Stretch Marks

by Kimberly Stuart

  John lowered his voice. “Is it that bad?”

  Mia sat down to stretch her legs. “You have no idea.”

  “Actually I have some very vivid ideas, all of which propelled me to seek my fortune in a land foreign to Barbara Rathbun. Mimi, I’m so sorry.”

  Mia sighed. “It will be fine. Here’s the deal, John. I’m pregnant.” The silence lasted so long Mia thought he’d dropped the call. “John? Are you there?” She heard a faint sniffling noise. “Oh, good grief. Are you crying?”

  “No, of course not,” he said and cleared his throat loudly. “I’m just trying to wrap my head around the thought of my little sister having a baby.” He stopped abruptly and cleared his throat again.

  Mia smiled. “You don’t have to worry. I’m okay. Taking all the right vitamins, going to the doctor, eating lots of cottage cheese and pickles at the moment, though that will probably change by the end of the week.”

  “But you sound so well-adjusted.”

  “The thing about having a child growing within you is that you have very little time left to be maladjusted. I’m doing the best I can.”

  “That poser. Where is he now? I know people, Mia. He can be brought to pay for what he’s done.”

  Mia rolled her eyes. She lay back on a towel and crossed her legs for a hip stretch. “What, now we’re in the Wild West and you have a posse? Or are you thinking more mob boss makes good on some debt he owes you?”

  “I’m just saying …”

  She laughed. “That’s very sweet, but I don’t think killing Lars will do a lot of good at this point. He’s out of the picture anyway. I haven’t heard from him since the day he left.” She closed her eyes, feeling a dangerous sting well up from her chest.

  “He’s still scum. At the very least he should pay child support.”

  “I don’t know that I want him to be involved at all,” Mia said, pushing herself to a sitting position. “It’s not like we’re teenagers, John. I’m twenty-nine years old and I made an adult mistake. I can handle the consequences on my own.”

  John let out a low whistle. “I’m making an appointment with my life coach this very afternoon. We’re going to have to open a whole new line of discussion dealing with my sister who has morphed from a capitalist-lecturing, tofu-inhaling social worker to an elliptical trainer whose rock-solid emotional state is enabling her to have a baby all on her own.”

  “I’m still a social worker. And I’ll probably like tofu again when that particular texture doesn’t trigger my gag reflex.”

  “Now you know how the average meat-eater feels.”

  “And I still think capitalism suppresses the freedom of the masses.”

  “But I thought we were making progress.”

  “Any emotional progress I was making has been thwarted by you snitching me out to Mother. Speaking of,” she said, gathering her keys and wallet, “I’m due back upstairs before the queen awakens from her slumber.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mimi.” The sincerity of John’s apology covered a multitude of wrongs. “Call me anytime, particularly if you’re wielding a sharp object and are considering how to use it.”

  “Got it.” She pushed the elevator button to ascend to her apartment. “Go out there and publicize, great publicist.”

  He sighed. “So much worthless information. You’re the one with the real story.”

  “Real it is,” she said. They hung up and she boarded the flight back up.

  “Urban Hope, Mia Rathbun speaking.” She wedged the phone between her shoulder and cheek, continuing to file papers as she talked.

  “We don’t really deal with sewage at this office. Let me get you the number for Public Works.” She soon hung up and turned to the next pile on her desk. The first trimester had wreaked havoc on her productivity. Mia was only that week returning to her typical rhythm at work. She’d been fortunate that Babs’s need for a morning massage had eclipsed her curiosity to see Mia in action at the office. They’d made plans to meet for dinner, but that was a good seven hours away and Mia intended to soak up the solitude of each one.

  “Hi. I’m back.”

  Mia looked up from her work to see Flor standing next to her desk. She wore the same heavy parka, though the weather had turned much milder since her first visit.

  “Flor, hello. It’s great to see you. Please, sit.” Mia gestured to the empty chair. She leaned across the desk and folded her hands. “How are you?”

  The girl shrugged, her small shoulders barely forcing the coat to move. “All right. I’m pregnant. For real.” Her face, fuller than the first time they’d met, betrayed nothing of what her pregnancy meant to her in that moment. She blinked once but let her eyes remain trained on Mia’s face.

