by Julia Kent
“You have to make choices, though. You have to. No one can do it all. We were so broke when we had Carol, but Marie demanded she be able to stay at home. Turned herself into a frugal whiz.”
“Declan and I don’t have that problem. We can pay for help.”
“Of course you can. Declan wants to do that with the night nurse, and the nannies.”
“But I don’t want that much help. And it’s not about the money.”
“No, honey. It isn’t. Money helps, but ultimately, it’s about choices. Who are you? Who do you want to be? Who do you and Declan want to be, together?”
“We want to be Shannon and Declan... and a baby.”
“That’s not how it works, honey. I mean, sure–you are you and he is Declan. And the baby is the baby. Over time, though, you’ll see that who you are together–you and your husband as a couple, and you and your husband and your children as a family–take on separate identities, too. Remember that drumming circle we used to watch once a month on the town common when you were in middle school?”
“Yeah?”
“Remember how the leader of it talked about listening for the ‘third voice’ when the djembes and djun djuns would play?”
“Third voice?”
“One set of drummers would play one rhythm. The other set would play a second rhythm. And after a while–and it took a good, long stretch–if you listened, closed your eyes, and let the beat take over your blood, you could feel a third voice. It wasn’t so much that you could listen to it with your ears. It was more a feeling. A third voice that was wholly unique and different from the other two rhythms, but that wouldn’t exist without those two distinct sounds.”
“Gotcha.”
“You and Declan will build a third voice, whether you do it intentionally or accidentally. Most of us do it by accident. I get the sense you two have it in you to make some conscious choices about it, and act on those.”
“What makes people do it with intention or by accident?”
“Dunno.”
“Which one are you and Mom?”
“Dunno.”
“Dad! That’s not helpful.”
“Parenting isn’t like being a CPA. You don’t have a list of rules to follow, spreadsheets to fill in, checklists to tell you that you’ve accomplished your goal. It’s more like improv.”
“Improv?”
“You get shoved out on stage without a script, you don’t know what your audience is going to throw your way, and the only form of evaluation is highly subjective.”
“That sounds like a nightmare.”
“You ever see bad improv?”
“Sure.”
“What about great improv?”
I pause. Dad’s eyes aren’t on me, though. He’s looking over my shoulder. I turn and follow his gaze.
Declan’s just come into the shop.
Talk about improv.
“You weren’t kidding. Dave must have told Declan.”
“Dave is my husband’s very own deep state operative,” I say in a hushed tone. “But he’s also a miracle worker, so I can’t hate him.”
“Talking about me?” Declan sits next to Dad and eyes the donuts. There are two left, because Dad started eating a chocolate coconut one, and my pregnancy math says four people and six donuts means I don’t get my proper allocation of three.
Or four.
“You heard the word ‘hate’ and assumed that? Guilty conscience?” I say, but my resolve is already fading. Sitting across the table from him, looking at my husband and the father of this child I’m growing and not being embroiled in an argument makes me view him as a full person.
And not an adversary.
In fact, it kind of hurts now as I try not to look him in the eye. My donut gets more love than usual, but as seconds tick by, even that starts to taste like sand in my mouth.
And regret.
“Shannon saved you from a beating from Jason,” Mom says, surprising everyone, making poor Dad choke on his donut until Declan has to whack him on the back to help.
“Looks like I’m the one beating him,” Dec sighs. “Why would you need to resort to fists with me?”
“Because Shannon made it sound like you wanted a threesome,” Mom clarifies.
Declan starts choking. Dad claps him on the back.
“Where the hell did you get that?” Declan asks me. I finally meet his eyes. Pained amusement pins me in my seat. I swallow the lump of sugar and carbs in my mouth, throat suddenly dry.
“It was a misunderstanding.”
“I’ll say. I assure you, I have no interest in bringing another woman into our relationship.”
“Aside from Rita,” Mom says.
“I canceled Rita.”
“You did?” I ask him, truly surprised.
Guilt seeps into my skin. Or maybe I’ve peed myself. It’s hard to tell these days.
“I explained the situation to her. She completely understood. Said it’s a common issue, and if we’d like to reschedule, to contact her.”
“How... nice.”
“She sounds reasonable,” Dad says.
“Isn’t it nice when you find someone who is reasonable?” Dec says, his tone sharp enough to make Dad give him major side eye.
“Easy, buddy.”
“Shannon! Let’s go get the drinks from Andres,” Mom says, not even trying to hide the fact that she wants us to leave Declan and Dad alone.
I stand.
I waddle.
I can be reasonable.
But my Dad?
Hmmmm.
* * *
Declan
* * *
“She’s upset,” I tell Jason, turning to him for that male camaraderie that comes from dealing with a woman who is overly emotional.
Instead, I meet eyes that tell me where Shannon gets it.
And it’s not all from her mother.
“She’s upset. You’re upset. I take it you want to hire people to make the parenting load lighter on you two?” Jason finishes the donut in his hand with teeth that tear.
“Yes.”
“And Shannon doesn’t?”
