Stretch Marks

by Kimberly Stuart

  “That’s cool, that’s cool. Just let me know when I can be of help,” Carl said. The bag creaked.

  Mia worried about men with shifty eyes.

  “Well,” she said, gathering the file on Jacob Freeman and returning it to the cabinet beside her desk, “you have a good night, Carl.”

  “Would you like to join me for dinner?”

  The formal execution of the requests always pained Mia. It was never “catch a bite” or “grab something to eat.” Instead she felt like she was witnessing a rehearsed prom invitation.

  “I don’t think so, Carl. Thanks, though, for asking.”

  “Sure, no problem. I just found this great sports bar down the way. Sully’s. Have you heard of it?”

  “Yep.” Sully’s served huge portions of bad bar food with inflated prices. The walls were lined with autographed sports memorabilia, which drew a healthy stream of out-of-town tourists and, apparently, Carl.

  “Yeah, it’s awesome. So, um, I guess I’ll head over there. By myself.” Carl stared at Mia as she pulled her coat from a hook by the door.

  “See you tomorrow, Carl.” She smiled as she buttoned her coat.

  “All right.” He turned and lumbered toward the front of the office, heavy pack swinging and creaking with his steps.

  Oh, Carl, Mia thought as she lifted her purse from the floor under her desk. You really should direct that creepy stare in a different, less fertile direction. Believe me, buddy. I’m doing you a favor.

  Mia flipped the light switch as she passed it on the way out. She’d become the one most likely to close up each evening, initially as an effort to avoid arriving home to an abandoned apartment and now because she’d allowed even her non-Lars social life to dry up like a stream in August. Six weeks had passed since Lars’s unceremonious exit and, with the exception of Frankie, Mia’s friend list had dwindled to a comfortable nothing.

  She put a hand instinctively on her belly as she pulled a vintage pink trench coat around her disappearing waist. She was four months along but her body still didn’t flaunt its secret. Her colleagues might have suspected a little overeating after the big breakup but nothing beyond that. Slinging a rubber band around the button of her jeans still gave herself an extra inch. By the end of the day, her body felt heavy and swollen, but her empty apartment, her only witness, could not betray its knowledge of Mia’s growing belly. Another good reason not to have friends: No one dropped by unannounced to be greeted by Mia dressed in an increasingly snug T-shirt.

  The afternoon light had begun to wane, but sunshine reflected on raindrops, christening every tree branch, every dip in the sidewalk, every windshield. Mia could make out individual, silvery drops quivering on the surface of wrought-iron railings surrounding the brownstones in Logan Square. She trailed a hand along one of them and watched the water shower the sidewalk, her shoes, her coat. Her neighborhood offered the best of Chicago: small restaurants, family-owned businesses, close enough to the center of the city but still affordable for the average social worker. She loved the free-spirited vibe, even felt a jolt of pride when she passed her favorite vegan café, pulsing with impassioned conversation, serious faces over sketchbooks, and an average of one acoustic guitar per table. It had been a coup to find an apartment within walking distance of Urban Hope. When he’d moved in a year or so before, Lars had groused a bit about the new influx of hipsters descending on their formerly bohemian neighborhood, worried their rent would soon be jacked up in response to new demand. So far, though, Logan Square had remained home and was a lovely place to live, work, shop, and eat.

  Eat. She smiled to realize again her renewed interest in food. It had been a long haul, but at around thirteen weeks, she’d felt the nausea lift and had treaded, first cautiously and then ravenously, into the world of normal-people food. Not a single whole-wheat cracker had darkened the door of her pantry since.

  She heard the strains of Wang Chung coming from her purse and stopped to rummage for her phone.

  “Hello?” she said. The number had registered unknown.

  “Miggles! How’s my perfect little sister?”

  “John,” Mia said. A smile spread across her face. “It’s so good to hear your voice.”

  “Wait—is that happiness I hear? No guilt trip for not calling more often? No interrogation about my greenhouse gas emissions? No cold shoulder for being Mom’s favorite and most brilliant child?”

