When You Least Expect It

by Whitney Gaskell

  “That’s great,” Peter said. “That way this isn’t wasted time for you. You’re learning a skill. It’s like they used to do in the olden days. What was that called? When a younger boy—no offense, ladies, but it was mostly men going into the workforce those days—would work for an established craftsman in order to learn the trade?”

  “Apprentice,” I said.

  “Right. She’s like your apprentice.” Peter winked at Lainey. “You’re a multitasker.”

  Stacey stared down at her mahi-mahi, looking alarmed. “India, I should have asked you. Is there mercury in this fish? Oh, wait, you probably don’t know about mercury, do you? I mean, since you’ve never been pregnant.”

  India cleared her throat. “Lainey isn’t my apprentice. She’s just doing me a favor by helping out at the studio,” she said evenly. “And the mahi-mahi does not have mercury in it. I checked. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go get another bottle of wine.”

  India stood and walked into the kitchen, letting the door swing behind her.

  We all stared after her.

  “I’m going to go help her … find the bottle … uncork it,” I muttered, and shot out of the room after her.

  India was standing in front of the open refrigerator, staring into it, her arms crossed in front of her chest.

  “Everything okay?” I asked.

  India didn’t answer me. I moved closer, concerned that close proximity to Stacey might have pushed India over the edge.

  “Honey?” I tried again.

  “Everything’s fine,” India said. “Or it will be, right up until I get arrested for stabbing Stacey with a butter knife.”

  “Not a butter knife. It would be too hard to pierce the skin. If you’re going to stab her, commit to it. Use a chef’s knife.”

  But when India turned to look at me, tears were glittering in her eyes.

  “Why is it that a horrible, selfish, shallow woman like Stacey can get pregnant, but I can’t? How does that happen?” she asked quietly.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

  “It’s not fair.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  We looked at each other. India’s eyes had a tendency to change color depending on the light she was in and what she was wearing. When she was dressed in dark colors, or near the ocean, her eyes deepened to indigo. Today, they were a pale blue, the color of faded denim. I held out a hand, and after a beat, India took it.

  “Should we go back in?” I asked.

  India sighed. “I suppose we have to. It would be rude if we snuck out the back door and made a run for it, right?”

  “Probably. But completely understandable.”

  “I guess we have to go back in. We can’t desert Lainey.”

  “Something tells me that Lainey can take care of herself just fine. But if we are going back, make sure you bring the extra bottle of wine. We’re going to need it,” I said.

  The rest of dinner passed uneventfully. Whenever possible, and despite Stacey’s determined efforts, I tried to steer the conversation away from the following topics: pregnancy, baby showers, baby clothes, baby cribs, baby gymnasiums, baby play groups, pregnancy weight gain, post-pregnancy weight loss, breast-versus bottle-feeding, why my books hadn’t been made into movies yet, why India hadn’t yet been tapped to shoot a photo spread for Vanity Fair, new boats, new cars, vacations to Bermuda, and Peter’s virility. Exhausted, I finally let Peter run with one of his pet topics—the hassles of running a podiatry practice—until Lainey began to yawn luxuriously.

  India stood up and began clearing the plates. “Would anyone like coffee with dessert?” she asked.

  “I can’t,” Stacey said. “Caffeine isn’t good for the baby. It was so hard to give up, too. Can you imagine waking up in the morning without a cup of coffee? I nearly died the first week!”

  “There’s the silver lining in our infertility struggles. We’d both be miserable if you had to give up coffee,” I said to India.

  India rolled her eyes at me. “I can make decaf,” she offered.

  “Actually, decaf isn’t all that much—” Stacey began.

  India cut her off. “Peter?”

  “None for me, thanks,” Peter said affably.

  “Lainey?”

  “Sure, I’ll have some,” Lainey said.

  “As I was just saying—before India interrupted me—decaf coffee isn’t good for the baby, either. The chemicals they use to decaffeinate it are proven carcinogens,” Stacey said so peevishly we all turned to look at her. Her cheeks were very red, and she was blinking rapidly. “I don’t know why everyone keeps talking over me tonight,” she added petulantly.

