Shopping for a Billionaire’s Baby

by Julia Kent

  “Is there a reason you want to be less connected?”

  I can tell she’s about to come out with a pat answer. We haven’t rehearsed this, but there’s a quality to the conversation that feels the same.

  “No. Of course not.”

  I wait.

  And wait.

  And, with patience that comes from being with someone for a few years, I wait some more.

  Until a tiny voice rises up from her and says, “I can’t believe you want that.”

  “Want what?”

  “Sex the way we used to have it.”

  “Of course I do. Don’t you?”

  She nods. A tear drops straight down out of her eye onto the back of her hand.

  “Shannon, what’s going on?”

  Pulling up her shirt, she shows off a wide, shining expanse of stretched, naked skin. “Look.”

  “I’m looking. Our baby is beautiful inside you.”

  She rolls her eyes. “No. Really look.” A pink line on her skin stands out, going down to her mons. “See that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s a stretch mark.”

  “So?”

  She pulls her pants down, panties as well, the line disappearing into her short thatch of pubic hair. “Look at me! It’s like a pink, overstretched ski trail system in there! I look like Attitash on skin!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s so gross! My skin is itchy and it’s got these lines that go all the way to places I didn’t know skin could change and it’s ugly and why would you want to have sex with the lights on fully naked with me?” Drop. Drop. Her head faces down and tears plunk, plunk on her hand, each one an indictment.

  Of me.

  “Shannon. Look at me.”

  She won’t.

  On my knees, I make her meet my eyes. Her belly presses against my hand as I twist to get into her line of sight. “Lay back.”

  “What?”

  “Lay. Back.” My hands go to her hips and she listens, but pulls the blanket over her bare skin.

  I pull it back off.

  “No, no, Declan, please don’t look.”

  “Please. Please let me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because this is hurting you and keeping us apart. I don’t want you to hurt and I don’t want to feel apart from you. Shannon, is this why you’ve been having sex with me when you’re wearing a dress? Or in a rush, half-clothed, at work?”

  “Maybe.” Her small, breathy voice makes my heart hurt. “Sometimes.”

  “Then let’s see how we can fix this.”

  “We can’t! It’s done! My body is–”

  “Beautiful,” I say firmly.

  She closes her eyes and leans back, her grip on the blanket loosening. I can see how much emotional effort this is for her.

  Taking pains to be tender and slow, I let the blanket drop and run my fingers down the slopes of the marks she’s so worried about. They point up and down in crooked lines, like trail markers.

  I bend down and kiss one, feeling the smooth, shiny skin against my lips.

  “They’re never going away,” she whispers. “I have other stretch marks. They’re light and silvery, but these are wide and thick, pink and purple and the books say they don’t really fade. A little, but they’ll always be there, and–”

  “And a reminder that your body made this body,” I interrupt, pressing gently on the baby, who kicks me back as if to say Humph. Thanks for that, Dad. “It’s a monument to the power of what you did.”

  “Now you’re going way over the top,” she huffs.

  “Am I? I don’t think so.”

  “It’s just going to get worse. My belly will sag and my breasts will leak milk and Carol says no matter how elastic your skin is, you always have a big pouch under your navel that no amount of Spanx will hold in.”

  “So?”

  “So? So? You’re a man, Declan. A fit man. A very fit man. I see how women look at you.”

  “I only see how you look at me.”

  “Guys like you aren’t supposed to be with women like me.”

  “That’s bullshit.” I crawl up her body, brushing against her skin, and hover over her, mouth to mouth. Trembling, she stays in place, a timid woodland creature, my proud wife turned into this because something deep is telling her she isn’t worthy.

  Anger rises up in me, a flashpoint, a sunburst. “This is why you’ve been distant? This? Because some internalized body perfection issue is coming out now that the pregnancy is changing your body so much? You’re making an entire human being with your body, Shannon. And not just any human being. My human being. Our human being. I don’t care what we’re supposed to think or feel. I care about what I do feel, and what I most certainly do feel is that if you just want quickies from me because that’s all you want, then that is perfectly fine.”

