by Darien Gee
Madeline peers over at it. “That’s an apple cinnamon raisin.”
Connie gives a happy sniff. “Yum. Thank you.”
“You are quite welcome.”
The bell over the door tinkles and several women walk in. “I’m starving,” one of them says to no one in particular. One of her friends nods in agreement.
“Oh dear,” Madeline says, suddenly flustered. She can’t believe she’s so unprepared for the day again. It’s been like this a lot lately, her daily tasks creeping up on her so quickly that she can’t really afford to take a moment off lest she forget something. She goes through her must-do checklist aloud as it helps her remember what needs to be done, counting the items off on her fingers. “I have to get the hot water on and put a Shepherd’s pie into the oven. And I need to scoop out the butter for the tables and fill the water pitchers …” She frowns, debating what to do first.
“Do you need help? I’m not doing anything today.” Connie wrinkles her nose. “I’m actually looking for a job. But I’d be happy to help you, for free.” She holds up the loaf and smiles. “Well, not exactly for free since you gave me this, but it would be like an exchange.”
An exchange. It’s a lovely idea, very Californian, and Madeline certainly needs the help. Connie seems qualified enough, and spirited, too, which Madeline likes. But she should probably do a proper interview, request a résumé, check references, that sort of thing. Of course the big question would be when? She doesn’t even have time to put an ad in the paper.
She stops herself—what a thought! This is Avalon, for goodness’ sake. Plus there’s the fact that Madeline already likes this girl, who seems if anything to be overqualified for this job. Madeline recognizes competence beneath the black T-shirt, blue jeans, and dirty sneakers.
“Let’s do a trial,” Madeline suggests, thinking quickly as she gestures for the customers to seat themselves. “Today and tomorrow. Six hours each day, plus thirty minutes for lunch. I’ll pay you twelve dollars an hour plus a bag full of whatever is left over. If you get any tips, you can keep them. What do you say?”
Connie’s mouth opens and her eyes shine. “Are you serious?”
Steven always said it was important to pay people well, that it was cheaper to invest in the people you already had. Madeline doesn’t have time to haggle over a few dollars. If it works out Connie will be worth that and more. “I’m serious. Now go wash your hands and grab an apron from the kitchen. Make sure the oven is preheated to three hundred fifty degrees. It’s been baking at four hundred for most of the morning and needs to cool down for the pie. I’ll take the orders and then come back and help you.”
Connie is already scurrying to the back, tugging at her T-shirt and smoothing her hair.
Well, this day has certainly become interesting. Madeline turns to the first table, a smile on her face. “And what would you like today? We have a special …”
Edie is suddenly deluged with every baby sample known to man. Baby wipes, baby formula, baby diapers, baby rash cream. Her mailbox is stuffed with catalogs for maternity wear, stretch mark creams, birthing tubs, baby furniture. She would never willingly sign up for all this. The culprit, again, is clear.
Livvy.
“This is a good idea,” Richard says, pointing to something in one of the catalogs. “Instead of gifts, you ask people to give you items to put in a time capsule for the baby to open on her sixteenth birthday.” He carefully folds the corner of the page and Edie expects it’ll arrive in the mail sometime next week. It’s basically just a box with some instructions and party ideas. It’s a complete scam, this whole baby business, but Richard has fallen for it hard.
“It could be a boy,” she says.
“It could be,” he agrees. “But it isn’t.”
They’re going to have the ultrasound today. Richard is anxious to confirm a due date and Edie is just plain anxious. In the back of her mind she thinks that this could still be some kind of cruel joke, that she’s not really pregnant after all. If that turned out to be the case, that would be good, wouldn’t it?
“Edith Gallagher?” The nurse glances around the waiting room and smiles when Edie raises her hand and stands up. Richard is quick to follow, quick to hold the door open. The nurse is immediately charmed.
“This is my …” Edie doesn’t know what to call him anymore. “Boyfriend” suddenly seems too flimsy, too fourth grade.
“Soon-to-be-fiancé,” Richard supplies firmly. Edie manages a weak smile as the nurse clucks her happy approval. She checks Edie’s weight, takes her blood pressure, does a urine test for good measure. Then she hands Edie the detestable paper gown and pats the table next to the ultrasound machine before closing the door with a soft click.
