Birthquake

by B. L. Berry

  “Maybe …? Maybe he simply won’t notice?”

  “And maybe, just maybe, you’re going to give birth to a polka-dotted unicorn that will sing America the Beautiful to you every time you head to the bathroom?”

  My glare at her says it all without even muttering a word.

  “Oh, sorry. The thought of a unicorn horn ripping through your vag probably isn’t one you want. It’d be like a self-inflicted episiotomy.”

  “Episioto-what?”

  “Never mind.” Tara’s shoulders rise and fall as she sighs. “But you are going to tell him, right?” I hesitate, and she shoots me the silent scolding look that she’s perfected over the years with her triplets.

  “Right.” The word comes out more like a question than an affirmation, but I know she’s right. In a few months, I’m not going to be able to convince him that I look ginormous because I ate a really big burger for lunch. I mean, that will probably stop working once I hit the second trimester.

  “Everything will be okay, Henley. You … You will be okay.” Tara gives me a small, friendly smile like the kind you’d give a persnickety old lady you nearly ran into with your shopping cart at the grocery store. It feels all too polite, and I don’t like it. I know she’s being genuine when she gives me the beefy grin of a fourteen-year-old boy who is hiding a secret stash of porno mags underneath his mattress.

  “I’ll be okay,” I repeat, nodding. Because it’s true. In the future, I will be okay.

  Just not right now.

  My heart sinks, and I shut my eyes tightly, trapping the threatening tears.

  “Oh, sweetie …” Tara pulls me into her arms.

  “I’m so scared,” I whisper into her shoulder.

  “Shhh…” Tara runs her fingers through my hair. “You weren’t scared of that dick, though,” she feebly jokes. I don’t find it funny, though.

  “What have I gotten myself into?” If you can’t have a complete meltdown in front of your best friend, then who can you meltdown in front of?

  “Hey now, pregnancy is a little fucked up, but the end result is pretty fantastic. Let’s get a few things straight—you don’t have contractions. You have birthquakes. Everyone, especially strangers, thinks they’re entitled to put their grimy hands on your stomach. Pregnancy brain will make you do a ton of stupid shit, like getting in the tub while you’re fully clothed, and don’t even get me started on trying to shave your snatch patch once you hit the third trimester. It’s as if Edward Scissorhands and Stevie Wonder’s secret love child are all up in your business.” She cracks a sinister smile that makes me more worried than relieved.

  “In short, the next nine months and eighteen years are going to be the most horrifically glorious time of your life, Henley. Come on, let’s move this party to the couch and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  THE HOLY GRAIL

  I step back into the doorway of the kitchen and admire my work. It’s not bad considering I refused to take home economics as an elective back in high school. In fact, it looks like Martha Stewart threw up in here.

  “I have turned into a motherfucking Stepford wife. Minus the wife part, of course,” I sigh to no one in particular.

  Wife. The distinct misnomer in the first comes love, then comes marriage fairy tale that is my life.

  The mouthwatering aroma of ribs wafts through the apartment. The kitchen table is set, complete with a pressed sage-colored tablecloth and a small bouquet of daisies and baby’s breath in the center. And don’t even get me started on what I’m wearing. The floral sundress minimizes my swollen boobs and does a decent job hiding the bloat. But on the bright side, at least I’m having a killer hair day.

  Big moments call for the perfect stage. And this moment is arguably the biggest one I’ve had to face in my twenty-seven years.

  And what’s worse is that I have no idea how I’m even going to broach the subject. It’s not as if I can come right out and say, “Oh, hey! Remember that time I lost my Spanx when we decided to play hide the pickle during your brother’s wedding reception? Well, your pickle juice was potent, and now we’re in one giant ass jam since I’m knocked up. Be a dear and pass the relish, will you?”

  No. It has to be handled delicately. Because this is the kind of news that most guys lose their shit over. By the end of the night, my life story could very well be one tragic country song.

