Things Jolie Needs to Do Before She Bites It

by Kerry Winfrey

  “Oh, she already knows,” Abbi says with a dismissive wave. “She did the whole ‘take you out for ice cream, convince you to spill all your feelings’ thing.”

  I shake my head. “That sneaky woman.”

  Abbi sighs heavily and stares at the counter, looking the most defeated I’ve ever seen her. I think about her reading me books when I was sick and trying to make me feel better. “Hey,” I say. “I’m halfway through The Sopranos. Do you want to watch with me?”

  She looks at me with narrowed eyes. “Why are you watching that show? It ended, like, a million years ago.”

  “I needed something to take my mind off my surgery, so I was like, ‘Well, it could always be worse. I could be involved in a life of crime.’”

  Abbi sighs and pushes herself off the stool. “You are too weird, you know?” But she’s smiling when she says it, so we head to the living room to get lost in someone’s Mafia-related problems for a couple of hours.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The next day, one week before my surgery (not that I’m counting the days or anything), Mom and Dad leave to visit our aunt Jayne in Cleveland, two hours away.

  “Call me if you even think you might, maybe, sort of be going into labor,” Mom says, giving Abbi a hug.

  “Mom!” Abbi says. “I’m not due for weeks.”

  “And first babies are almost always late,” I say. “I learned that in childbirth class.”

  Mom purses her lips. It’s true that Abbi’s been having false contractions for a week, but the doctor assured her that these were just her body’s way of “practicing” for real labor and they don’t necessarily mean that she’s going into labor immediately or anything. But I can tell that Mom’s still worried about leaving her.

  “I’ll be here,” I remind her. “And I’m practically an expert on childbirth now. I watched the video.”

  “You might as well be a doctor,” Mom says, sounding unconvinced.

  “Let’s hit the road!” Dad says, holding out Mom’s jacket. Like all dads since the beginning of time, he’s obsessed with “making good time” on the road.

  “All right, all right,” Mom says, shrugging into her faux-leather motorcycle jacket before giving us both one more hug.

  And then they’re gone, and Abbi immediately slumps against the wall in relief. “Holy-moly. I thought I was going to collapse under the weight of being watched so intensely.”

  “Come on,” I say, pushing her toward the living room. “You’re under strict orders to relax and not overexert yourself. What’s on TV?”

  “Oh! A marathon of Snapped!” Abbi says as she presses the on button on the remote. Snapped is a show all about women who, well, snap and either murder or try to murder someone. We find it very comforting, for reasons that are probably best left unexamined.

  “Perfect,” I say. Derek still won’t answer my texts, so I’ve given up on bothering him. It still stings to think about him, but thankfully, TV is here to solve all our problems.

  After literally hours of watching Snapped, Abbi stands up and stretches. “This baby needs ice cream. You want some?”

  I shake my head. “No, but I’ll pause it. I know you don’t want to miss this woman who tries to kill someone with horse tranquilizers.”

  Abbi heads to the kitchen, and I scroll through my phone, not that there’s much to see. I have a nice text from Noah checking in on me to see if I’m ready for surgery and a few texts from Evelyn. Nothing from Derek, of course.

  I think about what I would say to him if he ever responded to me. That I’m sorry I acted like I don’t have feelings for him? That I do have a crush on him but it freaks me out? That I just couldn’t believe a guy like him would actually want to date a girl like me, and if we try it and it doesn’t work out then it might actually kill me even if surgery doesn’t? Those just aren’t things you can say through text.

  After about ten minutes of scrolling through Instagram, I realize Abbi’s still not back. “Abs?” I call, getting up from the chair and walking toward the kitchen. “You okay? Did you go into a Chunky Monkey coma?”

  But when I step into the kitchen, I see Abbi sitting on the floor, staring straight ahead.

  “Abbi!” I kneel beside her, then realize the floor is wet. “Did you spill something?”

  She looks up at me, her eyes wide. “You know how Kathy told us my water wouldn’t break until we got to the hospital?”

  I nod.

  “Well, either I just peed all over the kitchen floor or my water broke.”

  “What?” I leap up. “You mean I’m kneeling in your amniotic fluid?”

