I couldn’t help but chuckle over the healthy options Sophie scored for me. “Gluten-free and organic?” I asked her, looking bemusedly over the ingredients listed on the back of the brown, paper bag-like packaging. “Does it say somewhere in that book I can’t eat any gluten? Or that I’m restricted to eating cage-free only eggs or roam-free bird eggs or whatever the heck they are?”
She playfully rolled her eyes and explained, “They just looked good. Figured you could try them out. They won’t do you any harm. But this other stuff is really good for you. And beneficial for the baby. Like this.” She held up the bag of tea. “This is decaf tea, Robin. You can’t drink caffeine while you’re pregnant, so try this.”
“What?” I think I had heard somewhere long ago that pregnant women couldn’t consume caffeine, but I’d never paid much attention to it. Back then, it wasn’t like I was going to get pregnant any time soon and needed to heed anti-caffeine warnings.
“Why not?” I asked, snagging the bag of less-than-appealing tea from her hands. “Why on Earth not? I’m still supposed to go to work, right? I’m still supposed to wake up in the morning and function, aren’t I?”
“Chill, girl!” She snatched back the bag of tea. “The book says you need to stay away from caffeine. It’s not healthy for the baby. The book says that it can stimulate the baby, like it stimulates you.”
“Well I hardly doubt one tiny cup of coffee is really going to stimulate the baby. It hardly stimulates me.”
She gave me a childish headshake. “Baby comes first. No caffeine.”
At first I conceded reluctantly, but the more I got to thinking about how this baby was relying on me for every single thing, the more comfortable I became with readjusting my life to suit the baby’s important needs. It wasn’t that I was going to be a mom. I was already a mom. Everything I ate, drank, and did would directly affect my baby.
So long, caffeine. Hello…decaf tea and…I guess I’ll give these gluten-free things a go. Why not?
“It’s time we get down to business,” Sophie said, after we polished off a shared piece of apple pie she’d picked up while down at Pike Place Market that afternoon. “Time to talk shop and deal with Brandon.”
I could do the decaf tea. I could manage staying away from the foods that made me sick. I imagined I could handle the plethora of unknown cravings that were headed my way. I was even convincing myself that I could deal with the whole “giving birth thing.” But contacting Brandon? Hell no.
After nearly an hour of urging and finally insisting that I, as Sophie said, “grow a pair and pick up the damn phone,” I held my cell phone in one hand, my thumb poised over the first digit of Brandon’s number, and Sophie’s cell phone in the other, Brandon’s number burning into my eyes.
“I’m here for you,” Sophie whispered. “I can take over at any point in the conversation if you’d like.”
“I can’t,” I said, thrusting her phone back at her. “I can’t do it.” Tears started to form, and I felt like running off to bed, drawing the curtains, and calling it a night at, what? A quarter to eight? I took off my black, plastic-rimmed, cat-eye glasses and rubbed away the tears.
“Robin,” Sophie comforted, pulling me closer to her on my living room sofa. “If you want I can do it for you.”
Why would she want to do that? How could she do that? How could one of my best friends call up her ex-boyfriend and tell him that he was going to be the father of her friend’s baby?
“I can do it,” she repeated. “If you honestly feel that you can’t do this, I can do it for you.”
The offer was tempting. Very tempting. But could I let her do it? And beyond that, why would Sophie offer? Did she really have the guts to call Brandon up and tell him this?
“I don’t understand how you could even think of doing this for me,” I said. “Of all people, you seriously would do this? For me?”
“Robin, listen.” Her voice was still, staid, and her face was glowing with compassion. She took my hands in hers once I’d readjusted my glasses and wiped away the remaining teardrops. “Listen to me. I can’t imagine how difficult this is for you. You’re so brave to carry on like you’re doing. To choose to have this baby and raise it on your own if you have to. It’s very admirable.” She cracked a smile. “And the most important thing through all of this is that your baby is brought into this world showered with love…brought into a happy home. You can and you want to give that to your baby. And you want to give it a good life. The best life you can provide.”
