Birthquake

by B. L. Berry

  “This. You definitely want this,” Tara says, pulling my focus from my hasty thoughts.

  I grab the box and examine it closely, questioning the cartoon design on the packaging. “Nose Frida?”

  “Yeah. You place that little plug thing into the nostril, then you put the tube in your mouth. It helps you suck the boogers right outta the kid’s nose.”

  “That’s disgusting!” I turn my nose up at the thought of literally sucking a booger out of my child’s nostril.

  Tara snatches the registry gun from my hands and scans the bar code on the back.

  “No, it’s genius. And when this little monster of yours can’t sleep because he or she is unable to breathe, you’ll suck that snot right out and finally see the genius in it, too.”

  If you say so.

  Tara takes charge as she happily scans all the baby essentials and more toys and books than could possibly fit in the nursery. I let her because my mind is replaying last night’s words on loop, coming up with the most horrible scenarios imaginable.

  “I’m sorry.” I can’t shake that stupid, pathetic, apologetic voice of his. Gah! What the hell are you sorry for, Jeff?

  By the time we reach the rockers and nursery furniture, my mind is made up. Jeff is having an affair with some beautiful, leggy, very much not pregnant, blonde European woman. And he’s leaving me for her and her multi-million dollar inheritance to go live on a boat in the Mediterranean. She’s everything I’m not and never will be.

  “Are you okay? You look like you’re going to throw up.” Tara puts her hand gently on my back and rubs it in small circles. “I know shopping for the baby can be a stressful reality check, but you’re doing great, Henley. Really.”

  “No … that’s not it.” I walk over to a dark wooden glider with plush ivory cushions and sit down, leaning forward with my head in my hands. I choke back the threatening tears.

  “Oh, sweetie!” Tara rushes next to me. “I got crazy emotional when I worked on the registry for the triplets. And the price of this immaculate glider would make me cry, too.” She’s right. This glider is immaculate. And way out of our price range.

  I have to say something. Tara won’t judge me. I take a deep breath and look her in the eyes. Her face turns stony with concern and she takes my hands in hers.

  “Last night Jeff came home completely annihilated. He could barely stand up straight.”

  “Oh? Was he out partying with the guys?”

  “I don’t think so. He was … I dunno. Just not himself.”

  Tara looks at me and furrows her perfectly plucked brows.

  “He was really short and seemed a little secretive. And as he was passing out he said, ‘I’m sorry.’”

  “Did he do something stupid? Do I need to go over there and kick his ass for you?”

  “No. Well … I don’t think so? He wouldn’t do anything dumb. But something was definitely wrong.”

  “Well, that's ominously vague. What the hell does that even mean? I’m sorry?” She spits the words like they're razors on her tongue. “I’m sorry I forgot to take out the trash? I’m sorry I ate the last cupcake when I promised it for my very pregnant girlfriend? I'm sorry I got wasted and screwed my ex?”

  I wince at her last comment. But the possibilities truly are endless. “I wish I had some idea on where this I'm sorry falls on the Scale of Shit,” I confess.

  The Scale of Shit was something Tara and I came up with our junior year of college. We’d score exceptionally tough exams, multi-day hangovers and even tragically bad dates against the scale of shit. Forget about Professor Krueger’s psych midterm? Congratulations! You’ve achieved SHITCON level three. Spent the evening listening to your blind date pine over his ex-girlfriend? Easily SHITCON level four any day of the week. But the moment said blind date sheds tears as he details how his ex is transitioning into a man? That shit is SHITCON level two, and worthy of tracking down the ex-in-transition and giving him a high-five for being fearless.

  But SHITCON level one is reserved for the gravest of life’s infractions. And fortunately for us, it has only been reached one time when Tara got high and went streaking through campus only to be caught and taken in by the campus police. She’d pitched a fit about her bare ass sticking to the seat and chewed out the officer. She nearly didn’t graduate.

  “I’m pretty sure this has the potential to hit a SHITCON level of one if he’s really fucked up here. In fact, it may require us to reconfigure our entire SHITCON scale.” Tara’s trying to be funny, but failing miserably. This is my life we’re talking about here, and not just mine but this baby’s, too. A fuck up of epic proportions is exactly what I fear.

