Mimi Plus Two (The Mimi Chronicles Book 2)

by Whitney Dineen

  Pip looks from Richard to me, then back to Richard before responding, “Richard. What a surprise to see you here.”

  He defends himself by declaring, “I’m in Chicago on business. What are you doing here?”

  Pip responds, “I don’t need an excuse. Mimi and Elliot are my family.”

  Just as I’m about to intervene and smooth things over, I feel a particularly strong Braxton Hicks contraction and let out a moan. I grab the underside of my giant stomach and breathe slowly through it.

  Richard is obviously alarmed and demands, “Mimi, are you alright? Should I call for an ambulance? Where’s Elliot?”

  In contrast, Pip inquires, “Another Braxton Hicks?”

  I nod my head in confirmation. Pip turns to Richard and clarifies, “She’s having practice contractions. They’re very normal, just her body’s way of getting ready for the actual birth.”

  My friend appears visibly relieved and declares, “Thank goodness! There’s more to this baby thing than a man realizes, isn’t there?”

  If only he knew the extent of it. But I’m not going to be the one to share how ugly it gets. Let him discover when his own offspring is on the way. I don’t want to scare him off parenthood.

  Once the contraction is over I decide to quit messing around and shoot for complete candor, “Pip, please join us.” With a glance to Richard, Pip slowly walks over and sits down next to me. Then I demand, “What’s going on with you two, anyway?”

  Richard’s reaction is to get prickly and I feel him about to withdrawal so I forge ahead. “Look Richard, I have no idea what Pip’s message was to you because she won’t tell me.” Pip nods her head in confirmation. “So why don’t you tell me here and now, so I can help smooth things out between you?”

  His eyes dart between the two of us like he’s trying to convince himself we aren’t in cahoots with each other. I’m still not sure what his male mind has decided when he sighs deeply and replies, “Philippa has had word from my father. My father whom I did not have a very close relationship with in life.”

  “And?” I prod. “What did your dad have to say?”

  Richard clears his throat, “Apparently, he seems to think it’s time I get married.”

  I nod my head and shrug my shoulders simultaneously. “Yeah, well so do you. You told me in New York that you wanted to settle down and have a family. What’s so upsetting about that?”

  My friend glances to my sister-in-law and answers, “My father,” he quantifies, “if you believe this nonsense, seems to think Philippa is the woman for the job.”

  Wait, what? Wow! I don’t know what I expected but it wasn’t this. I look at my sister-in-law with sympathy and manage, “Holy, cow, Pip. That must have been a pretty hard message to deliver.”

  She nods her head in response. “Certainly harder than most. But you know what would have happened if I declined.”

  I do know what would have happened; she’d have broken out like a teenager until she delivered the message. And what with her and Richard living on different continents, I can see it was less painful to just get it over with. I’ve been rendered speechless, which is no small fete.

  Richard continues, “So you can see how unexpected it was for me to have a strange woman approach and announce herself as my future mate.”

  Pip interrupts, “Wait a second, Richard. I did not say I agreed with this nor did I throw myself at you. I passed on the message. That’s all I’m supposed to do.”

  He ignores her and speaks straight to me, “And being that I had entrusted you to find my future spouse, I’m sure you will agree this was a bit off-putting.”

  I actually do see that. But Richard is only viewing this from his perspective. “Richard,” I start, “do you believe there are people out there who can actually communicate with the dead?”

  He’s quiet for a moment before answering, “Yes. I believe there are a chosen few who have that ability.”

  I continue, “And you saw Pip at Thanksgiving, right? You saw how the homeless at the soup kitchen lined up to hear what she had to say?”

  He nods his head so I plow forth. “Do you believe she had real messages for them?”

  My friend slowly begins to nod his head. “I think she very well may have.”

  “So,” I demand, “why do you think she lied to you?”

  Richard responds, “A wealthy single man at a wedding is a bit of a target, don’t you think?”

  Pip can’t stay quiet a moment longer, “Oh for Christ’s sake, Richard, I venture to guess I’m probably worth at least twice what you are!”

