A Bump in the Road

by Maureen Lipinski

  Carolyn continued about the importance of the Gala and I began to steal glances around the ornate room at the other women. Each was attractive, some with obvious nip-and-tuck work and some naturally pretty in a pinched, constipated, WASPy sort of way. Nearly every woman was dressed in a Chanel or St. John tweed jacket in a shade of pink.

  As I pretended to take notes on what Carolyn blabbered about, I passed the time by mentally assessing what each woman’s outfit cost. I wondered if anyone would chase after me if I ripped Betsy Fallon’s shoes off her feet and made a run for it, since I’m pretty sure alligator Manolo Blahniks are worth more than what I made last month.

  I snapped back to reality when Jessica stood up and passed out packets containing the invitation list.

  “Everybody, if you could look through the packet and let us know if there is anyone you’d like to add to the invite list.” She flicked her long dark hair over her shoulder.

  “Clare, you’ll be assisting us by personally delivering the VIP invitations.” Betsy Fallon’s nasal voice stabbed through the room.

  I gritted my teeth and gave my usual reply of smiling a bit too brightly and chirping, “Great!” while mentally envisioning running out of the house with the Tiffany lamp in my arms.

  Afterward, we all retired to the dining room for a lunch of “Salade Niçoise,” which pretty much just looked like canned tuna atop a bunch of lettuce. Some of the women took pity on me and tried to be friendly by asking me where I got my suit, but quickly lost interest when I told them I got it on the sale rack at J.Crew.

  Halfway through the cold pear soup, I became temporarily blinded in my right eye from Stephanie Cohen waving her left hand with what had to be a twelve-carat diamond on her finger. The freaking thing looked like an ice cube. I glanced down at my own ring, which suddenly looked very, very tiny.

  I drifted off again during their conversation about the best boarding schools (“definitely in the northeast”) and began to wonder what it would be like to have as much money as these women. God, what would it be like to have summers in St. Tropez, winters in Telluride, country club memberships, BMWs, and a beach house on Hilton Head Island? Seeing as how I’m “in the family way” now, I have no idea how Jake and I are going to afford day care and running water, let alone private schools, college tuition, an emergency fund for when our dear child rams our new car into a telephone pole, a new iPod when he/she gets his/hers stolen at school, sports gear, field trip money . . . We seriously need to win the lottery. (Although I don’t think obsessively playing the state lottery will do anything for my new “pregnant white trash” status.)

  The meeting finally wrapped up and I was released early due to good behavior. Driving away in my Toyota Camry, I kind of felt like the poor girl from the wrong side of the tracks on Beverly Hills, 90210 who Kelly, Donna, and Brenda pity.

  Saturday, May 19

  Well, another work week is behind me, which means I’m facing another weekend of No Drinking Ever. It’s so strange. Normally, I’d be stocking up on bottled water, Coke, crackers, and aspirin to fight the inevitable hangover. Instead, I’m stuck with an armful of books detailing every delicious bodily function I’ll get to experience over the next several months. I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to be doing right now. I know what I can’t do, but I feel like I should be doing something other than sitting around my apartment in my sweatpants and eating ice cream straight out of the carton. Jake keeps staring at my stomach as if he’s waiting for it to spontaneously grow outward. I’ve resorted to giving him the finger every time I see him looking at it. It seems to work.

  I haven’t told anyone yet. I figure it is better to wait until I can give a reaction other than “Guess what we did! Man, are we freaked out! Can you lend us some money?”

  Julie took pity on me and came over today, although I’m pretty sure she’s never coming back. She came prepared, showing up at the front door with every celebrity magazine she could find and a pint of Chunky Monkey.

  “How are you?” she asked, furrowing her brow and giving me a look she’d give to someone who just found out their cancer is terminal.

  “How do you think?” I said, barely letting her get inside before I grabbed the ice cream and threw myself on the couch. I was having a particularly hormonal day and declared: “Never again. Never again will I reclaim my youth. My life as I know it has been ripped from my hands. Never again will I be able to buy designer purses. I’ll have to buy diapers and bras resembling straightjackets. I’ll have to attend Tupperware parties and host book club meetings. And forget about having long hair anymore. I’ll have to cut it off because it’ll be encrusted with baby food and poop.”

  A touch dramatic, yes.

  I’m such a mess.

  “Would it make you feel better if I showed you my boobs?” she laughed.

