Three Girls and a Baby

by Rachel Schurig

  When Josh and I first got together, back in high school, he was almost painfully shy. Few people who know him now understand quite how self-conscious he really was, just below the surface, and how much that used to affect him. I was the one who pulled him out of that; I was the one who changed him from shy, awkward wallflower to fun, popular guy. Just his being with me changed the way people thought of him. I know it’s horribly conceited to think of myself this way, but it’s also true. Or at least, it was true, a very long time ago.

  Josh Stanley was known at our school for being a really talented writer, mostly working on short stories and a little poetry. What had first caught my attention about him was the way I would always see him around the school—in the back of our classes, out on the lawn, lounging in the hallway— his head bent over a notebook, his curly hair falling into his eyes as he wrote furiously. He seemed a million miles away from me, from all of the ridiculousness of high school. I wanted to bring him back, or, better still, force him to take me with him into his world.

  I had dated a lot of boys before Josh. I was the only child of two very conservative parents. My mom and dad were a lot older than the parents of most of my friends. I think they had given up on kids years before I came along and I had come as something of a shock to them. They didn’t seem to enjoy parenting too much, and they certainly didn’t seem to enjoy me much at all. They were strict and demanding, religious and rigid in their beliefs on how I should act.

  I rebelled. I rebelled hardcore, from the time I was a kid all the way through high school. I drank, I kissed boys, I got my nose pierced. I wound up my dad by telling him I was becoming a socialist. I pretended to be a lesbian for a week just to see if my mom’s head would explode. I broke curfew and dressed all in black and flirted with anyone who would look at me. I left condoms out on my dresser in full view of anyone walking down the hall. I told my mom I thought marriage was like slavery for a woman—I planned to sleep with whoever I wanted and concentrate my efforts on a career.

  Josh made me see that all of that was bullshit.

  I had initially tried to get his attention the way I had with all the other boys. I flirted, I dressed provocatively, I showered him with attention. He was always kind to me, he paid me attention when I demanded it, but it never went further than politeness. All of that—my entire life really—changed the night of Amanda Dowger’s house party.

  It was the middle of junior year. I had been trying, without success, to win Josh over for the better part of two months. The less interested he seemed, the more determined I got. I remember Jen telling me if I didn’t get in his pants or move on soon, she was going to disown me. I determined that night, the night of Amanda’s party, would be the night I made it happen. I knew Josh was going to be there so I dressed to the nines: tight pants, cleavage, sleek hair, tons of make-up. When I got into her car Annie informed me that I looked like a prostitute. I kissed her on the cheek.

  When we got to the party I put my plan into motion. It was simple, if moronic: I was going to get drunk and flirt with as many guys as I could to show Josh what he was missing. By ten thirty I was well on my way, at least in the drunk and moronic categories. Scanning the room, I found him sitting on the couch, talking casually to some sophomore in our creative writing class. Knowing he’d be watching me, I made my way to the center of the room, where people were dancing. I picked a random football player and started dancing, grinding and being, in a word, slutty.

  After a few songs I decided to test the waters, see how Josh had been affected by my plan. I flopped down on the couch next to him, sitting as close as I could, and leaned my whole body into him. “I’m so drunk,” I giggled in my most girlish voice.

  “Ginny,” he said quietly. “Why are you doing this?”

  I looked up into his solemn face, surprised. “What...what do you mean?” I stammered. He leaned down, so our faces were close together.

  “You’re so much better than this. You should knock it off.”

  His words sent me reeling. It was like he had cut me down to my core, like he had seen through me in a way no one ever had. I felt off-balance; I was both elated and not at all sure that I liked this. Suddenly, I realized I was going to be sick. I pushed off from the couch and ran through the front door, retching into the bushes, reactionary tears streaming down my face.

  When I finished I sank down to my knees on the cold grass. It was only then that I realized Josh was standing right next to me, maybe had been the whole time. He knelt down, too, and held out his cup, offering me a sip of his Coke.