  I’m breathing so hard. I can see her bangs moving with each breath, her pupils dilated, eyes rapt with attention.

  “But if you’re avoiding sexual intimacy with me because you’re worried I won’t like your changed body, then ditch that idea right now. Kick it to the curb, toss it out of the board room, do whatever you need to do to get rid of it, because it’s wrong.”

  “Dec.”

  “It is wrong, and it has no place in our lives. I want you. I want your body. I want you writhing beneath me, your face filled with pleasure. I want you between my legs, on your knees, eyes tipped up in that maddening way you have when I’m in your mouth. I want to be over you, looking down as you bring me home inside, clamped down so hard as we come together. I want every inch of you to know that every inch of me is interchangeably yours and mine. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you sit here,” I say, choking up, “feeling disconnected from me because you’re hurting over something I find hauntingly beautiful.”

  “I think–I think it’s that. All of that. But it’s also, oh–it’s never going back.”

  “Your skin?” I’m trying to understand this.

  “Everything! It’s all changing. Forever. My skin, my breasts, our life, the time we spend together, how we spend it, my career–it’s all going to be different. And we made the decision already. The control is gone. It’s happening no matter what, and I feel like I’m sitting in a wagon I can’t steer, perched on top of a ski slope.”

  “We,” I say.

  “We what?”

  “We’re perched there. I’m in the wagon with you. And it’s scary as hell, but I’m in there with you. Forever.”

  That’s when she kisses me, a full and salty reply that means more than all the sex we’ve had in the last month combined.

  And as she opens to me, on the sofa, crumbs dotting her perfect body, she lets me do more than make love to her.

  She lets me be love to her.

  Chapter 16

  Shannon

  * * *

  “The hospital called. They found a replacement instructor for our childbirth class. So we will get to have a class after all,” I tell him as I wait for Amanda to come pick me up and take me to Mom’s Unicoga class. Dec and Andrew are coming later, delayed by some flimsy reason I know they invented to cut their torture time in yoga class in half.

  If I could have used the same excuse myself, I would have.

  “Yay!” Declan feigns enthusiasm. “Do we get to sculpt a placenta out of marzipan and Vegemite?”

  “Ha ha. Make fun all you want, but you really do have a talent for sculpting. That vulva was remarkably good.”

  “I’m passionate about the human body.” The look he gives me makes that evident.

  “Your head has spent so much time down there, I’m surprised you don’t have wrinkles in your face that mold perfectly to my–”

  Ring! Ring!

  Declan’s phone chimes like crazy, the strange sound of a smartphone ringing throwing us both off. He answers.

  “What, Dave? They what? Customs seized what? Damn it. Okay. I’ll be there.” He ends the call, shoves his
phone in his pocket, and is halfway out the door before I can open my mouth and say:

  “Seriously? You didn’t need to create a rescue call. Dave’s turning out to be a universal tool you can use for everything. Maybe you should get him pregnant to have your next baby.”

  Dec turns a funny, pale shade at my joke.

  “Look, it’s no joke. Sounds like drug smugglers are hiding their product in coffee shipments, and I need to deal with this. I’ll let Andrew know.” A peck on the cheek and bam! He’s gone.

  The door buzzes about five minutes later. “Ready?” Amanda asks when I push the intercom.

  “Be there in a second!”

  Mom normally teaches yoga in a friend’s converted barn, just north of my hometown and conveniently located fairly close to I-495, but this time she’s in Natick, testing out a new facility. I know she’s advertised the hell out of this new Unicoga class, pushing it online and in Facebook ads. As long as we can get to the Mass Pike without too much traffic, it’s smooth sailing when it’s not rush hour, so the trip will be short.

  Even so, this gives me a rare chunk of time with Amanda.

  “Andrew suddenly does want a baby,” she announces as we whiz past the Allston and Brighton exits.

