Stiff Competition

by Annelise Ryan

  After a few trips playing choo-choo train at the grocery store, I discovered a new way to shop. One evening after putting Matthew down to sleep, I went surfing on Amazon because my sister told me I could get diapers cheaper by ordering them there. Not only did I find some that were cheaper, I discovered that if I opened up an Amazon Prime account, I could get them shipped and delivered to my door free within two days of ordering them. I haven’t bought diapers in a real store since. Then I accidentally discovered an entire grocery section on Amazon. I could order virtually anything, or virtually order anything: peanut butter, pastas, cheeses, breads, meats, spices, coffee, a million canned foods, brand-name baby foods, cookies, milk . . . The list was endless. My trips to the grocery store became fewer and less cumbersome since I no longer needed to buy so much, and food was delivered right to my door. The UPS guy was at my place so often, he started bringing treats for Hoover and joked about opening up a satellite store in my driveway. Dom asked me if I was having an affair with the guy.

  While my discovery of Amazon has helped, my life has remained a series of disaster management situations. It wasn’t too bad during the first week because I had tons of visitors drop by. My entire family came: my sister, Desi, her husband, Lucien, their kids, Erika and Ethan, and even my mother managed to venture out into the germ-plagued world long enough to visit along with her live-in boyfriend (an ex-date of mine), William. Mom drew the line at changing diapers however. Even a newborn possessed the potential for catastrophic germ warfare and my mother has been waging a war with germs her entire life.

  Hurley came by as often as he could, too, which wasn’t as often as he liked since his daughter, Emily, did everything in her power to keep us apart. If she suspected he was spending time with me and Matthew, she would skip out of school, or disappear from the house and then call to say she was running away, or wanting to hurt herself. People from my office and other acquaintances dropped by, too, and during that first week I had no shortage of people who were willing to care for Matthew while I napped or showered or just had a few minutes of peace, quiet, and alone time. But once the newness wore off, they all disappeared back to their own lives.

  The one constant has been Izzy’s partner, Dom, who came by so often during the first few weeks that Izzy started to complain that I saw more of Dom than he did. Dom took to parenting like he was born to do it, and there was never an awkward moment when it came to feeding, changing diapers, bathing, dressing, or just holding and soothing Matthew. At times I felt as if Matthew was more Dom’s child than mine. This doubt wasn’t helped by the fact that I kept waiting for my maternal attachment to kick in, that overwhelming feeling of love that turns normal human beings into fierce mother bears. But at first Matthew seemed like little more than an adorable blob of flesh that ate, pooped, and slept—though not nearly enough of the latter. I was exhausted, frustrated, and filled with guilt, convinced I was a horrible mother.

  Then, when he was a little over a month old, Matthew smiled at me for the first time and I thought my heart would burst with the swell of love I felt. Life didn’t get any less chaotic, but suddenly it all seemed worth it.

  My chaotic lifestyle was in full swing this morning, so much so that I brought remnants of it with me to the crime scene. I woke up late for work because, for the first time ever, Matthew slept beyond his usual two hours after his four A.M. feeding. And either my alarm didn’t go off, or I turned it off and went back to sleep. I can’t be sure since what little sleep time I get these days is more like a coma. The first thing I recall from this morning is Dom shaking me awake.

  “Mattie, it’s almost seven-thirty. Aren’t you supposed to be at work by eight?”

  I rolled over in my bleary-eyed state, stared at the clock, then at Dom, then at the clock again. Reality kicked in and I flung back the covers and bolted out of bed. “Oh, no! Matthew!” I was convinced my son must be dead because there was no other way I could have slept this long.

  “He’s fine,” Dom said just above a whisper. Then he put a finger to his lips to warn me to be quiet. “He’s sleeping.”

  I walked over to the crib and stared at my sleeping son, momentarily filled with a love so great, it made my heart feel like it would explode from my chest. Then reality tapped me on the shoulder in the form of Dom.

  “You need to get a move on,” he said.

