Luscious Lemon

by Heather Swain

  Eddie stands and waits for me to come to my senses, as if I’m one of those inane cartoon women who can’t figure out the obvious best choice. Take a nap or work for sixteen hours straight? His zealousness makes me feel contrite for not taking more of an interest in my pregnancy so far, and once again, I’m terrified. Maybe he wants me to be one of those pansy-asses in the straw hat. Maybe those women make the best mothers. How would I know? That certainly wasn’t my mom, but is she the example I want to follow?

  Then I think of the heartbeat and the little arm waving to us from the sonogram screen. So fragile. So tiny. So completely reliant on me. Of course I want what’s best for this little critter.

  “And another thing,” Eddie says. “You’re going to have to hire someone to replace you for a while, so you should start looking now, because pretty soon you’re going to have to stop working so many late shifts. It’s not good for the baby.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” I snap. “I can second-guess myself all day when it comes to this kid—I don’t need you to do it, too.”

  “I’m not second-guessing you, I’m looking out for our child.”

  “Well, Eddie, despite my obvious total lack of mothering instinct, the baby’s doing just fine. The doctor said so.”

  “For now,” Eddie says, and is about to start in on some other tirade, but I interrupt him.

  “This is ridiculous! Women have been pregnant and having babies for a million years without all this no-caffeine crap. I’m not going to change my whole life—”

  “But this is life-changing!” Eddie nearly yells. I walk away, but he doggedly runs beside me. “You’re going to have to change your life,” he says to me. “Starting now. You’re carrying a child.” He grabs my arm. “And it’s partly mine. You have to think of that baby first.”

  “Jesus, Eddie!” I push his hands away. “You act like I’m the most horrible negligent mother already. It’s not like I’m out shooting smack. I’m not even eating sushi. For God’s sake, I bet your mother had her four-o’clock cocktail without fail through both of her pregnancies, and you guys turned out fine. My mother smoked the whole time she was carrying me around, and you’re on me about drinking a cup of coffee and not taking a nap!”

  “It was different then. They didn’t know. Don’t you think if they knew, they wouldn’t have done those things?”

  “Pregnancy’s become so fucking precious all of a sudden!” I yell at him. “And yes, I have looked at those stupid books you’ve given me. Don’t use an electric blanket. Don’t eat goat cheese. Don’t lie on your back or your stomach. Don’t sneeze, don’t move, don’t breathe. But be sure to exercise, eat well, and get plenty of rest, and keep working but don’t overdo it. It’s a nightmare. I’m a healthy, reasonably young, and intelligent woman who can make my own choices about how to act.”

  “It isn’t only your choice.”

  This stops me cold. I stand rooted to the sidewalk. “You think I’m going to be a terrible mother, don’t you?”

  “I just want you to take good care of yourself, that’s all.”

  “I don’t need this from you,” I say as I stomp off toward the restaurant. “And if you’re going to ride my ass about every decision I make, then you can forget about me moving in with you!” I yell over my shoulder.

  Chapter

  Ten

  T hat you, Lem?” Franny calls from the pantry when I huff into the kitchen. “It’s about time you showed up. I’m not going to take inventory every week for you.” She stops short when she sees me. I’m sweating from the furious walk from the doctor’s to my restaurant and my hair is sticking to my face. “What the hell happened to you?”

  “Eddie!” I fume. “He’s such an asshole sometimes.”

  She chuckles. “What’d he do this time to piss you off?”

  I haven’t told Franny yet that I’m pregnant. I’ve tried to several times. Tried to find a way. I’ve thought of food metaphors: Bun in the oven. A little something from the cabbage patch. I’ve tried to hint around: You know how I’ve been a real bitch lately? And a few times I’ve nearly let crude remarks slip out of my mouth: Guess who’s up a pole? But nothing has seemed right, and no moment has seemed appropriate.

  “I have something I need to tell you,” I say.

  Franny puts her clipboard down and narrows her eyes at me suspiciously. “Oh, Christ. What now?”