  “Why? It’s not like he can win at this point.” I look down at the big lump resting on my thighs.

  “I don’t know. He’s not pushing. Just making it clear he’s ready if I am.”

  “Do you want one?”

  “Not yet. I’m going to watch you do it and decide from there.”

  “Don’t use me as your object lesson in whether to have a baby or not! That’s too much pressure.”

  “Who else can I use as a role model?”

  “Carol.”

  “Carol is a single mom whose husband dumped her with two small kids and a bunch of debt. Andrew couldn’t be more different from her ex if he tried.”

  “True.”

  “We are married to wealthy men.”

  She makes a strange, low growl as she says it, as if it’s hard to admit she, too, has married into money.

  “You know it makes us different,” I add.

  “Right.”

  “We won’t have the problems our parents had. Or Carol has.” We’ve helped with Tyler’s private therapies, subsidizing as much as Carol’s pride allows, and now that she works for Dec’s brother in a big corporation with fabulous benefits, she’s in a much better place, but still.

  I’ll never, ever face what she has as a parent. Not financially, not emotionally, not operationally. My parents, too. Declan and I aren’t starting out broke.

  Quite the opposite.

  “Do we really have to talk about how the money makes us different from other people again?”

  “It changes parenting.”

  “It changes everything.” Amanda blinks rapidly, as if an idea just struck her. “Have you met any other moms?” she asks, turning in her seat to look at me.

  “I figure I will after the baby’s born. Going to mommy groups now feels like checking out colleges as a high school freshman, you know? A little premature.”

  “But you plan to meet other mommies, right?”

  “Sure. I’ll want friends with kids my kid’s age.”

  “Right. Friends.” More blinking.

  “Uptown Funk” comes on the radio, and for the next four minutes, we rock out to it. The baby kicks out of beat.

  “What was that reply all about?” I ask her.

  “What?”

  “When you said ‘Right. Friends.’”

  “Just... you know.”

  “Amanda.”

  “Fine. You are like a waterboarding expert at dragging things out of me! It’s about all the new mommy friends you’re going to make.” One hand bangs lightly on the steering wheel as she says the word “friends.”

  “What about them?”

  “Are you going to become one of those mommies who ditches all your non-mommy friends? Are we going to be one of those friendships where we spend seventeen months saying ‘We should go out for dinner!’ back and forth but never do it? Are you going to fade away?”

  “No!”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because–because–” How can I be sure? I don’t know. Amanda’s throwing all this at me out of nowhere. It’s clear she’s thought about it. A lot. I haven’t had the bandwidth to even consider it.

  “I don’t know,” I confess. “I love you. You’re my bestie. We’re married to brothers. Why would I ever not want to be friends with you?”

  “You hated me in eleventh grade that time I over-fried your hair when we tried to dye it blue.”

  “I did. We didn’t talk for three whole days. But this is different. I’ll have a baby! Babies are portable. We can still get together and have fun. Plus, you’ll be this baby’s aunt. If nothing else, don’t piss off the relatives. They’re contractually obligated to bring gifts for the kid for birthdays and holidays,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood.

  She doesn’t laugh. “Will you talk only about the baby?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s not a no.”

  “Because I can’t guarantee a no! Amanda, what is this about? It’s not about the baby. It’s not even about our friendship. You know we’ll be friends like old Agnes and Corrine, chewing each other out but inseparable. So come on. What’s the real issue here?”

  “This is the real issue.” With her giant, round eyes, Amanda’s regular resting face already makes her look impossibly alert. As she tears up, her eyes widen and I feel like I’ve deeply wounded Puss in Boots from Shrek.

  “You’re crying!” I gasp. “Don’t cry!”

  “Why not?”

  “Because if you cry,” I say, sobbing, “then I’ll cry.”

  “I don’t want you to cry!” she sobs back. “Why are you crying?”