I nodded. “I do. I really do.”
“Part of providing your baby with the best life it can have is starting out doing the right thing. It means telling the baby’s father that he’s going to have a child.” She gripped my hands tighter and shook them as she said, “You can do this. And we can do it together if that’s what it takes.”
“He’s going to hate me,” I said. “He probably won’t even believe me.”
“Don’t think about that—”
“I don’t know how you can be so calm about this, Sophie,” I interrupted. “How are you so calm? Why aren’t you mad about this?” I gave a lighthearted guffaw, letting her know that while I was surprised she wasn’t a raving lunatic about the situation, I wanted her to remain calm and supportive.
Her face turned down slightly, and she looked away to the corner. She seemed to wander somewhere for a moment, before coming back and saying, “Since Pamela died…I guess I’ve been given a new lease on how I look at life. Sounds goofy.” She smiled weakly. “Losing her all of the sudden…it kind of put everything into perspective for me, I suppose you could say. We may not have been the closest of friends or anything. Not like we hung out outside of yoga class, but I still loved her. Still looked up to her. And I still miss her. It’s not easy to all of a sudden lose someone, and when you do you kind of…well, like I said, you kind of see things a little more clearly or positively or something.”
Pamela, Sophie’s yoga teacher, had suddenly passed away from cancer a few short weeks ago. It was after Pamela’s funeral, in fact, when Sophie unexpectedly showed up on my front doorstep, telling me she was sorry for cutting me out of her life, and that she forgave me for sleeping with Brandon. Pamela’s passing made Sophie realize that life is simply too short to spend it toiling over troubles and matters that can be solved with forgiveness, kindness, an open heart, and an understanding that sometimes mistakes are made. And those mistakes can be forgiven and forgotten.
“You’ve been given the precious gift of this baby,” Sophie said, “and it doesn’t matter how or why it was conceived. The baby’s here and it deserves your love. If this were me, Pamela would have said something like, ‘When one door closes, a big window opens.’ This baby is a gift, and you’re going to be all right. More than all right.” She gave me a squeeze, then added, “This baby’s going to get all the love it deserves and much more. From you. From me. From all of us! Now come on, this is a new and exciting time in your life, Robin. It might seem rather daunting right now, but I say we get the crappy stuff out of the way and make the most of the best parts.”
She fetched our cell phones, leapt off the sofa, and grabbed a fresh glass of water for me. “Drink up and I’ll call Brandon for you.”
“Seriously?”
“Dead serious.”
“What about our plan?” I wiped the water from my lips. “We can’t just call him! A plan, Sophie. A plan!”
“Look, he didn’t have a plan when he knocked you up. Pamela certainly didn’t plan for a short life. Neither of us planned you’d become preggers…screw plans; I’m calling Brandon now. More waiting like this and neither of us will have the nerve to tell him.”
She hit the call button to Brandon’s number on her phone, and I held my breath. Would he answer? Would he honestly pick up the phone from the all-too-familiar number of his ex-girlfriend? No way!
Sophie hung up. “Voicemail.”
I picked up my cell phone and said, “Give me the number. I’
ll call him. Maybe he’ll pick up from a different number.” I don’t know where I found the courage but I started dialing and then—
Ringing. More ringing. And finally voicemail.
“Voicemail,” I mouthed to Sophie, just as the operator signaled for the beep.
I hesitated for a brief moment, then from somewhere foreign the words came spewing forth: “Hey, Brandon. It’s Robin here. I know you’re thinking—why am I calling? There’s something I need to speak with you about. It’s, well, kind of serious and we should talk.” I gave him my number before hanging up, staying calm, cool, collected throughout the entire message, save for my shaking feet.
“I did it!” I shouted. “I called him!” Sophie looked bewildered. “I did it, and it feels great!”
The problem was, of course, the impending return call. Or worse, if I had to call him back. I may have gathered up the nerve to call him once, prepared to share the news, but actually telling him the news was going to be an entirely different story.