  Mia sighed. “Right, that. Well, today is lovely and springy and not even the lack of attention from my brother, the destruction of the earth, or a dysfunctional relationship with my mother can dampen a girl’s spirits.”

  John whistled. “Boy, oh boy. Who is he?”

  Mia snorted. “No boy, dear brother. Unless you’re referring to my boss at work who has a problem with excessive perspiration and an unusually thick skin when it comes to rejection. Or perhaps my UPS man, a fine specimen to be sure, but one who waxes his legs and has been known to ask me where I buy my bronzer. Other than those, there is no boy. In fact,” she tugged on the door to Gerry’s Grocery and lowered her voice once inside, “that must be what you hear in my voice. The complete absence of relationship-related stress.” She nodded at Gerry and took a basket with her to the produce aisle.

  “What happened to that Scandinavian fellow? Thor? Sven?”

  “Lars.” Bananas, kiwi, one carrot out of curiosity. “We broke up.” She thought about adding the rather important reason for their parting, but decided she’d wait for a gloomier day, maybe even one on which she and John would see each other face-to-face. “How are things in LA? Smoggy?”

  “Mmmm, yes. Today’s smog index is … dangerous. This is according to the amazingly intelligent phone I just purchased. It knows far more than any one of our teachers back in good old Highlands Cove. Even Mr. Perry. Remember him? Honors chemistry? Painfully smart but unable to make eye contact with other humans?”

  Mia had moved down the inner aisles, bypassing the meat but not before sneaking a long whiff of the rotisserie chickens sitting like friendly maître d’s in the warmer at the end of the deli counter. She shook it off, reminding herself of all the ethical and nutritional reasons she’d sworn off meat with Lars at the end of college. Instead she focused on the little packets of lentils and quinoa before her. “So LA is good?”

  “No comment about Mr. Perry? Wow, you have sworn off men.”

  “Sorry,” she said, laughing. “I got distracted. I’m grocery shopping while we talk.”

  “Oh, fantastic,” John groaned. “Let me guess: Your list includes falafel, sprouts, jicama, soy milk, and a cloth bag of fake chocolate chips, just for some crazy fun after the meal.”

  “Soy milk! Thank you. I would have forgotten.”

  “How we were raised in the same home is an enigma to me. Even in neurotically healthy LA, you’re too much, Mia.”

  “I think I’ll take that as a compliment.” She had glimpsed Adam straightening the shelves in the bread-and-cereal aisle and kept moving down the rows. Since her impromptu nap session Mia had done her best to avoid the man. It wasn’t that she couldn’t figure out what to say; it was that she liked living the conviction that boys did indeed have cooties, and were going to add no benefit to her life. Even casual interactions within platonic relationships had been nixed in her head for the time being, the one exception being her current conversation with her brother.

  “… but if she would just stop getting herself plastered all over the tabloids, that would certainly make my job easier. Not that one can give her advice, by the way. Mia, are you there?”

  “Pickles,” she said. “I need pickles.”

  “Pickles. I see. Dill or sweet?”

  “Oh, definitely dill. The saltier, the better. And cream cheese. Yes! Do you remember those weird little rolls Mrs. Jansen always had on hand for after-school snacks?”

  �
��Mrs. Jansen who wore blue mascara? I’m scared to ask you to explain.”

  “Dill pickles with cream cheese smeared all over them and then rolled in dried beef? Oh, geez. Do you remember? They were so good. I can’t believe I haven’t thought of them in years.”

  “So what’s a vegetarian to do in this situation? Roll the pickles in cream cheese and black beans?”

  Mia made a face. “I’ll just do the cheese and pickles I guess.” She beelined back toward dairy. “So other than the tabloid problem, work is good?”

  “Partially because of the tabloid problem, work is good, yes. So listen, when are you coming to visit?”

  “Um, soon. Definitely.” Now that he mentioned it, Mia had a vague recollection of her brother broaching this subject before. That had been during the epoch of Lars, however, and Lars hated Los Angeles, with its absence of public transportation and excess of collagen. True, he’d never actually been there, but Mia hadn’t felt compelled to be his tour guide and somehow she’d never gotten around to budgeting for a trip alone. “How about in a few months? Or six months? How about six months?”