  I half expected Lainey to tell Stacey to stick her carcinogens up her ass, or something along those lines. But to my surprise, it was India who had reached her breaking point.

  “Well, Stacey, maybe if you were a little more sensitive to other people’s feelings and a little less self-absorbed, people would want to hear what you have to say,” India said. Her voice was calm enough, but an angry red flush was creeping up over her cheeks. That was always a danger sign. I wondered how much wine she’d had to drink.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Stacey asked sharply.

  India thumped the stack of plates she was holding down on the table. “Stacey. I’m infertile. This is a painful topic for me. So why on earth do you think it’s appropriate to announce, not once, but three separate times over the course of one dinner, that you and Peter got pregnant the first month you tried? Or that you’d like to have three more kids after this one, because you read in a magazine article that it’s hip to have four children?”

  “So I’m not allowed to talk about my pregnancy in front of you?”

  “I didn’t say that. I’m just asking that you be a bit more thoughtful before you speak,” India said.

  Stacey rolled her eyes at Peter. “Your mother was so right about how oversensitive she is. First I have to deal with her taking over my shower, and now I’m not even allowed to talk about our baby in front of her.”

  “Excuse me? I’m taking over your shower?” India repeated.

  “It’s supposed to be my special day, with my friends, and my presents, and my colors. First I have to put up with your name being on the invitations. And you obviously hate the pink theme, so I’ll probably be asked to give that up, too. It’s not fair!” Stacey wailed, and she burst into tears.

  Lainey was staring at Stacey as though she’d just descended from an alien spaceship. “Is she always like this, or is it the hormones?”

  “No, she’s pretty much always like this,” India said.

  “You’re right, Jeremy. She is a pain in the ass,” Lainey commented.

  “Excuse me?” Stacey’s voice was so high pitched that Otis—who had been lurking under the table, ever hopeful that some mahi-mahi would fall his way—slunk from the room with his tail down.

  “You said Stacey is a pain in the ass?” Peter asked me, his back stiffening.

  “I have some good news for you, Stacey. The shower? It’s all yours. All of it—the nauseating pink theme, your annoying friends, the present whoring. I’m out. And for the record, I never wanted to be part of your stupid shower in the first place. When Carol asked me, I only agreed to participate because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings,” India said.

  “Oh, please! You just didn’t want me to have my special day!”

  I thought I heard Lainey mutter something along the lines of “Batshit crazy.” But no one else seemed to. Her voice was drowned out by India.

  “Stacey, I’m going to give you some unsolicited advice. I know this is going to come as a shock to you, but there is a world out there that exists beyond you and your special fucking day. In fact, most people have problems that are bigger than the color scheme of a baby shower. And those of us who live out here in Grown-Up Land understand that. Perhaps it’s time you joined us,” India said.

  “Excellent,” Lainey said approvingly.

 
; “I knew you didn’t like the pink theme!” Stacey cried.

  “Of course I don’t like the pink theme! I’m not a Barbie doll!”

  India’s uncharacteristic outburst had shocked me into silence. I cleared my throat and said, “Look, why don’t we all just calm down.”

  “Tell that to your wife,” Peter snapped. He pointed at India in an aggressive way I didn’t care for. “She’s getting Stacey upset.”

  Stacey wept dramatically into her white dinner napkin.

  “India’s not the one who started this,” I said mildly.

  Peter snorted. “Please. Stacey’s right. India is too sensitive.”

  That was it. No one had the right to call India oversensitive. Especially to her face.

  “It’s not just the constant pregnancy talk. It’s all the little digs,” I said. “‘Morning sickness is so hard! Oh, but sorry, India, I guess you wouldn’t know about that.’ ‘Breast-feeding reduces the risk of getting breast cancer. But don’t worry, India, you probably won’t get cancer. You don’t have a history of it in your family, do you?’ ‘India, you’re so lucky you’re not going to have to deal with stretch marks! I wish I could have hired someone to be pregnant for me!’” I shook my head with disgust. “Seriously, Stacey, are you incapable of thinking before the words start coming out of your mouth? Can’t you just shut your piehole for once in your life?”