Chapter Three
It was Thursday morning. Girls’ night was planned for that evening, I had already made quite a deal of progress on the mystery novel cover, and there was still no word from Brandon. The anticipation of his return call, or my imminent second attempt at reaching him, was killing me. I hated playing the waiting game, and more than once the day before I’d considered calling him again. Maybe this time he’ll pick up, I kept thinking. But I chickened out each time.
As if that anticipation wasn’t painful enough, my caffeine withdrawal was starting up. I wasn’t the most chipper of characters around the office, and I felt I could fall asleep at the drop of a hat. The decaf tea Sophie had picked up, which I brought in to work with me the very next day, tasted all right, but it lacked the whole caffeine factor, which was practically the sole reason I ever drank tea or coffee.
Bobby offered me a mug of my long-lost morning beverage, and it pained me to turn it down. Not only because I was craving it, but because I was worried it would sound off pregnancy alarm bells. I knew that at some point I’d have to make it clear at work that I was pregnant and would even—gulp—eventually need to take some maternity time off. But I wanted to delay the inevitable for as long as humanly possible. Maybe when my water broke…
On my way home from work that night I decided to swing by Chester Grey’s Art Supply shop. I needed a release from all of the stress, and my initial stalling on the mystery novel cover could probably have been attributed to my lack of inspiration and the temporary withdrawal from the creative world I often enjoyed slipping into. I hadn’t picked up my paintbrush and dabbled in watercoloring, nor had I brought out my sketchbook, since I discovered I was, in fact, pregnant. Normally I found a way to sketch or paint three or four days a week, even if it was just a little doodle here or there. I was starting to feel naked or barren because I hadn’t recently escaped into my personal artistic frame.
Not that the creative muse was speaking to me lately. If I wasn’t busying my mind with book cover art, or trying to make sure my slate was as clean as possible at work in hopes of earning that raise or snagging that project manager position, I was fretting over Brandon ignoring my call. And I was wondering if I was doing everything right, pregnancy-wise. Make sure you’re at work on time. Oh, and don’t drink that coffee! Wait, I’m getting a call. Is it Brandon? Oh, no. Don’t let your dramatic personal life sneak into your work life. Mock-ups? What? Sure thing, definitely! Wait! Get those eight hours of sleep and meet those deadlines. Life had quickly become a marathon. It was exhausting. No 10k or half-marathon I ran during my track and field days in college could have prepared me for this race.
***
“You think two bags of tortilla chips is enough?” Sophie asked, inching herself through my front door, both arms carrying two overflowing paper bags of groceries. Her chin kept one of the bags balanced. “I didn’t want to go overboard.”
I laughed as I took a cantaloupe from the top of one bag, letting her relax her chin.
“Overboard?” I exclaimed. “Honey, I don’t think one more bag of chips would matter at this rate. How much stuff do we need?”
“Dang it, so I should have gotten three, huh?” I took one shopping bag from her as she followed me into the kitchen. “I knew it. Should have gotten more than two.”
“I’m not hitting any crazy cravings, yet, Sophie. I think two bags will be plenty.” I started sifting through my bag’s contents. “What on earth did you get?” I pulled out a bottle of Bloody Mary cocktail mix. Wouldn’t be riding that boat for a while. “And what’d you get for me? Some a-ma-zing Ginkgo biloba, gluten-free, lactose-free, tasteless vegetable shake?”
“Don’t be such a goof,” she said. “Ginkgo biloba isn’t allowed for pregnant women. Not enough scientific research about it. And it could affect insulin and blood sugar levels. Don’t take it.”
“God, someone’s really been doing their homework. You sure you aren’t pregnant?”
“Ha-ha. You’re reading that book, right?” She was starting to sound like a mother. That was Lara’s role, generally. Lara, perhaps because she had been our camp counselor back in our first year of college, was always considered the maternal friend. I appreciated her looking out for us, and she couldn’t help her personality or the role she was placed in when we all met one another. But one mom-like friend in the group was enough.