  He defends himself, “How was I supposed to know that? Some strange woman approaches me at a wedding reception and announces, “Your dead father thinks you should marry me.” That’s not normal behavior, Philippa.”

  Pip fumes, “First of all, you arrogant creature, I didn’t say it like that. I’ve learned to deliver these messages with more decorum. And secondly, of course it’s not normal. But what would you have me do? I’ve apparently been chosen to be this other worldly beast of burden and I don’t seem to have an out.”

  I can see an intervention is needed. “What else did Richard’s father say, Pip?”

  She gasps, “You know I can’t tell you that, Mimi. Ask Richard.”

  Richard allows, “Go ahead and tell her. She already knows the worst of it.”

  So Pip says, “He apologized to Richard for not being a more present parent and asked his forgiveness. He said that he was proud of him and only wants the best for him.”

  “Richard,” I declare, “that’s lovely!”

  Pip continues, “He also told Richard he wishes him a wonderful life full of children he can dote on.”

  I turn to my friend and demand, “Richard Bingham, what’s your problem? That’s positively beautiful!”

  Richard responds, “Yes, but it all goes back to a peculiar woman declaring herself at a wedding, don’t you see?”

  “No, I do not.” I look at Pip, “Pip, do you even want to marry Richard?”

  Elliot’s sister looks aghast. “Good Lord, no! Why on earth would I want to marry a man who doesn’t even believe me? I would much rather go it alone. Plus,” she adds, “it’s not my way to ask random persons to be my husband. I certainly don’t know this man well enough to have any idea if I want to marry him.”

  I look at Richard, “There you have it. She doesn’t even want to marry you. So can you just get off your high horse and let this go?”

  Richard looks about as comfortable as a chicken in a nugget factory. He finally responds, “Philippa, you have my apologies. I forgive you.”

  “Forgive me? Mister Bingham, I have done nothing that requires your forgiveness. But just to show you that I’m the bigger person, I forgive you for your narrow minded, pig-headed behavior.” Then she gets up and storms out of the room.

  That went well.

  Chapter 35

  Ginger is released from the hospital after three days and just as expected it’s positively brutal for her to leave her babies behind. Dr. Fermin recommends she make the most of her nights and get caught up on her rest because when Ellie, Johnny and Mo are sent home, she’ll need a solid foundation of sleep.

  Ginger and Jonathan spend most of their days at the hospital holding, feeding and bonding with the triplets. If all continues to progress as planned, they might be released in as early as three weeks.

  Elliot and I stop by to see them every few days and they’ve already changed so much from the day they were born. They’ve gone from three little furry monkeys to looking a lot more like real babies. Ginger says it’s because she’s expressing breast milk around the clock for them. Six hours a day she’s hooked up to a double pump like a dairy cow.

  I’m looking forward to breast feeding Sophie but the thought of trying to produce enough milk for three is totally daunting. My sister says she eats like a Clydesdale in order to keep going but doesn’t know if she’ll be able to continue to the same degree once the kids come hom
e.

  Richard stayed for three days and he and Pip avoided each other for the most part. At family dinners, they spoke occasionally. Things like, please pass the cashew butter and garbanzo bean cutlets. Not much beyond that.

  When Richard left, he promised to come as soon as Sophie was born. I told him that Pip would still be here and suggested he spend some time trying to get to know her. I promised that she’s really a lovely person and not at all after his precious money. He’s agreed to think about it.

  I’ve started having a very hard time sleeping at night and have discovered the joys of late night programming. The show that’s grabbed my attention above all others is an alarmingly entertaining one called Doomsday Preppers. I watch episode after episode and am beyond surprised at the degree and variety of people planning for the end of the world.

  There’s one couple in the middle of Detroit who’ve purchase forty-seven dead bolts so when the end comes, they can protect their basement full of mac and cheese and potato chips. Apparently they’ve decided to go out in a blaze of high sodium comfort foods, not that I blame them.

