by Julia Kent
“And you seem pretty negative, for a guy I was about to offer a director-level job to.”
“A what?”
“I need someone to run the fitness side of the gyms. Stay true to the concept. I want a chain where people can go and just sweat. Do the hard work. Gritty and authentic, without all the fancy frills. No upselling. No pressure. Just a gym home where you feel like you're part of the community at the same time you're left alone to do your lifting, sweat it out, and head home.”
“You're offering me a job?”
“I am. Gina has all the details ready to mail you when I give her the okay.”
At the mention of my executive assistant, Vince's eyes widen a little, then settle down. “Why would I want to become a corporate drone? Last thing in the world I want is to sit behind a desk.”
“Then we won't put one in your office.”
“You're serious.”
“I am. At first, we'll stick to the existing sixteen locations. Create procedures, audit staff, make sure we understand what we're marketing and to whom and how best to expand the clientele. And then–”
His hand goes to my forearm. I shut up.
“You want me to direct a chain of gyms? To make sure they stay like old Jorg's created them?”
“Yes.”
“This is either crazy or genius.”
“Let's go with genius.”
“I don't know, man. I have a lot of clients right now. They'll be pissed if I leave them.”
“Your call. No rush on a decision. Take a week or two. But I do need to know.”
“What about salary? Benefits?”
“Gina has the proposal. You want me to have her send it?”
Over Vince's shoulder, I see Jorg watching us, one eye narrower than the other. A protective, fatherly quality radiates from his look. Whatever happened when Vince was fifteen and the old man let him live in the office here at the gym persists to this day.
“I will never become your bitch, Andrew.”
“I'll take that as a yes, Vince.” I grab my phone and text Gina, who instantly replies with Confirmed.
“I didn't accept the job. Just looking over the proposal.”
I grin at him. “I know.”
“Don't give me that smug look.”
“I'm not!”
“It's embedded in your face. You can't help yourself, can you? Go sweat it out. Hundred burpees.”
“What?” My grin falters, sliding off my face like a mountain goat losing his footing.
His glare is tinged with amusement. “You want authentic? We'll start right here, right now. With you.”
4
Amanda
“Mom?” After all these years of my mother being sick with fibromyalgia, I've reached a point where I know the second I open the front door, even an inch, what kind of condition she's in. The tells are simple: which lights are on or off. Whether I smell home-cooked food or something more industrial from a frozen dinner. The trash can still out by the curb, two days after pickup.
Her teacup Chihuahua, Spritzy, eagerly wagging his tail, and the overly enthusiastic ankle-licking invasion.
“Amanda?” she calls out weakly from the other room. “I'm in here.”
In here means she's stationed in her recliner chair, laptop desk in place, a thick rice pad on her kidneys, long cold after being microwaved an hour ago to ease her pain. Her eyelids droop slightly, not from sleepiness, but from the effort it takes for her body to manage so much pain.
There is no extra bandwidth to lift her eyelids more than necessary to see.
“Mom,” I say, reaching for her hand, lightly holding the back of it. A hug would hurt her too much. Touching gives her some small comfort, so over the years, we've worked out this gesture.
Her skin is warm. Dry. Her clasp is weak.
“Could you?” Bending forward just an inch or two, she signals for me to take the rice pad from behind her. Instinct tells my hands what to do, my motions suddenly automatic. Two minutes and twenty-nine seconds have passed by the time I realize I'm standing in front of the microwave, the buttons pushed and time just something to get through before bringing Mom some relief.
I look down. Her dog is panting at me.
“Have you walked Spritzy?” I ask, knowing the answer is no, but Mom needs the dignity of being asked.
“Not yet. Could you?”
“Of course!” I find the can of treats to snap one in half, making Spritzy sit for it. The way he chows it down reminds me.
Yup. The dog food dish is empty. Water's full, thankfully, because of a self-watering system that Mom can fill every couple days.
“Don't try to feed him!” Mom says. “You'll make sick all over the kitchen floor like last time.”
“I am so sorry.”
“It's fine. Wasn't the first time I've ever cleaned up your sick.”
Mom calls vomiting “your sick” or “the sick.”
“I'm a grown-up, Mom.” Ignoring her comment, I shake some dry food in Spritzy's bowl. He eagerly starts chomping away, the back of his little head bobbing as he chews.
“And soon you'll be someone's mom. Two someones.” Her eyes jump to my belly. “How's it going?”
My hand goes under my navel and I smile. “I'm fine. I’m into the second trimester now, so things should get easier soon.”
“I can't see it with that baggy shirt you're wearing,” she says evenly, slowly. “Soon you'll have to wear maternity clothes.”
I pull up the hem of my shirt. She giggles. The wide elastic panel on my pants makes it clear I'm pregnant.
“I remember when I was pregnant with you,” she says softly, eyes unfocused, clearly going back in the past in her mind's eye. “My friends lent me their maternity clothes. We didn't have so many choices back then. You saved your stuff and passed it around. Why waste money on new when you'd only wear it for such a short time?”
I point to my pants. “These were Shannon's. She lent me her collection of maternity clothes.”
“Lent?”
“She wants everything back.”
