Birthquake

by B. L. Berry

“Oh, sweetie, it’s no trouble at all. I’m just excited to see you both.” She turns to me with a smile, and instead of a warm, motherly hug, I’m greeted to her hands upon my belly and her face alarmingly close to my loins. “And hello to you, too, my sweet, darling grandchild. This is your Nana, and we are going to be the best of friends. And when those mean old parents of yours tell you ‘no,’ you just call me right up and I’ll treat you right. Now, come on and kick for Nana. Kick, little one!”

  I sigh at her lack of personal space. And tact for that matter.

  And as if Mr. Carrington read my mind, he chimes in. “Oh, Martha, give the poor woman some room. Come here, you.” He gives me a quick hug and then holds my arms out to the sides of my body. “You’re filling out nicely, Henley.”

  That’s an awkward compliment if I’ve ever heard one. Wait … That was a compliment, right? He’s not actually calling me fat, is he?

  I smile weakly. “Thanks, Mr. Carrington. It’s been a rough couple of months, but slowly I’ve been starting to feel better.”

  “I sent you that box of remedies a little while ago. Did you use any of those?” Mrs. Carrington chimes in.

  Another weak smile, this one of appreciation. I’m not too sure I’d qualify the package she sent as morning sickness remedies, though. It included things like ginger root — like the literal root straight out of the ground. Some mystery pills in an unmarked vile, a few loose tangerines, and something called motherhood brownies, whose ingredients were questionable. Jeff tasted one and quickly spit it back out it was that vile. It pained me to see a batch of chocolate desserts sacrificed in the name of hippie sorcery. While the gesture was thoughtful, the contents of said box of remedies quickly went into the trash. Except for the tangerines. Those appeared to be perfectly normal though I never actually ate them.

  “Um, yeah, I tried them all, but none of them worked.”

  “Well, did you rub the ginger root all over your belly? And those little capsules were a suppository meant to bring gas relief.”

  So that’s what I was supposed to do.

  Jeff catches the stunned look in my eye and wraps his arm around my waist tenderly. “Why don’t you sit down and relax? I’ll go run our bags upstairs.” Jeff kisses my cheek and quickly disappears out of sight.

  It’s the first time I’ve even been alone in his parents’ presence, and I’m at a loss for small talk. The whole meet the parents thing is something I’ve never had much practice with. And the last time I met them, everyone was preoccupied with last minute wedding details to notice I’d spent the weekend happily buzzed in an effort to keep my anxiety at bay.

  I take a seat on the floral couch that is, no doubt, the same couch Jeff sat on as a child. There’s a clashing purple and green floral pillow that is misshaped with an uneven ruffle around the trim. It’s hideous and makes me question everything about her taste. His dad sits down on the other side of the couch and rubs his palms over his knees. Maybe he’s just as uncomfortable as I am?

  “Can I get you anything to drink, Henley? Some water? Tea? A cocktail?” Mrs. Carrington offers as she sets a plate of fresh baked cookies down on the coffee table.

  A drink? Really? I stretch my arms around my belly to call attention to the fact I’m pregnant and try to be as polite as possible. “No, thank you, Mrs. Carrington. I’m trying to lay off the sauce for the next few months.”

  She doesn’t laugh. Instead, she just cocks her hip out in awkward silence with narrowed eyes. “So, have you thought about when you two will have the wedding?”

  Not this again. “Um, not yet. We've got our hands full right now, and we're not in any rush.” I wrap my arms around my stomach and smile sweetly. I’ve done my fair share of evading wedding questions ever since Jeff proposed. It’s not that I’m not looking forward to getting married, because I am. But I fear that planning a wedding while planning for a baby and trying to stay sane is seriously going to fuck with the fragile state of my hormones.

  “Well, I've got a few ideas to run through you when you decide it's time.”

  “Oh?” I'm almost afraid to probe, but this woman is going to be my future mother-in-law and this child’s grandmother, so I’m morally obligated to at least hear her out. “Well, I guess we’ve got some time if you want to talk about them tonight?” What do I have to lose?