  “Congratulations,” Mia said, faltering after the word left her mouth. It was a knee-jerk reaction, those well-wishes, fully ingrained after many years of baby showers, christenings, hospital visits to the maternity ward. Only recently had she realized the relativity of joy and suffering, even with—especially with—the birth of a child.

  “Thanks,” Flor said. She picked up the paper clip magnet on Mia’s desk and started arranging the clips in order of size. “My mom’s freaking out. She thinks I should have gotten an abortion, but I told her she can’t tell me what to do. It’s my baby.” The words rushed out of her but she kept her eyes on the methodical organization of the magnet.

  “Will you keep the baby or put it up for adoption?” Mia studied Flor’s face and severe ponytail, struck again by how young she looked, even with a full palette of makeup.

  “Keep it,” she said quickly. “No baby of mine is going to live with some stranger.”

  Mia bit the inside of her cheek. “I can understand exactly how you feel—”

  Flor’s laugh dripped with cynicism. “I doubt that.” She looked up and tilted her head apologetically. “No offense.”

  Mia nodded. “I understand because I’m pregnant.”

  Flor’s eyes widened.

  “And I’m alone too.” Mia took a deep breath.

  “Are you keeping it?” Flor leaned forward slightly in her chair.

  Mia nodded. “I am. But,” she added carefully, “I’m much older than you, Flor. I’ve finished high school, college, I have a good job that can support the two of us.”

  Flor made a face and looked around the office. “This place is sort of depressing.” Her eyes traveled around the room, taking in the beige walls, fake wood veneers on the cubicle partitions, a brittle fern with fronds that dangled sadly off the edge of a file cabinet. “Do you like working here?”

  “Not always,” Mia answered truthfully. “But for now it’s a stable job and I’ll need that stability really soon.” She cleared her throat and tried to rein the focus back in to Flor. “So you’re planning on keeping the baby. What does the father say?”

  Flor rolled her eyes with an ease that spoke to many eye-rollings in the past. “The father says nothing, other than he wants a paternity test. He says it isn’t his.” She clenched her jaw. “Believe me, the baby is his.” She sat up slightly in her chair. “That’s all I want to say about him.”

  The “Edelweiss” door chime kicked in at the front of the room.

  “Are you seeing a doctor for prenatal care?”

  “Not yet,” Flor said. She’d replaced the paper clip magnet but had moved to arranging Mia’s collection of Post-it notepads in rainbow order. “I don’t have insurance.”

  “That’s all right,” Mia said. She put out an open hand for one of the Post-its. Flor relinquished a fluorescent green. “This is the number and address for a free clinic a few blocks from here. Do you know where the Land Haven Community Center is?”

  Flor nodded.

  “Great. The clinic is held there and is open every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. Call this number and
they’ll get you an appointment. Dr. Henshaw is the OB and she’s very good.”

  Flor took the paper and folded it carefully. She tucked it into her pocket. “Thanks,” she muttered.

  “What about school?” Mia asked.

  Flor said nothing in response. She was looking intently at something over Mia’s shoulder. Mia turned.

  “Hi, honey,” Babs whispered. “I don’t mean to disturb you, but that Carl person told me I could just come back here.” Babs reached around Mia and offered a handful of long pink fingernails to Flor. “Hello, dear. I’m Barbara. I’m Mia’s mother. Her madre.” Babs enunciated each word carefully and loudly.

  “Hi,” Flor said, her eyes appraising the blonde in a magenta blouse that glittered with rhinestones. Mia watched the wheels click as Flor’s eyes moved back to her, taking in Mia’s own ensemble: plain black shirt with an empire waist, next-to-no makeup, hair pulled back on the sides in a brown barrette. Flor raised one eyebrow. “You guys don’t look alike.”

  Mia sighed. “Believe me, you’re not the first to notice.” She turned to Babs. “Mother, would you mind heading back to the front of the office and waiting there? I’ll be up soon.”

  Flor stood. Her side profile gave a tiny glimpse of her expanding belly. “I’m leaving anyway. Thanks for the number,” she said to Mia. “Nice to meet you.” She nodded at Babs and left.