  “This is starting to remind me of my family,” Lainey remarked.

  Peter stood up so quickly his chair toppled over behind him. “Don’t talk to my wife like that,” he said.

  “Oh yeah?” I said, with a casual bravado that disguised the fact that my pulse had ticked up a few notches. Peter and I hadn’t fought like this since we were kids, and he—being older, bigger, and stronger—had pretty much always whipped my ass back then. “I think I just did.”

  “That’s it. Outside,” Peter said, jerking his thumb toward the back door.

  “Sit down, Peter. I’m not going to fight you.”

  “Are you chicken?” Peter asked.

  “Are you eight?” I retorted.

  Stacey had forgotten to pretend-cry; she, Lainey, and India were watching us, their heads swiveling like spectators at a tennis match.

  “Jeremy’s right. We should all just take a deep breath and calm down,” India said.

  “Shut up, India,” Peter snapped.

  The force of the anger swelling up within me took me by surprise. Suddenly, I was standing, too, my fists clenched at my sides. “Don’t tell my wife to shut up,” I said.

  “I’ll tell her whatever the hell I want,” Peter said. His jaw was clenched so tightly I could see a muscle pulsing. Suddenly, what I wanted more than anything was to hit him, right there on his stupid, perfect nose.

  “Outside,” I said, and before I could think it through, I turned and stalked to the back door.

  “Cool,” Lainey said. “A fight!”

  “What?” India said. “No! This is crazy!”

  I turned around to see if Peter was following me. He was trying to, but Stacey was holding him back.

  “Peter, let’s just go,” she said.

  “Who’s chicken now?” I jeered.

  Peter shook Stacey off with more vigor than strictly necessary. She stumbled back a few steps, although she managed to keep her balance. He strode outside after me, the women following close behind him. I headed past the pool, to the postage-stamp-sized lawn next to Lainey’s guesthouse. I rolled up the sleeves on my oxford shirt, and turned, raising my fists in front of me. Peter shed his yellow cotton sweater and began jogging in place to warm up. Lainey, Stacey, and India had gathered on the pool patio, Stacey standing several feet away from the other two.

  “Jeremy, please stop. This is insane!” India called out.

  “I’m going to teach you about respect, little bro,” Peter said, dropping one shoulder and feinting forward.

  I dodged back, my fists still up. “If you’re going to start giving lessons in manners, I suggest you start with your wife.”

  “Hit him, Peter!” Stacey hollered, distracting me just long enough that I didn’t step back when Peter swung at me. His fist connected with my left shoulder, sending pain vibrations down my arm.

  “Ow!” I exclaimed. “That really hurt!”

  Peter swung at me again, but I was ready for him. I ducked and stepped to one side, and he fell past me. When he turned back around, I was ready. I took a wild swing at him, but misjudged and ended up punching his fisted hand. This time, the pain that erupted was so intense it caused my eyes to water.

  “Christ!” Peter said, shaking his hand. “Didn’t you ever learn how to fight?”

  “Jeremy, you hit like a girl!” Lainey said.

  I was tired of being criticized. I took another swing at Peter, but my arm just swished through the air as he stepped back. He moved forward suddenly and punched me in the gut.

  “Ugh,” I grunted, doubling over as waves of nausea hit me.

  “For Christ’s sake, Jeremy, step into it,” Lainey shouted. Still sick from the gut punch, I looked over at her, and she demonstrated, turning her torso as she punched the air.

  I imitated Lainey’s movements and succeeded in landing a punch on Peter’s left shoulder. He grunted, and I felt a rush of adrenaline. It had worked! I looked back over at Lainey for more advice.

  “Hit him again!” she yelled, demonstrating another low blow with her left, followed by a high, fast punch with her right.

  Without thinking, without wondering if could pull it off, I did exactly as I was told—landing a hard blow to Peter’s abdomen, followed by a quick clip to his jaw. He made a low, guttural sound, staggered backward, and fell heavily onto the lawn.

