by Julia Kent
“For some reason, it is when it comes out of your mouth.”
“A hint, Amy, because perhaps you don’t know this: men don’t come out of our mouths.” Wink.
“You are a sick bastard.”
“I’m a sick one? Yer mother named yer house dog after a vagina.”
“Is that an insult? Like your mother smells of elderberries? Is that the Scottish equivalent of Yo Momma jokes?”
Hamish sniffs the air, then goes slowly toward Amy’s neck, inhaling with a sensual intention and a smirk that soon turns to a smolder I can’t watch. His slow, deep breath sets my nerves on fire, so I can only imagine what Amy’s going through as he says, “I dinna know about that, but you smell just fine. More than fine, in fact.”
“Quit flirting with me.”
“You think this is flirting?” He doesn’t move back, his nose an inch from her neck, body hovering over hers with a masculine intensity that takes over the room. “Oh, you wait. When I decide to flirt with you, Amy, you’ll know.” I expect him to wink, but he’s serious, his gaze on her and only her, the moment getting hotter by the second.
“So I named my dog Vagina-y?” Mom interrupts, breaking the spell as Amy huffs off and leaves me alone with a six-foot, two-inch walking hormone and a mother who is coming to grips with the fact that her little white puffball of joy has been given a hideous name.
“Ye did, Marie.” Hamish starts laughing. “Does he answer to it?”
“Yes.”
“Then too late. That’s his name.”
“I didn’t even get the sex right!” Mom wails. “Chuffy doesn’t even have a vagina!”
“Mom. It’s fine. Only people from the UK will know,” I assure her. Naming sentient beings carries so much responsibility. As I rub my big belly, I think about the name Dec and I are considering for this little boy. What if we pick one that means something horrible, or is utterly silly in a different culture or language? Mom can’t even get a dog’s name right. How am I supposed to do this for a human being?
“That’s true. You know, I did have a second-favorite name,” she says, musing. “Maybe we could switch to it.” Amy returns, drinking a glass of wine and scowling.
“What’s that?” Hamish asks politely.
“Fanny.” Mom brightens up.
“Jesus fooking Christ,” Hamish says with a shudder, walking away without another word.
“What?” Mom asks Amy, utterly puzzled.
“You are never allowed to name anything again.” Amy grabs a cookie, glances in the direction Hamish just went, and frowns.
In the distance, I hear Hamish laughing his ass off as James finds him and gives him a manly embrace that involves clapping each other so hard on the back, you’d think they were giving each other cystic fibrosis therapy. The noise volume in the house picks up with each new guest, until it sounds like every major family gathering, muted chaos mixed with polite small talk as people who only see each other because of ties to other people here try to catch up on months–sometimes years–of not being in contact.
My mother, father, sisters, and nephews are here. Terry’s just walked in the door, a case of some Flemish red sour ale I can’t drink in one hand, a small gift in another. Andrew and Amanda, James and Pam are in a circle, laughing with Hamish. Carol’s chatting with Josh and Greg. I told Mom I didn’t want a big crowd, and Grind It Fresh! is still so new that I don’t want to mix work with my personal life. Being the boss makes for dangerous territory.
So. We’re all here.
The doorbell rings.
Huh. My human inventory must be off.
“Agnes! Corrine!” Mom calls out from the front of the house. “I am so glad you could make it! Just in time for shower games!”
Agnes.
Corrine.
The two crotchettiest old ladies from Mom’s yoga classes.
Hold on. Mom just said something even worse.
“Mom, did you just say shower games?”
“YES! I know you told me no diaper cakes, no games, but I found one on the internet that is so hilarious. I made printouts and everything!”
“What kind of game?”
“It’s like Bingo.”
“I love Bingo,” Corrine says, moving slowly with her walker. She has a basket attached to the front, holding a wrapped present with fresh azaleas woven into the bow.
How sweet.
Behind them stands a young woman, somewhere around Amy’s age, with long, dark hair and the look of a twentysomething who is hanging with her grandma and isn’t sure what to do next.