  I kicked back into frantic mode. I realized that the pressure I’d felt in my chest was real. My breasts were about to explode with milk. And I needed coffee, and a shower. I knew there wasn’t much point in the shower until I emptied my breasts. They would just leak all over me as soon as I got out. I grabbed my breast pump, headed for the kitchen, and quickly set up the pump—I’d become quite the expert with the diabolical little machine over the past two months for two reasons. One was because of that lie women have been perpetuating for eons, that breast-feeding is normal, natural, and easy. It may be normal and natural, but easy doesn’t apply. Matthew was a lazy eater, often not wanting to latch on hard enough and suck long enough to satiate his growing appetite. We spent many an hour together, both of us crying with frustration as we tried to get the hang of it. I was determined to succeed, if for no other reason than because of the benefits I know newborns get from breast milk. But for the first few weeks it was a constant battle. By the time Matthew seemed to get the hang of it, my nipples decided to rebel. They became chafed and sore, and nursing became a form of torture.

  The other reason my breast pump is my new best friend is because my breasts don’t seem to know when to stop. I produce lots of milk, more than Matthew needs, and I don’t want it to go to waste. So I pump and bottle the excess, using it for those occasions when someone comes by for a visit and I can pawn off the kid and the bottle for a few cherished and desperately needed minutes of sleep.

  Given my familiarity with the pump, it took me barely more than a minute to set it up, hook it up, and start it up this morning. I stood at the counter, stripped off my pajama top, and dropped the flaps on my bra. I’d invested in the dual chamber pump despite having no idea why I would need it, but I’m glad now I did. I hooked up both sides at the same time and, as the machine chugged away, I went about setting up the coffeepot, turning it on, and grabbing a mug from the cupboard overhead. Then I stood there waiting . . . waiting for both machines to finish their jobs. The coffeepot won the race, and as I poured and tasted that first wondrous sip of hot caffeine, the pump finished, too.

  “I can finish that up for you,” Dom said behind me.

  I looked over my shoulder and saw him standing behind me. You’d think the sight of an essentially bare-breasted woman standing in the kitchen hooked up to a miniature version of The Machine from The Princess Bride would have embarrassed him . . . or me . . . but Dom and I have learned to take things in stride. His help has been a lifesaver for me these past few weeks, and he’s seen my boobs plenty of times already. Besides, I gave birth in my bathtub with Izzy, Hurley, and another detective, Bob Richmond, all standing by watching. At this point, I have no secrets left.

  After detaching myself from the pump this morning, I grabbed my coffee, and headed for the shower, leaving Dom to bottle up the milk. “Thanks,” I said.

  I lingered in the shower a little longer than I should have, but the luxury of having a few minutes of peace and quiet to myself knowing Matthew was being well looked after, was too much to resist. By the time I dressed and came out of the bathroom, Matthew was awake. Dom had changed him and was sitting on the couch, feeding him from a bottle. The two of them looked so content and serene sitting there, I began to wonder if I should marry Dom instead of Hurley. Or maybe Hurley should marry Dom.

  “You’re really good with him,” I said, watching the two of them. Dom smiled. He had this beatific expression on his face that said it all.

  “I want one,” he said.

  “Want one what?”

  “A baby.”

  “Oh.”

  “I mean, Izzy and I have been together for a l
ong time now, and we’re happy, but sometimes I feel like there’s something missing.”

  “Have you considered a new hobby? Or a vacation?” I asked. “They’d both be cheaper and easier.”

  Dom scoffed. “Yeah, like Izzy would take a vacation.” Matthew had chugged down half the bottle already, so Dom took it from him, set it aside, and hoisted Matthew over his shoulder to burp him. “It took my father dying to get Izzy to take any time off,” Dom went on. “And even then he was constantly worrying about work and how things were going up here.”

  Dom’s father had passed away from a heart attack in the spring, and he and Izzy had traveled to Iowa for a week to help with the funeral preparations. It hadn’t been an easy trip, and not just because of the death or Izzy’s discomfort at being away. Dom’s family—except for his mother—has never approved of his lifestyle, and his relationship with his father had always been a contentious one at best. The fact that he has two testosterone-overdosed brothers who are straight as arrows, judgmental as hell, and homophobic, didn’t help.

