by Robin Palmer
“Astrid is a very pretty name,” I said as we sat together on the couch eating our naan and raita. Naan is this really yummy Indian bread, and raita is this yogurt and cucumber stuff you dipped it in. Because of Alan’s sensitive stomach, we didn’t get to eat Indian food all that often at home, and I really missed it. Although the fact that there was a yoga teacher twisting himself into a pretzel-like shape on the floor four feet in front of me was kind of taking away my appetite.
“Thank you,” she said, readjusting the turban on her head. I had worn a turban once—to a movie premiere in L.A.—but it wasn’t by choice, like she was doing. It was only because my hair happened to have turned blue minutes before we were supposed to leave. “My birth name is Betty, but on one of my spiritual pilgrimages in India, an astrologer there suggested I change it to Astrid in order to more accurately fulfill my destiny.”
I waited for the “Just kidding” part, but it didn’t come. “Oh. Well, that’s cool,” I said. “So, um, Sarah said you live in Arizona?”
She nodded. “Yes. I worked on Wall Street for a long time, but then I had a nervous breakdown,” she replied. “Luckily, I had made enough money in the stock market before the economy collapsed not to have to work anymore. So when my psychic suggested I move to Sedona because the energy vortexes would have a healing effect on me, I packed up and was there the following week.”
I didn’t know what an energy vortex was, and, to be honest, I didn’t want to. I looked around for Mom so that she could save me, but she was too busy talking to Mathieu and Manfred, the couple who owned the cheese store underneath Dad’s old studio.
Astrid sighed. “But since the Spacecraft Incident, I’m seriously thinking of moving.”
I put my naan down and stared at her. “Spaceraft Incident?” Incidents didn’t have to do with spacecrafts. They had to do with things like hats. And posters.
“Yes,” she said. “One of them hit the side of my house last month. Left a huge dent in the garage door. Unfortunately, my homeowner’s insurance doesn’t cover extraterrestrial damage, so it cost me a bundle to repair it.”
Okay, now she was starting to scare me. I waited for the “This time I’m really just kidding,” but instead she just smiled sweetly. Wow. If even the tiniest bit of that was remotely true, that was a serious Incident-with-a-capital-I.
I stood up. “Would you excuse me for a moment? I have to ... go do something. It was nice talking to you.”
Before she could say anything, I ran over to Mom.
“Hi, sweetie. Why don’t you talk to Mathieu and Manfred while I run to the bathroom,” she said.
“Uh ... okay.” It may have been because they were from Europe (Mathieu was French and Manfred was German), and therefore their idea of being nice was different from the American way of being nice, but I had always found them kind of snotty. I mean, if you put out free samples of cheese for people to take and you only want them to take one, then you should put a sign up that says PLEASE TAKE ONE. But if there’s no sign, how is a person supposed to know that five is too many?
“So, Lucy, you are about to be a big sister, ja?” asked Manfred.
I nodded. “Ja. I mean, yes.”
“Little babies, they are so ... babyish,” Mathieu clucked. The way he said it made it sound like that definitely wasn’t a good thing. But that also may have been the French thing.
I shrugged. “I guess so. But, I mean, they’re sort of supposed to be, right?”
“Yes, but that is the problem,” he sighed. “The way they cannot do anything for themselves. And have to eat all day long instead of waiting until the normal dinnertime of nine o’clock,” he complained. That must have been a French thing, too, because nine o’clock was way late to eat dinner in America.
“I think that’s because they’re growing and stuff,” I replied. “And they have really little mouths, kind of like birds, so it’s not like they can eat as much as we can all at once.” I wasn’t sure if that was true, but it sounded good.
“Yes, but then there is the crying,” Manfred added, rolling his eyes. “All the time with the crying! Even in public.”
Okay, this was getting a little unfair. “Well, if I didn’t know how to talk and tell someone what was wrong, I’d get annoyed, too,” I replied.