“Hi. I’m Shannon. Come on in,” I say to her. She looks at my midsection and grins.
“Oh, no–thanks! I’m not staying. I’m just, uh–”
“This is Cassie. My granddaughter,” Agnes says.
“Are you here for the shower?” Who knows who else Mom invited? Maybe I should look for the paperboy I had a crush on back in sixth grade.
“I was, um–”
“She drove us here.”
“Did your daughter finally take your license away, Agnes?” Mom asks.
Bad, bad question.
“What, Marie? No. Hell no. My daughter has no power here.” Agnes looks at Cassie uncertainly. A rare flicker of vulnerability is there.
Or maybe she has bad gas. It’s hard to tell the difference.
“Cassie drove you here in your car,” Mom notices.
“Grandma is lending me her car,” Cassie sputters, clearly making it all up on the fly. “Mine broke down.”
“In the donut drive-thru line,” Corrine snickers.
“Shut up!” Agnes goes to nudge her.
“Don’t you dare!” Corrine hisses.
Ah, Mom. Thanks for spreading the joy and inviting these two to my shower.
“Anyhow,” Cassie says, playing with the end of her long ponytail. “What time should I get you, Grandma?”
It’s two o’clock now. Agnes looks past Mom and me and sees the crowd.
“Ooooh, the Highlander is here! From your not-wedding! Cassie, it’s going to be a long one. Pick us up at seven.” For an ancient woman, Agnes has speed when it comes to gingers. She almost trips me as she pushes through the hallway to find Hamish.
Cassie looks at me. I hold up four fingers.
She gives me a thumbs-up.
I like her.
As Dad helps settle their coats and carries their presents, I pull Mom aside.
“Seriously? We said family only.”
“Corrine heard me talking about the baby shower and I could tell it would just make her so happy to be included.”
I stare at her hard.
“Fine.” She sighs. “They knew Hamish was coming and offered to make sure my next Unicoga class hits capacity without the, uh, unicorns.”
Amanda and I wince and both look around, hoping Dec and Andrew aren’t anywhere near.
“Agnes has a grandson who owes her, big time. His church youth group is turning it into their wellness project.”
“The same kid who video’d Dec and me having sex for your ‘documentary’?”
“Please don’t use finger quotes. That’s so insulting. That makes it seem like it wasn’t real.”
I start to chew her out, but she holds up one finely manicured hand. I realize the nails are painted like little pacifiers, in shades of blue that match a thin line around the waist of her sweater.
And her eyeliner.
“They brought presents. Think about how much bigger your haul will be with all these added guests.”
“Dec and I aren’t exactly hurting financially, Mom.”
“Jason!” Agnes calls out in a voice like a cement truck. “Three fingers of scotch, neat.”
“Ah, a woman after my own heart!” James calls out.
“More like after his liver,” I mutter.
“Please don’t be mad, Shannon. They’re nice women.”
“They’re perverted old bats.”
“People can be both, Shannon. The world i
sn’t so black and white.”
“NO!” shouts Hamish from the other room. “I wilna put on a kilt so ye can see me bollocks again like ye did at the failed wedding!”
Mom bristles at the words “failed wedding.”
“Nice. Women.” I grind out.
“Well, if nothing else, we’ll laugh about this in a few months,” Mom says with a grimace, scurrying off, squeezing past Declan, who is clearly searching for me.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Do I look okay?”
“You look like you want to kill your mother.”
“Which is basically Resting Bitch Face for me, right? I don’t have RBF. I have KMMF.”
“KMMF?”
“Kill My Mother Face.”
“I only see BPWF.”
“What’s that?”
“Beautiful Pregnant Wife Face.”
“You’re a charmer.”
“It’s the only way to survive the third trimester, my sweet blossom.” He pulls me into his arms and gives me a kiss that melts every bit of reactivity in me, the seconds passing as we grow more intimate, my toes–the ones I haven’t seen in months, but have been assured are still there–curling, body infused with a rush of tingly pleasure that wipes all of the day’s worries away.
