She's Out of Control

by Kristin Billerbeck

  And a personality isn’t yours, I think before apologizing silently, but sheesh, what is it? Pick on Ashley day? “I’ll be at Brea’s if you need me.”

  “Her pugs are going to be scared to death of your monster.”

  “I doubt that. Brea’s pugs tend to think they’re mastiffs.”

  “I’ll be praying for Brea,” Kay finally says, “and for baby Miles, too.”

  I drive around the city, hoping that Miles will eventually wake, but he’s snugger than a prince in happily-ever-after. Rhett starts to get antsy and starts barking, which wakes Miles up in a frantic state of confusion. I stop the car, and let him know it’s me, Auntie Ashley, and the furry snout in his face is friendly. But he’s scared to death and screaming appropriately.

  I quickly get back into the car and drive to Brea’s. I get Miles out of the car, and Rhett bounds out with glee, going straight for the pugs’ crates and barking. The phone is ringing in the house, and Miles is still screaming. I take him in my arms and race to the kitchen. “Hello, Wright residence.”

  “Who is this, Ashley? What’s wrong with Miles?” Mrs. Browning asks.

  “He just woke up.” I want to tell her the phone woke him, but I decide lying is not something I want to add to my résumé today.

  “John asked me to call. They’ve stopped the contractions for now with medications.”

  Oh, praise God.

  “But she’s got to be on complete bed rest for now. And they’re keeping her here overnight for observation.”

  “Well, that’s good though, right?”

  She gasps like I shouldn’t be trusted with a goldfish, much less her grandchild or pertinent information on Brea. “We’ll be home in the morning.”

  My eyes go wide. “The morning?” But work? Rhett? Miles? “Brea told me you’ve just gotten back from around the world again. Surely, that job can give you a day of your own life.”

  Well, yeah, but a baby overnight is not exactly my own life. Now I really am afraid that Brea trusted me with Miles. Maybe everyone’s fears are well-deserved, because the idea of watching him for a long period kind of scares me.

  “Ashley, neither John or I want to leave Brea. She’s very anxious, and we’re trying to keep her calm.”

  Then please leave and give her a break. “Miles is anxious too.” Not to mention my own fears. A baby, three dogs, and me. Four living things depending upon me, and they don’t really care if Stuart Weitzman or Blahniks are a better heel choice. They actually want to eat, and do other things. Oh Lord, give me strength.

  16

  Exhausted. Not tired, like when I’ve watched one too many movies on Saturday night, not even like jet lag from an international trip. I’m dead tired. Bone weary, to the point I’ve become aware of my bones and they’re shouting at me like a bad Halloween nightmare. The constant juggling of keeping Lucy and Ricky away from Rhett, and Rhett away from Miles, and Miles away from Lucy and Ricky and their snubbed-snout doggie colds has given new meaning to the word multitasking.

  As if the social circle time management isn’t enough, all of these cohabitating beings want food incessantly. Food and attention, and—Ack! Just shoot me now. I cannot believe I wanted to be a mother. Did I actually utter those words? Because I’m so thinking this life is not for me, and that I’m better off as a patent attorney. If Kevin could see me now, I’m sure his fantasies about who I am would dwindle away along with his belief that I could pass the Mensa test.

  I didn’t realize all those nesting instincts essentially mean dropping baby worms into a gaping mouth. There’s a disgusting side of mothering that no one tells you about. And if you had energy to accomplish these foul missions, that might be one thing, but you’re already dead-on-your-feet because you’re running a never-ending marathon, and I’m not talking about the twenty-six-mile marathon that has an actual finish line. The idea that Brea actually exercises is hilarious. What the heck is this, if not Pilates, yoga, and aerobics wrapped into one constant job?

  Miles finally falls asleep, and I put Rhett outside and the pugs in their crates for the night. I fall onto the couch like I’m recovering from a battle. The minute my face hits the cushion, my cell phone rings.

  “Go away,” I groan. But it keeps ringing. The voice mail beep comes on, but the phone just starts ringing again. “Hello.”

  “Ashley, it’s Seth.”

  “Seth.” Just the sound of his voice makes me start to cry and revisit the baby issue. But I’m too tired to think straight. “Where are you?”

