The Nine Month Plan

by Wendy Markham

  She obviously gets it. “Oh.” She takes a deep breath. “Listen, I’ve thought this all through, Joey . . .”

  “When? On your way to the park just now?”

  “No. Last night.”

  “While we were out together?”

  “After I got home. I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking . . . and anyway, I came up with a plan. Obviously, we’re not going to get me pregnant using the usual way, so—­”

  “We’re not?” He tries to ignore an utterly inappropriate flicker of disappointment and opts for humor. “What are we going to use? A turkey baster?”

  “No. We’re going to go to Dr. Sanjna—­she’s my gynecologist—­like regular ­people who want to have a baby using artificial insemination, and we’re going to—­”

  “Hold on, Nina, do you have any idea what that involves?”

  “A needle harvests the egg, right? And then—­”

  “It’s not that simple,” he says, thinking of Danny and Barb, and all they’ve gone through. “There are forms. There are tests. There are fees. There are specialists. It’s not like we can just show up there Monday morning, and bam—­you walk out pregnant.”

  She looks crestfallen. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. It’s complicated, Nina. But if you’re truly willing to . . .”

  “I’m willing, Joey, but it has to be now. I can’t afford to waste weeks—­”

  “I think it’s more like months.”

  “And I certainly can’t afford to waste months waiting around to get pregnant. I’m still planning on leaving next July, and I’m not about to do that with a baby on board.”

  “So it’s now or never. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  They fall silent, just looking at each other.

  Joe notices that Nina is wearing her usual Saturday morning uniform: faded jeans, sneakers, and a T-­shirt. She looks slim and pretty, her hair hanging loose around her face.

  He tries, and fails, to imagine her in an ultra-­feminine maternity dress with her belly sticking way out in front.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” Nina asks, all leery.

  “Like what?”

  “Look, I know what you’re thinking, Joey. And if it’s the only way . . .”

  She sighs. It’s an exaggerated sigh of resignation.

  But what, exactly, she’s resigned herself to, he has no idea.

  Not until she says, “If getting me pregnant using the old-­fashioned method is the only way we’re going to be able to do this, then I guess we have no choice. We’ll have to just do it.”

  Do it.

  She wants to just do it.

  And this isn’t a Nike ad. She’s not talking about rappeling or high diving, or . . .

  Nope.

  She’s talking about . . .

  Joe gulps.

  “It’s okay, Joey,” Nina says, laying a hand on his bare forearm.

  “Sure it is,” he says, mustering nonchalance from God-­knows-­where. “I mean, it isn’t as though we haven’t already—­”

  “No, it isn’t like that at all.” She gives an awkward little laugh and takes her sunglasses out of his hand. He didn’t even realize he was still holding them. “We’ve done it before, so we can do it again. Just this one time, of course.”

  He clears his throat. “Well, you know . . . it might take more than once, Nina.”

  “Uh-­uh. You get one try, Materi,” she says briskly, putting her sunglasses back on. “You’d better hope your boys can swim. Because if it doesn’t take, then it isn’t meant to be.”

  “But—­”

  “We’ll leave it up to your boys, Joey. And to God, of course.”

  “A few minutes ago you were willing to leave it up to Dr. Sanjna and her trusty harvesting needle.”

  “All I mean is that if this is the only way, then I’m willing to go through with it . . . but not on a regular basis. This isn’t going to be, ‘If at first you don’t succeed . . .’ ”

  “You mean you’re not willing to try, try again?” he asks with a lascivious grin. “Because trying, trying again—­and again—­might be kind of fun, once you get used to—­”

  “Joey!”

  “Nina, I’m kidding. Look, we have to be able to laugh about this.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s how we are. We laugh about everything. That’s just . . . that’s just us.”

  “You’re right.” She sighs. “That’s us. Sleeping together—­that’s not us.”

  “That can be us, too,” he says quickly, lest she change her mind.

  “Don’t you remember what happened the last time?”

  Last time. The only time. His would-­be wedding night, when he and Nina had found their way into each other’s arms.

  “Of course I remember. Didn’t I tell you about that tattoo on your—­”

  “I don’t mean that part. I mean afterward. Don’t you remember what happened afterward?”

  “I think we fell asleep.”

  “You did.”

  “It must have been all that champagne. Champagne always makes me—­”

  “Joey, we’re getting off the subject. I’m not talking about right afterward. I’m talking about days afterward. Things were awkward between us for a while.”

  “To be honest, Nina, that whole time in my life is just a blur and I don’t think it has anything to do with what happened with you,” he confesses. “I mean, Minnie was suddenly gone, and I was heartbroken, and I had to deal with returning all those wedding gifts, and canceling the honeymoon reservations . . .”

  “So you’re saying you didn’t give me the cold shoulder because of what had happened between us?”

  “You think I gave you the cold shoulder?”

  “I definitely thought you did.”

  “Maybe, but . . . I just don’t think so. I was still devastated about Minnie, trying to get over her . . .”

  “Oh.”

  Nina looks hurt. But . . . why? Is she actually jealous of Minnie? Minnie, the nun?

