“Mom…”
“No. You don’t get to be selfish this time, Rosalind Magdalena,” she continues to berate, pulling out the big guns with my middle name.
“How am I being selfish by not wanting people to give me things? Isn’t that the exact opposite of being selfish? I’m thinking of others.”
“I wasn’t born yesterday, Rosalind, and neither were you. This is about you not liking people.”
She’s not totally wrong. Typically, I don’t like people. For the record, I love my family, just in small doses, which she doesn’t seem to understand and it’s starting to give me a headache.
“You don’t have to try and convince me otherwise, because Lord knows I am your mother, so of course you don’t think I know anything…”
Aaaand here we go again with the guilt tactics.
“… call one of your girlfriends who has kids and ask her. Like Abel’s wife. She’s a good woman. She’ll tell you the truth.”
“She’s not his wife, Mom.”
“They’re married in the eyes of the Lord, Rosalind. Just like you’re married in the eyes of the Lord to Joey.”
That catches my attention and makes me want to vomit at the idea of a lifelong commitment. I think. Then again, we’re talking about Joey and I could see myself being forever with him. I like him. A lot. I might even have the beginnings of love for him, but I’m not one hundred percent sure that’s how I feel and it’s not partially influenced by my womb, so I’m waiting to decide for sure. “How the hell do you come to that conclusion?”
“Jesus knows when you have relations, Rosalind. It cements your commitment to each other.”
I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the biblical babble she continues to toss my way. I would never dismiss her religious beliefs. Hell, half of them I share with her. But sometimes I wonder exactly what theology she’s subscribing to.
Actually, I know which one—the religion of Mom-Is-Always-Right.
Regardless, I need to get off the phone before she makes me want to drown myself in a rum and Coke. I think that might be frowned upon in my current state.
“Well, I’m glad to know Jesus thinks I’m married, because then He no longer thinks I’m a sinner.” She makes a noise when she realizes her own words just backfired. That gives me about one-point-five seconds to finish the conversation. “So now that I’ve brushed off some of that guilt, I need to go call Elliott to talk about this baby shower thing.”
Am I really going to call her? Doubtful. But at least it’ll get me off the phone.
And go figure, my mother goes for it. “Yes, yes. Call her right now. I need to start planning anyway.”
“I haven’t said yes yet, Mom!”
“You don’t have to. Elliott will help you make the right choice. Now, go make that call while I check out these decorations at TJ Maxx. Oooh! Taffeta tablecloths in pink!”
The call disconnects before I can put my foot down about anything that might include taffeta. Suddenly, it’s not the idea of the baby shower that’s making me break out into a cold sweat, it’s the idea of my mother hosting it.
I can just see it now—blue and pink balloons, probably an ice sculpture of my protruding belly, and no doubt there will be a cake in the shape of a baby that she makes me cut the head off of. Because that’s the kind of thing my mother would do and never even realize how inappropriate it is because never mind that she’s a Palmer, “It’s the DiSoto way.” I’d rather Joey attempt to cook dinner again. Far less damage to my psyche.
I shift on the couch so I’m lying all the way down and rub my hand over my protruding bump, my GED prep book on the coffee table catching my eye. I sigh and flip the offending material the bird. I decided to bite the bullet and start studying for the test, so I spent money I didn’t have on the book. Stupidly, I assumed everything I learned in high school would come right back to me just by reading up on it. It didn’t. So now I’m discouraged because I probably need to take a night course to prepare, I’m pissed I don’t have the money for a night course, and I’m angry that it’s the first step to getting my pole fitness certification, per their requirements.
The whole thing is causing an emotional spiral to begin in my brain. If I’m not smart enough to get the equivalent of a high school diploma, how the hell am I going to be able to raise a baby? You need to know things like how to tell when they’re sick and side effects of vaccines and other shit I know nothing about. Because I know nothing about anything, and I just want it all to go away.
I know I’m thinking irrationally, but the downward slope is brewing and I don’t know how to stop it. It’s yet another reason I’m resistant to my mother’s idea.
It’s not that I don’t want a shower. I assume there is some baby stuff I need, and it would be helpful if I didn’t have to buy it. But having a party where every woman there is doting on me and trying to rub my stomach and telling all their horrifying stories of when they had babies doesn’t sound appealing at all. It actually sounds like a nightmare, especially considering Aunt Angela told me all about her five-inch-long episiotomy when I was twelve. It was her way of giving me appropriate church-approved birth control. Now that there’s no need for birth control, I can only imagine how much worse the stories will be. The only thing my family loves more than spreading guilt, is spreading fear, and childbirth is the perfect topic for it.
I feel a nudge under my ribs which momentarily makes me forget that someday this thing has to come out of me, and I smile instead. “What do you think, huh? Do you think we need to have a party with all the obnoxious family to celebrate you?” Another nudge, like he’s got an opinion on it. “You just want the presents.” This time the nudge is fast and hard. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was an intentional kick. “Okay, okay,” I say with a sigh, resigning myself to the fact that I need an ally in this because it’s happening whether I want it to or not. “I’ll call Elliott now. Stop kicking me.”