For about seven seconds.
“That’s how she got in this condition in the first place,” says an overly chipper Corrine, appearing suddenly behind Declan, who pivots, his ass grinding up against my belly as he avoids being anywhere near her hand.
“We figured that out about eight months ago,” I tell her.
“I’m looking for a bathroom,” she informs us.
I point to the door next to us, Declan shuffling away with all the weirdness of a guy avoiding pain. “Let me get you more tiramisu cheesecake,” he says. Such a giver, that one, sprinting down the hallway.
Corrine goes into the bathroom. I take two steps forward and realize–I need to pee, too. Of course I do. The only things I’ve been capable of these last few weeks are eating, peeing, and crying at commercials for the newest Ford F-150.
“Everyone!” Mom calls out from the living room. “Make sure you have a drink, something to snack on, and then let’s get this baby shower started with games!”
“GAMES!” I hear the men all shout in unison, groaning like they’re lifting a Ford F-150.
Great. Now I’m crying about that.
If Declan’s hiding his ass from the old ladies, I’m going to hide my entire self from him for a few minutes upstairs.
Two can play this game.
By the time I’ve peed, wiped, washed my hands, realized I need to pee again, finished, washed my hands, and trundled downstairs, Corrine’s done in the lower bathroom and... I pee again.
Finally my bladder stops holding me hostage and I waddle into the living room to find everyone holding pieces of paper with twenty-five pictures of women’s faces on them.
Mom hands me one.
Each picture has a line under it.
And the top of the sheet says, in bold block letters:
* * *
SHANNON’S BABY SHOWER GAME
LABOR, PORN, or CONSTIPATION?
* * *
“What fresh hell is this?” I whisper to Carol.
“Shhh. We’re concentrating.” She points to number eight. “No way is that labor. Her eyeliner is too perfect.” She writes “porn” under the woman’s face.
“Is Mom insane?”
“Are you the queen of rhetorical questions?”
I go to answer that and realize it’s a rhetorical question.
“Are Jeffrey and Tyler playing this?” I gasp.
“No. Mom bribed them to go play Minecraft in Dad’s man cave. She sent them off with a box of donuts.”
“Mmmm. Donuts. Where are they?” I start to go outside.
“I love donuts!” Greg announces in a deeply panicked voice.
A grip of steel grabs the pull tie for my maternity dress. “You do not get to escape this. We’re all stuck playing it.”
My eyes catch Declan’s. There’s a bleakness, a hollow shading to those normally vibrant green eyes.
“Pretty sure Mom just broke your man,” Carol says.
I look at the pictures. Then up at him.
She points to one of the pictures. “He kind of looks like her right now. Constipation?”
I kick her ankle. Hard.
“These are all women,” Josh says, gnawing on the end of his pen.
“Yes?” Mom is blinking furiously, clearly confused.
“All the porn I watch is men. How am I supposed to know any of these faces?” he complains.
Greg and Andrew pass a bottle of Scotch back and forth.
“Well,” James booms, narrow eyed and shrewd looking, “I do believe I’m done.”
“I’m done with this game too, Dad,” Dec says, starting to shove the paper aside.
“No, no. I mean I’m done. I’ve picked my answers.” He rubs his hands. “It’s a bit weird, but I’m always up for a challenge.”
“Oh, ho, ho!” Agnes crows. “You think you’ll win? What’s the prize, Marie?”
“Prize?” Mom looks up, her face frozen like #18.
“Porn,” Carol hisses, scribbling madly.
“If you’re going to have games, you have to have prizes!” Corrine announces.
“Can the prize be to never, ever speak of this game again?” Declan asks.
Andrew catches his eye as he slinks to the patio and slowly opens the door, inch by inch.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Anywhere but here.”
Amanda grabs him. “Nope! We’re finishing this game. Help me with #9. Doesn’t she look like that woman from the Spring Break videos you were really into a few months ago?”