  I bite my tongue to avoid turning into that hormonal pregnant woman incapable of being in public without crying. Some things are simply unforgivable. But we are so deeply intertwined that I know the only way I’d cut Jeff off is if he handed me the scissors.

  Tara props a hand on her side and juts her hip out ever so slightly. “Why don't you just talk to him about it?”

  Because I don't think I want to know the truth just yet? “I don't know. I just can’t!”

  “So let me get this straight. You can have his baby, and you can put his dick in your mouth, but you can't call him out on his crap to ask just what the hell is going on?”

  Well, when she puts it like that I can't exactly argue.

  “I know I need to talk to him about it. I just … It’s delicate. I don’t know how to even broach the subject without causing him to go immediately on the defense.”

  “Well, the way I see it is, you both love each other to the point it’s almost sickening. You’ll figure it out. Just please don’t wait too long because I know you, and you and I both know this is going to keep you awake at night and eat you up inside.”

  I hate that she’s right, but love her for knowing me as well as I know myself.

  She takes the registry gun and scans the chair I’m sitting in with a sly smile. I open my mouth to protest.

  “Stop. We both know this rocker kicks some serious ass. And bottom line, you’re worth it. Just like you’re worth the truth of what’s going on in your relationship.”

  “Thanks again for coming with me today,” I say on the drive back home.

  “It’s no big deal. Really.”

  “I know, but you have triplets. And I know I’ve been bogarting a lot of your time lately.”

  “Shut it! You’re my best friend. And we finally have proof that you put out. Besides, The Three Musketeers are busy raising hell at their Nana’s house right now. Cam says it’s payback for all the times his folks grounded him growing up. His mom always threatened that she hoped one day he’d have a son as ornery and rambunctious as him. She got her wish — three fold. And she has to pay her dues for bringing that mayhem into our lives.”

  I smile weakly. “Well, it took us long enough, but I think we’ve got it all covered.” At least I hope we do. In spite of all the wisdom imparted by my best friend, useless advice from my family, and all of the What You Need lists in the pregnancy books I own, I still feel ill-prepared.

  “It was a productive four hours.”

  I still can’t believe it took that long. When I wasn’t busy having a pity party in the middle of the store, Tara was busy detailing the best diaper rash creams and looking up reviews on car seats, rectal thermometers, and breast pumps. She went so far as to demonstrate the difference between an electric pump and a hand pump (over the clothes, of course) and garnered the attention of the few dads-to-be in the store.

  “Hopefully we’ve put enough stuff on here for your baby shower. Your mom had me invite a stupid amount of people.”

  Of course she did. Because only my mother would find a way to make this day about her. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. Besides, people tend to buy you stuff they think they want anyway. The registry is merely a suggestion.”

  Tara laughs. “Spoken like a true passive aggressive woman. If I recall, you bought me a bottle of wine and a wine gla
ss with a spill-proof lid that said, ‘Mommy’s Sippy Cup’ for my shower.”

  “Hey now! I bought a truckload of diapers, too. Besides, you love that cup.”

  Tara looks away from the road to me and smiles. “That’s true. The glass does kick some serious ass. Jack once knocked it off the coffee table, and it saved the beige carpet underneath from a bottle of cabernet I had been saving for a special occasion. That special occasion just so happened to be a random Tuesday afternoon.”

  We drive in silence for a few minutes longer.

  “Thanks again for planning a baby shower for me, T. It really means a lot.”

  “Anything for you, my friend. Anything for you.”

  UNDERWHELMED BY OVERWHELMED

  To say that it’s been a long week and a half would be an understatement. Each passing second feels like a minute. A minute feels like an hour. An hour feels like a day. And well a day feels like an eternity.

  Which means we’ve gone through ten eternities since that night. The night I hate thinking about.

  I know I should just rip off the Band-Aid and ask him what the hell his deal was. Find out what was so horrible in his life that he had to swan dive off the deep end and straight into a bottle of whiskey.