  Things are officially progressing according to my OBGYN. At Tara’s insistence, I made an appointment to officially confirm what a little pee on a stick already told me was true. I’m only a few weeks along, and by my calculations, this kiddo was conceived against a door in a vacant hotel ballroom on the night of his brother Chris’s wedding while the band played Strokin’ by Clarence Carter a few doors down. If only we had heeded Clarence’s instruction and stuck to masturbation or a good ole fashioned handy, we wouldn't be in this child out of wedlock mess.

  I am so going to hell.

  I take a deep breath and squeeze the back of my neck. Before I can even think about how this is going to realistically play out, I hear his key slide into my apartment door and he lets himself in.

  I pause to gawk at him when he steps through the door.

  Jeff looks especially good today. The sleeves of his white button-down shirt are rolled up to his elbows, and his navy slacks hug his ass perfectly. It looks like he’s stepping off the page of a J. Crew catalog rather than coming home from nine hours in the office. He smiles my favorite lazy smile at me.

  Sometimes I don’t think Jeff realizes just how handsome he is. He’s not the kind of hot where your vagina incinerates, and your panties burst into flames or anything. He’s a cute guy, but I learned long ago not to call him cute. In fact, that four-letter word once got me the silent treatment for three days.

  “Puppies are cute. Sloths are cute. But men? Men are never cute. It makes me feel like you should be having baby talk with my manhood,” he’d said.

  But that’s not what earned me the silent treatment. Against my better judgment, I’d decided a rousing game of peek-a-boo with his penis in the middle of foreplay would be hilarious. And it was.

  For me.

  Him? Not so much.

  I have never seen a guy pout that much in my entire life—and that includes Tara’s toddlers. And no matter how secure a man may seem, penis jokes are inevitably off the table.

  Lesson learned.

  I feel Jeff’s arms wrap around my waist, and he kisses my shoulder. “Mmm … This smells amazing, babe. And you look beautiful tonight. New dress?”

  “Thanks, and no. It’s just one that I haven’t worn in years.”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “Oh, nothing. I just thought we could have a nice meal and talk.” I keep my tone nonchalant as to not worry him.

  Jeff furrows his brows. “Talk? The last time a girl told me she wanted to talk, I ended up a single man and woke up half-naked in a baby pool filled with empty bottles of tequila.”

  I force a soft laugh and play with the hair on the back of his neck. Depending on his reaction, we both could very well be single by the time this night is through. “No, no, it’s nothing like that. I promise.”

  “Okay, good. How much time until dinner’s ready?”

  I check the timer on my cell phone. “About another fifteen minutes.”

  “Then why don’t we go ahead and start chatting now?”

  “Sure, just let me go to the bathroom first.” I give him a small smile before I slip inside the tiny bathroom, gripping the sides of the sink.

  “You can do this, Henley. You love him. He loves you. He’s going to be an incredible dad. You are probably going to be the world’s most mediocre mother. He’s going to take this news like a champ, and the two of you are going to ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after like the Waltons or the Cleavers, and all of your problems will be solved in thirty minutes or less just like the sitcoms,” I whisper to myself in the mirror in a lame attempt at self-pep talk. What I really need is S
amuel L. Jackson standing behind me telling me to grow a pair and deal with it in his epic, booming voice. I mean, if Samuel L. Jackson told me to dress like a chicken, walk into a KFC and cry because everyone there was eating my babies, I would do it. Because he’s freakin’ Samuel L. Jackson.

  I emerge from the bathroom minutes later, and he’s already on the couch with his feet kicked up on the coffee table, drinking a bottle of Boulevard Wheat. He scoots over, inviting me next to him, and I instinctively curl up underneath his arm as he passes me a bottle of beer. I trace the mouth of it with my fingertip, still unsure of exactly what to say.

  “So … you want to talk.” The last word sounds like shards of glass coming off of his tongue.

  “Mm-hmm,” I lie. I’d rather be making out than talking right now. Hell, I’d rather be ripping off my toenails with a wrench than having this conversation.

  “So, let’s talk.”

  I take a deep breath and brace myself for the pending nuclear bomb I’m about to drop. Jeff gives my shoulder a tender squeeze, and I turn my face to his. “I love you, Jeff. More than you can ever begin to comprehend.”

  “Aww, babe. I love you, too.” He leans over and kisses the tip of my nose. “Is everything all right? You’re acting strange.”