The baby stops moving, and I know I’ve officially lost my first battle of wills with this kid. Figures I’d already be caving just to make my life easier. Yet another way I will probably fail as a mother.
Picking up the phone, I prepare to call the one person who knows how to remedy the control battle I already have with my child, and who I trust to give me the information I need about celebrating its arrival. Well, mostly trust. I trust her with my and my baby’s life, but not necessarily with Joey’s. They like to pull one over on each other too much. Eh. That’s his problem.
I take a deep breath and blow it out, not because I’m nervous, but because I’m irritated. Elliott isn’t the one that put me in a bad mood, so it’s probably a good idea to shake it off before she answers.
Singing a couple bars to Taylor Swift’s hit that I actually hate but seems appropriate in the moment, I shake my arms out and dial.
It only takes a couple of rings before she picks up, but she can’t say much of anything over what sounds like mass chaos in the background.
“Hello? Hello, Rosalind?” she yells, probably because she can’t hear herself over the noise. Hell, I can barely hear her over all the commotion.
“Elliott?” I yell right back, like that’s even going to help. “What’s going on over there? Are you at work?”
“Hello? Hold on.”
I hear rustling in the background as she tells at least three people what to do, not including the child she has to calm down and send on his or her way. It’s an enlightening, and frankly terrifying, two minutes of my life. Two minutes of reminders that I have no idea what I’m getting myself into when I pop.
Finally, the noise dies down and I hear the snick of a door closing. “Okay, sorry about that. Is everything okay, Rosalind?”
“It’s fine on my end, but it sounds like you’re having a rough day.”
She laughs, which is the strangest reaction I’ve ever heard to what sounds like a hellacious day. “We had an unfortunate accident with a homework table falling over and paint spilling all over t
he floor. I think we’ve got it cleaned up—well, as best as we can without some professional help—but it was rough trying to keep all the kids out of the mess. That led to babies being mad they couldn’t crawl through it and toddlers wanting to make footprints everywhere. You know, the usual after-school kid-crowd stuff.”
“Uh… actually no. I don’t know any of that at all, but you’re not making a good case for parenthood right now.” And confirming that I know nothing. Although she is making me extremely glad my shift ends at three thirty. I wouldn’t want to have to clean up that room at the end of the day.
Once again, she finds humor in my fear. Holy shit, she really does fit in with the family. Maybe calling her wasn’t such a good idea.
“I promise, you are going to be fine,” she tries to soothe, but it’s not working at this point. “Incidents like these happen, but they’re few and far between. Plus, you’ve got some time until the baby will be big enough to create chaos.”
Except… “You forget I live with Joey.”
Elliott pauses. For a really long time. Before finally making this weird deflating-balloon sound as she speaks. “Yeeeeeah, so maybe you just should plan for the worst and hope for the best.”
“You know that’s not encouraging, right?” I glance around the living room, noting that his bachelor pad didn’t come with a bunch of breakables I’ll have to put away. At least there’s that.
“I don’t really have much encouragement to give now that you reminded me of Joey’s involvement. He’s babysat my kids way too many times for me to forget the tornado he leaves behind. At least he’s old enough to clean up after himself. When he wants to, anyway.”
“He didn’t clean up all the flour in the kitchen,” I grumble under my breath, remembering how long it took to make a dent in that storm and how I keep finding more white dust in the most random places. Seriously. How does it get inside a sealed refrigerator?
“What? I’m sorry I thought I heard someone call me from the other room, so I got distracted.”
“Oh nothing,” I lie quickly because he and I agreed to keep the fire incident between us. No sense in giving anyone a reason to pop in and check on us regularly. “So, listen, my mom wants to throw me a baby shower.”
“Fantastic!” Elliott remarks immediately and my hope that she’ll give me a plausible excuse to decline participating in such an irritating event are dashed.
I groan. “You think it’s a good idea?”
“Of course, I do! Free baby stuff? Heck yeah! Babies may be tiny, but everything they need is expensive and it adds up.”
“What do you mean it’s expensive? I wandered through the baby aisle at the store the other day and a shirt was like three dollars.”
“Have you not started looking into what you’ll need?”
“Nope. I’m in full-on avoidance mode.”
“Well, let me give you a quick rundown. Clothes can be supercheap if you get them at the right place. But that’s not what you really need. Car seats and diapers and not just those basic necessities are where the money goes. The things that will make your life easier.”
I sit straight up as quickly as my protruding belly will allow. Once again, I realize I still know nothing at all. “What does that mean? Things to make my life easier.”
“Oh boy, you’ll need a swing almost immediately because the baby will probably like the rocking motion. A bassinet to move from room to room so you have a place to put the baby down. A rocking chair was a lifesaver when it came to putting Ainsley to sleep. She refused to close her eyes if I didn’t rock her for at least thirty minutes. Oh! An Exersaucer for when the baby starts to get bored on the floor and wants to move around more but isn’t ready for sitting up! A Bumbo… I almost forgot that one. Bottles, probably a wrap of some sort for close contact when he’s tiny, a baby bathtub and a bouncy chair for sure…”
Elliott continues to list off what seems like hundreds of items I’ve never heard of in my life. I can practically see the price tags in my mind and the math of how much this kid is going to cost me makes my brain want to explode. There is so. Much. And Elliott’s still going.
