by Julia Kent
Terry lives in a duplex in Jamaica Plain. His income is from his mother's family trust, an annual sum that would support most families comfortably but that Andrew and Declan consider pocket change.
“Amanda.” His voice always gives me shivers, because Terry sounds like Barry White. Like everyone else, his eyes drift to my belly. “Can't believe I'll have two nephews soon. How are you feeling?”
“Heavily occupied. Literally.”
He laughs and looks around. “Nice place your mom has.”
“You've never been here before?”
He shakes his head. “No. I like Newton, though.”
“It's not quite JP.”
Before he can reply, Andrew walks over, thumbing the slideshow. “Can you believe Dad gave Pam those photos?”
“He has a soft spot for her. And it's great to see them again.” Terry frowns. “But notice how none of them have Mom in the picture?”
“I'm sure those just haven't been rotated through yet. Plus, she was probably taking the photos.” Andrew’s involuntarily first response is to defend James.
“Right. Sure.” Terry doesn't back down so much as he backs off, easily. “I'll bet that's it.”
Andrew's eyes narrow. “How's it going, bro?”
“Fine. I'm working on a cool hydroponics project.”
“Growing pot? Great growth market. We have some advisors helping us to look at capital investments in marijuana that might–”
“No. Tomatoes.”
“What?”
“Tomatoes. Hydroponic tomatoes.”
“Does that scale up?”
“I'll donate the extras to a food bank.”
It's like they're speaking two completely different languages with just enough overlap to make them think they aren't.
“You're learning hydroponics to... garden?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.” Andrew blinks. “Want a beer?”
Terry glances at their dad. “Hell, yeah.”
When Shannon and Mom asked me about throwing a baby shower, I had some terms:
1. No games. Marie's rousing rendition of Porn, Labor, or Constipation at Shannon's baby shower scarred me for life.
2. We'll do a video present opening. That's right–nothing live. I have a bladder the size of Ellie's attention span, and also, the thought of smiling nonstop while we open two of everything gives me hives. Carol told me that videotaping the presents was a new thing. I'll add the video to a private YouTube channel and send the link later. This also means giving every single gift its due attention, something I just can’t do at a big bash like this.
3. Cheeto cake.
So far, so good.
A small gasp to my right makes me turn. It's Mom, hand to her mouth, staring at the screen. Following her eyes, I see a picture of my dad cradling baby me in his right arm, holding a wrench in the other hand. Shirtless and very muscular, he has a huge streak of grease across his cheek and is grinning with abandon.
“Who's that hot dude?” Marie asks, spellbound.
Jason clears his throat and whispers in her ear.
“Oops,” she hisses, stuffing a piece of cauliflower in her mouth and chewing with an I'm sorry look at my mom.
“That's Leo?” James asks with a harumph of disapproval.
“Yes,” Mom says. “I–I put that in here because I felt the show should be balanced. I wanted to be fair.”
James suddenly looks a bit sick.
Terry nudges Andrew and gives him a Told you so, bro look that makes me realize he is, without question, a McCormick man.
And then James reaches in his jacket pocket, pulling out an old-fashioned photo envelope from the days when you had film developed. His fingers don't shake as he finds three little square cardboard pieces with film in the center. Mom connected an old slide projector to her more modern one.
James goes to the older device and slips the slides in.
Suddenly, Elena Montgomery McCormick is on my mother's wall, almost life size. She’s sitting on a beach, wearing a late-1980s bikini with a high hip cut. There’s a baby at her breast, two young kids who must be Declan and Terry building a sand castle, and a dark-haired man next to her. Both of them are laughing, the wind whipping through their hair, the picture clearly impromptu.
“Elena,” James says quietly.
“Oh, my God,” Terry says under his breath, emotional restraint barely there. “Mom.”
“I've never seen that picture before,” Shannon says, awe in her voice. “Ellie looks like her.”
“You chose your daughter's name well,” James says gruffly, sucking on the last drops of whisky in his glass. His eyes jump to the sideboard, where spirits rest in bottles.
And, in this house, on walls, too.
Click
The machine pushes the slide to the next one, Elena face-to-face with a cherubic, older baby, one who can't quite walk.
“Is that you?” I ask Andrew, who nods without taking his eyes off the wall.
“You were such a fat baby!” Marie declares, nearly making Andrew choke.
“All of our boys were,” James says, voice going soft. “Elena joked that her milk was Vermont cream.”
For James to comment publicly about breastfeeding is a surprise.
“She was a wonderful mother.” Terry's deep voice cuts through. “And she would have been a tremendous grandmother,” he adds, looking at Pam. “Thankfully, Andrew and Amanda's boys will have you.”
Mom blushes. I can tell she's trying not to cry, and she'll succeed. Never overly emotional in public, Mom has the ability to experience something without reacting to it in real time.
She'll fall apart later.
Click
Toddler Andrew in a pool, swimming with Elena next to him.
The indoor swimming lanes attached to our house, put in place when Andrew was a competitive swimmer, have been under renovation, a crack in the pool disrupting everything. Of all the times not to be able to float and defy gravity.