  “I just … I have a lot on my mind right now. But what I really want to know is …” I swallow hard and hesitate. “Where do you see us going?”

  He turns his head away from me and grimaces. “Shit, Henley! I thought you said it wasn’t like that.”

  “It’s not!”

  “Babe. I love you, you’re it for me. But I can’t have you give me an ultimatum for a ring. The timing’s all wrong, and I still need to ask your father, and there are a billion other things to do before we cross that bridge.”

  Oh, God. It’s impossible not to feel like an asshole right now. Though my insides swoon at the thought of him asking my father for my hand in marriage.

  Focus, Henley!

  “No, that’s not it at all, Jeff.”

  Without even thinking, I bring the bottle of Boulevard up to my lips and take a long pull. Fuck. I shouldn’t have done that. Somebody needs to get this bottle away from me! And where is Samuel L. Jackson when I need him?

  “Then what is it, Henley?”

  I lean over and rest the bottle on the coffee table.

  “I …” My nose wrinkles at a bitter, charred stench in the air. “Oh my God! Something’s burning!”

  The moment I spring up from the couch, the smoke alarm gives an ear-splitting wail that nearly makes me go deaf. Smoke has already started to fill the kitchen, and when I open the oven door, grey clouds billow out, causing me to choke. Jeff rushes to open the window and fans a dishtowel through the air, trying to clear the space.

  I pull the pan out to reveal my feeble attempt at making dinner. Of all the things I could have fucked up on this meal, my dumb ass never even took the bread out of the plastic bag. I laugh so hard that tears prickle the corner of my eyes. Apparently “pregnancy brain” is a real thing.

  “What?” Jeff mouths as he frantically fans the air between us.

  “I’m pregnant!” I shout over the blaring din of the fire alarm.

  “What?” he screams back. I can barely hear him.

  “I said, I’m pregnant!”

  He stops dead in his tracks and turns toward me.

  “You’re pregnant?!” I can tell he’s screaming, but I can only see him mouthing the words. And so, I nod. Mostly because I can’t hear my own thoughts over this insane smoke alarm. “Oh my God! Henley! You’re pregnant?!”

  “I’m pregnant,” I mouth back to him and swallow hard. This is the moment where it all comes tumbling down …

  But it’s not.

  Whatever hint of panic was on his face moments ago is gone as his face lights up like an awe-struck child watching fireworks for the very first time.

  In an instant, he has closed the space between us and I’m airborne as he spins me around, twirling the smoke up around us. “We’re having a baby?!” Jeff shouts into my ear. When he pulls back, his face is overcome with joy.

  “Yes, you’re going to be a father.”

  Of all the possible reactions I imagined him having, sheer elation was certainly not one of them.

  “I’m never going to get the scent of smoke out of my hair.” I toss a piece of crust into the pizza box and wipe the corners of my mouth with a napkin. Once the smoke detector finally turned off and we slowly regained our hearing, I rendered dinner unsalvageable. The toxic smell of the plastic infiltrated its way into the ribs, and everything smelled disgusting.

  “But I’ll venture to say this is one night you’ll never forget.” He beams.

  A soft laugh passes my lips. “You could say that again.”

  “So what were we going to have for dinner anyway?”

  “Baby back ribs. With a side of baby artichokes. And some buns in the oven and a side of nearly burnt apartment,” I sigh. Hopefully the effort doesn’t go unnoticed, even if I did nearly burn down the apartment.

  “I get it … all ‘baby foods.’ He reaches out and softly pinches my cheek. If this had happened before I got pregnant, I would have found it irritating. But instead, the gesture is endearing. “That has to be the cutest thing you’ve ever done, Henley.”

  And there’s that word again. Cute. At least I can take it in stride.

  I snort. “I’ve been stressing over how to tell you since I wasn’t sure how you’d react. I was secretly hoping you would just look at the meal and get what I was trying to tell you telepathically. I didn’t expect it all to come out in such dramatic fanfare.” Without warning, my eyes well up again, and these ridiculous tears refuse to stop. “I’m just hormonal and emotional. I've been terrified to tell you.”

