by Nicki Reed
As for heavy breathing, we’re managing, more than managing. It’s good, but it’s arduous. They say cigarettes are bad for your fitness. Ha! Try pregnancy.
It’s May and there is a winter bite. We walk slowly, BJ holding my hand. When we get there it’s wall-to-climbingwall of kids of varying sizes and abilities.
We sit under a tree out of the wind. BJ is in front of me, leaning into my chest, and I’ve tucked my hands into the sleeves of her coat.
‘Just think,’ she says, ‘this time next year, that could be us.’
There’s a little boy in denim overalls. His mother is kneeling on the ground, arms ready as he steps towards her, awkward, like he’s walking on a flying carpet. His dad is a half step behind him. When he makes it to his mother, his grin is almost as big as the grins on his parents.
I can’t help smiling. ‘It’s pretty cute.’
‘It’s life, Pete.’ She reaches around, kisses me on the cheek. I feel myself colour. If there is a last bastion of heterosexuality it has be the park on a Sunday afternoon in Balwyn.
‘Look over there.’ I nod at the seesaw.
Two little girls, blonde curls bouncing, matching pink gumboots, Mum and Dad leaning against the sandpit fence. The girls are rattling the handles of the seesaw, like they’re trying to make it go. It’s as if they know there should be more to it. They don’t make seesaws like they used to.
‘Thought of a name?’
‘Not one.’
‘Okay. Have you booked the antenatal classes yet?’
‘Nope. I’m too scared. It’s out of my hands anyway. It’s nature—what will happen will happen.’
‘You are unbelievable. You, the Queen of Google, investigate the interest out of everything. Come on, Pete. Knowledge is power, remember?’
‘Ignorance is bliss, remember? Let’s go.’
BJ stands up, holds out her hand and helps me to my feet.
‘But Pete, we’ll miss stuff like what to bring to hospital, what drugs you can use. They show you how to breastfeed. All that stuff.’
I’m not the only one who’s been on Google.
‘All right, all right, I’ll book it.’
The walk home is uphill. Crampy legs, heartburn. BJ walks behind me and lifts up the lump. The relief is brilliant.
She has a selection of five movies, they are all babyrelated. Raising Arizona, Parenthood, Nine Months, Look Who’s Talking and Baby Boom.
I choose Baby Boom with Diane Keaton as a career woman who inherits a baby. No. No. No. I can’t have a baby because I have a 12.30 lunch meeting! I laugh my head off. Laugh too much.
When the movie is finished, BJ smiles: ‘We’ll leave it at one. You’re tired, go to bed. I’ll stay up for a while and hit the books.’
Work is not the same when you are this pregnant. People ask you how you’re feeling all the time. JJ&T have never been this solicitous. I’m their novelty. They bring me cups of decaf coffee, glasses of water; they bring me leftovers from lunchtime conferences, careful to leave out any ham. Even the men are caring for me double-time. I’ve gone from haughty librarian to everybody’s pregnant teenager. Nobody wants me to carry anything. If I’m at my desk after five, somebody will say, ‘You still here?’ They’ll hand me my coat and my bag. It’s as if I’m having their baby.
Sunday, a week after the park, BJ has a plan.
‘Let’s visit Keith,’ she says.
‘Great idea. I booked the classes yesterday, Keith’s sure to ask. We’re down for the second weekend in June.’
‘Isn’t that close? To the due date, I mean.’
‘I’ve already copped an earful from the woman on the phone about that. She said, “Due to your procrastination you’ve missed a more appropriate time, you should have booked weeks ago”.’ My tone is a narky sing-song. ‘Well, I wasn’t ready weeks ago. Let’s call Keith and tell him we’re coming.’ I’m dialling his number.
‘Already have. I rang him when you were in the shower. Did you know his favourite flowers are freesias? Especially white ones. He used to give his wife freesias on her birthday. He’d pinch them from the front garden two houses up.’
I’m having a touch of the Margies. Don’t be talking to Keith without me, bitch. I slam the phone down and grab my keys.
‘Okay?’ She buckles her seatbelt.