  “I was thinking I might get out of here,” he said, as if nothing had happened. “I wondered if maybe you wanted to go with me, get some coffee or something.” I stared at him, completely shocked for the second time that night.

  Josh stood. “Come on,” he said firmly, holding out his hand. “Let’s go.” And reaching down, he pulled me back up off the cold grass and into his world.

  * * *

  Sitting on the cold park bench in November, I felt wetness on my cheeks. I hadn’t let myself think of that night in so long. It was the beginning for us, but it also explained how we would end, if you knew what to look for in the story. Five years later, we would be in almost the same place, with me desperate, doing everything I could think of to hang on to Josh. But just like before, the more I tried, the farther away he moved. And this time when I messed up, when I took it too far, he refused to be there to pull me back up.

  Chapter Six

  Ten Weeks: At ten weeks you will most likely be experiencing many of the more annoying aspects of pregnancy: morning sickness, acne, mood swings, and body aches. You’ll probably also find that your bladder demands more frequent trips to the bathroom. Never fear, ladies, this part doesn’t last forever! If you haven’t already done so, it’s important to see you doctor soon and have a complete physical done. Enjoy these precious months, mommies-to-be! —Dr. Rebecca Carr, A Gal’s Guide to a Fabulous First Pregnancy!

  I have never felt so disgusting in my entire life. Seriously. I had a horrible bout of stomach flu once when I was sixteen, and I’ve had more killer hangovers than your average girl. But not even the worst hangover in the world could compare with this.

  I was sick every single morning for the next two weeks. Not only that, but I was often sick in the afternoons, too. And the early evening. And sometimes, for good measure, I was sick at night. I don’t know how I was managing to keep enough calories in my system to keep me conscious, I was throwing up so often.

  And then there was my bladder. I had to pee, like, every thirty minutes, without fail. Even at night, I was waking up constantly to go to the bathroom. So annoying. And exhausting.

  The weirdest smells bothered me. I couldn’t stand to be around broccoli, eggs, or apples. I came home one night to Annie heating up potato soup, which I normally loved, and decided right then and there that potatoes were going to be a no-go for the duration of this pregnancy.

  This pregnancy. God. I still couldn’t get used to it. I was pregnant.

  I still hadn’t told Josh. I came close a few times, even going so far as to pick up my cell and pull up his number, but I never went through with it. I was, quite literally, terrified to tell him. I hadn’t told my parents yet either. I had stopped caring about their opinion, for the most part, ages ago. They had been disappointed with me for so long, it had seemed stupid to continue to worry about it. But this was going to ratchet that disappointment up to an unprecedented level, and I found myself scared of their reaction for the first time in many, many years.

  And then there were the money worries. How on earth was I going to pay for this baby? Since graduation Annie and I both been working as nannies for rich families in Bloomfield Hills, a very swanky neighborhood nearby. I had had no clue what I had wanted to do after college, and Annie had found that well-paid acting jobs were pretty scarce in the Detroit area. Nannying was meant to be a way to earn some money while we tried to figure out a better plan.

  The
pay wasn’t horrible but it wasn’t anything to raise a baby with. Plus, I had pretty crappy insurance, some young-adult bare minimum plan that Annie and I had signed up for after graduation had booted us from our parents’ coverage—the rich families did not provide benefits. Jen, the only one of us with a real job, had fabulous insurance, and she volunteered to participate in fraud, letting me pretend to be her. I declined, but appreciated the offer—Jen didn’t like to break rules.

  Even if I could afford medical coverage, what about what came next? How could I pay for diapers, food, toys, clothes? I could barely afford to take care of myself. I didn’t have completely excessive tastes, but I did enjoy my clothes, and my make-up, and most of all, my shoes. I had been known to take on extra hours at work for the sole purpose of affording a new pair of shoes. That habit would have to be cut out. How on earth was I going to live without new shoes?