  The strangest person by far, is the forty-something retired archeologist cum yogi that lives in Hawaii. When “the event,” whether it be an electromagnetic pulse, domestic terrorism or WWIII hits, he’s heading straight for the cove where he’s hidden his canoe under palm fronds. Once there, he’s going to paddle himself to a deserted side of the island and start climbing to the top. He has no plans to take any supplies with him as he’s sure the island gods will care for him. When asked what he’ll do for fresh drinking water, he responds he’ll drink his own urine until he finds a source. He finds it tastes remarkably like chamomile tea, his favorite.

  I find the “bug out” people the oddest as a whole. I mean, I guess if you lived in a city like New York and another 911 hits, bugging out would have its appeal. But a lot of these folks seem to be ditching a comfortable home in civilization for a completely rustic setup because they’re expecting man to exterminate themselves and they want to be well out of the way.

  One family in Texas is so sure the poles are going to shift, as in the North Pole will become the South Pole, that they’ve completely rigged out an old school bus to transfer their crew of nineteen to their top secret survival camp, which is somehow not going to be devastated when the rest of the world collapses. Near as I can figure, unless their bug out location is the moon and their bus is a rocket, if polar shifting occurs, they’re going to be as susceptible as the rest of us to those consequences, as long as they’re still on earth that is.

  But needless to say, I’m delighted to take my mind off of impending motherhood and my ever decreasing bladder size by watching the antics of these folks. At the same time, I worry for their stress levels. It can’t be a very relaxing existence when you’re constantly expecting Armageddon.

  Abbie is making great strides in her plans for our garden. She says she doesn’t really know what grows well in Illinois but according to her research all the basics should do very well. She’s planning on starting with corn, green beans, tomatoes, potatoes and strawberries. Once the trees bud, she’s going to see what fruit trees are on the grounds so she can add to them if necessary. Necessary for what, I don’t know but she’s enjoying her plans so much, I’m not going to stop her.

  Elliot and I have talked and we’ve decided to offer Abbie’s services to Ginger and Johnathon for three weeks once they take the babies home. This should get her back to us in time for Sophie. Abbie’s all for the idea and even suggested that she sleep over at their house to help them adjust to the nighttime schedule.

  Andrew is nearly done decorating and I am in awe of his considerable talents. There is no way I could have come close to making the rooms look so comfortably lived in and homey while still radiating elegance. And yes, just so you know, I can imagine eating French fries in each and every one of them.

  Sophie’s room though, is by far my favorite. It’s a soft, sumptuous and simply perfect nest for my daughter. I can’t wait to bring her home and show it to her.

  Speaking of bringing her home, I’ve finally started to shop for her. I’ve bought layettes and diapers and teething rings and every single item in the Target baby aisle. Abbie refused to let me buy any edibles because we are apparently going to be making all her food with things that we grow, organically. I love that our nanny has already taken such an interest in the welfare of our daughter. It makes me feel warm and fuzzy knowing we’re creating such a nurturing environment for her.

  Chapter 36

  I believe I’ve previously mentioned my susceptible nature, yes? As in, if I see a commercial for a particularly appealing peach pie, I suddenly start to crave it and can’t continue on with my day until I drive to the store and purchase an identical pie.

  Well, today’s craving is for candy. Not just any candy though, it’s for the truffles from Vosges-Haut Chocolat downtown. I’m talking to Muffy on the phone about the baby shower that she and Renée are throwing for me and Ginger. She thinks it would be a nice idea to purchase an assortment of truffles to put in these little baby carriages she bought at the flower mart.

  Of course I think it’s a lovely idea as well and immediately begin to obsess over truffles. If I knew I had six months to live or had a tip about a devastating asteroid about to hit the planet, I would bug out to Vosges. I would pitch a tent on the corner of Rush and West Grand for easy access.

  For breakfast I would dine solely on their assorted bacon chocolates, for lunch I would open myself up to a truffle buffet and for dinner it would be caramel toffee and bonbons. There’s no hope for it, I have to drive downtown and get truffles. I feel almost panicky in my need for them.