I’m trying to put on mine but I’m yanking it and it keeps catching, yank, fuck, yank. BJ takes the belt, pulls it across me and buckles it.
‘Yep, fine.’ I back out of the driveway a little fast, nip the gutter across the road with the left rear wheel.
‘What did I do?’
‘Nothing. I’m stressed.’ The neighbourhood is flying past, letterbox, letterbox, letterbox.
‘Want me to drive? Please?’
I indicate, pull over. ‘Go ahead.’
We swap seats and I stop being an arsehole.
It’s incongruous that an ex-policeman, a detective sergeant, can be so good in the kitchen. His scones are better than Mum’s and that’s saying something.
‘Peta, are you set, have you got everything?’ Keith says.
BJ’s looking at me.
Keith is jamming and creaming his third scone; he’s just done BJ’s second. My stomach feels like it’s the size of an Oroton key-wallet—the baby is taking all the food room. I’m still on my first one. Small bites.
‘Don’t bother, Keith. She’s all right. Babe, would you like a glass of water?’
‘No, BJ, I’m fine, you don’t have to mother me.’ Smother me.
‘Have you two discussed the feeding and sleeping routine?’
BJ’s at the sink. ‘I’ve tried to discuss it, Keith. But it’s off limits.’
She gives me water. I don’t want it.
Keith stands up, plucks his house keys from the hook beside the phone. ‘Pete, I’ve been tidying up in case Catherine would like to stay. There’s a box of books in the shed, I thought you might like them. BJ, would you be able to get them for me? My knees have been giving me problems.’
I wait for BJ to leave the room. ‘Your knees are fine, Keith.’
‘I don’t want to say this in front of BJ. Why are you keeping her out of your pregnancy?’
‘I’m not.’ Always, always, always, go with denial first. Then take a breath, let it out, and say what’s on your mind. ‘I don’t want her looking after me. It’s unsexy. She’s twenty-three. She should be having fun.’
‘Are you afraid she’ll go off you?’
Keith makes me cry. Is that what dads are for?
‘Yes, Dad. Have a look at me. I’m enormous and I’ve got weeks to go. I don’t feel like myself. I feel like someone’s mother.’
‘Peta, the weight will come off.’
He’s holding my hand across the table. His hands are dry and warm. He has rectangular thumbnails and they look like they’re made of plastic, they’re so perfect.
‘But I’ll still be unsexy.’
‘BJ loves you, Peta. She didn’t go off you when she got home and found you pregnant. Let her in. Don’t mess this relationship up too.’
I can only be annoyed at Keith for a second. It’s true. I messed it up. ‘I don’t know, Dad. Here she comes.’
I take my hand back, put it in my lap.
‘So, Peta, have you thought of names? What about Keith?’
‘That’d be good,’ BJ says, dumping the box on the kitchen floor. ‘But only if it’s a boy.’
51.
‘I don’t think this is going to work.’ I’m doing the breakfast dishes.
‘Yeah, me neither.’
There. I knew it.
‘You don’t?’
‘You don’t trust me. For four weeks I’ve been trying to talk to you about the baby, even small things, and you can’t give me a straight answer.’
‘I don’t want to be boring.’
Try saying that wearing rubber gloves.
‘In just over a month you’re having a baby. What could be more exciting?’ She’
s sitting on a kitchen chair, backwards like Fonzie. Her fingers are turning white as they squeeze the back of it.
‘Oh, I don’t know. Riding a shitfighter through the streets of Paris, the sun being up at midnight.’
‘You want me to go back to Simone?’
‘No. Yes. You were happy there. I don’t want you to hate me.’ I pull the plug and try not to hear the dishwater whirlpooling down the drain.
‘I fucken hate it when you don’t trust me.’
I don’t say anything for a moment, hang the tea towel on the handle of the oven, straighten it. Darth Vader glows 10.30.
I sit opposite BJ. I’m using the table as protection but I want to be under it, want to take myself back to the joy of deciding she’s the one.
‘It never occurred to you it was hard for me too,’ she says.
‘Why? What did you have to give up?’ I stand and push my chair in.
