe the next time I play a joke on someone, I should think about whom exactly the joke is on before going through with it.

  “We can do it next Monday morning at the restaurant. I don’t know if that’s too soon, but if he can swing it, that would be ideal.” I speak quickly, trying to get this over with as soon as possible.

  “We bought a house,” Samuel says, his hands deep in the mixer. He’s prepping the little chocolate cakes for tonight’s service.

  “I thought you were just looking?” I carefully ask.

  “Oh, no. I’ve been saving, and with Margot’s boutique doing so well . . . Our families chipped in a little, too,” Samuel confesses.

  “Oh,” I say.

  “You know, with the baby coming,” Samuel adds.

  “You bought the one I walked through?” I ask, trying to disguise my horror. I hope it wasn’t that house we walked through. I’m not sure I know how to congratulate someone who might have purchased a money pit. Let’s face it, though—I think all houses are albatrosses, so consider the source.

  “That piece of shit? No way. But it is a bit of a fixer,” Samuel says.

  “Congratulations,” I say.

  “Yes, Chef. We’re very excited,” he says. I nod and get to work prepping the clafout
i. It’s going to be fabulous. It’s a French peasant dish that I learned in Lyon. It’s just upmarket pancake batter poured over warm cherries—succulent, warm, and homey, perfect for a fall night. And since the cooler weather decided to stay, I’m celebrating with a dish perfect for a crisp night by the fireside. Although it’s not traditional, I’m going to do the clafouti in individual ramekins, served with cream added at the table. I figure no one in L.A. will know its real origins. And Chef Canet isn’t here tonight. This is my opportunity to try it out.

  Julie rounds the corner. She still has her sunglasses on. The skimpiest of Girl Scout uniforms is barely hanging on her pale, slightly doughy body. Fortunately, we have extra clothes in the back for nights that never really end. It’s not that uncommon, though the Halloween costume is a twist. And three days shy of the actual holiday. It’s going to be a long weekend.

  I follow Julie into the back. Samuel appears out of nowhere with a cup of perfectly made espresso for her. Julie stands there swaying in her green skirt and black lacy bra, and gulps the espresso. She’s mumbling something about where Chef Canet is and did he see her and how Samuel shouldn’t be looking at her tits. We don’t pay any attention to her. We’ve run this drill before. Burning the candle at both ends is the status quo for people who work in a kitchen of this caliber. The true art comes in making sure your function never dips below extraordinary. Because unlike showing up to work in a Girl Scout uniform with a vial of cocaine in your pocket and mascara running down your face, not performing up to snuff is grounds for immediate sacking.

  “Is that badge for a good blow job?” I say, putting the green felt sash into her locker. The fragile paper badges are ripped and stained.

  “I was a good little Girl Scout,” Julie says, rolling on deodorant. I bet she earned a lot of badges last night.

  I get Julie into some checked pants, an old concert T-shirt she had in her locker (I don’t ask), and her chef’s jacket. She’s not that drunk, just really hungover and exhausted. Samuel returns with his special ginger-based hangover cure. She downs it in one gulp. Then he hands her two aspirin and a bottle of water.