  “I’m home, Ashley.”

  “You’re home? Palo Alto home?”

  “I’m here, Ash. I told you I wouldn’t go without saying good-bye. I’m back for our official good-bye, which I hope won’t really be a good-bye. Have you thought about talking to my boss about a job?”

  “I don’t think . . .”

  “I’ve been flying for twenty-one hours straight. I need to sleep, Ash, but I didn’t want you to go anywhere without knowing I’m here. You’re not taking off to Taiwan tomorrow, right?”

  “No, I’m at Brea’s. She’s having early labor problems, so I’m staying with Miles. They’ve stabilized her, but she’s going to be on bed-rest from here on out.”

  “Ash, I’m so sorry. I’ll be praying.” He pauses for a moment. “Can I come see you?’

  I don’t want to see him. That’s the first thought that floats into my wee mind, and there’s a brief celebration as I contemplate that perhaps I’ve moved on. “Now you want to come over? I thought you were exhausted.”

  “I am. But . . . I just need to see you, Ash.”

  There’s a hint of desperation in his voice, and naturally it’s the perspective effect taking place. I learned in art class that as something gets farther away, it appears smaller to the human eye. As I walk away from Seth (or in this case, he flies away from me) his perspective changes. Suddenly he craves me in close proximity because he’s worried he’s made a terrible mistake, that his viewpoint was off. He needs to get closer to determine that his perspective was right. I’m not in the mood to give him the opportunity.

  I swallow hard. “Not now. The baby’s sleeping, and I’m exhausted.”

  Perspective shrinking (think helium balloon released into the sky). “Please, Ash. I need to see you.”

  This is the first time I can ever remember Seth doing something spontaneous. I don’t have my makeup bag, or clean clothes, but I figure I look like what a housewife is supposed to look like—weary. I run to the mirror and pinch my cheeks Scarlett-style, but it’s of little use. I still look like Melanie Wilkes on a bad hair day. “Fine, but just for a minute. I need to get to sleep.” I hang up, thoroughly ticked that I didn’t hold my ground.

  Rhett starts to bark uproariously. “Shh. Shh. Rhett, you’ll wake the baby.”

  But it’s too late, Miles is screaming like a rock star in two seconds flat. I run upstairs, and when he sees I’m not his mommy, he starts to really wail.

  “Miles, it’s Auntie Ashley.” I pick him up and bring him to my chest, and bounce around the room with him. “It’s okay, Miles.” I soothe him nervously. “Auntie is here. Auntie is here.”

  Miles is screaming himself into a fit, and soon, he’s sick all down my front. So now, I have bedhead, no makeup, and I smell like baby vomit. My dreams of romantic encounters are quickly dashed. Okay, maybe not a romantic encounter, but at least a little remorse on Seth’s part. I am human, after all, and I would like to see him wallow a bit.

  At least Miles didn’t mess up his sheets. But then I look and see. His sheets are messed up. The poor little guy is sick.

  “Oh, Miles, baby!” I run him a bath, and try to figure out how I’m going to get him into it when I decide it’s just easier to get in with him. I strip down to my undies and step into the tub, using my shins to keep him upright. I take some baby shampoo to his body, and he’s still whimpering, but the warm water calms us both. His face screws up into a bevy of wrinkles, not understanding why he’s sick, and why I�
�m doing this to him.

  When I step out of the bath, and towel us off, I notice there’s a baby tub sitting on the sink. “So that’s how you do this, huh?”

  Miles stares at me, clueless imbecile that I am. I just get him dressed in a fuzzy blue sleeper when I hear the doorbell ring. I have no pants on, and there’s still baby barf on the sheets.

  “Just a minute!” I yell. I throw my church skirt back on, find a clean T-shirt of John’s, and lift Miles over my shoulder. “You poor baby,” I say again. As we’re heading downstairs, I brush his full, auburn locks, and he looks like the most respectable little man in his footsie pajamas, with his hair so perfect and parted. I arrive at the door, and Seth is standing there. He’s wrapped in a scarlet-and-gold scarf, and the blue of his eyes looks right inside me. Those eyes render me . . . well, they used to render me powerless. At the moment, they look kinda freaky.