  “Izzy’s work issues on that trip were partly my fault,” I said. “You know . . . that guy I killed? The one who tried to kill me? Izzy was worried about all that.”

  Dom shot me a look of incredulity. “Come on, Mattie. You know how Izzy is. He’s a die-hard workaholic. He isn’t happy unless he’s knee-deep in dead bodies and paperwork. I don’t think he’ll ever retire.”

  “Well, that’s something to consider, isn’t it?” I said. “How old is Izzy now, fifty-one?”

  Dom nodded.

  “And you’re pushing forty. That’s kind of old to be starting a family. Then there are the simple logistics of how to get a baby. It’s not like the two of you can simply decide to have one and plot it out on an ovulation calendar.”

  “I know,” Dom said, frowning at me. “No need to remind me of our limitations.”

  “It’s not a limitation, Dom. It’s a simple fact.”

  “There are other ways,” he insisted. “We could adopt.”

  “Adopting a baby isn’t easy. It takes time and money. And there are plenty of married heterosexual couples out there looking, too.”

  “We could look overseas.”

  “You could,” I admitted, nodding slowly. “But again, it takes a lot of time and money. And there are no guarantees.” He looked sad and dejected, a sharp contrast to the blissful expression he’d had when I first entered the room. To try and cheer him up, I said, “You know you can adopt Matthew anytime you want.” I was joking of course, but Dom gave me such a serious, questioning look that I immediately added, “What I mean is that you guys are welcome to be as much a part of Matthew’s life as you want.”

  “Thanks, but it’s not the same thing. And besides, Matthew should have other kids around. He should have a sibling, or a cousin, or a close playmate. Are you planning to have more kids?”

  At the moment, my exhaustion made me want to tell him that I was going to tie my own tubes using a kitchen knife and shoelaces just to make sure I didn’t end up in this position again. But when I looked at Matthew’s adorable face, the exhaustion didn’t seem to matter all that much. I shrugged. “It’s possible, if the right situation presents itself and things with Hurley and me get sorted out. But give us time. I’m still in shock below the waist from spitting that one out, and right now we have all we can handle with this little guy and Emily.”

  “There’s always surrogacy,” Dom said in a quiet voice. He was watching me closely and it took me a second to realize what he was suggesting.

  I stared at him a moment, waiting for the grin that would tell me he was just kidding. It didn’t come. “Dom, are you asking me if I’d consider carrying a baby for you and Izzy?”

  He shrugged and for a split second I felt relief, but then he nodded. “Would you?”

  I was flabbergasted and didn’t know what to say. “Um . . . I . . . have you talked to Izzy about this?”

  He shook his head and sighed. “Not yet. I thought I should run it by you first to see if it was even a possibility.” He paused as we engaged in a stare down. “Is it?”

  Was it? I could hardly wrap my mind around the idea. “Dom, I don’t know what to say. I mean, I’m flattered that you would consider me for such a thing, but my life is a hot mess at the moment. I really can’t think about it right now.”

  “But will you think about it sometime? At least consider it?”

  I hesitated, and then nodded. “Right now I can barely sort out my underwear drawer, much less something as big as this. It’s going to take some time, but I promise you I will give it serious thought and consideration at some point.”

  That seemed to satisfy him. Matthew sealed the moment with a gigantic belch.

  “Very good,” Dom said with a satisfied smile, and I wasn’t sure who he was talking to, me or Matthew. Maybe it was both of us.

  I hurried into the kitchen and packed up the breast pump, which Dom had graciously cleaned and dried, and some extra bottles. If yesterday was any indication, I would be hiding in the bathroom or Izzy’s office at least twice, if not three times, during the day, pumping. I glanced in the fridge to make sure there were plenty of filled bottles there, though I had some formula in a cabinet just in case. The formula, however, was superfluous, at least for now. Half of one shelf in my fridge was filled with bottles that Dom had carefully labeled with a time and date, and arranged accordingly. I shook my head and smiled. The man was truly a natural at this. I felt for him and his urge to have a child, but I also felt certain I wouldn’t do the surrogacy thing. I would do what he asked and give it some serious consideration when the time was right, but I already knew what my answer would be. I just didn’t have the heart to crush his hopes this soon.