“And the way they grow out of their expensive little outfits so fast!” Mathieu clucked. “So ... rude to the person who bought it, don’t you think?” He turned to Manfred. “I am so glad both of us do not like children.”
Yeah, I was glad, too. Because it would have been miserable growing up with them. “You know, it’s not like they mean to be annoying,” I said defensively. “They’re just little babies. And everyone around them is bigger than them and they have no say in anything. That’s a horrible way to live.”
Wait a minute—what if these guys were mean to Ziggy? I’d have to make sure to tell Dad about this so he could keep an extra-special eye out on them. Someone would have to, seeing that I wouldn’t be here to do it. In fact, I’d go tell him right now.
“Excuse me, please,” I said, walking over to the other side of the room where Dad was talking to his friends Nils and Francesca. They were photographers as well. But unlike Dad, who, when money was tight and he didn’t have a gallery show coming up, would sometimes take pictures of kids and weddings, Nils and Francesca were what Mom called Artists-with-a-capital-A. Every time she said it, she rolled her eyes, so I don’t think it was a compliment.
Nils was from Sweden and was pasty white with really blond hair that he didn’t wash all that often. I didn’t like to be near him too long because (a) he smelled like fish, and (b) he barely ever talked, which tended to make me start bloversharing and saying stupid things just to fill the silence.
Francesca, on the other hand, talked all the time. It was more like she complained—about everything. About the government; about the weather; about how reality TV was rotting people’s brains (I bet if she watched stuff on Animal Planet she’d take that back). But mostly she complained about Nils and how depressed he was—right in front of him!
Dad looked up from the photographs he was showing them. “Hi, Monkey!” He smiled.
“Hi,” I said. The Monkey thing was a little embarrassing, but because I had once heard Mom say during an overlistening session that if it didn’t have to do with them, Nils and Francesca weren’t paying attention, I didn’t worry about it too much.
Francesca grabbed Dad’s arm. “Oh, Brian,” she gasped, “this one is just stunning. The lighting. The composition. The way the sun hits her nipples—”
At the word nipples, my eyebrows shot up so high I was afraid they had jumped off my face.
Francesca turned the photo toward me so I could see it. “Lucy, how does it feel to have such a talented father?”
Oh. My. God.
It was a picture of Sarah lying on the window seat in front of the big bay window that faced the front yard without any clothes on. Nothing. And you could see everything. Not just her ginormous stomach but everything below there, too.
This wasn’t art with or without a capital A—this was just ... gross! What was wrong with my father?! The only good thing was that soon enough I wouldn’t be the only person embarrassed by him. Maybe with a sibling, it wouldn’t be as humiliating because the embarrassing part would be cut in half.
“I’m so glad you like it, Francesca,” said Dad. “Because it’s such a special time in our lives, I really wanted to capture it on film.”
“You know, you really should do more nudes,” Francesca went on. “Not everyone is good at them, but you bring such a sense of sensitivity to them.”
“Thanks, Francesca,” said Dad, pleased. “That means a lot coming from you. I do like shooting the human form a lot more than a bowl of fruit ...”
At least an apple or a bowl of grapes weren’t disgusting and couldn’t embarrass a person to death.
Nils stood there stroking his goatee. After clearing his throat a few times, he finally spoke. “This photo ... i
t ... it—”
We all leaned in closer so we could hear him.
“It ... pierces my soul at its very core,” he whispered.
Oh brother. I don’t know why they thought Sarah looked so good. If you asked me, she kind of sort of looked like this whale I had seen on the news the other night that had washed up on a beach in New Jersey.
They went back to oohing and aahing over the photo and used the word nipples way too many times when the front door opened and Marissa and Cassandra walked in. I never thought the day would come where I would consider Marissa normal, but at that point I was beyond happy to see her.
“So were you able to find a baby to practice holding?” Marissa asked a little later as we stood in the corner and ate our sugar-free, wheat-free, flour-free, taste-free cake (Sarah may have been addicted to Tastykakes, but the other yoga guests weren’t) while two women next to us talked about the best essential oil to help you lose weight.