“Do you want me to leave while you change?” Richard asks, unsure. He’s a doctor but they’ve never been to a medical appointment together and he suddenly seems nervous.
Edie points to the chair as she shrugs off her shirt. “You got me into this—you’re not going anywhere. Now sit, please.” She tries to cover herself with the paper blanket.
The OB/GYN is a woman, Dr. Briggs, and she seems delighted to meet them. “Your first baby?” she asks.
They both nod. When Dr. Briggs finds out Richard is a doctor, the conversation instantly swerves to medical talk—his area of expertise, where he went to school, how he likes having his own practice. She doesn’t even give Edie warning before she squirts the cold gel onto her abdomen, making Edie yelp.
“Sorry!” Dr. Briggs looks apologetic and turns her pearly whites onto Edie. “So, let’s see how far along we are, shall we?”
The screen is murky and looks like an underwater sonar. Edie strains to get a better look but Dr. Briggs has a frown on her face. She lifts Edie’s chart and then runs the transducer over Edie’s belly again, pressing a bit harder.
She glances at Richard who looks worried, perplexed. Oh God, she breathes. Something’s wrong. There’s an unexpected lump in her throat. She has to force herself to ask the question. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything is great.” Dr. Briggs flips a switch on the machine and suddenly the room is filled with a fast rhythmic thumping.
A heartbeat.
“Wow.” Richard’s eyes are shiny as he turns to hold Edie’s hand.
Dr. Briggs turns the monitor so Edie can get a better look. Edie gasps. It’s a baby, curled up in a fetal position with a nose and fingers and toes. Arms waving, legs moving. A flicker of a heart beat, nice and steady.
“I didn’t think it would look so clear,” Edie stammers, shocked. She wasn’t expecting this. She was prepared for stubby limb buds and big eye sockets. A bean. On the Internet everything looked alien, hardly worth bonding with. But this? This is a baby. A real live baby. Her baby.
“It’s clear because you’re fifteen weeks,” Dr. Briggs says. “You’re already out of your first trimester. Lucky you.”
Now Richard looks shocked. “Fifteen weeks?”
“Give or take a couple of days. Which means we need to get blood work and a whole battery of tests to catch up, but so far everything looks good. Real good.” Dr. Briggs reaches down and hands them a string of printouts from the ultrasound. “I estimate your due date to be around November second.”
Edie just stares at her. November second? That’s barely six months. She’s not ready to be a mother in six months. She was supposed to get nine months. Nine!
“But I’m not even showing,” Edie points out, looking down at her stomach.
“First baby,” Dr. Briggs said. “I didn’t show until just past my fifth month. Everyone’s different, but you’ll pop out soon, don’t worry.” She asks something about sex.
“No!” Edie says, alarmed. Sex is the last thing on her mind, and Richard will be lucky if he ever gets any again. “We’re abstaining after this.”
Dr. Briggs laughs. “No, no, Edie. My question is: Do you want to find out the sex? Of your baby?”
It takes Edie a moment to process the ques
tion. “We can do that?” she finally asks. Her voice sounds hollow, a swooshing echo in her ears. “Already?”
“It’s early, but we’ve got a perfect view right here.” Dr. Briggs gestures to the screen. “It’s pretty obvious what you’re having.”
Richard and Edie look at each other. They haven’t had this conversation yet. “I don’t know,” Richard says. He looks completely bewildered. “Er … um …”
Edie can’t believe he’s been reduced to this. She’s never known him to be anything but confident, and he’s never at a loss for words. “Let’s find out,” she decides for them.
“Are you sure?” Richard is completely indecisive. “I mean, wouldn’t it be more fun if we found out on the day of?”
Edie’s been told she has a high tolerance for pain, having limped around for days with a sprained ankle and broken toe, but she’s not so sure how this labor thing is going to go. She is secretly relieved that she has the option of an epidural, just in case.
“Maybe for you,” she says. “But not for me. I kind of think I’ll be a bit preoccupied.”