  But I can’t. Because the moment I do is the moment the flood gates open. And once the dam of a pregnant woman breaks, there’s no closing it. Your hormones overthrow all semblance of logical thinking, and it’s nearly impossible to keep your sanity in check.

  We’ve gotten pretty good at pretending.

  And I kind of hate myself for allowing it to go on as long as it has.

  I’m in the kitchen smothering a waffle with peanut butter when I hear the floor creak beneath someone’s feet behind me. My adrenaline spikes and I spin on my heel, holding the gooey butter knife out in front of my body like a weapon.

  Oh, sweet Jesus. It’s just Jeff.

  I exhale quickly and close my eyes.

  “Hey, you,” he says almost sheepishly. And when I open my eyes to look at him, his lips press together in a sad smile.

  “I didn’t hear you come in. You scared me.” My voice is shorter than I’d like, but lately, nearly every reaction I have feels out of my control, so I just go with it.

  Jeff pulls his arm out from behind his back to reveal a simple, yet beautiful bouquet of daisies. I look at him, to the flowers, and then back again.

  “What’s this for?” I ask, not making a move to take the bouquet.

  His eyes dart from me nervously, and it’s obvious he doesn’t want to talk about it right now. Jeff’s voice is barely a whisper. “Because I love you.”

  I take a deep breath before taking the flowers from him. I should thank him, or at least say I love you too, but neither passes my lips. The words that do come, however, surprise me.

  “Is this an apology?” I ask as I fill a vase with water, hoping the prompt will shed some light on the unmentionable wedge between us.

  “An apology?”

  Surely he’s not this stupid?

  I shut off the water and take the daisies from him, putting them in the vase. I pop my hand on my hip. “For the other night?” I say, but it comes out more like a question, and damn the uncertainty in my voice. I watch him swallow hard, and he struggles to maintain eye contact. I hate confrontation, but I run the risk of combustion if I don’t at least ask.

  “What happened?” The words are barely a whisper.

  He shakes his head, but I’m not sure why. “I’m just … overwhelmed, I guess.”

  “Overwhelmed,” I repeat, making sure I heard him correctly.

  Jeff nods.

  And it’s the most underwhelming response he possibly could have delivered.

  I laugh maniacally at the word. Overwhelmed. Who isn’t overwhelmed? I’d like to meet one soon-to-be-first-time-parent who doesn’t feel like they’re overwhelmed. I want to tell him that he’s full of shit and if he wants out of this relationship then he should speak now so I can pack my things and leave. It’s one thing to have a crap boyfriend who keeps things from you. But it’s a whole other ballgame the moment you bring that boyfriend into fatherhood status. These games where he’s overwhelmed and incapable of being an adult will soon impact more than just the two of us.

  I want to spit obscenities and yell and smack him upside the head until he realizes what he’s doing.

  I may be knocked up and certifiably emotionally unstable right now, but even still, I know that words said in haste can easily become the best speech I’ll pontificate and live to regret.

  And so I do the smartest thing I’ve done all day.

  I choke back the words that would do more harm than good.

  “Why?” I challenge, still needing to find a way to connect with him. I need to know what is so bad that he can’t talk to me. “We have a great life. A great home. We both have great jobs. What I think is a really great relationship. And up until recently, I was under the impression that we both felt this child was a great addition. Rather than internalize everything, you should be able to just talk to me. I’m going to be your wife. The mother of your child. We’re a team. Where you walk, I walk … remember? It’s terrifying to think that when things feel overwhelming to you, you back off like you’re looking for someone to tag you out of the ring.”

  He winces at my words and rakes his palm down his face. “Can we not do this now babe?”

  I scoff and throw my arms up in defeat, trying to bite back the tears.

  Whatever.

  I guess I expected too much from him.

  I’m not hungry anymore. I turn back to the counter and throw away the peanut butter waffle that I never even touched. As I’m walking out of the kitchen, Jeff grabs my wrist and gently pulls me to him.