  “Six months? I was thinking next weekend or at least before the summer. Why would you wait so long? Mia, you’re starting to give me a brotherly complex. I mean, I know I haven’t always been the most dedicated sibling but—”

  “No, no, that’s not it at all.” The cream cheese was shelved dangerously close to deli meat, which included shiny, endearing packets of dried beef. She looked both ways before tucking one into her basket. She headed to Gerry’s checkout. “I’m just really busy. You know, work and stuff. I think things will calm down in October. November. What about Thanksgiving?”

  “Good grief, Mia. It’s May.” He did little to hide his irritation. “I’m trying here.”

  “I know, I do. Thanks for the invite, John.” She waved at Gerry and balanced the phone on her ear as she unloaded the basket. “We’ll definitely set a date. But I think I should call you back. This isn’t a very good time.”

  “Once again, I take a backseat to protecting the fate of innocent animals and meat products.” He sighed. “Fine. Call me when you have the chance. I want to hear what’s going on, Mia. Do you have some dirty confession or something?” He laughed and she joined him, perhaps a bit too heartily.

  “Right. I’ll call you back to confess.” She closed her eyes and groaned inwardly. “Love you, John. We’ll talk soon.”

  She hung up and stood to face Gerry. “Hi, Gerry. How are you?”

  “I’m most certainly very well, Miss Mia. And you are feeling better.” He said this as a fact, viewing the strange assortment she’d stacked on the conveyor belt.

  “Yes, thank you.” During the weeks following the episode at his store, Gerry had kept a close eye on Mia and peppered Frankie with questions as well. Apparently Gerry dabbled in herbal remedies; he had offered Mia samples of his homemade green tea, which he’d also baked into biscuits and served her with honey. They were barely palatable, but Mia had been touched by his concern.

  “Hey, Mia.” Adam headed to the end of the counter and started placing her things in the bags she’d brought along. “You look fresh and ready for spring.” He grinned. She blushed and turned toward Gerry, who had raised one eyebrow as he punched a button for her total.

  “Thank you, Adam,” she said, trying for her best dental receptionist voice. “What do I owe you, Gerry?”

  “Thirty-four seventeen,” Gerry said. He looked at his son while Mia fished for her Visa. Adam shrugged but his grin was undeterred.

  “These are kind of heavy,” Adam said when he handed Mia her bags. “Do you want me to walk you home?”

  “No, but thank you for offering,” Dental Receptionist Mia replied. “Good to see you both.” She cinched the belt of her coat and hefted the bags, immediately regretting her decision to buy three jars of pickles. “See you,” she called out cheerily and ducked past Adam as he held the door.

  She heard Gerry say as she left, “Funny girl.”

  Mia looked back when she stopped at the end of the block to adjust the weight of the bags. She knew Adam’s eyes followed her until the bright pink of her coat was swallowed by the crowd.

  6

  Flowers in Bloom

  Frankie, newly washed into a stunning auburn, stared unblinking, fork poised above her plate. “Wow.”

  “Hm?” Mia asked. She looked up briefly from a heap of fusilli but kept close attention on her bowl.

  “What a difference a month makes.” Frankie stabbed into a mound of fettuccini and began to twirl. “You’re a different human.” She watched Mia lift a hefty fork load to her mouth. “It’s like watching Jurassic Park. It’s kind of … carnivorous.”

  Mia thought of the contraband dried beef waiting in her refrigerator and wished she could ask for a sprinkling of prosciutto without using words. One huge change at a time in her best friend was probably enough to expect Frankie to absorb. Mia swallowed a happy mouthful of pasta, pine nuts, feta, broccoli, and sun-dried tomatoes. “The books were right. The cloud lifted after the first trimester and now I can eat.”

  “I couldn’t be more pleased, as your informal and ever-attentive OB/GYN.” Frankie had christened herself with this responsibility, first because Mia had avoided seeing one who was trained as such, but even after Mia had found Dr. Mahoney, because Frankie so enjoyed the authority. “You were nearly underweight during your first trimester. Finishing that entire bowl of pasta plus a few slices of whole grain bread is a good start on the way toward a healthy pregnancy.”