  “Henley, my love for you is unconditional. You’re pregnant and hormotional. And even though you’re batshit crazy and nearly burned down your apartment, I’m willing to work with that. That’s how much I love you. And that, right there, is the beginning and the end of everything I need to know in my life.”

  We eat in silence for a few minutes, and when the pizza starts to make my stomach do somersaults, I pick the sausage off the top of my slice mindlessly and look at Jeff, trying to gauge exactly how he’s feeling.

  “So how are you doing with all of this? I mean really doing. And not the knee-jerk reaction of pretending everything’s okay to avoid sending your pregnant girlfriend into a hormonal tailspin all while reaching internal meltdown levels of DEFCON one.” I don’t mean for the words to fly from my mouth faster than my Spanx at his brother’s wedding. But they do.

  “Whoa, slow down, Henley. I’m not pretending,” Jeff assures me as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Sure, it’s a lot to take in without any warning. But this is a good thing— a great thing actually. I’ve always known that you’re the one. Who cares if we do things out of order? This is our life. Screw everyone else and their opinions. I’m happy. You’re happy … I hope. And only you and me and Jeff Junior matter.”

  “Jeff Junior?” I laugh out loud. It’s impossible not to be happy with this man by my side. “And what if little Jeff Junior is born with little lady bits?”

  “That’s impossible,” he proclaims with an exhilarated scoff. “I’m only capable of producing penises. I had a talk with my soldiers once, and my sperm would never defy me.”

  That’s the last thing we need more of—penises. Penises are nothing but trouble. And I’ve had more trouble than I can handle. “We’ll see about that, stud.”

  Jeff takes my plate from my lap and sets it on the coffee table next to his. He pulls me tenderly underneath his arm, and I instantly feel at home. He rests his head against mine and whispers solemnly, “So how are you doing with all of this? And I mean really doing?”

  “I’m good,” I lie. I hate that he’s turned the tables around on me.

  “That doesn’t sound very convincing,” he says delicately. My shoulders slouch at
the realization of just how well Jeff knows me. I bite my lip and steel myself to just come out with the truth. “What’s on your mind, babe?”

  I sigh and stare at a grease mark on the side of the pizza box. “I’m just terrified,” I sputter.

  “About …?”

  Everything. Isn’t it obvious?

  “I can’t even make the simplest Brown ’n Serve rolls without causing the fire alarm to sound off. Last night when you were on the phone, a Home Depot commercial sent me into a sobbing mess. And just this morning, I washed my hair with shaving cream instead of shampoo. I can hardly take care of myself most days. I am in no way equipped to raise a child.”

  “Well, for starters, you’re not doing this alone. I’m here with you. We’re in this together.” He presses his lips against my temple and gives me a firm squeeze. His words and his actions are the perfect counterpoints to my neuroses. “And if it makes you feel any better, if it was the commercial where the father and son are building a defunct tree house together, that one makes me cry like a baby, too.”

  “Shut up.” I sniffle and fight the smile playing at the corners of my mouth.

  “What else is bothering you?”

  I pause, trying to pinpoint exactly what’s rubbing me the wrong way.

  “Well?” he probes.

  “Some stuff that Tara told me about being pregnant and childbirth. I know it’s months away, but still. I can’t un-hear those things. It’s kind of traumatizing.”

  “Good grief. What’d she tell you?”

  “I’m not sure you really want to know.”

  “Yes, I do. I told you before, I want to know everything there is to know when it comes to you.”

  Right. But some of the stuff she told me could change a lot of things between us.

  And I firmly believe that there are some things couples should never do. Like, oh … say … poop in front of each other. Tara had the audacity to tell me that I will more than likely poop on the table during labor and delivery — so vile! What the hell is that about? I don’t care that I’m pushing a baby out. Nobody needs to see me pushing anything else out. And let’s not even talk about the fact it’ll be like the prom scene in the movie Carrie down there. I’ve already made the executive decision that Jeff is not allowed “down there” to see everything in action. God forbid I did crap. I could never look him in the eye again! He would never be able to look at me again! There’s no way I would be able to salvage the dregs of my dignity by the time all is said and done. Poop is simply something you don’t bounce back from.