  It takes me a grand total of thirty-five minutes from the onset of my craving to find myself in my idea of paradise on earth. My intention is to get two truffles and eat them slowly so as not to overdo. Ah, that road to hell and those good intentions, huh?

  First thing I do though is to relieve myself. It’s been thirty-seven minutes since my last potty and with Sophie doing the Macarena on my bladder, I can’t hold it much longer. Once my mission is complete a lovely French woman asks if she can be of service.

  “Yes,” I tell her. “I’d like to buy a couple truffles.”

  “Do you know which kind you would like?” she asks, accommodatingly.

  “I’m not sure,” I respond therefor sealing my fate of listening to the equivalent of confection porn.

  “Let me tell you what we have.” And like Vanna White she glides along the case but instead of flipping letters, she gestures toward champagne truffles, crunchy hazelnut truffles, caramel and coffee truffles. She uses adjectives like silky, creamy and heaven on the tongue. On and on she goes until I can’t contain myself.

  I finally shout out, “I’ll take one of each!” This is how my modest intentions turned into the most hideously sad display of self-indulgence. No, I am not going to eat all forty-eight truffles in one sitting, but neither am I going to let anyone else know about them. I’m plotting to put them in my underwear drawer and take one bite every time a craving comes upon me.

  I decide to allow myself one on the way home. Instead I eat four. I plan to have one more before dinner, but I have six. The only thing to finally stop this truffle binging is the fact that Sophie is so hopped up on sugar she can’t stop jiggling about. For the next three hours of kicks, turns and flips I feel like the worst mother in the world.

  In order to try to atone for my sins, I eat an extra-large kale and spinach salad with dinner. FYI, kale and chocolate is a disgusting combination. I wind up drinking a large glass of soda water to calm my stomach but the resulting burps are enough to gag a rhinoceros.

  Chapter 37

  “Mimi, Darling, it’s time to wake up.” An insistent hand pulls at my arm.

  I respond with a, “Lemme sleep.” And roll over to cuddle my maternity pillow, the one with the fuzzy white pillow case that feels like I’m snuggling up to a mink colony.

&
nbsp; “Sweetheart, you don’t want to be late for your ultrasound.” The crisp British voice of my husband persists.

  Those words do the trick. This morning I’m going to get to see Sophie for the last time before she’s born. I love to look at her on the monitor, watching as she wiggles her tiny toes and flashes all her little baby gang signs with her hands. I find that as long as I do my yoga breathing, I’m virtually panic-free about her potential claustrophobic situation.

  Elliot rubs my back. “I’ll get breakfast started. What do you want?”

  I order two fried eggs, two turkey sausage links and one piece of sprouted wheat toast with the blackberry and kiwi jam that Abbie made last week.

  As my hubby prepares my meal, I reflect on how his relationship with our nanny has blossomed. Abbie no longer treats him like a criminal and he in turn has greatly enjoyed her enthusiasm about the garden. We’re operating like a real family and it’s delightful.

  I’m currently thirty-eight weeks pregnant. The last month has gone very smoothly. The baby shower was lovely and I only stole three peoples’ truffle favors. I justify this thievery because I’m the mother-to-be and the party was half thrown in my honor, so the truffles were really all mine anyway, right? I don’t buy it either but it’s all I’ve got.

  Abbie spends her days at Ginger and Jonathan’s house helping with the triplets. They declined her offer to stay at night. Ginger figures that the sooner they learn to handle it, the better. I’m all, Billy, don’t be a hero, but she appears to be doing quite well. She does take a two hour nap every day while Abbie’s there, to recoup.

  I’ve totally neglected to sign up for birthing classes. Why, you ask? I mean now that I have a nanny, a cleaning person and a decorator; it can’t be that I’m too busy, right? The truth is I’m totally freaked out about how Sophie is getting out of me that I’ve chosen the path of denial. I’ve even suggested we go all old-school and knock me out for the birth. Dr. Fermin isn’t a fan of the idea but assures me that even if I don’t have the classes, the baby will still find her way out. And that, right there, is what worries me.