‘Oh, so you gave up things for me? “See what I have to do to be with a lesbian?” was it? Sorry, I didn’t know I was such nasty compromise.’ BJ is on her way to the front door.
I hear the upward zip of her jacket.
The door slams. I slide down the kitchen cabinets to the floor. I’ve seen that move so often in movies, a broken woman and the echo of a slammed door. It feels as desolate as it looks on the screen.
52.
‘Congratulations, Peta. I heard you did it.’ ‘If this is about BJ, I’m hanging up.’ ‘Go ahead. I’m coming around.’
She must have been in the car. Less than five minutes after I hang up, Ruby is on my doorstep. ‘Peta, let us in.’
Us? I open the door, walk away from them to the kitchen. Ruby and Mark follow me down the hall. Mum’s teacups here we come.
‘It’s good to see you, ex-wife.’
Mark hasn’t seen me since he built the change table.
‘Can I touch your enormous belly?’
‘If I let you, will you go home?’
‘No, but we won’t stay all night either.’
My belly isn’t the only thing that’s grown. Mark’s hair is longish, untidy. He’s sporting a shaggy, beachcomber look. He looks good, loose, relaxed. His hand, bigger than BJ’s, gets more mileage on my belly. The baby kicks; it’s been kicking for most of the day.
The kettle on, the teapot prepared, Ruby joins in.
‘Did you feel that?’ Ruby says. ‘She’s a tough little thing.’
‘It might be a boy.’
Up until he said that, I haven’t minded what sex the baby is. Now I want it to be a girl. There’s another knock at the door.
‘That’ll be Taylor.’ Mark lets her in.
‘What is this?’ I say to Ruby. ‘An intervention?’
‘No. It’s a coming together.’
‘A coming together of busybodies is called an intervention. I’m going to the toilet. For the fiftieth time today. You can make tea while I’m gone, Ruby.’
When I’m in the toilet, I hear my name and BJ’s and the words strategy, compulsive, stupid and fat.
When I return I sit opposite Taylor and she places her feet on mine.
‘Who’s got the kids?’
‘They’re with Dave. He’s taken them to his mother’s. He said I looked like I needed some time off. Pinch me.’
Taylor’s holding one of Mum’s teacups secure in the knowledge I won’t get physical. ‘I can’t believe you let her go. She came back, threw herself at your feet—and in your back seat so I’m told. How old are you anyway, Pete?’
‘She’s right, Pete. This girl loves you,’ Mark says. He snatches up his teacup, splashing tea over the rim. Must have been my look. He’s leaning against the bench, Ruby next to him.
‘What do you care, Mark?’ I say. ‘You saw her off in the first place.’
‘And when she came back to you, you did,’ Ruby says.
‘Is this how it’s going to be for the rest of our lives? Are you never going to be on my side again?’
‘Peta, Ruby is on Mark’s side,’ Taylor uses air quotation marks, ‘because he is right. And Mark, in case I die before I get to say this, you let BJ hear you and Peta? Brilliant work. Inspired crassness.’
‘Shut up, Taylor.’
‘It’s okay, Ruby. Taylor’s right,’ Mark says. ‘If I’m ever such an arsehole again you can shoot me.’
‘Listen, we’re achieving nothing. I’d like to get something happening before Carole gets here.’ Taylor’s used to getting things done.
‘You’ve dragged Carole into this?’
‘She wanted to come. She says BJ sits in her room all day, playing the same four songs over and over, and hasn’t eaten anything decent since Sunday.’
I bet they’re the same four songs I’ve been playing. Gin Wigmore. Now she’s music for break-ups.
There’s a knock at the door.
‘I’ll get it.’ I check my keys are in my pocket, grab my phone on the way, and open the front door. ‘I’m sorry they made you come to this. Go in, Carole, there’s a fresh pot brewing. I’m just checking the mail.’
I race down the steps to my car.
My gobsmacked neighbour is putting his bins out. Has he never seen a pregnant woman running? I open the car with the key, don’t beep it open, and take off.
I shouldn’t have run. A little bit of wee came out.
53.
The intercom at Carole’s front door is low. Who installed it? Nobody of a decent height.