  “For you, mademoiselle.” Seth takes the scarf off and wraps it around Miles and me. Then he comes toward us both and plants a kiss on my lips. Miles is looking up at me questioningly.

  “This is Seth,” I explain to the baby. “Miles is sick,” I say to Seth. “I need to finish cleaning up his crib, and I don’t want to leave him in case he gets sick again.”

  “So what you’re saying is I’m competing with a man who has a full head of hair.”

  “You’re not competing with anyone, Seth. You’ve made your choice.” Ooh, sounding a little vicious here.

  His smile disintegrates. “Please come to India with me.”

  “Don’t you say hello first?” I put a fist on my hip. “Why do you have to do this, Seth? What about India is so fascinating?” Besides seeing if I’ll follow you like a lost puppy?

  “I just feel the calling to do it. I can’t explain it. I just know I’m supposed to be there. When the Arizona job opened up, I hemmed and hawed, but this was different. I knew immediately.”

  “I just started this job, Seth. I feel like it’s important that I’m there, and in general proximity to the mall. And restaurants, and church, and my life as I know it.” I feel a little mercy for him here and exhale my angst. “Look, Seth, Hans has really come to trust me. And if I abandon him now, he’s going to think all Christians just serve their own purposes. Contrary to what you think, I appreciate that your ministry and life is in India. But mine is here, Seth.”

  “It’s only for three months. You can come back to Hans.”

  “To start. It’s only for three months to start. I’ve seen what these companies do to get you settled in other countries. You live like a king on nothing, and your salary comes back here tax free, while you live the luxury lifestyle gratis. You’ll get used to it, and you probably won’t ever come back.”

  “Are you worried about being somewhere with me?”

  “I’m worried about being anywhere without good espresso and shopping malls. You can’t change who you fundamentally are unless God allows for it.” I sweep my hand in front of me. “Look around you, Seth. This is a mission field, ripe for the picking and the workers are few. I’m called to be here.”

  He holds up the red scarf. “They have shopping malls in India, and they’re outdoors like Stanford. Better than Ann Taylor. Cheaper, more feminine.” He wiggles his eyebrow. “And you could buy all the scarves you wanted. I’d love to see you in them.”

  I stare him down and for the moment, I soften. Are you asking me to marry you? Dr. Laura always says to get a ring and a date. A ring and a date. I mean, how do I ask this question, and really it’s not my question to ask technically, now is it? Going off to another country involves such a level of commitment, and I sincerely doubt he’s willing to make it. But I have to know for certain just for peace of mind.

  I’m imagining the future, where I’m haggard from the sun and I’ve lost my ability to dress well after wearing nothing but Indian saris. Then, like the thirsty to an oasis, I come back to America, only to discover patent work has changed immensely since my absence. My bank account has dwindled with new tax laws and I can no longer afford Botox. Or worse yet, it’s no longer even offered, the Food and Drug Administration has outlawed its use. And right here is where I have the epiphany. I cannot change at the cellular level for any person other than Jesus.

  “I know you love me,” Seth says, his voice deep and clear. He leans in and presses his lips to mine. “I know you love people and being a patent attorney and Indian food and cheap clothes. India has it all.” He kisses me again softly, and I feel myself pull away. “And it has me.”

  It has me? Is he tripping?

  “First off, let’s get one thing straight. I do not like cheap clothing. I like quality clothing at an affordable price. So I just need to understand this, Seth. You want a commitment from me without having to commit yourself, am I understanding that right?”

  “If things work out in India, we’ll—”

  “And if pigs fly, and if the stock soars, and if Frodo gets the ring back to the Mount of Doom. If. If. If! If any of these things happen, you still won’t be able to commit!” My eyes close, maybe to make him disappear.

  “My parents are coming tomorrow.” Seth takes my hand. “Will you at least meet them?”

  As what, the keeper of his dog? His on-again, off-again girlfriend who inches closer to the altar only to be dashed like Charlie Brown and the football each time? “Let’s talk about it tomorrow, Seth.”

  He sighs. “I’m going home to bed. I’m sorry, Ash, I just need to know the woman I love would follow me anywhere.”