I rub my belly. The work will be done soon. Seeing a picture of my husband with his mom, his tiny head floating above water, face screwed in intense concentration, makes me melt.
“How old is that baby?” Josh asks, moving closer to the screen. “He can't even be two!”
“Andrew was twenty months when he learned how to swim. Early start and proper training. You were so close to the Olympics,” James says in a rueful voice.
Andrew's face hardens.
James looks at my belly. “Those boys have good genes and every advantage in the world. We'll make champions out of them. Take their raw talent and maximize. Optimize. They'll go beyond anything my own sons have done.”
Anger washes over Terry swiftly, changing him, McCormick anger filling out his face, making my breath halt in my throat. He opens his mouth to speak, but Andrew puts a hand on his shoulder, ready to intercede.
It's my mother who cuts through it all.
“You love them,” she says simply to James. “You loved Elena. You love your sons. You love my daughter. And you love these grandbabies. That's what's so wonderful about love, James: We love people for who they are. Not for who they could be.”
Stunned, he says nothing, the click of the projector moving on to a picture of me at four, wearing a Wednesday Addams costume for Halloween.
The room bursts into laughter.
And I reach for another slice of Cheeto cake.
14
Amanda
He's late.
It’s the third meeting of our childbirth class. There are only four couples in the class, and they have all managed to be on time. Eighty-seven point five percent success. Andrew is the remaining twelve point five percent of the students.
I'm going to cut that point five percent off if he doesn't walk through the door in the next thirty seconds.
Where are you??? I text furiously, as if being angry will make him more likely to respond.
Nothing.
Not a word.
Hope, our childbirth instructor, gives me that raised-eyebrow look, the one that hints at wondering where my husband is, but doesn't outright ask in case the answer is something uncomfortable. I smile back, shrug, and furiously type another text.
Nothing. No answer.
The tears are so close now, sudden and fierce. I'm an emotional wrecking ball, swinging wildly on a long chain. Here I am, looking like I'm nine months pregnant in a class for seven-monthers, sitting all alone. I’ve been abandoned by my husband, who is too busy to bother spending time with me learning how to bring his own progeny into the world.
How pathetic.
Big, fat tears well up in my eyes, which makes sense because I'm nothing but big and fat, too. I can't cry, because if I start, I won't stop.
My hip starts that nerve pain that’s been triggering lately, so my ass cheek aches, on top of everything else. Shifting slightly, I blink and twin drops fall from my eyes onto my light-gray top.
Great. Now I look like it's raining on my breasts.
“Amanda?” Hope says softly, her hand on my shoulder. She smells like orange eucalyptus. “Are you okay?”
“I'm fine,” I say with a laugh, trying to pass my emotions off as nothing. “Being silly. Andrew's running late.”
She leans in and whispers, “He's the CEO of a major company. And on the board of this hospital. I get it. No problem.”
Her compassion makes me feel even worse.
I sniff. “Thanks. We can just start and I'll do both parts.”
Hope laughs softly. “I'll fill in for him. Today it's all about massage and supporting your partner through the discomfort.”
Oh, no.
A sob escapes me, full and ripe, which only makes Hope feel worse for me, which elicits more tears. The other couples are doing their best to ignore me. One woman gives me a pity smile, the kind I hate more than anything in the world.
“Do you have a friend who could come over?”
I nod and grab my phone. “Let me try my friend Shannon.”
She straightens up and moves to chat with another couple. I know she's buying me time.
You had better be trapped by an evil villain and your only excuse for not being here is you have to save the world from certain doom, I text Andrew.
On second thought, I add: Or you've discovered a source of Cheeto ice cream and are getting me some as a surprise.
As I switch over to text Shannon, a tap on the door makes me look up, a familiar face giving me a wide-eyed, sheepish look.
“Gina?” I gasp. “What are you doing here?”
Hope waves to her. “Hi! Oh, good.” She smiles at me. “You got a friend to fill in for Andrew!”
You have got to be kidding me.
That's exactly why Gina's here.
“So, Andrew can't make it?” she says, walking to me, peering at the other couples as if she's a cyborg studying how to mimic being human. She crouches behind me, spreads her knees, and starts kneading my shoulders.
I startle. “What are you doing?”
“I'm filling in for Andrew?”
“You're what?”
“He sent me? His flight back from New York was delayed by mechanical failure there?”
“Why didn't he text me back?”
“His phone died?”
“He could text you, but not me?”
“I haven't heard from him in two hours? He said if he didn't call back, to come here and be with you just in case?”
“So he texted you to fill in as the father in this childbirth class? This takes the cake, Gina. Andrew leans on you to do everything for him, but come on! I can't believe he–ah, God, right there,” I moan as her fingers do magic on the spot in my shoulder that's been aching forever.
“Like that?”
“Mmmm. Where did you learn to do that?”
“I was a licensed massage therapist before I got computer training to be an admin?”
Hope waves a book in the air, smiling at Gina and me. “I'm so glad everyone has an assistant today! We're going to work on massage, and how to use massage to increase blood flow, decrease pain, and make our moms comfortable.”