“So far, no. But she’ll come around.” I hope.
“What does that mean, Declan? ‘Come around?’”
“She’ll see reason. We can’t do it all alone.”
“Marie and I did.” His eyebrows go up as he swallows, the point clear: Suck it up.
“You weren’t acquiring and growing a national brand, Jason. And just because you parented a certain way doesn’t mean Shannon and I will follow in your footsteps.”
“No. We weren’t growing a business. Parenting is parenting, though. You can have all the support in the world but you still have to do it yourself.”
“That’s it. Exactly. Shannon doesn’t see the difference.”
“Shannon doesn’t know any different. We never had support. Neither set of grandparents helped us. She sees this through her experience, just as you’re seeing it through yours.”
“I respect that. I’m sorry you and Marie had no help when your kids were little. I don’t want that for Shannon and me. We can be great parents without having to white-knuckle it.”
“Of course you can. I’m not objecting to what you’re trying to do, son. I’m just giving you as much of Shannon’s perspective as I can. You need to understand her position. You’re a team now. It’s a consensus model. Not top down.”
I start to reply. I shut my mouth. He’s got a point.
Jason always does. Usually it’s a good one.
This time is no exception.
“I’m going to guess,” he says as Marie and Shannon come back with the drinks, “you’re accustomed to making decisions and acting on them when it comes to your operational life.”
“Yes.”
“But not your emotional life with Shannon,” he says softly, before they can hear. “My daughter wouldn’t be with you if you weren’t a true partner.”
“I am. We are.”
&n
bsp; “Then apply that to parenting with her.” His final words ring in my ears as Marie scoots into her side of the booth with Shannon coming slowly after, still avoiding eye contact with me.
I have to fix this.
How do you fix something when you’ve done nothing wrong?
In business, I know exactly how to act. The road to making a decision is clear to me, even if the eventual choice isn’t. My wife isn’t a vendor, a competitor, a financier, or an employee.
She is my wife. The mother of my child. The rules I’ve cultivated, the set of actionable blueprints I’ve established and honed over years of work, don’t apply to my innermost emotional world.
Not anymore.
Not since I met Shannon four years ago.
“Declan–”
“Shannon–”
We both speak at the same time, the bridge to peace crossed in unison, if not hand in hand. Her head tips up, eyes meeting mine.
“No night nurse,” I say over her words, repeating myself because it’s clear she didn’t hear it the first time.
She jolts. “Really?”
“Really. I still think we need help and need to sleep at night in order to run the business, and we do need a team of people to help us, but you have to be comfortable with whatever solution we come up with. This is a joint decision. Your veto counts.”
“I didn’t–it’s not a hard no. I’m not saying we absolutely can’t have a night nurse. It’s just a lot to absorb.”
“So is having a baby. I don’t want you to struggle. I want us to have it all,” I explain. “And a no is a no. We can find common ground later.” I’m assuming there is some sort of middle ground in this emotional mess.
She softens, reaching for my hand. The touch is grounding. Immediate.
Marie and Jason watch us attentively. I could do without the audience, but if I ask them to leave, it’ll be even more disruptive.
“Thank you,” Shannon says. “I want that. We always find our way to a third path that is better than the original ones we each thought were best.”
I smile. “We do.”
Jason opens his mouth to say something, but Marie stops him with an understated shake of the head. “Jason, I want another chai. Let’s go order more.” They move to the other side of the shop, giving me enough space to breathe as Shannon and I talk more.
And I make it all up, one halting word at a time, Jason’s words echoing in my head.
We’re true partners.
Time to prove it.
Chapter 18
Shannon
* * *
“Your belly isn’t very convincing. I think Amanda looks more pregnant than you,” Josh declares, eyeing me like he’s a major player on Queer Eye for the Pregnant Lie.
“This is about as authentic as you’re going to get,” I tell him, taking his hand and putting it right where the baby’s foot is. Josh tries to pull away because he hates physical contact, but on cue the baby kicks him, and Josh freezes.
“Whoa! You live with someone kicking you from the inside every day?”
“Yes.”
“I mean, my mother does it metaphorically, but this takes it to a whole new level!” Eyebrows screwed into an expression of sympathy, Josh keeps his hand on my belly, rubbing it in a really reassuring way. “You’re so taut!”
“Thank you.”
“I mean, that’s some muscle. You been working out?”
“The uterus is the strongest muscle in the body,” I tell him.
“I thought that was the tongue.”
“Are you two talking about sex again?” Amanda groans as she lifts her shirt in front of Josh and adjusts her fake belly.
His hands fly off my body and cover his eyes. “Amanda! Do you mind?”
“Mind what?”
“I don’t need to see your junk!”
“You saw a sliver of the bottom of my bra, Josh.” Amanda looks down. “Or were you blinded by my un-tan torso? That I could understand.”
“You are married to a billionaire. Shouldn’t you be sunning in St. Tropez for a living instead of pretending to be pregnant and trolling store clerks?” he says with withering contempt. “If I landed a hot, rich guy like Andrew McCormick, working for a living would be the last thing you’d find me doing.”