“No,” I said as I looked away from the guy doing a headstand across from me. His hairy belly was totally going to take away my appetite for the sundae I was going to force Mom into letting me get when this thing was over for being such a good sport about having to sit through it. “I’ve been too busy with the election. Plus, I still have time to learn. The baby won’t be here for another three weeks.”
“But what if Sarah ends up having the baby this weekend?” Cassandra asked. “Then what’ll you do? Say you can’t hold it because you’re afraid you’ll drop it?”
It was bad enough that Marissa had invited herself to the shower (“Because I’m going to be his babysitter, he needs to get used to me being around!”), but the fact that she had gotten Dad to say she could bring Cassandra? (“BFFs go everywhere together!”) That was just wrong.
“She’s not going to have the baby this weekend,” I assured her. “Sure sometimes people have them like a few days early, but not, you know, weeks early.”
“That’s not true. I was born an entire month early,” Marissa announced dramatically. “They had me on all these special machines and everything. According to my mom, it was very dramatic.”
“And I was born three and a half weeks early,” Cassandra added.
“Well, that’s not going to happen here,” I said nervously. The election was on Monday. The universe wouldn’t be so cruel as to make it so that one of the most important events of my life would be totally pushed aside because Ziggy wasn’t smart enough to know that it was a lot safer inside of Sarah’s stomach than out here in the world. Or if he wanted to try to show me who was boss by taking up all the attention immediately.
Right?
chapter 11
Dear Dr. Maude,
Right now I’m SUPPOSED to be in the car with Mom driving back to New York.
But I’m not.
Instead it’s eleven a.m. on Sunday, and I’m sitting on Dad’s couch, waiting for Sarah’s water to break so she can finally get in the bathtub and have this baby already. Which, according to Dad, isn’t going to happen anytime soon because her contractions (Mom says they feel like period cramps) aren’t very close together. Not only that, but I’ve been up since five because that’s when he woke me to say that this whole giving-birth business had started. I don’t know if I ever mentioned this to you, but I am NOT a morning person.
Dr. Maude, yesterday I felt like even though he’s not born yet, Ziggy and I had managed to bond a little. I was even going to stick up for him if anyone baby discriminated against him. But now? After pulling this arriving - three - weeks - early - when - he - KNOWS - his -older-sister-has-an-election-tomorrow-because-last - night- she -bent -down -and -whispered -it -to -Sarah’s - belly business?
Not so much.
yours truly,
Lucy B. Parker
“How long did you say you were in labor with me again after your water broke?” I asked Mom as we started what had to be our tenth game of Go Fish. Movies and TV shows always made giving birth look super-exciting and dramatic, but as far as I was concerned, it was more boring than algebra class.
“Thirty-five,” she replied.
Phew. “Thirty-five minutes is nothing,” I said, relieved. I looked at my watch. “Even if we stay and hang out for an hour after that, we’ll still be home by dinnertime.”
“Thirty-five hours,” she corrected.
My face fell. Okay, thirty-five hours was not good. In fact, thirty-five hours was very, very bad.
Not wanting to sound like a mean, horrible person, I didn’t dare bring up the idea that we weren’t the ones having the baby and didn’t have to stay here. And because Sarah already had a midwife and a doula and Astrid to help her—not to mention Dad, even if from the way she was snapping at him just to get out of the way meant he wasn’t being all that useful—they probably wouldn’t mind if we went home.
Mom reached for my hand. “I think it’s so wonderful that it worked out that you could be here for your brother’s birth,” she said as she squeezed it. “I think it will make you feel even closer to him. Maybe they’ll let you cut the umbilical cord.”
The idea of just seeing an umbilical cord let alone cutting it was beyond disgusting. “So ... we’re going to just hang out here doing nothing for the next thirty-five hours?” I asked. When I could be back home getting ready for one of the most important days of my life? I wanted to add, but didn’t.
“We don’t know if it’ll take thirty-five hours,” Mom said. “It could be a lot less.”