“Oooooh, perfect! I know this inside out?” Gina purrs.
“And,” Hope says, leaning in, “we'll also focus on perineal massage.” She reaches for a bottle of olive oil.
Gina's fingers come to a dead halt on my shoulders.
“There is no bonus Andrew could give me to justify this, Amanda.” Her voice goes down at the end of the sentence, making my blood run cold. She pauses. “Unless a private jet is on the table, and even then I'd need a large dose of scopolamine. And a–”
“You're not touching my perineum, Gina!”
“I chose massage school over esthetician after the first term because there was no way I was learning how to wax a labia. I can unknot a piriformis in no time flat, but hand me a labia and I'm dangerous.”
“What does that mean?”
“Let's just say I'm really glad that in the student clinic, I only did one shift and they had liability insurance. There's a woman in Melrose who I still light a candle for at Mass.”
“What did you do to her?”
Before she can reply, my phone rings. Hope gives me a look that reminds me of being hushed by my preschool teacher.
Pressing one ear shut, I put the phone up to the other one and whisper, “Andrew! What are you doing?”
“I finally got my phone working. I'm sorry. It's been malfunction after malfunction.”
As I peer into the phone, I realize he's wearing headphones. And shouting.
“Where are you?”
“On my way!”
Hope starts waving her arms for me to simultaneously pay attention to her and be quiet.
“Shhh! Hope's teaching us today's lesson.” As I speak with him, the instructor hands something to Gina.
Whose mouth drops into an O of shock.
I peer over my belly. “Is that a..?”
Gina moves it so I get a better look.
“I'm Facetiming you,” Andrew says into the phone. “Let me see. I can't be there, but I can be there,” he emphasizes.
“I'm not sure you want to see this.”
“Of course I do. If I can't be there, I can watch.”
That sounds porny, but I don't say that because another look from Hope like the one she shot me a moment ago and I'll burst into tears.
Gina's eyebrows go up and she moves the item in her hand within view of the screen as she waves half-heartedly at Andrew.
His brow drops in confusion, then shoots up. “Is that a–”
“Sex toy?” Gina asks.
“Labia,” Hope says loudly. “We're looking at a silicone replica of the labia, vulva, vagina, and perineum.”
“Where's the clitoris?” one of the women across the room jokes.
“That's what he said,” someone else calls out, making everyone fall into middle-school giggles.
“Andrew,” I hiss into my phone, staring at his übercalm face. I know that face. It's the expression he gets when he knows he's done something wrong but he's going to Mr. Cool his way out of it. He has a presence, a kind of command that takes over in moments like this.
It pisses me off to no end.
Because it implies I'm being unreasonable, and I am anything but.
“Yes?”
“If you don't get here in the next twenty minutes, I'll have to let Gina massage my fake perineum, and there are some lines your executive assistant should never cross.”
“I'm, like, getting the platinum health insurance plan for bronze prices?” Gina says, grabbing the phone from me. “And if I'm touching that silicone replica thing, I get a better parking place than the one on the third floor?”
“Have facilities see what they can do about the parking,” Andrew says.
“You said that last time? And I got a spot by the elevator but it's next to the dumpster?”
Hope clears her throat pointedly. “We're about to begin the mas
sage.” She looks at my phone. I turn it around so she can see Andrew's face.
“Hey, Hope,” he says from the screen. “I'm on my way, but stuck in some bad weather here in New York.” A deep, sexy chuckle emerges. “Can you do me a favor and let me Facetime in for this session? I want to support Amanda in every possible way, and your classes have been top notch.”
Her hands fly to her heart, mouth pressing into the universal expression of a woman whose heart has been touched by a flattering schmuck who is trying to get his way.
“You are so sweet, Andrew. Of course, we can let you Facetime!” Hope looks around at all the couples. “Anyone mind? Amanda's husband is Andrew McCormick, a member of the board of directors for this hospital, and he's caught in New York in bad weather. Amanda's got twins in there, and at thirty weeks, no less. He needs the up-close experience with her perineum!”
“It's been so long, I'll need a map,” Andrew mutters.
“HEY!”
“YAY! I'm so glad you said YAY!” Hope says to me as everyone else in class nods to give Andrew permission to be here virtually.
“Platinum for bronze,” Gina hisses at Andrew, who gives her a wink.
“You are such a piece of work,” I say to him quietly. “I can't believe you flirted with our childbirth instructor like that!”
Genuine astonishment fills his face. “That wasn't flirting. You know what flirting looks like from me.”
“I do. It's a bulldozer filled with testosterone.”
“Exactly.”
“Ewwwww?” Gina huffs. “I want platinum health with free massages and no deductibles?”
“The perineum,” Hope announces, “is here. Colloquially referred to as the taint, because it ain't this and it ain't that (she pauses for obligatory laughter), the perineum is a thick muscle that does a huge amount of work in the final stages of labor. The baby's head stretches it, thinning it out. Most women consider it to be the most painful muscle of all when it stretches–sorry, moms–but it's one that partners can help with.”