  “That’s the least of our worries right now!” Abbi says, and when she starts crying I realize—duh—that this is a problem. The baby isn’t due for weeks. And if Abbi’s water broke, then she needs to go to the hospital. Which means that someone needs to take her. And since Mom and Dad are at Aunt Jayne’s, that leaves …

  Me.

  Oh no.

  “Do you have your bag packed?” I ask, trying to remember anything we learned in class.

  “No!” Abbi yells at me. “I thought I had time!”

  “Okay, so we need to get an outfit for the baby, your robe…”

  Abbi lies down, wincing, on our unmopped kitchen floor. “If this is what a contraction is, I don’t like it.”

  “Um.… okay. Remember your breathing?” I pick a crumb out of Abbi’s hair.

  “I don’t want to do the breathing!” Abbi says. “I want to wait until my due date!”

  “I’m pretty sure we don’t have that option.”

  Abbi pushes herself up off the floor with a groan. “You need to take me to the hospital.”

  “Let’s just call Mom and Dad and see if they can come back…”

  “I’m not waiting around, Jolie,” Abbi says.

  “But Mom and Dad are supposed to do this,” I say. I’m thinking of all the movies I’ve seen where a woman goes into labor in a taxi or an elevator. What am I going to do if Abbi gives birth in my Ford Focus? There’s not even enough room in there for her to spread out, let alone have a baby. And I just vacuumed those seats.

  Plus, I’m just really, totally, not even a little equipped to deal with this.

  As if Abbi can read my thoughts, she says, “You went to the classes with me—you know enough to help me. But,” she says, her voice cracking, “it’s too early. I’m scared.”

  I press my lips together and summon up determination I’m not sure I actually have. I’m scared, too, but I’m not the one who’s about to give birth, so I push it down. I have to be strong for Abbi.

  “Let’s go,” I say, helping her up off the floor.

  * * *

  Abbi sits in the backseat—I figure if she does give birth in the Focus, at least she’ll have more space back there—and times her contractions.

  “Do the breathing,” I suggest.

  “I don’t remember how to do the breathing!” Abbi yells.

  “I thought you took notes!”

  “Yeah, well, it turns out notes are useless right now.” Then she attempts to do the breathing we learned in class, a loud “HEEEEE” followed by a loud “HOOOOO.”

  “Is it helping?” I ask.

  “Heeeee. I don’t know. Hooooooo. I’m not sure it’s supposed to be done in a car. Oh God,” she groans.

  “Does it hurt?” I ask.

  “No. I mean, yeah, but it’s not that bad. Yet. I’m just freaking out. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.”

  “How was it supposed to happen?” I ask, thinking that keeping her talking might stop her from panicking.

  “For starters, I was supposed to be married to the love of my life, a gorgeous pediatrician who—HEEEE—loves me and our two black Lab mixes. HOOOOO. I was supposed to live in a house with a turret and know how to make a piecrust. I was supposed to have some great career—HEEEEEE—that I would keep after I had a kid but not because I needed the money, just because—HOOOOOO—I loved it so much that I co
uldn’t imagine not doing it.”

  I keep my eyes on the road, realizing that Abbi thinks I’m asking how her entire life was supposed to go, not her birth process.

  “I’ll tell you what wasn’t supposed to happen!” she says with sudden passion. “I wasn’t supposed to get knocked up by a shitbag sociology professor who doesn’t even have the guts to tell his wife about me!”

  I resist reaching up to cover my right ear, the one that Abbi is nearly screaming into. Okay, so conversation wasn’t a good idea. I push the radio on and turn up the volume on the oldies station.

  “I HATE THIS SONG!” Abbi shouts.

  “Okay, okay.” I press off as quickly as I can. I wasn’t aware that the mellow tunes of James Taylor could upset anyone so much, but I’m determined to give Abbi what she wants right now.