  “No, it’s nothing bad,” I assure her. I grab a pot and some olive oil to busy my hands. Then I put both of them down again and pick up a giant wooden spoon. The last time I told Franny that I thought I was pregnant, it ruined our friendship. Of course, this time is different, but I can’t shake the feeling that she’ll be angry with me.

  “It’s just that I’m sort of, you know, well, I’m—”

  “What the hell is it, Lemon?” she asks impatiently.

  “I’m pregnant!” I blurt.

  Franny takes a step backward. She blinks at me a few times. “No way,” she whispers.

  I nod. “It’s true.”

  “No fucking way,” she says. She glances down at my belly, then back into my face. “Are you…Do you…I mean, is this what you want? Were you trying? Does Eddie know?”

  “Yes. I mean no. I mean we weren’t trying, but we’re both happy. And it’s okay. We just came from the doctor, and—”

  But Franny’s hardly listening. She’s pacing the kitchen, shaking her head. “Oh, my God. You’re pregnant. I can’t believe it. What are we going to do? We can barely keep it together. And now you’re going to have a kid!”

  “How about a congratulations?”

  “Oh, well, sorry,” she snaps at me. “I forgot, the world revolves around Lemon.”

  “Shit,” I mutter. I knew this was a horrible idea. I knew it would bring up bad feelings from the past, and Franny would get all freaked out. I drop to a stool and lay my head on the counter. “Between Eddie treating me like I’m some neglectful mother for coming in this morning and you being mad at me, I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do.”

  Franny puts her hands on her hips. “What do you mean, he’s treating you a like a neglectful mother?”

  This is one of the things that’s entirely infuriating and completely wonderful about Franny. She feels entitled to give the people closest to her hell anytime she pleases, but if anyone else mistreats one of her friends, then she’s your most rabid defender.

  “He wants me to take naps, for Christ’s sake!” I say. “Thinks drinking one cup of coffee is going to make this baby deaf, dumb, and blind.”

  “So tell him to fuck off. It’s your body.”

  “That’s the thing,” I say, and then it happens again. I’m crying. Suddenly. Without warning. My chest tightens. My chin quivers. My eyes fill with tears. I’m a blubberhead. “Oh Franny,” I snivel. “I saw its little arm today. It waved at me.”

  Her face softens. She smiles brightly. “It has an arm already?”

  “And a tiny little foot.”

  “A foot?” She nearly swoons.

  “And a heartbeat.”

  Franny covers her mouth. “Oh, my God,” she says reverently.

  “At first, I told myself, It’s my body, I can do what I want. But now, when I think about this baby. When I read about it. Its little arms, its little legs. That heart beating.” I wipe my nose on a dishtowel. “It’s not just me anymore, Franny. It’s me plus this other thing. This other being. Not exactly a person. But something. Inside of me. Alive. And I feel like Eddie thinks I don’t have a natural mothering instinct. It’s like he’s afraid I’m going to do something to hurt it. That somehow I’m careless. And, sometimes, I wonder if he’s right.”

  “That’s complete horse shit,” Franny growls, and I love her for defending me so readily. “You’ll make an amazing mom. Eddie knows that.”

  “Thanks,” I say, and I feel terrible for complaining about her recently. She’s always been a good friend to me when I needed her the most. “What really sucks is, five minutes before
we had this fight, I agreed to move in with him. Now, there’s no way.”

  Franny’s mouth drops open, and she shakes her head at me. “He asked you to move in with him?”

  I nod. “Actually, he wants to get married.”

  “And you said no?” Franny grabs the dishtowel from me and swats my arm with it. “You’re such an asshole.”

  I grab the towel back from her. “I’m not going to marry him just because I’m pregnant.”

  “How about marrying him because he loves you and you love him and because he asked you? And because he’s loaded!”

  “That’s a great reason,” I say to Franny, but her comment stings. The last thing I’d ever do is marry Eddie for some kind of financial security.

  “I was joking about the money part.”

  “Why do you care so much if I get married? Since when are you such a traditionalist anyway?”

  “Since when do you have such a problem with marriage?”

  I fidget on the stool. “It’s sexist,” I say.

  “Bullshit, like you care.”

  I sit up straight and glare at her. “I am not a piece of property.”

  Franny rolls her eyes.