I told Sophie that relaxing reading in bed meant picking up a Jennifer Weiner book, not Baby Expectations or Expecting the Unexpected or whatever that baby book of mine was called.
We chatted about work and about how Claire and Conner were doing while we prepared homemade guacamole. The two recently had an ongoing argument about getting married, and about a possible move to Conner’s hometown of Los Angeles. Claire wanted to get married and stay in Seattle, where she had her friends and a great job as a social worker working with elderly and disabled patients. She even made their adorable rented home over in nearby Madison Park a real home for the two of them and their dog, Schnickerdoodle…plus Sophie now.
Conner didn’t want to talk about marriage, insisting that he could still be true to Claire and love her with all of his heart without bringing up the dreaded ‘M’ word. But the ‘M’ word, as in “moving,” was something he did want to talk about. He had some great friends in Seattle; after all he, like all us girls, was a graduate of the University of Washington, so most of his best friends lived in town. However, he was itching, for some reason, to make a move to California. Apparently he wanted a change. (I could tell him that change isn’t necessarily all it’s cracked up to be. Next thing he knows, he won’t be allowed to drink caffeinated beverages. Or something equally annoying like that.) Last I’d heard, Claire and Conner both agreed that they wouldn’t be leaving their Madison Park home, nor would they be tying the knot any time soon.
“You think they’ll ever get married?” I asked Sophie, as I passed the rest of the guacamole duty off to her and started opening up the chip bags. A girl’s got to do a little taste-testing beforehand.
“Oh sure. At some point.”
“They’ve been together, like, forever. What’s the big wait?”
“Seven years. And Claire doesn’t let him forget it. Think we can start the quesadillas already?”
I checked my watch and told her to go ahead. The rest of the girls would be arriving any minute.
“Why’s he so slow on the uptake? Does he not realize Claire’s a catch and that there’s absolutely no reason they should wait to get married?”
Sophie shrugged her shoulders as she warmed the griddle.
“They both have solid jobs,” I said. “They’ve got a nice place. I don’t get it.”
“Claire thinks Chad’s not exactly the best influence—” Sophie started, but was halted by the loud pounding on my front door. The girls!
“Robin!” Claire cried out, wrapping me into a warm hug the moment I swung open the door.
“Hey, Robin,” Lara said, giving me a big squeeze r
ight after Claire, a bottle of vodka in one hand and a bag of fruit in the other.
“Hey girls, come on in.”
“What’s up, bitches!” Jackie shrieked, giving me the tightest of hugs before charging into the living room. Jackie: always the life of the party.
“You off to a hot date tonight?” I asked Jackie, taking note of her slinky, tightly fitted black mini, paired with her four- or five-inch black heels. “You look like you’re ready to rock the town.”
She gave me another big hug, then slipped out of her shoes, instantly shrinking to her endearing height of five feet.
“I got a hostess job at one of those swanky jazz bars,” Jackie said, winking. “Hey, Sophie!”
“Hey, Jack!”
“A job?” I asked. “Since when?”
“Oh just this week.”
Jackie could never hold down a job longer than a few shifts. Luckily, she didn’t have to worry much about a roof over her head or making ends meet. She had Lara, who would always (and I mean always) be there for her in a pinch. Whether it was extra cash or a shoulder to cry on, Lara and Jackie were best buds, and Lara’s trusty maternal side could never disappoint Jackie.
Jackie also had Emily’s apartment to crash at, since Emily was usually trekking the globe doing some volunteer project or excavating some unknown site, and had a small apartment that was often vacant over in Fremont. And if her friends weren’t fending for her, Jackie usually found herself in the temporary arms of some jackass “gentleman.” Jackie couldn’t pick (or keep) a decent job, just like she couldn’t pick (or keep) a man. Her spirits and attitude were usually high and positive, however. She didn’t want to let anything get her down, and since her last relationship with some forty-something bar owner tanked, she’d picked herself up (with some help from the girls) and went out and found herself a job.
“Well, good for you, Jackie,” I said. “And it’s going well?”
When Girlfriends Step Up Page 4