  Mia rolled her eyes and only partly because the focaccia was that good. “Urban myth. One does not need to eat for two, at least not two adult males training for rigorous athletic competition. That’s exactly how women end up with an extra thirty pounds to lose after the baby’s born.”

  Frankie nodded. Olive oil and bits of feta had gathered at the corners of Mia’s mouth during her healthy weight speech. “Want to try mine?”

  “Thanks,” Mia said, pushing her bowl toward Frankie as she reached down for a twirl of her noodles. “Mmm,” she said appreciatively. “The sauce is perfect. I have never had a bad bowl of pasta at this place.”

  “Yours is good too, though I don’t know that I would have asked for extra broccoli.”

  Mia shrugged. “Sounded good today. If they’d had butternut squash on hand, I’d have signed up for that, too.”

  “So have you heard from him?” Frankie watched her friend’s face carefully.

  Mia shook her head quickly. “No, but the longer this goes on, the more I think that’s okay.”

  Frankie raised her eyebrows. They retained a tinge of yellow from her last dye job. “You’re okay with not knowing where the father of your child is and how he could be such a despicable person as to walk away from what he’s done?” Her fork clanged against the bottom of the bowl as she dove for another bite.

  “He wasn’t the only one who ‘did.’ Plus do I really want a person with that little sense of responsibility having influence on my child?” Mia caught her breath with this thought. She felt one edge of her heart shift slightly.

  “Your child.” Frankie smiled. “I like it. Are you going to find out if it’s a boy or girl? According to my What to Expect When You’re Expecting, that ultrasound should be right around the corner, around twenty weeks or so.”

  “No, I think I’ll wait.” Mia looked at her friend. “I like the auburn, by the way. And you’re a really good friend, Frankie.”

  Frankie fidgeted in her seat. “Let’s not get mushy, okay? I’m not very good with mushy.”

  A figure approached out of the corner of Mia’s eye and gained quickly on their table. “Mia? Is that Mia Rathbun?”

  Mia looked up into a wide and animated face. “Mrs. Hanworth! What a surprise!” She stood to shake her hand but Mrs. Hanworth
pulled her into a hug. The embrace lingered far beyond what Mia would have deemed appropriate. She saw Frankie grin at her discomfort. “What brings you to Chicago?”

  “Oh, we’re here visiting my cousin’s daughter’s fiancé. He’s a very successful surgeon and has graciously offered to show me and Merle around town.” She gestured to a group of three at a nearby table. Merle gave a wave but didn’t look at all persuaded to leave his lasagna. Mrs. Hanworth lowered her voice. “He has a wonderfully handsome bachelor son, Mia. Just for your information.” She pulled her broad shoulders up to rhinestone hoop earrings and wrinkled her nose. “I know your mother would want me to plant the seed!”

  Mia turned quickly to her friend. “Frankie, this is my mom’s good friend, Marilyn Hanworth. We grew up across the street from her house in Highlands Cove.” Frankie smiled sweetly and shook Mrs. Hanworth’s hand.

  “What lovely hair you have, Frankie. Does red run in your family?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Frankie said breezily. “I love your hair, Mrs. Hanworth. How ever do you get it to breathe so, have so much body?”

  Mia shot her friend a look, but Frankie’s face was straight out of a Nancy Drew book.

  “Oh, stop.” Mrs. Hanworth patted her beehive and stood up straighter. “Nothing a little Dippity-do and a healthy application of White Rain can’t fix up.”

  Mia was eyeing her pasta and wondered if Mrs. H. would care if she held her bowl while she stood. She glanced back just as the woman was finishing a survey of Mia’s more generous physique. Suck it in, Mia thought, and tried her best to move her belly back, even a few centimeters. She compensated by jutting her rear out, hoping the bump underneath her shirt would recede into the simple suggestion of a winter’s worth of emotional eating and nothing more.

  “You look nice, Mia,” Mrs. Hanworth said, eyes narrowing to watch Mia’s reaction.