I looked at my watch again. What if I won and had to give an acceptance speech? I’d have to practice it, and that would take time, and help from Team Have-Not. I wondered if I’d be lucky enough for Ziggy to take only the next fifteen minutes to be born.
Finally, THREE hours later, around one o’clock, when Sarah was five centimeters dilated, her doula said that she should get into the bathtub. Apparently, you had to be ten centimeters before it was safe to really start pushing and give birth, but hopefully the warm water would help relax her.
“Enough with the telling me to calm down and breathe, Brian!” Mom and I heard Sarah yelling angrily over the sound of a CD of Native American drumming. “I’d like to see you lie here and try and do this, Mr. I’m-Such-a-Baby-I-Think-I-Need-to-Go-to-the-Hospital-When-I-Get-a-Paper-Cut!”
Mom and I looked up from our Monopoly game. (If anything, this whole thing was letting us bank a lot of QT.) I had never heard Sarah so angry in her life. In fact, I didn’t know yoga teachers were even allowed to get angry. She sounded even scarier than a New York City cabdriver when a car was stalled during rush hour.
“I think I said the same exact thing to your dad when I was in labor with you,” Mom said.
Dad came walking out, looking like he had been through the spin cycle of a washing machine. “Boy, am I glad to see two friendly faces,” he said as he joined us at that table. “Rebecca, I can’t remember—did you yell at me this much when Lucy was being born?”
She nodded. “Yup.”
He sighed. “I guess I blocked it out.”
Mom reached over and squeezed his arm. “I’m so happy the timing worked out this way.” Her eyes got so misty. “And I’m just so happy that our mutual respect for each other and our ability to communicate in an honest and authentic manner has made it so that I could share in this monumental occasion, too.”
Dad got all teary, too. “I was just thinking the same thing,” he said. “You have no idea how much it means to me to have you here today. Your calm manner, your positive energy—” Just as I was about to say, “Um, I hate to interrupt, but do you have any idea how long this is going to take?” Dad turned to me and grabbed my arm, too. “And Lucy, my little monkey, the fact that you get to be here for this joyous occasion—for the moment that your brother enters this world and takes his first breath—” The tears sprouted from his eyes. “There are no words to express my gratitude.”
I sighed. “Since it looks like this might take a while, can we at least order a pizza from Frankie’s?” I as
ked.
When, by three o’clock, Sarah was still only six centimeters dilated, Mom told me I had better call Beatrice and tell her that I wouldn’t be at school tomorrow.
“But what happens if you win?” Beatrice asked when I told her the bad news. “The fact that the new president isn’t around to give an acceptance speech doesn’t really start things off on the right foot.”
I put my finger over my ear to try to drown out Sarah’s screaming. If she was supposedly still far away from actually giving birth, I didn’t even want to think about what would happen when the actual pushing happened. “I don’t know,” I replied glumly. “I guess I’ll have to give it whenever I get back.” Whenever that would be.
“Okay. Hey, did you post anything on the website yet about the baby being born?” she asked.
“No. Why?”
“You have to!” she cried. “It’ll totally help sway the voters who are still on the fence,” she said. “People love babies.”
I was too tired to tell her that, actually, based on what I’d learned this weekend, that was a lie. That, really, babies were as discriminated against as dorks were.
“Too bad it’s not a baby animal being born,” she went on. You wouldn’t happen to know anyone up there who has that going on, would you?” she asked.
“Beatrice, it’s not like Northampton is made up of farms,” I said, kind of offended. Because she had lived in Manhattan her whole life, Beatrice tended to think that anyplace outside of New York, other than Paris, was made up of cows and barns.
“Wait a second—I just had an idea. There are computers up there, right?”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah. There are computers. We even have electricity to power them.”
“If you win, you can Skype your acceptance speech!” she exclaimed. “Actually, what we can do is, I’ll bring my laptop to school and I’ll walk around with it so you can do some last-minute campaigning. It’ll be like you’re here even though you’re not here.”