“We can write it down on a piece of paper and you can decide later if you want to open it,” Dr. Briggs suggests, but Edie isn’t having it. She wants to know now.
“If you’re not sure, you can step out of the room, but I want to find out.” Edie feels jittery and impatient now that she knows they can find out if the baby is a boy or a girl.
“I don’t want you knowing and me not knowing.” Richard is almost petulant. “Fine. Let’s find out.”
Dr. Briggs gives Edie a sympathetic look and Edie almost smiles. “Okay.” Dr. Briggs puts a little more gel on Edie’s stomach and glides the transducer over her abdomen once again. “Oh, uh-huh. See that? Between the legs?” She points to something on the screen.
Both Richard and Edie squint. “I don’t see anything,” Edie says, frowning.
“Exactly. You’re having a girl. Congratulations.” Dr. Briggs grins at them and hands Edie a paper towel to wipe her stomach.
A girl. Richard actually staggers and has to sit down.
“Oh God,” Edie says, the blood pounding in her own ears. “Please tell me you’re not going to faint at the delivery.” What happened to her big macho Peace Corps doctor boyfriend?
“I’ll get you some water,” Dr. Briggs says, slipping out of the room. “Take your time.”
Edie wipes the gel off her body and sits up. “Richard, are you okay?”
He looks at her, his face radiating happiness. He gets up and crosses the room, taking her in his arms and starts kissing her—her face, her hands, her fingertips. “You are incredible, you know that?”
“Why, because I’m so clueless about my own body that I didn’t even know I was pregnant?” And not just pregnant, but fifteen weeks pregnant. It’s still sinking in.
“She was perfect. Did you see her? Perfect.” He kisses Edie some more. “Just like her mother.”
Uh-oh. One part of her wants to roll her eyes, and the other part has already melted into a puddle on the floor. Edie has just caught a glimpse of her future, and it’s clear that while caffeinated nights and stints to third world countries may be coming to an end, it’s being replaced by something that she hadn’t quite seen until now. Breakfast in bed. Fingerprints on the wall. Cartoons instead of documentaries on public television. And a doting, loving father and future husband.
Gloria Hugel, 56
Fortune Teller
It’s not easy making money in this town. It’s better than Conroy, the last place Gloria lived, though that’s not saying much. The people there were small thinkers; they couldn’t appreciate her gifts.
Here, in Avalon, Gloria has a few regular customers. She’s launched a website and people are starting to call her from around the world. She’s thinking about writing a blog, too. A lot of other psychics are doing it, but she needs to take a few more computer classes from the community college before she can pull that off.
Her 2:00 P.M. appointment is sitting in the living room. Gloria is putting the final touches on her presentation—large silver hoop earrings, hair pulled back in a bandanna, dark mascara and eyeliner. She doesn’t consider it deceptive as much as inventive—the client is usually expecting a psychic to look a certain way, and it just goes so much faster if she dresses to stereotype. Walmart had a rack of plain black dresses that fit her ample frame perfectly, so she bought seven, one for each day of the week. Less laundry.
Gloria pulls a shawl over her shoulders. Checks herself in the mirror, then steps out of the bedroom.
“I am Miss Gloria.” Gloria sweeps in and takes the woman’s hands magnanimously. She leads the woman to a card table that’s set up in the middle of the living room, amid glowing candles. A crystal ball is perched nearby, as is a stack of worn tarot cards. Gloria doesn’t need any of that, but it adds to the ambience.
The woman is young, clearly a homemaker, clearly a mother of young children. A toddler and a baby. Gloria doesn’t need to use her powers to figure that part out—the smear of pureed peas on the woman’s top and Magic Marker stains on her jeans are telling enough, plus she has a huge diaper bag slung over her shoulder. By the way the woman is anxiously twisting her wedding band, Gloria would wager that she’s here to talk about her husband.
The woman is nervous. “I’ve never done this before,” she says. “I’m not sure what I should do …”
“Just relax,” Gloria croons. She lights a candle on the table, a sandalwood-patchouli-scented pillar that she picked up at Bed Bath & Beyond when she was in the city last. On clearance.
“So you’ve done this before?” the woman asks.