  These thoughts were so depressing that I tried to not think about any of it too much. Annie told me that this was denial, and I had better snap out of it soon. Jen kept trying to corner me with her laptop, insistent that we needed to start researching social programs for poor, single mothers so we could Make A Plan. I didn’t want to think about plans, or welfare, or any of it. So I didn’t.

  I did go to the doctor, though, but only because Jen tricked me into thinking we were going to the movies. She said an early doctor visit was very important—apparently she was reading baby books on my behalf—and she wouldn’t take no for an answer. She even found an Ob-Gyn that would take my insurance—with a hefty co-pay, but it was better than nothing.

  The visit went fine; I could almost pretend it was simply a physical, like I used to have every year when I was on the track team. They did basic stuff like take my blood pressure and measure me. They also asked a million questions about my health and habits. The doctor was pleased I didn’t smoke, but told me in no uncertain terms that my love affair with pinot grigio was on hold for the next seven-and-a-half-months.

  He did some blood work as well, and an ultrasound. I couldn’t see anything yet, or even hear the heart beat. There had been a part of me, a small, stupid, in-denial part, that was hoping it was all a misunderstanding. At home tests could be wrong, and maybe the sickness was the result of some mysterious, life-threatening illness—one could dream, right? But the doctor assured me that I was, in fact, pregnant, killing any remaining hope I might have had.

  * * *

  The last Friday in January started out like every other morning: I was late for work. I knew that it took me, on average, sixteen minutes to rush down Woodward Avenue from my house to the Conrad house, where I would spend the day babysitting. This meant that I should leave at least twenty minutes before my seven thirty start time to be safe. In practice though, I generally gave myself ten minutes, meaning, of course, that I was almost always late, a trend that was not helped at all by my near-constant morning sickness.

  The Conrad house was its usual before-school chaos when I finally rushed through the door. Christopher and Madeline, ages ten and eight, were fighting over who got to finish the chocolate milk—Madeline dressed, but with messy hair, and Christopher still in his PJs. Jill, also in PJs, was covered in maple syrup and crying to get out of her high chair.

  In the middle of this was Kelsie, their mother, sitting at the kitchen table with a grimace on her face and her head resting on one hand. “You’re late,” she muttered, looking up at me. Inwardly I marveled at the nerve of the woman who regularly came home forty-five minutes late with no explanation. Outwardly I smiled and said a cheerful good morning to the kids.

  "Mommy, braid my hair! You promised!" demanded Madeline in a whiny, bossy voice that made me cringe. Why would anyone let their kid talk like that? I wondered for the hundredth time.

  Kelsie abruptly pushed her chair back from the table. “Mommy’s late for an appointment," she said briskly. "Ginny will help you." And before I could even say a word, she was gone.

  I bit back a curse. The room was a mess, the kids weren’t ready, and they needed to leave for school in fifteen minutes. When I was hired, Kelsie had told me she would take the kids to school on her way out each day, leaving me at home with Jill. Any changes to that plan were supposed to be communicated ahead of time. Yeah, right.

  I had held some babysitting jobs throughout college to help pay my way, but this was my first experience taking care of a child full-time, and certainly my first experience working for people with such showy wealth. The Conrads lived in a huge house, and everything in it, from the furniture to the dishes to the black and white professional photographs on the mantle, bespoke wealth and good taste. Very little of the house felt like a place where children lived.

  However, the Conrads did indeed have children—three of them. Christopher and Madeline were in school most of the day and thus didn’t factor into my daily responsibilities much—or at least, they weren’t supposed to. My primary job was taking care of three-year-old Jill.

  Jill was a doll. She was exactly the child I had always dreamed of having myself. Her white-blond hair curled in spirals so perfect they almost didn’t seem real. She was generally cheerful and giggly and had huge blue eyes that could melt me on my worst day. Because of the aforementioned showy wealth of her parents, she had a gorgeous pink and white bedroom filled with the best Pottery Barn furniture money could buy. On a regular basis I encouraged her to play dress up with her J Crew Baby wardrobe. Those were the times I liked my job.