  “How slow are you going?” she asks, her voice suddenly low and menacing. I press my foot on the gas. The hospital is only a few miles away, but I’m not sure I’ll make it there alive.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  At the hospital, they whisk Abbi away immediately to check her. I’m not allowed to go with her, which is fine with me. I don’t like to think about her being alone back there, but I also can’t handle any more responsibility right now. There are only a few other people in the waiting room—an older couple who look like they’re waiting to be grandparents, a woman holding a pink-and-blue box that must be a baby gift. We all silently watch the TV mounted in the corner, which is playing an episode of The Ellen DeGeneres Show, as if we’ve made a tacit agreement not to bother each other with conversation.

  When Mom and Dad walk into the waiting room, I slump, instantly relieved. I hadn’t realized I was holding my body rigid with tension, but upon simply seeing them, I’m overcome with gratitude that I’m not in charge of this situation anymore.

  “She’s in the delivery room,” I say, pointing down the hallway. My mom takes off for somewhere—to the nurse’s station? The delivery room? If anyone can fight her way back there, it’s my mom—and my dad sits down beside me.

  He hands me a vending-machine coffee and points to the copy of HGTV Magazine in my hands. “Getting into decorating?”

  I look down at the magazine in my lap. My fingers are anxiously flipping through the pages, but all I’ve been able to see for the past hour are colors and shapes. My eyes focus on the headlines on the front.

  “Well, you know me.” I shrug. “Always looking for a way to liven up my outdoor entertaining space.”

  I toss the magazine on the table and eagerly take a swig of the coffee. It’s disgusting, but this is what you do in waiting rooms, according to all the television shows I’ve seen: You drink coffee and worry.

  “Is this bad?” I ask Dad. “I mean, with Abbi. The baby isn’t due for a few more weeks.”

  He shrugs. “I’m a teacher, Jolie,” he says. “Not an obstetrician.”

  I nod.

  “Here’s what I’ll tell you, though,” he says. “Sometimes when I start a project, I have all these expectations. I start with a plan for how I’m gonna build whatever it is I’m building—a table, a bookcase, a bed frame. And I look at that plan and think, ‘Yes. That’s exactly how this whole thing is gonna turn out.’”

  I take another sip and wonder where exactly this woodworking lesson is going.

  “But you know how often it turns out according to the plan?” he asks, taking a sip of his own coffee. “Almost never. Maybe a board breaks. Maybe the hardware store’s out of the wood stain I want. Maybe it was just a bad plan.”

  My confusion must be written all over my face, because Dad holds up a hand. “I’m getting to the point, I promise. What I’m trying to say is, at the end of the day, no matter how far off-plan I went, I still end up with a table, or a bookcase, or a bed frame. Maybe things look a little bit different than I wanted them to, but it’s okay.”

  I nod, finally getting it. “So, even though Abbi isn’t following her plan, everything’s still gonna be okay with the baby?”

  Dad looks at me, confused. “What are you talking about babies for? I was just talking about a table.”

  I sigh heavily and he cracks up, spilling some of his coffee on his lap. Once he calms down, he pats me on my knee in the most Dad-like gesture ever. “It’s gonna be okay, Jolie. I promise.”

  I pull my knees up to my chest and try to get comfortable in the hopelessly uncomfortable chair. Of all the ways I could’ve chosen to spend my day, sitting in a hospital waiting room while my sister is in labor early wouldn’t have been one of them, but right now, sitting in companionable silence with my dad while Channing Tatum dances with Ellen on TV, I think I can handle it.

  * * *

  Mom comes out occasionally, relaying details that involve dilation and centimeters and other words I sort of remember from class. All I really pick up on is that everything’s going to be okay, eventually, and that Abbi’s gonna have a table at the end of this whole thing.

  After a few episodes of courtroom TV shows, Dad says he needs to “wander” and walks off toward the courtyard. That’s when I see a familiar person walking down the corridor: Dr. Jones.

  “Hi!” I say brightly before remembering that her son hates me now. I shrink back a little, but she doesn’t make things awkward. Instead, she sits down beside me and pulls me in for a hug. Even though we’re in a hospital, she still manages to smell good.

  “I stopped in to see Abbi,” she says, pulling back. “She’s doing great.”

  I sigh with relief. I know my mom said things were okay, but it feels better to hear that from a doctor. “Oh, good. Because she was really scared.”