“What would be the first?” I ask him.
Wink.
“Ewwww.”
“Please do not put that image in my brain,” Amanda says, smacking him.
“What image? Your warped imagination isn’t my fault!”
“It is when you talk about my husband.”
“You can’t control my fantasies.”
“You fantasize about Andrew?”
“I fantasize about Ronald McDonald if I see a McDonald’s commercial. I’m a horny gay man who hasn’t had a date in five months and hasn’t had sex in two.”
“That timeline doesn’t make sense,” I point out.
Josh is about to explain when Amanda yanks on my arm. “We’re late.”
“Late for a mystery shop?”
“Late for our brain-bleach sessions.” I wave wildly as she frog-marches me to the elevators, punching the button until the doors open and we get on.
“I didn’t get to talk to Carol!”
“She’s your sister. You’ll see her at one of your mom’s Sunday dinners. We have work to do.”
I poke her belly, pressing my finger in so hard, her midsection looks like a giant, closed cervix. “This is so fake.”
“All the weight is on the pad against my abs.”
“I remember abs. I used to have those.”
“When?”
“2009? Something like that.”
“Andrew has abs.”
“So does Declan.” We both go a little glassy-eyed, each in a wonderworld of husband bliss before the elevator dings and we head out to the first mystery shop for the project.
The maternity store is a few blocks from Anterdec’s headquarters, so we’re walking, Amanda breezing along like the Fakey McFaker she is, me offering some authenticity to this pregnant mystery shopping trip. A pang of guilt washes over me as I remember the shopping projects I organized for pregnant women I recruited.
From discrimination tests to simple customer service evals, we needed groups of pregnant women at various stages of pregnancy. I now have so much more sympathy for them. Some were financially desperate and took whatever they could get. Others dragged toddlers with them to buy nursing bras they had to return, to evaluate the return policy at a store. Once in a while we did compliance checks for medical providers, to see if they tested for certain issues, or separated pregnant women from partners to do domestic violence screenings.
I start tearing up at the thought.
“Crying? Again?” Amanda asks, offering a pack of tissues.
“Yes. Can’t help it.”
“No, no–it’s great. The more realistic we seem, the better.”
“Doesn’t get more real than this,” I sniff.
“You were always good at the role-play mystery shops,” she says as we make a left turn onto cobblestone sidewalks, Boston getting older as we go deeper toward the part of town where the fancy boutiques are located.
“That’s because I was trying to escape reality.”
“And now?”
“I like my life.”
We laugh as the store’s logo comes into view. I look her over.
“You have a unibreast.”
“A what?”
“This.” I hold my hands up over her breasts. “It’s like a big tube of biscuits. Where’s your bra?”
“I put on a sports bra. This fake belly shoved my underwire up and it hurt.”
“Very matronly.”
She beams. “I want to be just like you.”
“Hemorrhoids and all?”
“You might be pushing the reality a little too much.”
“No such thing in pregnancy. It’s all reality.” We’re at the boutique. A well-coiffed young woman wea
ring a purple crystal and an adorable patchwork cardigan with skinny jeans and heels comes to the door, opening it for us with a grin.
“Welcome to Roundly Ready!” On closer look, she’s younger than us, and has much better skin than I’ll ever have. Her eyes migrate to our bellies, smile broadening.
“Hi,” I say, noting the lack of a nametag. It’s been years since I’ve done a shop, but I click into observation and judgment mode instantly.
I am a pro.
“I’m Toni. Can I get you two some water? Tea? Foot massage?”
I laugh at that last one.
“No. I’m serious.” She points to a row of three chairs, each with hot water bath massage devices. “At any time, take a seat and dip in.”
Points just went way up for this place.
“We can do paraffin dips, too, if you’d like. So many of our customers find it makes a difference with cankles.”
Points lost for using that dreaded word.
Peering at Amanda’s feet, she exclaims, “You have beautiful legs!”
“Thank you,” Amanda preens.
Her eyes shift to mine, then quickly jump up. And up. And–
“I love your eyeshadow,” Toni says.
“I’m not wearing any.”
The silence makes my cankles ache.
Toni recovers by saying, “You look great in that shade of purple. Now, what can I get you two?”
Part of the mystery shop involves looking at whether this chain of stores will be good about dealing with wheelchair access, older customers, moms with toddlers–mostly, will the place be flexible and relaxed? Posh and snobby aren’t going to be a good fit for nursing and assisted living homes, so Amanda goes into her script.
Rubbing her belly, she asks, “My grandmother wants to come in with me and do a sort of trunk show. You know–come for an hour or two and look at everything, help me get prepared for the third trimester. Can you do that?”
Toni beams. “Of course!”
“She has physical limitations,” Amanda starts.
“Don’t we all,” I snort. I look at my ankles and take a deep breath. Or at least I try, the baby shifting in that just perfectly awful moment, making my bladder almost turn into a sprinkler system while my ribs are a xylophone for his feet.