  Unfortunately, those times were rather scarce.

  When Annie had first told me she could get me a job with the friend of the woman she was working for, I was pretty geeked. I envisioned myself in a big, beautiful house, chauffeuring kids from one activity to the other in a luxurious SUV, using nap times to catch up on my reality TV habit. I pictured hand-me-downs from designer closets and generous, expensive gifts for birthdays and Christmas.

  What I did not imagine was spoiled kids screaming until they got their way; parents assuming I would work late with no notice; or being expected to pick up dry cleaning, return bottles, wrap gifts, cook meals. And what I certainly did not expect was that I would be working full-time for a woman with one child at home and no job.

  At the time, I had just graduated and I had no idea what I wanted to do next. My degree, English Lit, didn’t seem to be opening up many doors for me career-wise.

  To be completely honest, I had always expected to be married by this point in my life: deciding on a career hadn’t really factored into my post-graduation plans. Since I was moving home anyway, and Josh wasn’t coming with me, the nannying job seemed like the best option available. So now, here I was, in a rich woman’s house, racing to get her kids cleaned up and ready for school while she, more than likely, was headed for a mani-pedi.

  I sighed and, in my meanest take-no-shit-from-spoiled-brats voice, ordered Christopher to go get dressed and brush his teeth. He did what he was told, as was usually the case when I got strict with him—since his parents never took any control over his behavior he always seemed surprised into obedience when I did so. Madeline could be trickier—though she was often whiny and demanding I detected a lot of hurt in her little brown eyes. On many occasions when I had worked late, or sat on weekends, and had tucked her into bed, she would beg me to stay with her in the dark, cuddling into me and squeezing tight. She was the middle child of parents who never seemed to have time for her.

  “Okay, Maddie-loo-loo,” I singsonged at her, making her giggle. “Let’s make a deal. If you can get your teeth brushed and your shoes on before I count to fifty, I’ll braid your hair. Otherwise it’s a piggies day, okay?” She nodded enthusiastically at me, eager to avoid piggies, otherwise known as pigtails, which she hated. As she ran off, I turned to Jill, who was now beaming up at me through the syrup mess on her face.

  “You, missy, are gross,” I told her, grabbing a dish towel and getting it wet. As I attacked her face I tickled her tummy to keep her from squirming and fighting me. By the time Christop
her came back down, dressed and ready, I had Jill mostly cleaned and had her coat bundled over her PJs. I decided the kitchen could wait, so I sent Chris to get his shoes on while I quickly braided Madeline’s hair.

  When I finally got everyone shepherded out of the house and strapped into their car seats I was pleased to see we were only running a few minutes late. Madeline was happy with her hair, I had reminded Chris to bring his homework, and Jill was leaving only trace amounts of syrup on everything she touched.

  My job may have been frustrating, demeaning, and downright annoying, but you couldn’t deny that I was damn good at it.

  * * *

  Once the older kids were gone, the rest of the day calmed down somewhat, though I was hit by another bout of morning sickness once I’d gotten Jill home. To be honest, work was this hard on a daily basis now. I was more tired than ever, because I was sleeping so badly. Being sick every morning did not help my chronic lateness. Most days, I was sick again once I got there—I was grateful, for once, that Kelsie was gone so often. I had no idea how she was going to take my news.

  At home in the evenings, I did everything I could to keep my mind off the pregnancy and all the stressful worry that went with it. Annie convinced me to keep up with our yoga, and it ended up being the only time my body felt normal. It helped with the aches and the nausea and I wished I could afford to go more often. I had to stop running because it made me have to pee even more often, but Jen insisted I take a walk with her every evening. She also tried to make me eat balanced and healthy meals. She was staying home just about every night now, and she cooked for me all the time. Normally, this would have made me tremendously happy, but now most food made me hurl, so I couldn’t quite enjoy her efforts.