  Mrs. Carrington blinds me with her smile and runs over to the desk drawer, pulling out a notebook and presenting it to me with great pride. “Now these,” she says poignantly, “these ideas are something special. And I wish I could take credit for some of them, but I simply can’t.”

  I furrow my brow and open the notebook, the front cover soft and worn under my fingertips. I expect to be bombarded with clippings of Martha Stewart inspired wedding bouquets and information on venues in the Denver metropolitan area. But when my eyes hit the page, they’re met with something more … colorful. And spandex-clad.

  Oh. My. God.

  “This is from Jeff?” I ask in disbelief. I immediately recognize his chicken scratch etched upon the pages. It hasn't changed at all since his childhood.

  “Uh-huh!” She looks down at what I can only describe as a superhero vision board. Littering the pages are drawings of Wonder Woman in bridal attire, her red, gold, and blue emblem prominently around her waist, and single star crown adorned with a flowing veil. Superman had his signature “S” peeking out from underneath his tuxedo, his red cape flapping in the wind behind him. There were Batman inspired boutonnieres and invitations in comic-like fonts announcing that his kryptonite had been found and he was sentencing himself to a lifetime of love with Wonder Woman. And, because it begs to be repeated …

  Oh. My. God.

  “This one is my personal favorite. I know it’s a bit unconventional, but I just love his creativity and vision!” She flips through a few pages, landing on a sketch of what appears to be a four-tiered Spiderman wedding cake, complete with a spiderweb detail in the frosting.

  She can’t be serious, right? “This is … I don’t know what this is, but it’s something else!”

  Jeff planned his own wedding growing up? I do my best not to laugh because I have a distinct feeling I’d be laughing at him and not with him. And frankly, I don’t know enough about his mother to determine if she’d be on board with mockery.

  Mrs. Carrington’s eyes go warm, and she rests her palm on my forearm lovingly. “You aren’t the only one who has been dreaming of this day your whole life, sweetie.”

  I try not to laugh at the thought, but I can’t contain myself.

  “What?” she asks, almost offended.

  “Nothing. It’s just that Jeff never mentioned having specific thoughts or suggestions about our wedding, that’s all.”

  Mrs. Carrington adjusts her posture and smiles amiably, but it doesn’t feel genuine. “Well, if you like, you can hold onto this. Then when you finally start planning for the big day, you can use some of Jeff’s ideas as inspiration.”

  She can’t be serious.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  I immediately want to stuff the words back into my mouth. Luckily she doesn’t hear me. Or, if she does, she has the forethought to pretend she doesn’t hear me. I take the notebook and slip it into my backpack, out of sight, but I can still hear it taunting me, like the heartbeat under the rafters in Poe’s Tell-Tale Heart. Don’t get me wrong. I love that he’s put thought into what he wants in a wedding, but I’m not about to go down a path commonly reserved for Comic-Con fanboys.

  I shift uncomfortably and pray that Jeff makes a speedy return. I need to relax. These people are going to be my in-laws. And if I keep this up, they’re going to have me excommunicated from the family before I’m even technically in it.

  “Um, Mom?” Jeff shouts from the top of the stairs. The flat tone of his voice instantly makes me even more uneasy.

  “Yes, dear?” She rushes to the bottom of the stairs, doting on her son’s every move.

  “What happened to the guest room?” />
  “Oh! Your father and I turned it into a sewing and craft room for me. Isn’t it lovely?” Her face is beaming with pride and excitement over all of the crocheted pot holders and sweatshirts decorated with puff paint and sequins that surely occupy her free time.

  Jeff slowly starts to make his way down the stairs with a perplexed expression on his face. “But you don’t sew?”

  “I’m just dabbling in it and starting to learn. Look, I made those throw pillows on the couch. Beautiful, aren’t they?”

  I shift my weight to pull the pillow out from my back and run my fingers over the sad attempt at a ruffle. Looks like someone could use a tutorial, or better yet, a new hobby.

  “Yeah, it’s um, great, but where are we supposed to sleep if the guest room is out of commission?”