  Babs lowered herself gingerly into the chair where Flor had sat. “What’s wrong with that girl?” she whispered to Mia. “Does she need government assistance? Poor thing. She was as pale as a ghost, which looked so unnatural considering her ethnicity.”

  Mia sat with her head in her hands and tried to visualize a safe place where mothers dared not tread. After a long moment of encouraging her head not to explode, she opened her eyes to her mother’s face. “Her name is Flor. She’s sixteen and she’s pregnant.”

  Babs gasped. “Oh, that’s just a tragedy. So, so young with so much life ahead of her. And now she’s saddled with a child.” She tsked until she realized the irony of her comment. “But of course,” she added, “it’s a great blessing that she has an agency like yours to help her. Because she’ll need help. Unlike you, dear. You’ll be fine, I’m sure, what with your support network and your degree.…” She trailed off and became absorbed in straightening her rings and necklaces.

  “What is your plan for the rest of the day, Mother?” Mia made a show of stacking two piles of manila folders together with a loud thud. “What will you do now, when you leave the office?”

  “I think we should do whatever it is that you want, dear. After all, this is your city. And you’re the one who’s pregnant. What sounds good to you?”

  Mia shook her head. “Sorry. I won’t be off until five.” Like most of the working world, she added to herself. Not all of us define a day’s work by how soon we get to the lido deck for cocktails.

  “I thought you might say that, so I asked Carl if you might skedaddle a few hours early. What with, you know, the baby.”

  Mia’s head snapped up from the housing inspection she was scanning. “You told Carl I was pregnant?” she hissed.

  Babs smiled. “He’s thrilled for you.”

  Mia peeked around the edge of her cubicle wall. Carl looked up from his desk and gave an awkward wave. Mia returned to her desk and groaned quietly. She would need to smooth the waters when Babs wasn’t along for the ride. At least, she thought, I can start wearing maternity clothes. And I won’t have to dodge any more after-work sports bar propositions. Carl should be grateful for the out.

  “I know!” Babs said, her voice filled with the excitement her cruising compatriots had come to admire so. “Let’s find a pretty sidewalk café for lunch and then spend the afternoon tooling around the Art Institute. It’s been a very long time since I’ve seen a decent art museum. The Caribbean is just a disaster when it comes to real collections.” She lowered her voice. “It’s high time I see a respectable European rear end immortalized with paint and brush.” She rose and slung her handbag over her shoulder, flashing rainbowed drops of rhinestones around the office. Mia watched her turn on her catwalk as she moved toward the front door and wondered for the millionth time if she should call the hospital where she was born to ensure she’d gone home with the right mother.

  11

  Side Effects

  Mia placed three kinds of hard cheeses into her cart. They joined two small but inordinately expensive boxes of crackers, a bar of Lindt chocolate (70 percent cacao, as requested), two bottles of wine, and a loaf of sourdough. Her initial instructions were to purchase whole grain but the sourdough was the only loaf left made by a local bakery and she knew origins would trump genre. She ran a hand lightly across her face, smoothing her pierced brow out of nervous habit.

  In the produce section she wrinkled her nose at the romaine and decided instead on Bibb. Three organic carrots, two ripe tomatoes, a yellow pepper … produce was a familiar domain. She could make a mean salad. But it was with no small amount of trepidation that she pushed onward toward the back of the store where the butcher waited with a smile. It was one thing to sneak in a package of dried beef here and there but an entirely different enchilada if she’d need to converse with someone over rows of raw meat.

  Mia smiled in return, trying her best to look like someone who enjoyed eating the flesh of slaughtered animals. She walked toward the end of the counter and the heated cart that housed Gerry’s specialty rotisserie chickens. A few paces from the cart she felt her heart begin to race.

  She cleared her throat and called to the meat man. “Excuse me. There are no chickens.” She pointed to the cart, which, indeed, sat happily illuminating an empty rack.

  “I’m sorry, miss. We ran out about a half hour ago. If you’d like to come back tomorrow, we’ll be right back in business.” The man had such a nice, friendly face, particularly, Mia thought, considering he spent so much time with blood on his hands. “We have some beautiful cuts of wild Alaska salmon, if you’d like. Or Cornish game hens if you’re only in the mood for poultry.”