  “Okay.” I slump back down. “So maybe it’s just not the right thing for me.”

  “Why not?” she asks.

  “I don’t know. God. Why’s it matter?”

  “It doesn’t,” says Franny. “But if you’re going to take some grand stand against it, then you should at least have a good reason.”

  I stare at her dumbly. What is my problem? Is it Eddie? Am I unsure about him? No, I can easily imagine sitting across from Eddie, drinking a good bottle of red wine, until we’re both doddering old fools. But I can’t picture myself in some silly frilly wedding dress, saying I do.

  Before I can formulate an answer to Franny’s question, the kitchen door swings open. Ernesto and Manuel walk in, chatting in Spanish. They look at us and immediately stop talking.

  “Que pasa?” Ernesto says to Franny. “Everything okay?”

  I give Franny a pleading please-don’t-say-anything look.

  “Burned soup,” she says quickly.

  “We can make more,” Ernesto assures me with a pat on the back. Manuel nods. I love these guys.

  “You up to this today?” Franny turns to me and asks. “It’s going to be busy.”

  I haul myself up from the stool. “Don’t you start, too,” I warn. I walk to the stove and pour oil into a pot, then grab my knife and start sharpening. “I’m up for it.”

  But I’m not. By four-thirty I’m completely exhausted, and I have to lie down for a while, or I’ll never make it through the night. I go into my office, shut the door, and lay my head on the cluttered desk to doze for a few minutes before the rest of the staff comes in. I’m woken soon after by Franny calling my name.

  “In here,” I say and try to look like I’m busy.

  “Lying down on the job,” she says when she catches me shuffling papers around. She snickers at her stupid joke.

  “You’re a riot,” I say. “What’d you want?”

  She shoves cooking catalogs and farm brochures off the chair opposite me and plops down. “Mona called.”

  “Don’t tell me,” I groan. “If she’s calling in sick again—”

  “Ear infection,” Franny says.

  I prop myself up on my elbows and hold my weary head. “How the hell can an ear infection keep you from mixing drinks?”

  “But she’s dizzy,” Franny says with fake concern. “It’ll throw off her whole game.”

  “She might actually put the right amount of bourbon in a bourbon and soda,” I say and lie back down.

  “Don’t give her credit for knowing what goes in one.”

  “We don’t have time for this shit. How are we going to find another bartender?”

  “Maybe someone will fall into our laps,” Franny says.

  “Like a big hunky French guy?”

  “Named Luc,” she adds.

  “Do you think we can place an ad for one?”

  “A hunky French guy? Sure, in the Village Voice personals. While we’re at it, maybe we should think about hiring another sous-chef. Someone to cover when you’re on maternity leave.”

  “Since when do we have maternity leave?”

  “You can’t just pop the kid out in the walk-in and be back at the stove fifteen minutes later. And you’re certainly not going to push all the extra work off on me and Ernesto.”

  “I know,” I whine, but stop when I hear the back door open and Xiao come into the kitchen calling, “Flowers here!”

  “We’re in the office, Xiao,” I holler.

  Xiao sticks her head through the open door. “Hi, hi, hi!” she sings. “Today I have most beautiful flowers. Gorgeous! Just gorgeous.” She holds up two heavy bouquets of wildflowers. “More in van!” she says as she scuttles out the door again.

  “She’s so depressing,” Franny says to me.

  “Maybe she should consider Prozac.”

  Xiao comes back in with a bouquet of yellow roses in a vase.

  “I didn’t order roses, Xiao,” I say.

  She smiles sweetly. “Let’s see. What this card here say?” She brings the flowers to me and hands me a tiny card with “Lemon” written in Eddie’s perfect script.

  “Did you have a little visitor today?” I ask Xiao.

  “Someone very sad,” she says and makes an exaggerated frown. “So I say, Mr. Eddie, roses make everything all better. Yellow roses for Miss Lemon, I think.”

  I inhale their pretty scent. “They’re beautiful,” I tell her. I pull the card out of the small envelope.

  “Read it out loud,” Franny commands. Xiao nods eagerly.

  “Dear Lemon, Will you please live in sin with me and bear my bastard child? All my love, The Sperm Donor.”