“For when she and Declan have another, I hope?”
I nod. She smiles, but it's weak.
The microwave dings and I walk over to it, the dog at my heels. One thing at a time, doggo, I think to myself. Take care of Mom first, then you.
My stomach tightens. Soon I'll add two babies into the mix of people I take care of.
Thank goodness I have Andrew to take care of me.
“Here, Mom,” I announce as I return to her, holding the rice pad. Gingerly, she leans forward. I settle it in place, then let her tweak it. As her shoulders relax, eyes closing with relief, I wonder if I'll develop this autoimmune condition, too.
I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.
“Marie is going to be thrilled Shannon's planning to have more. She already has three grandchildren, so you'd think that would be enough,” Mom says as I click Spritzy's leash onto his collar, which immediately leads to him jumping at my face and licking my nose.
Which makes me gag.
Which makes me–
“Are you about to be sick all over, Mandy?” she calls out as I dry heave, Spritzy stepping back and cocking his head as if to ask, Was it something I did?
“Fine, Mom. Need fresh air,” I gasp as I lunge out the door, Spritzy's stubby tail jiggling with excitement as I take five steps and he sniffs the hell out of Mom's light post.
Then he pees and I turn away, trying not to watch the long, thin stream.
It's a sunny day, the kind you want to milk for every second it offers. The temperature’s in the mid-sixties, a rare nice early-March day in Massachusetts, where the sun seems allergic to paying a visit in winter.
I'll try to convince Mom to go outside and sit in the sun, on a reclining lawn chair, but my chances are about one in four. Mom's an actuary, so I think of her in those terms.
Math.
Too bad you can't math your way out of a flare. If you could, Pam Warrick
would have done it long ago.
Spritzy turns to look up at me, an eager expression on his tiny, pinched face, as if I'm supposed to praise him for answering nature's call. Instead, I move forward, enjoying the feel of my legs as I take long steps, walking around the block. He's a tiny little thing, a few pounds at most, and holding my end of the leash feels a bit like walking one of those “invisible dog” gag toys you win at a carnival booth.
But he's very real, and I don't know what Mom would do without his companionship.
Fresh air helps me, the walk getting my blood pumping. My body still feels foreign to me as the pregnancy evolves. I have moments when I'm not sure how to get through time itself, the strangeness of growing two human beings inside me making daily life seem dreamlike, as if I'm forgetting something important.
How can I walk a dog while something so monumental is happening in me? How can I get the mail, sit in a work meeting, pump gas–do all the normal things we do in life–and not constantly stop to marvel at what I am doing through no effort of my own?
Biological processes have an order, a sequence, a systematic ritual. Each step hands the proverbial baton off to the next one.
How do we not spend all our time pondering pregnancy?
Spritzy sneezes, three adorable little snits in a row, then turns around, suddenly ready to head home. He has a homing device in his head, the walks always shorter when Mom's having a flare. I can tell he senses her sickness, and gives her extra attention when she flares.
Like Andrew and my pregnancy.
“We're not so different, are we?” I whisper to the dog as we turn the corner and I see the front of the house, looking at it through a new lens. The bushes need to be trimmed, and the mulch has worn thin along the sidewalk. Mom used to hire a neighbor kid to mow the lawn, but he graduated from high school and went off to college, time passing in a way that upset her routine.
Note to self: Hire a landscaping crew to help her.
“Hey!” I call out gently as the screen door bangs behind me, Spritzy shaking with excitement to be home. I unclick the leash and he goes straight for his food dish, looking at me with eyebrows up as if surprised there’s still food there from when I fed him before.
“Thank you. Now I don't have to worry about him.”
“Why not do an electric fence in the backyard, Mom? Then he can run free and you don't have to take him on walks.”
“It's on my to-do list. But you know.”
Yeah. I know. When you're sick like Mom is, you do as much as possible during the good times; when it gets bad, the rest falls by the wayside.
“Let me hire someone for you.”
She bristles, unwilling to meet my eye. “I can do it.”
“Mom. Let me. Please. Knowing Spritzy's well cared for matters to me because it matters to you.”
“Actually, I was thinking about putting in a regular fence.”
“Really? Why?”
“For when you and Andrew come and bring the babies.”
“Huh?”
“They won't be babies for long. Soon they'll crawl, then walk. And two at the same time! I remember your toddler years, Amanda. You'll need to keep them safe by always having an eye on both. A fence in the backyard here will make a safe place for me to play with my grandchildren, and for Spritzy. It's win-win.”
“That sounds extremely practical.”
She points to herself. “That's me.”
We laugh. It feels good.
“Then I'll hire a company to install a fence,” I say, seizing the moment. “You pick the fence.”
“I'll have to see if it's in the budget.”
“It's in my budget,” I say firmly.
“Everything's in your budget. You married a billionaire!”
“That's right.”
“We've talked about this before,” she says tightly. “You can't just–”
“If your reasoning is that the regular fence will help you to watch my children, then I can 'just', Mom. My treat.”
“Since when is a fence a treat?” But she's smiling, eyes kind and, dare I say it–happy?
“Good. It's settled.”
“You always were a fixer, weren't you? Still are.”
