Shopping for a Billionaire’s Baby

by Julia Kent

  “Shoot.”

  “Auntie Shannon is pregnant.”

  “Yes.”

  She catches my eye, half amused, half horrified.

  “And you planned this?”

  Jason overhears, giving me a wary look that says, Watch out. This one’s sharp.

  I give him a nod that says, I got this.

  “Yes.”

  “On purpose?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Even Dad has stopped talking now, all the adults watching our conversation. None of this fazes Jeffrey one bit.

  “Have you started a college fund for the baby?”

  I laugh. That is not the question I expected. “Not yet. It hasn’t been born.”

  “Well, you should. I was reading an article the other day about investing early for college.” He walks off to get another piece of cake.

  Dad’s thick eyebrows go up in astonishment. “How old is he?”

  “Eleven.”

  “Wise beyond his years.”

  Jason is more troubled by that statement than anything Dad has said. “Sometimes a little too wise.”

  “Nothing wrong with being mature,” Dad counters. “It certainly helped us to get where we are today.” Dad and Jason grew up in the same South Boston neighborhood, poor kids of single mothers who made their way up.

  “Sure. Living a hardscrabble life does that to you.” Jason sighs. “I just don’t want my kids and grandkids to go through what I went through. Jeffrey’s the oldest of Carol’s kids. He has a younger brother with significant special needs. And Carol’s a single mother with a husband who walked out on all of them when the kids were young, but Jeffrey was old enough to understand what was happening. No kid should grow up faster than they have to. We did because we had no choice.”

  “Character, though... tough times build character.” Dad looks at Jeffrey. “Besides, how bad can it be for him? He’s got you all.”

  Jason was about to say something, but closes his mouth so fast, the teeth snap. He blinks rapidly, surprise evident. “Thank you, James.”

  Pointing to Shannon’s midsection, Dad then says, “And this baby has all of us.”

  Some people wear their hearts on their sleeve. Dad wears his in a whisky bottle.

  Hissing and barking interrupt the conversation as the jingle of a collar grows louder. Chuffy jumps up on a chair, then the table, followed close behind by a determinedly pissed Chuckles, the long table bisected by the two animals crashing over empty dishes.

  Poor Tyler’s plate is run over as he screams, “MY CAKE, DOGGIE!” and the passel of animals falls right in the poor kid’s lap for a split second, then out the patio door they go, Marie on their heels, ineffectually calling for Chuckles to leave poor Chuffy alone.

  Carol springs into action, running from the kitchen sink to calm Tyler down, heedless of the frosting and chunks of cake all over his shirt, now smearing into her hair, her bosom, her arms as she rocks him in place, his tears calmed by her soothing.

  “What on earth was that?” Dad booms, laughing.

  “I’m guessing Chuckles isn’t a fan of Chuffy,” I say to Jason.

  “Chuckles isn’t a fan of anyone,” Carol says, stroking Tyler’s hair as he wriggles out of her arms and goes for the cake stand, where the half cake remaining miraculously didn’t tip over.

  “I want more cake,” Tyler says, clear as a bell. Verbally, he’s come a long way since I met him a few years ago.

  “The only person Chuckles likes is Declan,” Shannon says, half hugging me. I start to take another swig of my beer and do a different calibration: Shannon hates to drive and we need to leave in an hour or two. I abandon it on the table.

  “Um, about that...” Jason shoots her a really uncomfortable look. Pieces click quickly in my mind and I don’t like where this is going.

  “Hmmm?”

  “Any chance you two want a cat?” he asks, looking more at me than Shannon.

  “A cat? You want us to take Chuckles?”

  “He’s started peeing in my man cave,” Jason explains.

  “Well, Jason,” Mom says, coming back into the house holding a lemon-frosting-covered white puffball, “You pee in there, too. Can’t blame him for imitating you.”

  “I do not pee in my man cave, Marie.”

  “Pfft. We all know about the coffee can you hide behind your recliner in there.”

  “ANYHOW,” Jason says, raising his voice above her chatter in a move I find admirable and file away for future use, “Chuckles always was Shannon’s cat. He’s never really been happy here.”