  Franny and I crack up. “God, he loves you,” she says.

  “What’s it mean?” Xiao asks.

  Melanie walks in the door. “What’s what mean?”

  Ernesto comes out of the kitchen with a delivery confirmation for me to sign. “What’re you guys talking about?”

  Then Makiko sticks her head in the office. We all look at her. “What’s going on?” she asks, immediately self-conscious.

  “Lemon has something to tell us,” Franny says sarcastically. Everyone looks from me to Franny to the flowers and back to me. Franny raises her eyebrows, expectantly.

  I glower at her. I’m not sure I’m ready to tell. Part of me still feels protective of my pregnancy. I like having it all to myself. It can be a heady power trip to walk around secretly carrying another heartbeat, knowing that I’m growing a new human. Also, I worry that everyone will treat me differently if they know. It’s already started with Eddie, and now with Franny. But another part of me wants to tell everyone, because every time I say it out loud, it seems more real to me, more certain, and that’s exciting.

  “Is it good news?” Mel asks eagerly.

  “Okay, look,” I say and hesitate. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

  “Not a big deal,” Franny says, mocking me.

  “I mean, it’s not going to change anything. At least for a while,” I say.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Lemon,” Franny says. “Just tell them already.”

  “I’m pregnant,” I announce.

  Mel, Makiko, and Xiao all squeal and clap and laugh as they surround me with hugs and kisses. Ernesto stands back and grins. Only Franny sits off to the side with a smirk on her face. As I thank everyone for the well wishes, I eye Franny warily, hoping she’s not taking my pregnancy as a personal affront.

  Chapter

  Eleven

  A week later, I’m standing on the sidewalk in front of Lemon, watching two beefy movers carry my life in cardboard boxes down the stairs. Eddie insisted on paying them to pack my stuff, so I have no idea where anything is. Where are the chipped pink-flowered teacups with silver trim from Aunt Livinia’s house? Little Great-Aunt Poppy’
s favorite iron skillet? The faded blue flannel sheets Aunt Adele gave me when I first moved in here? And the lace curtains I took from Grandma’s living room when she bought new drapes? My battered cookbooks? My scuffed-up shoes? My mother’s fake pearls and my father’s old LPs?

  My life has been a collection of hand-me-downs and second bests, Dumpster finds, and gifts from my aunts. Nothing in my apartment has ever cost over thirty dollars. I’ve prided myself on that thrift and lack of domestic interest my entire adult life. I’ve had more important things to consider than matching the soap dish to the shower curtain. Now as I watch them load my stuff and I imagine it in Eddie’s place, I realize that everything I own is pure crap.

  Franny comes out of the restaurant. The smell of garlic and chilies follows her and fills the muggy afternoon air. “This is so weird,” she says.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “You’re moving to Brooklyn. To Park Slope, for God’s sake,” she says, then laughs derisively. “All those pregnancy hormones must’ve taken over your brain and turned you into some weird Stepford mother-to-be.”

  “Thanks, Fran,” I say.

  “You’re welcome. What’re you going to do with two places? A city home in Manhattan and a country home in Brooklyn. How very bourgeois of you.”

  “I don’t know if I’ll keep this one,” I tell her. Even after I agreed to move in with Eddie, I insisted that I wanted to keep my apartment. I argued that it would be a good place to rest and occasionally sleep while I’m working. Maybe even a place for him to be with the baby if she’s still breast-feeding when I go back to work. I don’t think he really bought my argument, but he agreed anyway, probably for fear that I’d back out of the whole deal if he protested.

  Now, as I watch my world being systematically disassembled, I realize that I don’t want it like that. I’ll miss my little hovel with its crooked moldings and loud steam heat. The grimy windows and mildewed tub. My mismatched chairs and dusty books. Everything familiar, with its own story that only I know. At the same time, I realize that it’s time to move on. Make a clean break and fully embrace the new version of my life. The one where Eddie and I grow up a little and put this kid’s welfare above our own interests. If I have this apartment, then I’ll have an excuse not to go to Brooklyn. I’ll work too long, too late. If I’m going to do this right, then I have to start compromising.