  “Your old bedroom, of course.”

  Jeff closes his eyes and sighs. I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who notices him shaking his head imperceptibly.

  And suddenly it’s clear. Sleeping at the airport would have been a much better idea.

  Less than an hour later, after feigned pleasantries and exactly three and a half cookies, I’m standing in the doorway of Jeff’s childhood bedroom.

  “Oh … my … God. You’ve got to be kidding me.” I peer inside in wonder and slight mortification. It’s suddenly clear why he insisted on not stopping by his parents’ house when we were in town for the wedding.

  This place is Jeff and his brother Chris frozen in time, and I catch an up close glimpse of my fiancé circa 1999. The room is a shrine, encapsulating Jeff and Chris’s life from junior high until they both graduated high school and moved out. There’s a shelf lined with trophies from baseball and soccer and ribbons from debate. Posters of supermodels spread out against muscle cars, some of them autographed — a true treasure for any teen boy’s spank bank, no doubt — hang from the walls.

  But the unspoken masterpiece in the room is the giant oak bunk bed against the wall. Complete with matching Star Wars comforter sets.

  I walk to set my backpack and purse on the floor and find a stash of Marvel action figures, unopened and stacked meticulously in a pyramid. I walk over to take a closer look.

  “Oh! Who do we have here?” I pick up the Wonder Woman and Superman boxes from the top of the pile. “Am I invited to their wedding? I now pronounce you husband and wife!” I press the boxes together, making obscene intimate kissing sounds.

  Jeff narrows his eyes and looks over his shoulder at me.

  “Oh, Superman! I'm so happy to finally be your wife! Thank you for choosing me over that slutty Super Girl,” I tease in a high-pitched voice.

  Jeff takes a moment to process what I just said and picks his jaw up from the floor. When realization hits, he fists his hair, distraught. “Damn it, Mom!”

  I swallow the giggles rising from my belly.

  “Did she … ummmm … show you the whole thing?” He swallows so hard I can see his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in his throat and his voice cracks, jumping an octave like a prepubescent boy.

  “No,” I lie, not wanting to embarrass him any more than his mother already has, but I can practically hear the superhero characters calling to me off the pages of the notebook that is safely hidden in my backpack across the room. I'm not ready to surrender this piece of his childhood. At least not yet.

  I stand there wordlessly, taking it all in. “This room is something else.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Jeff shoots a sympathetic look at me. “I don’t know why my mom didn’t turn this into the sewing room. Most of this crap should just be thrown away.”

  “Aww, don’t say that. These are your memories.” I walk toward the desk and grab what appears to be a prom photo of Jeff with his arms around a braces-clad smiling girl in a poofy golden dress.

  He quickly plucks the picture frame from my hands. “And some of these memories I’d much rather forget.”

  I run my fingers across his desk and walk over to read one of the many ribbons hanging off the book case. “Participation in the 1995 Field Games. Impressive.”

  “That was Chris’s!” he’s quick to clarify.

  I flip it over to read Jeff’s name and smile. “There’s nothing to be ashamed about. This is you. A slightly more awkward, nerdier, and pleasantly delightful version of you that I’ve never seen before.” This room is literally a time warp into his childhood. And I love every moment of it.

  Jeff rocks back on his heels, probably waiting for me to run out the door and down the stairs, far away from this place. “Well, for what it’s worth, I think I just fell in love with you a little bit more.”

  I stand in front of him, and he wraps his arms around my waist and mine immediately go to his neck. “I’ve never brought a girl up here before. I always kept them down in the basement.”

  I laugh. “That sounds so wrong. Hopefully, you aren’t harboring any women down there, now. But I get what you mean. I never had guys in my bedroom either.” My fingers drift, teasing the hair on the nape of his neck. “But I like that I get to see this side of you.”

  “I like it, too.”

  Jeff looks at me with such reverence that I feel it deep inside my bones. There’s a vulnerability in him that is so completely irresistible. And so, I give in.