  “I’m not supposed to touch litter boxes when I’m pregnant,” Shannon starts.

  “Toxoplasmosis is a risk,” I add.

  She looks up at me. “You really did read the baby books!”

  I smile. Man, do I owe Gerald big time. Who knew listening to a few audiobooks could pay off like this?

  “We can hire someone to take care of the litter box,” I say as Chuckles storms into my space and starts demanding I pick him up.

  “Would you look at that, Marie?” Jason marvels as I hold the cat. “He lets Declan pick him up!”

  “You don’t have to lay it on thick. We’ll take him,” I say.

  “We will?” Shannon asks me.

  “Do you want him?”

  “No.”

  Chuckles narrows his eyes.

  “See? He’s plotting my death already.”

  Chuckles purrs.

  “I won’t let him hurt you,” I assure her. “Besides, it’ll make our place homier.”

  “Really? Because it would be nice to have a pet around,” she admits, reversing course.

  “Really.” Chuckles sniffs at her, clearly offended that she said pet and not living deity.

  “Then it’s settled. We’ll take him.”

  Chuffy barks exactly once in Marie’s arms.

  “Someone needs a bath!” she says, marching upstairs, calling back, “and when I’m done with her bath, we’ll plan your baby shower, Shannon!”

  “How fast can we get out of here?” Shannon says out of the corner of her mouth.

  I grab my car keys from the buffet table. “I can’t drive yet.”

  She snatches them out of my hands and weighs the pros and cons, finally shoving them in her front pocket. “You realize that Mom wants a Jack and Jill baby shower.”

  “What’s that?” James asks.

  “Where the mother-to-be and father-to-be are both there. Men and women. Basically, everyone’s invited.”

  “I thought baby showers were a women-only event,” James says with a laugh, looking to Jason for confirmation.

  He gets a blank slate.

  “I think it’s great. Involves the father more,” Jason says, upping the ante.

  “Elena and I had a very strict division of labor. Kids were her bailiwick. I did the business work.”

  “We plan to do everything in a very different way,” I declare, Shannon leaning into me as I speak.

  “Not if you want that coffee chain of yours to have an IPO, hit the Fortune 500, and become an international sensation, son,” Dad says somberly. “You can’t do it all.” His eyes meet mine. Sincerity, so fleeting and rare in him, makes an appearance. “Life is about tradeoffs. Choose yours carefully.”

  Bending over the table, he takes a slice of cake and starts eating, happy.

  Leaving me wondering when my father turned into Ferris Bueller.

  Chapter 11

  Shannon

  Nineteen weeks

  * * *

  “It’s a little early, I know, but the midwife said we should come in for our twenty-week scan now and I’m so glad you’re coming,” I tell Declan as we make our way through the parking garage into the office at the hospital. I’ve come to the office twice alone, once at eight weeks, once at fourteen weeks, but this is our first regular ultrasound. My vital signs are all strong, I’m not spilling protein into my urine, and my pregnancy so far is what the midwife calls “low risk.”
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  If this is a normal pregnancy, a hat tip to every woman who has it worse. I can’t imagine.

  “I wish I could have been here for the other visits,” Dec says, genuinely contrite.

  “It’s fine. You’re here for the important parts.” The main door to the building is decorated for Christmas, greenery in abundance. Soft, warm white lights dot the gutters and the windows at the building’s front, on even in daylight. It’s festive. Inviting.

  And a reminder that next year, our Christmas will involve a baby.

  Our baby.

  “Definitely. I’ll do everything but deliver the baby.” His hand goes to my belly, which is now ripe and full, maternity clothes an absolute must. Maternity bras, too. You take big breasts and then add growing milk ducts and fifty percent increased blood volume to them and try stuffing them into a regular bra. Nope. It’s about as futile as trying to get Chuckles to cuddle in my lap.

  “Ha! You’re the last person on earth I’d want to deliver her.”

  “Her? Him,” he says firmly.

  “Her.”

  “Him.”