A wave of nausea hits me, making my skin crawl. Who knew skin could feel sick?
“Amanda? You're green. Here.” She sorts through something on her end table, then hands me a wrapped candy. It smells like lemon. I open it and put it on my tongue, the taste instantly helping.
“Get some carbonated water from the fridge. It's in the door. Slim little bottle, no flavor. Sip it slowly. You'll be fine.”
I do exactly as she says, my body moving as if someone is pulling the strings, the sick flavor of bile threatening to crawl up my throat. The first sip makes my stomach gurgle, the second makes me gag, but halfway through the small glass, lemon takes over my mouth and I finally feel the crisis fading.
“Sit,” Mom says, pointing to the couch across from her. I do, Spritzy jumping into Mom's lap, chin on paws, eyes closing as he sighs.
“Okay.”
Wonder where I learned to fix problems for people.
“You'll be fine. Nothing is permanent. How we feel always passes into something different.”
“Is that how you handle flares?”
“Sometimes. It's very easy to be calm and composed when you're not the one struggling.”
I catch her gaze. She's worried. I see it.
“I'm fine. The babies are great. We have an ultrasound coming up.”
“I know. James told me.” Andrew's father and my mother have one of the most unlikely friendships I've ever seen. At one point, we assumed there was a romance brewing between the two of them, but Mom rebuffed him. I'm not entirely convinced nothing's going on, and I've often wondered why Mom rejected his advances before.
Sure, he dates other women. When have you ever seen James McCormick without a woman on his arm, four decades younger? So maybe I'm wrong about my mom, but...
When I ask, she changes the subject.
But they still hang out together.
And they obviously gossip about me and Andrew.
“Did he? I've been informed by him that I'd better produce a boy.”
“That's all on Andrew,” Mom says with a chuckle.
“I understand biology, Mom. Tell it to James.”
“Oh, I have. Trust me. I've made it clear he needs to back off and leave you two alone.”
“Hah! Fat lot of good that will do.”
“I tried.” She shrugs. We share smiles that make it clear we both know how difficult James McCormick can be, and how legendary his stubborn streak is.
My husband is definitely his father's son.
Bzzz
I look at my phone. Andrew.
I'll be home for dinner. What do you want?
For the last few weeks, we've ordered takeout every single night, because I never know what my stomach will or won’t be able to handle. I close my eyes and ask myself what I want, and reply:
Grilled salmon with paprika. Cantaloupe. Sautéed carrots in honey and cumin.
He texts back: I see you’re sticking with the orange theme.
I send an emoji of someone sticking out its tongue.
Will do, he replies. I'll have Consuela make it and bring it home after the gym.
Then I get a heart.
Consuela owns a private restaurant in the Seaport District, the kind that you can't know about unless you know someone who knows someone. It's our special place, and since morning sickness has ravaged me, Consuela's been gracious enough to meet my weirdo dietary needs.
She also takes it as a challenge. My palate has expanded considerably as a result of her driving mission to find new orange foods.
I reply with: You mean you'll have Gina contact Consuela to do it all, and have Gerald pick it up and bring it to the house.
Same thing, he texts back.
“I love how you smile when you think about Andrew,” Mom says, ma
king me look up from my phone.
“Huh?”
“You two are so in love.”
My smile broadens. “We are.”
She looks at my belly. “Those babies are very, very fortunate.”
“Billionaire's kids,” I mutter.
“No. You could be penniless and they'd be so, so blessed. You and Andrew are going to be wonderful parents.”
“How do you know?”
Tenderness floods her face as she reaches for me. I stand and bend before her, her hand on my shoulder, eyes shining with something close to tears.
“Because you have such a good heart. You always did. You're smart and sweet and you care about people and want to help them. And Andrew loves you deeply. I may not understand his ambition, but I do see that he's a loving man.”
“Ambition?”
“When you two started dating, I worried he'd be too busy for a real life. I am less worried now.”
My turn to bristle. “He's not James.”
“Goodness, no. He's certainly not. Andrew will never grow old and have the kinds of regrets James has.”
“Regrets?”
A slight wince forms in her features, as if she's said too much. “We all have regrets.”
“Tell me. What are yours?”
“Why would you want to hear that?”
“Because I want to try to avoid having them when I'm older. And the only way to do that is to understand what causes them.”
A long, heavy sigh pours out of her. “It depends on the kind of regret, I think. Some regrets I have are for things out of my control, like Leo. Your father made choices and you and I paid the price, but I couldn't change him. So that's a different kind of regret.”
“I understand that. What about regrets involving things you had control over?”
“Mine are the same as most people’s. I wish I'd enjoyed you more when you were little. I'd worry less now about a messy house, or about a problem at daycare or your school, and just relax. Enjoy you for who you were and are. I wish I had understood when I was younger that there is no point where everything's in balance. Something's always askew. Learning to live with that is life.”
“What do you mean?”
“I thought that life was what you did when the house was clean, the repairs were done, work's checklist was completed, and the decks were cleared. It was foolish, and part of being so left-brained. It was hard to just play with you when the kitchen was messy, or to carve out open time to just be available to you if a work project loomed. If I could do it over, I'd let all that go.”