  Dr. Jones lifts a shoulder. “Well, childbirth can be scary. But then again, most things that are worth it are usually a little bit scary.”

  I nod. “So, did Derek…” I gulp, trying to think of a way to phrase it.

  Dr. Jones smiles kindly. “I’ve noticed you haven’t been around the house lately. And I’ve noticed that he’s been moping a lot. But if you’re asking me if I know all the details of what’s going on, no, I don’t. This may shock you, but Derek doesn’t exactly come to me with his personal problems.”

  That, at least, makes me smile. “Okay. I just wondered…” I don’t know where I’m going with this, so I let the thought trail off.

  Dr. Jones puts her hand on my knee. “You guys will make up. Real friends can get through anything.”

  “You’re right,” I say, and give her a tight smile because I’m not one hundred percent sure she is right. Sure, Evelyn and I can fight and make up, but Evelyn and I aren’t harboring awkward, potentially friendship-killing romantic feelings for each other. But I’m not about to mention to Dr. Jones that I think I might want to totally make out with her son.

  Her name blares over the speakers, and she stands up. “That’s my cue. Congratulations, Jolie—you’re going to be an aunt!”

  I wave as she strides down the hallway, all confidence and capability. I wonder if I’ll ever feel that sure of myself.

  Dad wanders back into the room holding a cookie and a bottle of Coke.

  “Here,” he says. “Keep yourself awake with caffeine and sugar.”

  “Thank God,” I say, practically lunging at them.

  But I guess the caffeine and sugar are no match for my stress fatigue, because the next thing I know, I’m waking up with a start. I realize I fell asleep on Dad’s shoulder.

  “Well, hello there, sunshine,” Dad says.

  “How long have I been out?” I mumble.

  “Only about half an hour,” he says, flipping past magazine advertisements for cat food and yogurt.

  Only half an hour. And yet it feels like we’ve been in this waiting room for our entire lives. In fact, I’m starting to feel like we’ll spend the rest of our lives here, like we’ll never leave, like …

  “She’s here!” Mom says, bursting into the room. “The baby’s here!”

  Dad and I stand up immediately, his magazine falling to the floo
r.

  “Really?” I ask.

  Mom nods, a smile overtaking her entire face, and I realize that she’s crying. I can’t remember many times when I’ve seen my mom cry without half a glass of wine in her system. Maybe when Sleater-Kinney announced their reunion tour and she got super emotional, but that’s about it.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask, panicked.

  “More than okay. She’s perfect. She’s beautiful. I mean, you and Abbi were beautiful babies, but she is just next level.”

  “I’ll try not to be insulted by that,” I say as Dad and I follow Mom, but I notice that she said I was a beautiful baby.

  I can hear other babies crying as we make our way down the corridor. I can’t believe this is the moment I’m going to meet my niece. My niece! Even thinking the word feels weird. I’m an aunt—I thought aunts were, like, my aunt Jayne, who lives with her boyfriend and their yorkipoos, not sixteen-year-old girls.

  Mom pushes open a door and waves us in. Abbi’s sitting with her baby in bed, still in her hospital gown, her hair plastered to her forehead and every trace of makeup rubbed off her face. She looks exhausted.

  She also looks happy—maybe the happiest I’ve ever seen her.

  “Meet Margaret,” Abbi says.

  “Margaret?” I ask. “Like my middle name?”

  “Yeah,” Abbi says. “Duh, Jolie. Like your middle name. I wanted to name her after my number one birth partner, even if you weren’t here for the big moment.”

  I’m not a big crier. I mean, I managed to make it through Inside Out without so much as smudging my eyeliner, and when I stub my toe I just let out a string of profanity. But this? Okay, I’ll admit it. A few tears spring to my eyes.

  “So, she’s … okay?” I ask gingerly.

  Abbi nods, not taking her eyes off Margaret. “We must’ve calculated my due date wrong, or maybe she was just ready to meet us a little early.”

  “Hi, Margaret,” I say, reaching out a finger. Her teeny-tiny fingers curl around mine, and I gasp.

  “Is she supposed to do that?” I whisper.

  Everyone laughs, so I pretend I was joking.