  “It’s not that I regretted what happened between us, Nina,” he says gently. “I wasn’t using you—­you know that.”

  “Of course I know that! We were both drunk, and felt betrayed by Minnie, and we were emotional, and . . .”

  “And virgins.”

  “Right. And virgins. And you were already planning on losing your virginity that night, so—­”

  “So you didn’t want me to be disappointed in every way?” he asks with a grin.

  “Right. I figured you deserved a consolation prize. Me.”

  They laugh, and laughing together makes it all right again. Comfortable.

  At least, for a moment.

  “So when are we going to . . .” Joe clears his throat. “I mean, when do we have to . . .”

  “I don’t know. I mean, I had my period a few weeks ago so . . . so I guess my fertile time would be . . . wow. It would be soon.”

  “Like next week?”

  “Like this week. Or maybe sooner.”

  “Sooner than this week?”

  She’s too busy counting on her fingers to answer for a moment. When she’s finished, she looks up at him. “Joey, I hate to break it to you, but if we’re actually going to do this, then I think . . . I think we have to do it tonight.”

  AT DUSK, HER heart pounding like crazy, Nina walks through her front gate, across a few squares of sidewalk, and through Joe’s gate.

  She’s followed this path countless times in her life, aside from that one summer when she took to climbing over the chain link fence separating the Chickalinis’ yard from the Materis’ yard. Mommy put a stop to that when she realized what was happening, and that Nina was trampling her petunia bed along the
fence line.

  There haven’t been flowers in that bed for years. The first summer without Mommy, Nina attempted to plant some. But it was all she could do to keep Ralphie in bottles, let alone worry about watering a garden. The sparse patch of plants had shriveled and died by mid-­July. Ralphie, luckily, survived.

  How the heck did Rosemarie Chickalini ever do it all? The kids, the gardens, the cleaning, the homemade pasta sauce every Sunday?

  She just had what it takes to be a mother, Nina reminds herself, slowly climbing Joe’s front steps. You don’t. You don’t have that maternal instinct.

  Or does she?

  Isn’t that why she’s here tonight?

  To get pregnant?

  But what kind of woman deliberately gets pregnant and gives the baby away?

  It’s for Joey, who has done so much for you. Now it’s your turn. You’re doing this for Joey.

  And, okay, she’s doing it for herself, too. Because she has this . . . this biological craving to give birth. Because this is her last chance to see what it’s all about, this whole life-­giving experience. Because she can picture herself as a serene, beautiful Madonna, ripe with child and glowing with . . .

  Oh, geez.

  Nina pauses, one foot on the top step, her hand trembling on the rail.

  Is she really going to go through with this?

  It certainly looks that way.

  Here she is, after all.

  She’s not even wearing her usual hanging-­out-­with-­Joe shorts and T-­shirt, hair pulled haphazardly back in an elastic to keep it off her neck in the summer heat.

  Instead, she took a long shower after coming home from the restaurant. She blew her hair dry and let it fall loose around her shoulders. She’s wearing makeup, and a sleeveless white summer blouse tucked into a slim-­fitting short khaki skirt.

  Under her clothes, she’s wearing white silk and lace lingerie. Lingerie that’s meant to be seen. Lingerie that’s designed for seduction.

  Lingerie meant to seduce Joe.

  Joe . . . her best friend. Her platonic friend.

  Oh, sheesh.

  What the hell is she doing?

  All day, as she made pizzas and took orders and bused tables, her impulsive decision weighed heavily on her mind.

  It’s not that she questions whether she’ll be able to get through the pregnancy—­or survive the birth.

  In fact, Aunt Carm, Mom’s sister, is always shaking her head and saying that Rosemarie would never have died if Ralphie were being born today. She had eclampsia. But medical technology and prenatal testing and monitoring have come a long way. Today, they would have caught the condition early.

  So it isn’t that Nina is afraid of dying. All right, maybe a little.

  And okay, she certainly isn’t looking forward to labor.

  But there’s so much more to all of this than just the pregnancy and delivery stuff.

  There’s Pop, for instance.

  What’s Pop going to say?

  He’s an old-­fashioned Italian man, a staunch Roman Catholic. He comes from the old school; the one that decrees that only married women should deliver babies . . . and that they should stick around to raise them in a traditional family.

  But Pop adores Joe. He loves him like a son. Whenever it snows overnight and Joe is out there shoveling the Chickalinis’ front walk before dawn, Pop shakes his head and says, “They don’t come any better than that Joe Materi.”

  Won’t Pop be happy that Nina is giving Joe a chance at fatherhood?

  Maybe Pop thinks Joe should get his chance at fatherhood in the old-­fashioned way. By meeting somebody, falling in love, and marrying her.

  But Joe’s already tried that route. Twice. Does he really need to strike out a third time?

  Oh, come on, Nina. Be entirely honest, here. At least with yourself.

  Shaken, she lowers the foot that was poised over the top step.

  Okay.

  If she’s going to be honest, then the truth is . . .