  I lean forward and take his bottom lip between my teeth and gently pull. Softly, Jeff groans in my mouth which sets my nerves on fire. Just as I delicately lick his lips, he’s quick to move his hands to my face, holding tightly, and kisses me with such ferocity that it literally steals my breath away.

  This boy is a damn thief.

  “Ahem.”

  We pull away abruptly like two teenagers illicitly caught in the act and turn toward the door. I cover my mouth and cough, trying to hide my swollen lips. Jeff nonchalantly adjusts his pants, and I continue forcing myself to cough just so I can stifle a laugh.

  The look on his dad’s face makes me feel like kissing his son under his roof is a felony. “I just wanted to see if you kids needed anything before your mother and I hit the hay.” Jeff’s dad pulls his bathrobe shut a little tighter and watches us intently.

  “Thanks, Dad, but I think we’re all set.”

  “Yes, thank you so much for welcoming me into your home, Mr. Carrington.”

  His eyes shift between the two of us and then back to the bunk bed. Amusement is written all over his face. “Well, I’ll leave you two at it.”

  “Good night,” we say in awkward unison. The door closes behind him, and we both fall into a fit of laughter.

  “That’s my dad. Successfully blocking cock since the day I hit puberty.”

  “I just can’t believe that that little kiss got you so hot and bothered.”

  “That’s because everything about the woman I was kissing gets me hot and bothered. She has no idea how stunningly radiant she is, and how much of a turn on it is knowing that she’s carrying my child.”

  It’s impossible not to smile at his words. I pull our pajamas out from the suitcase, signaling that it’s time we put this party to bed. It’s been a long day of traveling, and we need to be up early to hopefully make our way to sunny California.

  “I still can’t believe you have a bunk bed,” I say in amazement.

  Jeff shrugs. “Chris and I shared a bedroom for years. My mother refused to get rid of the bunk bed because she felt they were practical.” He rolls his eyes at the statement.

  “Well, I think it’s sweet.”

  “I know you like it on top, but all things considered I think you should sleep on the bottom tonight.” He shoots a coy wink at me.

  We quickly get ready for bed, the pair of us carefully maneuvering around the other in the postage stamp-sized bathroom. Then he turns off the light, and we each settle into our respective mattresses. Jeff on top, and me on the bottom.

  “I love you, Hen.”

  “Love you most, Jeff.”

  It’s damn near impossible to get comfortable. And don’t even get me started on the sounds of the ho
use as it comes alive in the dead of night. All I can hear is the constant clanking of pipes somewhere inside the walls and the ice maker growling from the kitchen below us. That and the sound of my body shivering, which is ridiculous because these days I’m running at the temperature of an overworked furnace.

  “Henley?” he whispers into the darkness after what feels like an hour but is probably only ten minutes.

  “Yeah?” I try to control the chattering of my teeth. Apparently, his parents don’t believe in running the thermostat in this part of the house.

  “Are you awake?”

  Obviously, I’m awake. “Yeah, I’m just down here contemplating if I should sneak into your mother’s craft room and knit myself a sweater.”

  “You’re cold, too?”

  “It’s so cold I’m pretty sure a fire could freeze in here.”

  Jeff jumps down off the top bunk and runs out of the room. I can see, from the light streaming in from the hallway, that he has a pile of blankets in his arms. He kisses the top of my head and then covers me with three additional quilts.

  “There. That ought to do it.”

  I love how he takes such good care of me. But even more, I want him to.

  He climbs back on top, and then darkness and silence resume. “I miss you,” he says softly.

  “I’m right here. You’re one lost dog away from sounding like a stereotypical country song.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  I know exactly what he means. We’re both laying in bed feel the void of the other person next to us. And if I’m being honest, I miss him too. I sleep so much better when he’s curled up next to me. With great effort, I roll over, hoisting my belly to try and make myself more comfortable.

  “I know. I miss you, too.”

  “Want me to come down there and cuddle with you?”

  Do I want him to? Well … yeah. But I’m not certain where he’d go, and while the floor is tempting, it’s simply not an option for this pregnant momma.

  “I don’t think we can both fit down here. These bunk beds are twin size. There’s barely enough room for me and this baby.”