  “Yes!” Lainey cheered.

  Stacey screamed and rushed forward. “Peter! Oh, my God, Peter! You killed him!”

  Christ, had I killed him? I wondered. Fear spread through me. But no. Peter was already getting up, propping himself up on his elbows. I stared down at him, feeling an odd mixture of shame and pride for having actually knocked him down. I held a hand out to Peter, offering to pull him up. Peter ignored me, choosing instead to struggle to his feet, amidst Stacey’s weeping.

  “That’s it, we’re leaving,” Stacey said, wrapping one arm around Peter’s waist, as though he’d need her support to stand. She pointed a finger at me. “You just stay away! I’m not going to let you beat him up anymore!”

  “Sorry,” I mumbled. I glanced down at the back of my right hand. My knuckles were bleeding and raw. I flexed my hand and then flinched. It really hurt.

  “Can’t we all just go inside and talk this through?” India tried one last time.

  But Peter and Stacey ignored her. They turned to leave, Peter’s arm draped over Stacey’s shoulders.

  “Shouldn’t you at least help him into the car?” India asked me.

  “Peter, do you want some help getting to the car?” I called after them.

  Peter didn’t answer, but Stacey turned around and shot me a filthy look.

  “Guess not,” I said to the retreating backs.

  As soon as they were out of view—although probably not out of earshot—Lainey whooped and thumped me on the back. “That was awesome,” she said. “That was a wicked right cross. I didn’t know you had it in you!” She beamed at me.

  India just stared at me, shaking her head. “You are ridiculous,” she said. But she was smiling as she said it. She noticed me shaking my hand, and took it gently in her own. “You’re bleeding.”

  “My war wound,” I joked.

  “Come on inside, I’ll get you patched up,” India said.

  “Aren’t you going to call me your hero?” I asked, following her.

  “Lainey, are you coming in?” India asked, turning back. “We haven’t had dessert yet.”

  But Lainey was stifling a yawn. “No, thanks. After all that excitement, I’m beat,” she said. “I’m going to bed. See you tomorrow.”

  “Good night,” India and
I said together.

  ———

  India finished brushing her teeth and spat toothpaste into the sink. “I hate to admit it, but that felt good.”

  I passed her a face towel. “Watching me fight Peter?”

  “No. Well, that, too—he had it coming. But I meant standing up to Stacey. It was cathartic. And it means I won’t have to go to her hideous baby shower, so bonus.” India smiled at me. “I didn’t know you could fight like that.”

  I blew on my bruised knuckles. “I have hidden depths.”

  “Yes, you do,” India said, stepping closer to me. She kissed me softly on the cheek.

  “What was that for?”

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For looking out for me,” India said. She smiled at me. “Are you coming to bed?”

  “You’re not still mad at me?”

  “Do I sound mad at you?”

  “No,” I said carefully. “But maybe you’re so angry, you’re now plotting some sort of long-con revenge on me. It starts off with you suggesting sex, and ends with me curled in a fetal position praying for my mortal suffering to end.”

  “That’s an attractive image,” India said. “Have you always been this paranoid?”

  “Yes. I just hid it well for the first seven years of our marriage. Look.” I took in a deep breath to quell my nerves. “I didn’t mean what I said that night about not being sure I wanted to go through with the adoption. I was just a little freaked out, and it all came out wrong.”

  “That’s what my mom said,” India said. “I told her about our talk that night, and she said you were probably just overwhelmed and that I should cut you some slack. Don’t look so surprised. My mother can be surprisingly perceptive.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Anyway, I was upset for a while, but I’m okay now. And I appreciate that you stood up for me tonight. Hell, you got into a fistfight for me.”

  This was true. My hand was still throbbing. “So all I need to do to impress you is to punch my asshole brother?”

  India grinned wickedly. “It’s a start. Now are you coming to bed?”

  I had been planning to floss my teeth, but it took me less than two seconds to decide good oral hygiene could wait a night. I dropped the dental floss back in the drawer and closed it firmly shut.