  “I don’t think you understand,” Mia said, her voice rising in pitch and volume. “I have to have one of Gerry’s chickens. She wants a chicken from Gerry’s.” Mia’s voice became pinched. “She only eats salmon on the Alaska cruise!” The proclamation came out as a whine and Mia felt tears sting her eyes.

  The butcher had gone from friendly slayer of animals to terrified male in the presence of female distress. He glanced up the aisles nearest to them and was moving toward the phone when Mia felt a warm hand on her arm.

  “Mia, is everything all right?” Adam’s eyes searched her face.

  “You don’t have any chickens,” she wailed, gesturing with complete helplessness toward the butcher, who looked infinitely relieved to have been rescued by his boss. “I need a chicken and you don’t have any left. How was I to know there was a time limit to something like this? Aren’t you always supposed to have enough chickens? This isn’t Communist Russia, you know!” She exhaled in a broken sob.

  “Why don’t you come with me?” Adam’s words were quiet but sure. He guided her gently by the elbow past the meat counter to a small office in the back. Two bright lamps lit the room and the walls. Adam showed Mia to a couch that sat opposite a cluttered desk.

  “Can I get you some tea? Coffee? Yerba mate? We have a surplus. It’s on sale in aisle eight.” Adam’s smile seemed to emanate as much from his eyes as from his lips.

  “No, I’m fine,” Mia said through a shaky breath. She sat back in the couch cushions and wished they were deep enough to absorb her completely. She closed her eyes and tried to calm her erratic pulse.

  Adam sat down next to Mia. He faced the desk, resting his elbows on his knees. “Sorry about the mess. This is Dad’s domain. It’s a pretty accurate picture of how his mind works. Complete disorganization to the outsider but perfec
tly sensible to him.” He turned to Mia. She sat with her head tilted back, eyes closed but tears falling under her eyelashes and down her cheeks. He reached for a tissue and pressed it into her hand. He waited.

  She sniffed and then sighed. “I’m crying.” She blew her nose, head shaking in disgust or disbelief, she didn’t know which. “I’m crying at the grocery store about a chicken.”

  Adam nodded. “I’m kind of flattered. Not many people feel so strongly about our rotisserie. Maybe I should up our production.” He reached over to brush a tear from Mia’s cheek. This act of tenderness sent her into a renewed and louder form of weeping. He brought the entire box of tissues to her lap.

  “I have to say, your on-again, off-again relationship with meat is fraught with mixed signals.”

  She shuddered a sob. “I know, I know,” she moaned. “I’m shopping for my mother.”

  Adam brightened. “Your mother? That’s great! I had no idea you had family in town.”

  Mia shook her head emphatically. “She is not ‘in town.’ I mean, she is, technically. But she won’t be for long, thank God. It’s only been a week and I just don’t know if I can take any more.” These last words sounded like they had escaped from a helium-filled balloon. Mia grabbed another handful of tissues and continued. “We’ve never had the best relationship and now here she is wanting things like Pecorino Romano and chocolate and chicken and I could have just sent her to the store, but I needed some time to breathe and I’m too tired and my body looks like an alien is taking over and I go to the bathroom more than is normal for anyone who isn’t diabetic.” She slumped in the couch and pulled her knees up to the beginnings of a fetal position.

  “What’s your number?”

  Mia furrowed her brow at him. “My phone number?”

  He nodded and tapped the digits into his cell phone. After a moment he said, “Yes, Mrs. Rathbun? Hello, my name is Adam Malouf and I’m co-owner of Gerry’s Grocery on North Damen.… I’ve spoken with your daughter and just wanted to convey personally my apologies for not having the item you requested. We’re out of rotisserie chicken this evening, but I’ll be happy to substitute any other selection from our meat department, free of charge.… Might I recommend our fillet with Maytag blue cheese crumbles? … Fantastic. I’ll wrap two up for you and send them with Mia.… Thank you, Mrs. Rathbun.… All right. Thank you, Barbara.… Yes, pleasure talking with you as well.” He clicked shut the phone and dropped it into his pocket.