Everyone’s silent, either stunned into shock or focused on actually playing the game, so her words carry. Far.
“How about we skip the games?” I say. “It’s my party, right?”
“DONE!” Agnes yells, scaring poor Pam, who drops her paper and pen.
Hamish’s face is screwed up in concentration as he absent-mindedly chews on the end of a pen. “Porn, porn, porn,” he mutters, writing a big P under a series of pictures with such swiftness, Amy rolls her eyes. “And this one definitely needs more fiber in her diet,” he says, looking at Amy.
“Aren’t you going to write a C on her?” Amy says snidely.
“Sure.” He draws a C on Amy’s hand with his felt-tip marker.
She draws a P on his forearm in return.
“Do I have a face for porn, Amy?” he asks, tongue doing a number on that pen cap, which happens to be pink.
“TIME!” James shouts.
“We’re being timed?” Dad says in protest. “No one said anything about being timed. That’s not fair.”
“Life isn’t fair, Jason,” James crows. “Let’s get the answers. Marie? Where’s the sheet of answers?”
“I’m still trying to think of a good prize.” Mom looks at me.
I shrug.
“Here,” James says. “I found it. The answers are...”
As he starts to announce them, I yank on Mom’s sweater and get her alone. “Mom! What the hell is this?”
“It’s a game.”
“You brought porn into my baby shower.”
“In good fun! Besides, natural childbirth can encompass orgasmic birth. I read it in one of your books. So porn is just one step away from birth.”
“That is gross.”
“You need to lighten up, honey.”
“I’ve gained forty pounds, Mom. No shit.”
“That’s constipation, dear.”
“AHA!” James shouts. “BINGO! Five in a row right!”
“AHA HA HA!” Agnes says right after. “DOUBLE BINGO!” She holds her sheet aloft. She’s right.
“Damn!” James sighs, holding his hand to her. “Congratulations.” He peers at her page. “You got every single const
ipation answer right.”
“You get to be my age, buddy, you know a woman’s C face. It’s a skill.”
Is Declan retching?
Dad looks at Dec, then me, and starts gathering the papers quickly. “Let’s move on to a simple, more traditional game. Amy? Can you get the notecards?”
“But Jason,” Mom protests. “We didn’t figure out who is number two.”
Pam groans.
“Now,” Dad says, ignoring her, “I want you all to write down your best guess for Shannon’s actual date she’ll give birth. After the shower, we’ll email everyone to tell them who won.”
“Delayed gratification is not my strong suit,” James mumbles, choosing a drink instead of a card.
The mood in the room shifts to a friendlier, happier tone as people grab cookies and fudge from strategically placed trays and scribble their answers.
Dad sends a small bowl around to collect, then sorts the cards into piles, based on dates. One of them makes him pause, eyebrows up.
“Who guessed Shannon would go a full week past her due date?” he asks.
“Me,” Pam says, slowly raising her hand.
“A week!” I laugh. “I know first babies can take a little longer, but a week?”
“It’s an outlier guess,” James says.
“Actually, no,” Pam replies. “It’s based on slightly more than that.”
“Don’t tell me actuaries can use data to predict when a woman will give birth?” James scoffs.
“Mmm, a little bit analysis, a little bit intuition,” Pam says with a laugh. “Slightly better than an educated guess. But I hope I’m wrong,” she adds quickly. “I hope you go on your due date.”
“Last game! Then presents!” Mom says. “And this game EVERYONE needs to play, except for Declan and Shannon.”
“Why does he get out of the game?” Andrew says in a tone that makes me know exactly what he sounded like when he was twelve.
“Because for this game, you take one of the big cards, and you give Shannon and Declan a piece of parenting advice.”
“What if we’re not parents?”
“You’ve been parented, right? Give advice based on that. We’ll collect these cards and they will go in a scrapbook for the baby, along with the other mementos from today.”
“Not the Labor, Porn, or Constipation game,” Dec says firmly.
“I don’t even want to know what kind of party favors Mom came up with for that.” I make an executive decision. “Time for cake.”