  “I cried at an emergency broadcast test on PBS this morning. I cry when CVS has a two-for-one sale on floss picks,” I say, digging in my purse to find tissues. I hand her one. She dabs her eyes.

  “You became a grown-up! You’re about to be a mom and I’m not and I love Andrew and our Cheetocino failed in market testing and everything is changing.”

  “Wait. The Cheetocino failed?”

  Her face crumples. “Yes!”

  “I can’t believe people didn’t love it!”

  “We had to pay the focus group testers extra. The janitor, too. Apparently, a lot of people barfed. It got complicated. Lawyers were involved.”

  “But the Cheetocino is the perfect drink!” I argue, deeply sad that no one can appreciate the splendor of so many competing tastes on a happy tongue.

  “I knooooooooowwwww!”

  We spend the next ten minutes speeding along the highway, laughing and crying.

  She turns off the Pike for the Natick exit and we sniff together.

  “You suck,” she finally says as the GPS tells us we’ve arrived at our destination. It’s a big brick building with a ton of cars in the parking lot, people carrying yoga mats streaming inside.

  “Why do I suck?” I roll out of the car and grab my mat. No way am I doing a full yoga class, but I’m here to support Mom.

  “Because not only do you know me so well that you can drag information out of me, you can cry with me for fifteen minutes and–hey. Hold on.” Spinning around, she gawks at all the people pouring into the building. “Is this some giant yoga studio? Because there’s no way all these people are going to Marie’s stupid unicorn yoga class.”

  “Mom didn’t say. Probably one of those supercenters for yoga, dance, you know.”

  We reach the main doors and quickly realize it’s a big auditorium. Mom made us buy tickets online, so we pull out our phones and a security guard scans the glass screens, waving us in.

  “More than a hundred people are in here!” Amanda gasps. “The last time your mom had a class this big was when everyone came to kick Declan’s ass because you two had broken up and he no-show
ed.”

  “Thanks for reminding me.”

  “Sorry.”

  “And that’s not how I remember it.”

  We scan the big auditorium, searching the crowd for familiar faces.

  “There’s Agnes,” Amanda says, pointing. “Corrine’s right next to her.”

  In addition to unrolling their yoga mats, everyone walks over to strategically placed boxes and grabs glittering silver cone-shaped things and a flat rainbow-colored package.

  “What is this about?” I ask, marveling.

  “Uhhhhhhhh,” Amanda says, pointing toward the main door.

  Where my mother is dressed like a unicorn.

  And not in an understated way.

  If glitter gains personhood, I know what it will look like. Mom has managed to transform herself into a one-woman parade float for Pride Week.

  Complete with hooves.

  “SHANNON!” she squeals, moving gracefully my way, leaving a trail of rainbow-colored tie-dyed ribbon scarf three feet behind her.

  “Nice. A pregnant one,” some strange man standing in line to get in says. “Bet she’ll be popular.”

  I give him a nasty look as Mom hugs me. You would think that yoga classes would be judgment-free zones. Mom does her best–the only judging she does in her classes is of me, when I attend–but there’s a hyper-competitive feel to some of the practitioners, especially the men. A sinking dread starts to pour over me.

  “What do you think? Do I pass as a unicorn?” she asks, eyes glittering.

  No, I mean literally glittering.

  “Are you wearing some weird contact lenses, Mom?”

  “I am! Special-ordered glitter contacts!” Rapid blinks accompany her announcement, her eyelashes augmented by long fake ones that make her look like a spider glitter bomb.

  “How can you see through those? Are they functional?” Amanda gasps.

  “Who cares if they’re functional?” she exclaims as she gives Amanda a hug and accidentally grabs her boob. “They’re eye catching, aren’t they? That’s what counts!”

  “Your hair is rainbow colored. And those tights...” Mom looks like a bag of Skittles got ironed and turned into a leotard.

  “Marie, you are colorful,” Amanda says, spitting out some glitter she inhaled during her invasive half hug with mom.