  When I had everything packed up and ready to go, I headed over to the couch and said, “Let me give my boy a kiss good-bye.”

  “What about your hair?” Dom asked, eyeing my head with skepticism.

  “I’m going to let it air-dry,” I said, smoothing down one side with my free hand.

  “You really need to go and see Barbara.” The wince on his face as he said this told me how serious the situation was.

  Barbara is my hairdresser. She works at a local funeral home and ninety-eight percent of her clients are dead. I happen to be one of the lucky ones, though there have been some days recently when I was so tired I wasn’t sure lucky was the right word.

  “I will,” I said, knowing he was right. I hadn’t been to see Barbara since before Matthew was born and my hair was badly in need of a cut and color. Not only were my roots hideously dark and long, I’d recently spied a couple of gray hairs sprouting from my scalp. That’s what the joys of motherhood do for you.

  Looking hopeful, Dom said, “Why don’t you see if you can get an appointment this evening? I’ll be happy to keep Matthew for you until you get home, no matter how late it is.”

  I was about to object but stopped myself, realizing it would be an automatic response based on some ridiculous Supermom image I was trying to live up to. But even Supermoms need a little self-time once in a while, not to mention that any superhero needs to look good. I knew I was fortunate to have Dom with his top-notch mothering skills and flexible schedule practically at my beck and call, so I said, “You know what, I might just do that. Thank you.” I leaned over and gave Dom a quick kiss on the head, making him blush beet red. “Now let me kiss my boy.”

  Dom pulled the bottle from Matthew’s mouth and held him out at arm’s length. I gave Matthew a kiss on the cheek and, just as I did, he let loose with another belch. Unfortunately, this one wasn’t a dry burp and the eruption, which could have given Vesuvius some serious competition, landed squarely on my shoulder.

  Chapter 3

  Adorned with baby barf on my blouse, I glanced at my watch and saw that it was already after eight. I had a dilemma. I was going to be late for work—no getting around that—but I wanted to minimize it as much as possible. I’d promised Izzy that I would be abl
e to handle both motherhood and the job just fine, and I was determined to keep that promise. My Supermom role was on the line, not to mention my livelihood.

  I still have a decent savings account from my divorce settlement—it would be a lot more decent if I hadn’t spent so much time at the casino at the start of the year—but I know I’m going to need that money for things like unexpected medical expenses, and clothes, and diapers, and baby food, and . . . the list seems endless. And that doesn’t take into account school fees and a college fund. I know Hurley will help, but he doesn’t make that much money, and now he has Emily to support, too. Bottom line: I can’t afford to lose my job.

  So this morning, in an effort to mitigate my lateness, I didn’t bother changing my blouse. Instead I hurried out to the car and, once I was under way, I grabbed a napkin that was on the passenger seat from my last excursion through a drive-through and tried to wipe away the spit-up. My efforts left something to be desired. Instead of a spit-up epaulet on my shoulder, I ended up with a stain sash that extended from my shoulder down to my left breast. Midcurse, my cell phone rang. I dropped the napkin, grabbed the phone, and saw that it was Izzy.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” I said before he had a chance to say anything. “I’m only a couple of minutes away.”

  “Well, turn around and head out of town on the east side, toward Cooper’s Woods. We have a dead body out there. It sounds like a hunting accident.”

  That’s how I managed to show up at my first return-to-duty death scene with frizzy, two-toned hair, hastily applied makeup, a stained blouse that I only later realized was buttoned crooked, and the subtle scent of eau de barf cologne wafting in a corona around my shoulders and head. Normally I wouldn’t have been too concerned about how I looked or smelled at the scene of a death. I mean, let’s face it, the victims couldn’t care less and they generally smelled and looked worse than anyone else present. In the past I’ve shown up at some of my middle-of-the-night calls with raccoon eyes from makeup that I neglected to remove before falling asleep, a major case of bedhead, and wearing all manner of weird thrown-together getups. But now that Charlie was in the mix, I felt like I needed to step up my game.