  The truth is that maybe it bothers her, just a little, to think that Joe . . .

  To think that he might settle for somebody less than wonderful.

  He’s so clearly the marrying kind, and there are so many man-­hunting women out there in New York—­so many gold diggers, no less, and Joe has money . . .

  Well, it’s only a matter of time before another Shmamanda gets her hooks into Joe.

  Or a Susannah.

  The thing about this particular Susannah—­the widowed single mom whom Rosalee wants Joe to meet and whom he’s so damned eager to meet—­is . . .

  She sounds right for Joe.

  Maybe she’s the woman he’s been searching for.

  And if that’s the case, shouldn’t you step aside and at least let him meet her and find out? Why are you taking this drastic step now?

  Do you have an ulterior motive, Nina?

  Well, do you?

  She swallows hard.

  Of course she doesn’t have an ulterior motive.

  She’s strictly doing this for Joey.

  And yes, all right, for herself.

  But purely for biological reasons.

  And maybe, yes, for emotional reasons that have to do with losing her mother.

  But she is in no way doing this because she has . . .

  Feelings. . .

  Feelings for Joe.

  And she certainly isn’t doing this because she wants to sleep with him.

  If that were the case, there are easier ways to go about it. Champagne, lacy lingerie, a little flirting . . .

  No, she isn’t doing this because she wants sex. Sex with Joe.

  Though she has to admit, the mere thought of what’s supposed to happen tonight has aroused her. And why not? She’s a red-­blooded woman. It’s been a long time. And Joe . . .

  Well, he’s a desirable man. What woman in her right mind wouldn’t want Joe to make love with her?

  Are you really in your right mind, Nina?

  That’s the question here, isn’t it?

  Well, she originally had no intention of conceiving Joe’s child by sleeping with him. She genuinely thought they could take care of it in a clinical setting, in a test tube.

  But you can, a little voice—­an irritating little voice—­reminds her. You can go to Dr. Sanjna and she’ll refer you to a specialist and—­

  And it will take months.

  Nina doesn’t have months.

  Not when freedom is within her grasp at last.

  So it’s either take this last step, ring the bell, and sleep with Joe tonight . . .

  Or . . .

  Or forget the whole thing.

  Let him go on searching for Ms. Right.

  Let him meet Susannah.

  Let him fall in love.

  Be his best man at his wedding.

  Be Aunt Nina to his babies, whom she’ll seldom see.

  That’s the most reasonable scenario.

  Far more reasonable than this ridiculous scheme she hatched in the restless, lonely wee hours of this morning.

  Nina turns away, a lump rising in her throat.

  This is wrong.

  This is so wrong.

  She’ll go home, and she’ll call him, and she’ll tell him that she’s changed her mind. That she just wasn’t thinking clearly when she proposed her plan.

  That will be much easier than telling him face to face.

  This is the right thing to do.

  The sane thing to do.

  Realizing she’s been holding her breath, Nina exhales heavily.

  She begins her descent down the steps . . .

  And then a fixture somewhere above the door suddenly flicks on, flooding the stoop with light.

  The door opens, and Joe is
standing there, silhouetted in the doorway.

  “Hi, Nina,” he says quietly.

  He sounds like a different person.

  She forces herself to look up.

  He’s wearing a dress shirt and pressed khakis. His hair is neatly combed.

  He looks . . .

  He looks as though he’s going out on a date.

  She realizes that he’s holding an enormous bouquet of roses. Over his shoulder, inside the house, she can see candlelight flickering beyond the hall, in the dining room.

  “I made us dinner,” he says, chewing his gum furiously, the way he does when he’s nervous.

  “You made us . . .” She gulps.

  “Scampi,” he says. “My mother’s recipe. I called her in Florida to get it. You always liked her scampi.”

  “You told your mother . . . ?”

  “I told her I wanted to make scampi for Nina. She said to put in plenty of shrimp. She said it’s about time you put some meat on those bones of yours.”

  Nina laughs. It’s a hollow sound.

  “That’s all I told her, Nina,” Joe says. “In case you think—­well, I wouldn’t tell anyone anything. Not yet. Not until . . .”

  He trails off.

  They stare at each other.

  Then Joe asks, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  Nina takes a deep breath.

  Now is the time to tell him.

  She looks at Joe.

  She looks at the roses.

  Roses.

  “Nina? Are you sure . . . ?”

  Tell him, Nina.

  Tell him.

  It’s just one word.

  No.

  You can say it.

  She opens her mouth.

  One word comes out.

  The word is . . .

  “Yes.”

  Chapter Six

  “DO YOU WANT more scampi?” Joe asks Nina, pretending not to notice that she hasn’t touched more than a ­couple of bites.

  “No, thanks . . .”

  “What’s the matter? Too much garlic?”

  “No, it’s fine. Just enough garlic.”

  Really? His mother’s recipe calls for three whole cloves, but, knowing what’s going to happen later, Joe barely used a sliver of one.

  Later.

  For the past hour, over his painstakingly prepared candlelight dinner, they’ve managed to talk about everything but later.