  Apparently Arin will. I guess that answers our question.

  17

  This is Jen Jenkins reporting from Telecopter Seven at the wedding of Indian Princess Ashley Stockingdale.”

  The studio’s Rick Ramirez breaks in with a Spanish-accented laugh. “Now, Jen, she isn’t really an Indian princess.”

  “No, but the Indian people have certainly grown to love her here in Punjab. She’s had her traditional ritual bath with herbs, and she should be emerging shortly. Her groom, Seth Greenwood, waits with visible anticipation.”

  A roar from the gathering crowd rises, and Ashley appears to her fans. “Ashley’s arriving now. Oh, look at her, in the traditional red wedding gown and her hair gold-leafed. She’s magnificent. We’ve been told even her raw silk shoes, designed by Giuseppe Zanotti, are topped with handmade beaded uppers by Indian craftsmen. She is, indeed, a sight to behold. Our sources here tell us she has followed all sixteen traditional accoutrements of an Indian wedding, from the Bindi forehead dot to a perfume created especially for her.”

  “What’s the groom’s reaction, Jen? Can you see his expression?”

  “The groom appears to be inspired, Rick. His mouth is agape, and he’s watching mesmerized as Ashley walks to his side. Although the wedding will follow traditional Christian vows, there’s nothing traditional about this wedding, Rick. Back to you in the studio.”

  I wake startled and unnerved. An Indian princess? Why do my dreams make me so pathetic? I can’t even dream normally.

  It’s Monday morning. Three dogs and a baby. Wasn’t that a movie? I think about calling in sick, but I can’t do that. Hans gave me that hefty bonus for traveling because I was reliable. I sigh and do what any smart-thinking career girl in Silicon Valley would do. I pack up the crew. I’ve found a cage for the back of the car, and I’ve got everyone’s leashes.

  Once I pack up all the supplies baby Miles might need this side of eternity, I get into the car. I realize that everyone looks great. The dogs are fed, the baby is cleaned and dressed-to-the-nines in a little navy Tommy Hilfiger outfit I bought him, and I’m feeling downright accomplished. But I take a gander in the rearview mirror and realize not only am I sans makeup, but my hair is sticking straight out and Brea’s tiny shirt is stretched to capacity across my chest. I look like an unkempt streetwalker.

  “I’ve got to stop at home,” I explain to all my occupants, who, of course, don’t understand a word. We drive across town and once at my house, I realize
the only way to do this is to bring everyone inside. Because Rhett can’t be trusted with upholstery. I bring the baby, his stroller to sit in, and all the dogs follow me to the front porch. Lucy and Ricky can’t get up the steps, so I have to open the stroller, put the brake on, set Miles in his seat belt, and lift the dogs physically. Mean-while, Rhett is giving Miles a tongue bath.

  “Ack! Get off the baby, Rhett.” I finally open the door.

  Kay’s gone, but her disapproving presence remains. There’s a white layer of dust over her normally pristine house, and my bedroom is a graveyard for everything Rhett has apparently chewed up. There’s a pair of Kay’s cheap sunglasses, a few Thanksgiving knickknacks including one mangled stuffed animal turkey, there’s a wooden rolling pin munched with teeth marks, and a holey pillow that used to read, “If friends were flowers, I’d pick you.”

  I look for something to wear, but notice everything is covered with dust and dog hair. Looking for a light color, I decide to avoid the no-white-after-Labor-Day rule, go with calling my suit winter white, and set a new fashion precedent at Gainnet.

  I can’t take a shower because Miles is already in a strange place, and if one dog can leave a toy graveyard, I don’t even want to think about three with a baby. So I do my best, matting down my hair with water and a mixture of gel and leave-in conditioner. Now I look greasy and helmetlike, but I’m going to make it to work, and today, that’s the only goal I’m looking forward to accomplishing.

  After primping for an hour, I pile all the dogs and Miles back into the car. Then I remember. I didn’t bring any bottles for Miles. I drive back to Brea’s house, kill the car in the garage, and close the door, running in to get formula and baby food. It then dawns on me that the pugs should stay home, and I put them back into their cages, feeling like Cruella herself.