“I’m a seventh-generation clairvoyant. I’m also an empath. What’s your name?”
“Lenora.”
“Lenora …” Gloria breathes her name and closes her eyes. An image forms almost instantly. She sees a carnival, an amusement park of some kind. Cotton candy, games on the boardwalk. A man in uniform. Army, no, Navy …
“I should tell you,” Lenora interrupts with a whisper.
“One moment …” The image wavers at the interruption but Gloria opens herself up again and it comes flooding back. She’s not sensing this is present day, but in the past … a father, maybe, or perhaps a grandfather, with a message for Lenora …
“I can’t exactly pay,” Lenora whispers.
The image disappears and Gloria opens one eye. “I’m sorry?”
Lenora looks embarrassed. “I just thought I should tell you that I can’t exactly pay, you know, in cash.”
Gloria breathes a sigh of relief. “I take Visa, MasterCard, and American Express.”
The woman shakes her head and reaches into her diaper bag. She pulls out a Ziploc bag and hands it to Gloria.
“I know it’s not much, but it’s the starter for Amish Friendship Bread and it’s absolutely wonderful …” Lenora tries to explain.
Gloria looks at the bag with masked distaste. She really doesn’t like to barter her services, because unless she’s doing a reading for her landlord, trades don’t pay the rent. Plus whatever is in this bag is just revolting.
“I’m sorry,” she starts to say, handing the bag back to Lenora, when an image suddenly whooshes in and knocks the words right out of her mouth.
Rain. Rising water.
“Hello?” Lenora is looking at her nervously.
Gloria’s eyes fly open and she clutches the bag, startling Lenora. “Fishes and loaves,” she says. “Fishes and loaves.”
CHAPTER 18
The town of Avalon is overflowing with Amish Friendship Bread. It seems that every other person (and their cousin or neighbor or aunt) has a bag of starter to share. Bake sales, cake walks, book clubs, and birthday parties serve some variation of Amish Friendship Bread in the form of cakes, loaves, muffins, brownies, cookies, even cinnamon rolls. People aren’t getting tired of it exactly—just concerned that the amount of starter might soon outnumber the population of Avalon itself.
To
day, the rain is pouring down relentlessly. The weatherman has predicted heavy rains all week, with flood warnings in certain counties. Word has quickly spread that Connie’s recipe and tip cards have moved from the Wash and Dry to the tea salon, so right now Madeline’s sitting room is clogged with at least fifteen women, their voices jumbled as they burrow through the boxes or compare notes.
The wicker “Spare and Share” basket is spilling over with bags of starter in various cycles. The Spare and Share basket was Connie’s idea. Connie was also quick to notice that sometimes the women brought in their loaves of bread to swap and compare, and while Madeline doesn’t mind, Connie doesn’t want Madeline to lose any business. So she came up with an unofficial BYOB—Bring Your Own Bread—policy. She set out a self-serve tea station in the sitting room and found an old letter box to double as an honor box. She printed a small price list and put it in an antique frame with a suggested “donation” of $2.50 per cup or $5.00 for all the tea you could drink. She also wrote the daily special and a couple of their most popular to-go items on an old chalkboard and propped it up nearby. The letter box was always stuffed with cash by the end of the day.
“Wow,” Hannah is saying as she cranes her neck from the tea room to get a better look. Their visits have become more frequent since Hannah and Julia’s return from Chicago.
“I know.” Madeline keeps her voice low even though she is delighted. Beyond delighted. The constant gaggle of women coming and going has made Madeline’s a bit of a hot spot, and business is thriving. And while she looks forward to her regular visits with Julia and Hannah, there’s something to be said about having someone help with all the heavy lifting—literally and figuratively. On slow days she has someone to talk to, someone who wants to see the tea salon be a success almost as much as she does.
“I’m so glad you have someone good to help you,” Julia says. Some of the women coming in know Julia and offer friendly exclamations but Julia is cautious in her greetings, preferring to stay in the dining area with Madeline and Hannah. Madeline understands this and knows that while some of these women are just casual acquaintances, Julia has clearly distanced herself from most of the people she knows in Avalon.