‘Yeah?’ BJ sounds worn out.
‘BJ, let me in.’
‘Go away, Peta. I’ve had enough and, actually, you’re right.’
‘I’m right?’ I let go of the button, wait.
‘Yeah, I’m too young for this shit. I don’t have the energy to keep up with you, Pete. You don’t know what you want and when you get what you want, you get sick of it. Good luck having a baby.’
All this through a speaker at Carole’s front door. The street is a cul-de-sac and BJ is echoing across the asphalt bowl of the court. I don’t care. I’m too tired and cold and upset for embarrassment.
There’s a rough lump in my throat. ‘Give me another chance? Please?’
‘Like you gave me? I came back from Paris, you were having a baby, and it didn’t matter. I drew a little picture of us in my head. I even bought one of those baby sling things, for fuck’s sake. I was ready for nappies and spew and nights of no sleep.’
‘You can have all that.’
‘I’m going to bed now, Pete.’
I press the button again. Again. Again.
I go back to the car. My phone is on the passenger seat. It has twelve missed calls: Ruby, Mark, Taylor, repeat.
I ring Ruby. ‘Rube, Rube, she doesn’t want me.’
‘Come home, Pete.’
‘Rube, I’ve lost her.’
I’m crying. Ruby waits until my volume drops.
‘Do you want me to come and get you?’
‘No, Rube, I’m coming.’
I put the car in gear and pull away from the kerb. Rain pelts the roof, sprays up from the cars in front of me. The roads are crystal. Street lights, traffic lights, headlights and tail-lamps reflected double, halos on halos. Three streets away from Carole’s, I turn the car around. If BJ can come back from Paris, I can come back from Malvern Road.
One street away, I flick my indicator on and turn back. Sit at a red light and wail. A man at the tram stop next to me knocks on the window.
He mouths: Are you okay?
I wipe my eyes on my sleeve, shake my head, sniff.
I have to concentrate on the baby.
When I swing back into Carole’s driveway, I expect to see some lights on, but the house is dark. I switch the ignition off. Take the steps to the front door, press the button.
No answer. I press the intercom button again. Still no answer. I’ll try the back door. I squeeze past the wet, thick plants along the side of the house and hike up the steps. On the last step I feel a trickle in my underpants.
Terrific. I’v
e been almost-weeing-myself all day. I’ve changed my underpants twice but didn’t think to bring any. Note to self: stash spare underpants in glove box.
I knock on the back door, try the handle.
The door is unlocked. I step inside and run a hand along a wall, find a light switch, flick it. Nothing but the big bakelite snap. Flick the switch again. Snap. All noise, no light. Carole’s place is a-night-in-the-country black.
I pad around the house. My toe catches a pile of magazines and the high stack concertinas to the floor. The noise is loud, packs the air, then full silence.
‘BJ,’ my voice loud, ‘BJ, are you here?’
The silence isn’t silent. My pulse? Stress made aural? Intuition?
I grab the railing on the wall side of the stairs. At thirty-five weeks pregnant, one of the no-nos, along with horse-riding and salami, has to be a midnight-dark climb up an unfamiliar staircase.
‘BJ,’ I say, more for me than her.
Safe at the top of the stairs. Another trickle. For God’s sake. ‘Um, hi BJ, don’t mind me. I wonder if I could borrow your pelvic floor. I seem to have damaged mine.’ I laugh and more wee trickles out.
I have to go to the toilet.
The door won’t open. Something is behind it. My shoulder against the door, I push, one sustained push. I feel another trickle. Jesus, I’m going to wet myself a metre from the toilet. The door opens a little. I slip my arm in.
Nothing high up. I bend down.
‘BJ! BJ!’
She’s on the tiles. Her hair is damp and her skin is cold.
‘BJ!’
I scrabble my phone out of my pocket and dial triple 0. The operator has difficulty understanding me. She calms me down, gets the address out of me.
‘And what about you?’ the operator says. ‘Are you injured?’
‘I’m pregnant.’
‘You’re sounding very confused.’
‘I’ve wet myself and my back is sore.’