  “We’ll find out soon,” I say with glee, my happiness tempered only by having a bladder so full, it feels like a cinder block inside me. Wincing, I move slowly as we reach the elevator. Soft Christmas music fills the air, the sound of male crooners a perennial memory trigger. A few notes and I’m instantly sent back through a time wormhole, all my Christmases coalescing into a roller coaster ride of flash images.

  All wonderful.

  I frown. Except for one.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Bladder. They made me drink a ton of water before the ultrasound, and I’m not allowed to pee.” I’m not going to mention my sudden, visceral memory of wearing an elf costume at the mall a few years ago, Chuckles climbing into the water fountain and causing a scene.

  Declan played Santa for the kids that day. Earned the nickname Hot Santa. Took out a Russian thief. Had a blazing quickie with me in the employee break room at the mall. My mystery shopping days are long over, but man, was that one of the best.

  Knocking me out of my reverie, Dec says, “You pee twenty times a day, seventeen of them between eleven p.m. and five a.m.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Because I’m not getting any sleep, either.”

  “Oh, poor Declan. I’m so sorry for all your suffering. It must be so haaaaaaard.”

  He plants his hands on my shoulders, bends down and whispers, “It could be, after this. I blocked the rest of the day off my schedule.”

  “Don’t talk to me about sex when I have a bladder the size of Greenland.”

  “Let’s see the pictures of him and then we’ll talk.”

  “Her! Her!” I say, laughing, as we walk into the waiting room, where I check in and try to sit down without leaking.

  Which means I don’t sit down.

  The practice has a mix of obstetricians and certified nurse-midwives, in an office attached to the hospital where I’ll give birth. Everything smells like sanitizer, that rubbing alcohol scent hospitals have, a searing experience that anyone who’s ever been in an ER or admitted for surgery knows.

  I’ve spent very little time in hospitals, so the odor is overwhelming but archetypal. I’m here. My nose knows.

  “You know what to do, Shannon,” the front reception clerk, Annie, tells me. Declan gives me a puzzled look as I take my folder and walk down the hallway to the bathroom. He stays outside. I wave him in.

  Now he’s really confused.

  “You need help in the bathroom?”

  “No, not help. But do you want to see what I go through?”

  “Okay.” In the bathroom, which is nice and big and a single-use room, there is a doctor’s scale, a basket full of urine strips, and a small table where I put down my folder.

  “What’s all this?”

  “There’s a check-in ritual. I have to pee, test my urine, then weigh myself, and note it all in my file.”

  “You do this? The patient? Not a medical assistant?”

  “Yes.”

  Declan steps on the scale, adjusting the sliders. He announces a number.

  I grit my teeth. It’s now lower than mine.

  Significantly.

  “For that part, you have to avert your eyes,” I inform him.

  “You’ll pee in front of me but you won’t let me see your weight?”

  “Yes.”

  “That is not logical.”

  “It is extremely logical. You survey any woman out there and she’ll tell you the same thing, Dec.”

  “Women are so weird.”

  “Pregnant women, even more so. Get used to it. We’re only at the halfway point, and from what people are telling me, it was the easy half.”

  I start to move toward the toilet and stop myself. “Wait! I can’t pee. Ultrasound first.” My poor bladder is torn. Not literally. It’s in that stage where it expected to pee, and now it can’t, so it’s struggling with unmet expectations.

  “What do you test the urine for?” he asks.

  “Protein.”

  “Why does protein matter?”

  “It could mean there’s kidney issues, or preeclampsia.”

  “I’m surprised they let pregnant women do all this alone. Couldn’t you lie?”

  “Why would I lie about the protein? If it comes up positive, I tell the midwife, and we make sure the baby’s healthy.”

  “What about your weight? You could lie about that.” He’s smart enough not to look at my body as he asks that question. Thanksgiving was last week and I am pretty sure I am now growing a butterball of my own, with a side of sweet potatoes with caramelized marshmallows on top and about twelve placentas full of stuffing.

  We won’t mention how much pumpkin pie I ate. We really, really won’t.