  Jeff’s eyes carry a pained expression as he slowly rubs his hands up and down my arms. He leans over, and I feel the heat of his breath linger before he presses his lips to my forehead. I can hear him breathing me in. I close my eyes and wish all this drama would just disappear so we can go back to being Henley and Jeff, the carefree and happy couple.

  After a painfully slow moment that was probably only ten-seconds, Jeff pulls back and finally speaks. “I meant what I said. I love you. I truthfully am just overwhelmed. There is so much going on in my head and I can’t even begin to process everything right now, but when I’m finally able to make sense of it all, I promise we will talk about it.”

  It’s the most he’s said to me in a week and a half.

  And it’s the one promise that I hope he can keep.

  I need to give him the benefit of the doubt and shut down the demons chriping inside my head because if I can’t, at the very least, try to do that, then every last one of these pregnancy hormones is going to eat me alive.

  ANTI-ADVICE

  “I have never seen so much blue and pink wrapping paper in one place in my entire life,” I say looking at the pile of perfectly primped gift boxes and bags on the table across the room.

  “What did you expect? It’s a baby shower.” My mother gives me a warm side hug.

  I’m happy that she’s here but still confused as to who most of these people are. Besides Tara, I only invited a small handle of co-workers and two sorority sisters who live nearby. On the other hand, it appears that my mother invited everyone she’s ever met, regardless of whether or not they know me. I know she means well, but I feel like this has turned into a celebration for her and her grandchild.

  “I know … I just feel weird for some reason,” I admit uncomfortably. “Who are those ladies in the corner over there?”

  “That’s Demelza, Lyla and Anne Marie, of course.”

  Oh! Of course that’s who it is. I knew my mother was aloof, but this is ridiculous. “And they would be?” I prompt her for some kind of recognition.

  “My book club ladies. You know them.”

  “No. No, I don’t.” I shake my head. Truthfully, I had no idea my mother was even in a book club. But Mom simply gives a subtle huh under her
breath.

  “What about the ladies over by the mimosa station?”

  She turns to look at the gaggle of wiry grey-haired women gossiping with their backs toward everyone else. “Oh, those are my friends from church.” She leans over to whisper in my ear. “Jeanne, there on the left, likes to take advantage of the wine chalice during communion. Everyone knows she likes the sauce, but nobody ever says anything to her about it, so instead, we just pray for her soul. I dropped ten Hail Marys for her this morning when I realized Tara was serving mimosas.”

  I watch as Jeanne tops off her champagne flute with a single drop of orange juice, and snicker to myself. I begin to question just how many women my mother has asked to pray for my soul. Because with my permanent record of premarital tomfoolery, I’ve earned myself a full-ride scholarship to hell. Fortunately, I’m saving the seat next to me in the back of the classroom for Tara. It should be a hoot.

  “All of these lovely women have gathered here to celebrate the pending birth of my grandchild.” She places her hand upon my baby bump like she’s staking claim to the contents inside. It’s a baby, not a lounge chair on the sundeck of a cruise ship. It’s all a bit ridiculous if you ask me.

  I smile politely. “Excuse me for just a moment, Mom.” I sneak into the kitchen to pour myself a tall glass of ice water and start downing it like I’m a camel on the verge of trekking the Sahara. I pour myself a second, and then a third, and toss it back like the Beer Bong Champ of the Midwest that I am.

  Seriously. I won a beer bong contest back in college with a red funnel and tube contraption I called Lil’ Bill. My ability to open my throat and let it all slide down knows no bounds.

  I set my glass on the counter and exchange pleasantries with my Aunt Tillie, who drove up from Wichita for the occasion, and greet a few of my old college friends. While they’re all married, none of them have children yet, so it’s hard not to feel like they’re silently judging me on some level.

  When the baby decides to use my bladder as a Jazzercise trampoline, I excuse myself to use the restroom faster than Richard Simmons running into a sequin factory. Even if I hadn’t just chugged a gallon of water, I would no doubt still have to pee like a racehorse. I appreciate the moment of silence, and part of me wishes I could just hide out in here for the rest of the afternoon. Attention is something I don’t do very well. It doesn’t matter if I’m in front of a hundred people or five. When all eyes are on me, I instinctively get nervous.