“… a crib and all the bedding is a no-brainer, of course. Also I highly recommend a Tula…”
“Wait!” I interrupt, wishing I had a piece of paper to write all this down because there’s no way I’m going to remember it all. “What the hell is a Tula and why do I need it?”
“It’s a kind of front pack that can also be a backpack. You’ll need it to keep your baby close to you when he or she is too big for the wrap.”
“I don’t even know what a wrap is! I used to eat those at Subway.”
Elliott sighs and I know it’s in resignation to my stupidity. Because that’s how I feel—really, really dumb. How am I supposed to know how to take care of my baby if I don’t even know I need these things?
My breathing picks up and I make a conscious effort to slow it down, so I don’t hyperventilate. It does me no good to panic. Although maybe if I have a meltdown, Joey will take over all this and I can just sit back and play with the new baby things. Something to consider when I have some alone time.
“Rosalind,” she says gently, “I can tell you hate the idea of having a baby shower.”
The reminder of why I called her in the first place coupled with my newfound crippling anxiety morphs into this weird kind of anger I’ve not felt before. It’s more intense than a strong irritation and teeters on ripping everyone’s heads off, even if they don’t deserve it. “I don’t need a bunch of people pawing at me and telling all their childbirth war stories.”
“I agree. And unfortunately, there is nothing you can do about that part.” I grunt in frustration. I was hoping she’d tell me I had it all wrong and no one does that except in the movies. So much for feeling better. “But that part is less important than the presents.”
I pinch that spot right between my eyes. It doesn’t help with the tension at all. It never does. “I want to make sure I understand this. You want me to have a baby shower for the gifts? Like, not for the people or the celebration but for the presents? That is the exact opposite of what my mother has been preaching to me about my selfish behavior for probably fifteen years.”
“I feel like you’re just making excuses,” she says with a chuckle. I’m glad one of us thinks this is a hoot. “But think of it this way… if you don’t know what you’re going to need, you won’t go out and buy it. On the other hand, all these women who have done it before can anticipate what’s coming and get you everything, so you’re prepared. It cuts down on having to figure it out later. You just have to listen to a few war stories to hit the jackpot. You get the additional bonus of making all these women happy at once for allowing them to have a party.”
As much as I hate to admit it, she’s kind of right. Maybe someone will get me that Tula thing, so I don’t have to shell out the cash for it, too.
“Tell ya what,” she finally says, breaking the silence since I can’t seem to figure out how to respond to all this. “How about I call your mom and offer to help co-host it.”
I gasp. Coming to the shower is sacrifice enough. But co-hosting? With my mother? That’s just above and beyond.
“You’d do that?” I whisper, still in disbelief and not wanting to speak so loudly that she realizes what she’s offered and change her mind.
“Of course, I would.” Her words hold no hesitation in them whatsoever. It’s good to know the DiSoto clan doesn’t overwhelm her like they do me sometimes. “I’ll tell her it’s so I can get the addresses for all our work friends’ invitations and to help coordinate gifts. Which is true.”
Except that part will take less than half an hour. Tops. Even if she gets sidetracked by a rogue kid who breaks out of her room. “You know I don’t have many work friends, right? Basically, you’re it. And kind of by default because you’re living with my cousin.”
It sounds like she takes a breath through her nose and I have the bad feeling I just offended her.
But it’s true. Women don’t usually like me, so I never went out of my way to make friends at the gym.
“I think you underestimate how much people like and appreciate you at work.” I hear Elliott’s words, but I’m having a hard time understanding them.
“But… all I do is clean up after people,” I argue with that self-depreciating tone I’m getting used to. What happened to all my confidence? I think it disappeared the first time I had to help unclog a toilet in the men’s locker room. Nothing humbles you more than having to wear a face mask and gloves to clean up someone else’s shit.
“Rosalind, you do your job without complaint or being rude to clients. You work hard and chat with people. The elderly ladies talk about how cute you are all the time,” she says with a chuckle. “You’re better with people than you think you are. And the women at work like you more than you know. In fact, Tabitha was asking me the other day what you needed for the baby so she could start shopping.”
“She did?”
“Of course, she did! You’re part of the family now in so many ways.”
I bite my bottom lip as I let her words sink in. This news is just mind boggling. I had no idea people at work cared about me like that. I have a hard time believing it. It was never that way at my last job. There was an element of sticking together at the club because you just can’t take your clothes off in front of strangers without having each other’s backs at least a little bit, but it wasn’t ever really like a family. Girls would rotate in and out on a regular basis and let’s face it—we were all there for the money. Competition for the regulars who dropped the most cash in the G-string was pretty fierce. This new thought process of caring about your co-workers is very different.
Clearing my throat, I’m grateful to Elliott for letting me sit on my thoughts for a few minutes. There is so much to think about these days, half the time I can’t figure out what I’m processing before it poofs right out of my brain and onto some other topic. Hell, even my keys keep going missing. I found them in the freezer yesterday. I still don’t know why I put them there.
Weights of Wrath (Cipher Office Book 4) Page 15