  “Uh, same reason. We’re not supposed to lie. Sudden weight gain or loss could mean something’s wrong. If we’re here, going through all this prenatal care, we’re doing it for an optimal outcome. The midwives trust us.”

  “Huh. Interesting. I like it. Less intrusive.”

  “It’s just different. I didn’t seek it out.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “No. Carol told me this practice was the one she went to when she had Tyler, before she moved near Mom and Dad, and she loved them.”

  “You mean you didn’t find a midwife on Yelp? Sort through customer reviews to find the highest rated?”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t apply your model to prenatal care.”

  “What’s ‘my model’?”

  “Hire someone to do it all for us.”

  “The only way for that to happen would be surrogacy, Shannon. And I’m old-fashioned when it comes to this.”

  I wave him off the scale. “My turn. Close your eyes.”

  “You don’t have to be embarrassed about your weight, honey. I know you’re gaining.”

  “I know I don’t have to be, but...”

  He closes his eyes. I weigh myself. I wince.

  I write down the true number. I will ask later if I can weigh again after the ultrasound and after I can finally pee. Hey, I’ll take any break I can get. My bladder weighs ninety-two pounds right now, I’ll bet.

  We take seats in the inner waiting room, where I know we’ll be for just a few minutes before Paula will appear. Of all the midwives, she’s the one I connect with the most, and I hope she’s on duty when I give birth. I’m squirming in my seat as we wait, when a very tall, dark-haired man in a lab coat walks by. He does a double take just as Dec and I do, too.

  “Excuse me–”

  “You look familiar–”

  The men talk over each other as I try to process who this guy could be. Broad face, strong, big hands, and a familiar, kind face. I look at his name tag.

  Dr. Alex Derjian.

  His hand goes to his throat as he looks down at me and says, “Engagement ring.”

  “Oh. My. God. You’re the doctor from the ER when I
swallowed my engagement ring!” I gasp. At least he didn’t say #poopwatch. Whew.

  Declan stands, laughing his ass off, reaching out to shake the doctor’s hand. “You turn up in some of the strangest places, Doctor.”

  “I could certainly say the same about you two.” As I bow my back to stand up, his eyes widen with happiness. “I see this time, it’s for a wonderful reason. Congratulations!” He glances down at folders in his hands. “You’re not my patient.”

  “No, I see the midwives. Low risk.”

  His grin broadens. “Glad to hear it. They do a great job. I’m just here as backup, mostly, and to manage the higher risk cases or people who want an OB. When are you due?”

  “April 24.”

  “Shannon?” Paula appears, her arm extending down a hallway, giving Dr. Derjian a funny look. “The ultrasound tech is ready for you.”

  “You get to see your baby for the first time today?”

  “Yes,” Declan says.

  “Second time for me,” I tell him. “First time was at eight weeks, but a more invasive ultrasound.” I’m being tactful. It was like having the world’s most embarrassing dildo shoved inside me, with a witness.

  And a video recording it all from the inside. Whoever invented vaginal ultrasounds did a great service for obstetrics, but...

  Dr. Derjian smiles and shrugs. “Pregnancy and childbirth aren’t for the faint of heart.”

  “No, they’re not. You have kids?” I ask him.

  A shadow crosses his face, just enough for me to realize I’ve put my ever-swelling foot in my mouth. “Ah, no. We’re hoping. Time just hasn’t been right.” As the platitudes come out of his mouth, I can see this is evolving for him, and he’s trying to find his verbal footing.

  Declan comes to the rescue. “Good luck.”

  “You, too. I hope everything goes well in there.”

  “Thanks. Can’t wait to see him.”

  “Her!”

  “Him.”

  And with that, we leave Dr. Derjian laughing, awkwardness dissolving.

  “Poor guy,” Dec murmurs in my ear.

  “I need to learn to keep my mouth shut.”

  “No, honey. It’s just one of those topics we need to think about now.” Interesting that his mind went where mine did. Until I got pregnant, it didn’t occur to me that asking someone around my age whether they have kids was a conversational landmine. I don’t want to put people into a state of discomfort. So much of adult life is about making mistakes and learning from them.