  “NO! Because it will only remind me of how enormous mine are going to get when they fill with the milk I’m supposed to feed to this child. Is it bad that breast-feeding kind of creeps me out?”

  “You’re asking the wrong girl. The only human I ever want to touch my boobs is one with a fully grown penis. Preferably attached to Hot Dr. Ben. Or your brother, Mark.”

  “You’re disgusting.”

  “Anytime.”

  “What movies did you bring?”

  “All eighties movies. Nothing like a good teen comedy from the 1980s to take your mind off of anything baby-related.”

  We started to watch Sixteen Candles, surrounded by a million pillows on the couch, pints of ice cream, and a bowl of popcorn. For the first hour, I was fine. Then, the part in the movie happened when the popular girl is all wasted and gives the nerdy guy a birth control pill and I became really sad. Why did Anthony Michael Hall get to have birth control pills when mine punked out? Then I was fine again until the end of the movie, when the waterworks came on. It was like I was floating above my body, unable to control my emotions. Just remembering it makes me want to kick my own ass.

  “Such a sad movie!” I blurted out in between sobs.

  “Sixteen Candles? It’s not supposed to be a tearjerker.”

  “But IT IS! The sister’s wedding is RUINED because she’s so loaded. And the popular girl’s hair is SO MESSED UP that she’ll have to practically shave her head to look normal again. And Jake Ryan probably dumps Molly Ringwald the next day. And it’s not like they’ll stay together anyways because he’s a SENIOR and going away to COLLEGE soon ANYWAY.”

  She stared at me, looking like I’d just told her Butterscotch recently started his own Internet business and would she like to become a primary investor? She tried to rationalize that Jake probably did stay with Molly Ringwald’s character, but I just got more upset and she finally gave up.

  Jake came home soon after my meltdown and Julie left. The whole afternoon resembled what I would imagine it would be like to be possessed, minus all of the head spinning and crotch stabbing.

  I’ll be lucky if Julie doesn’t start calling me Sybil.

  I tried to explain to Jake how messed up Sixteen Candles is but he only gave me a nervous half smile accompanied by some awkward back patting. Is this how things are going to be? Me sobbing hysterically during teen comedies where nothing remotely sad happens, my friends thinking I’ve lost it, eating entire pints of ice cream, and Jake petting me like I’m a pit bull trained to cage fight?

  None of this is happening the way it was supposed to. I thought when I got pregnant, it would be something so joyous, so exciting, so wanted, the happiness would cut out my heart with one clean slice. I thought I’d get to come up with some cute way to tell Jake, maybe wrapping up a rattle or something, and when I told him, he’d cry and hug me tight and give me the smile that makes my stomach jerk. I thought I’d feel different and a test would only confirm what I “knew.” Instead, I don’t feel any different—no spiritual sense of the life growing inside me, nada. Just an ice-cold panic and tears that won’t stop coming. And a husband who hasn’t slept in days. But we should prob
ably get used to it, since every book has told me a baby = never sleeping again.

  I need more ice cream.

  Wednesday, May 23

  As I struggled with more silent auction item descriptions today, Julie called. Happy for the distraction, I listened to her rant about another weirdo coworker. I swear, her HR manager must patrol comic book conventions, Star Trek fan Web sites, NAMBLA meetings, and KFC parking lots for new-hire candidates.

  “Clare, she’s dead. I’m going to murder her or at least cut off her fucking hand! You think I’m kidding? I could swear that a fucking gray hair just popped up on my head. I’m going to hear that voice in my head while I’m trying to sleep tonight!”

  “Jules, can’t you just ignore—” Christina walked past my door so I quickly spread the Gala linen invoices out on my desk to make it look as though I was actually doing something.

  “Already tried that. The walls here are paper fucking thin!”

  “I don’t—”

  “Holy shit! She just hit it again! I’ve gotta go. I have some ass to kick.”

  As I hung up the phone, I let out a laugh I’d been holding in for the entire conversation. Unfortunately, it was right when Christina walked past again, so it appeared I was sitting in my office laughing to myself. She shot me a quizzical look and kept walking.

  Julie was freaking out because a vendor dropped off some marketing materials that included a button that, when pushed, said, “Metrotab is the easiest choice you’ll ever make! See? Wasn’t that easy?” in a male voice apparently sounding like Michael Jackson on anabolic steroids. Only higher. And gayer. One of the other nurses thought it was hysterically funny and had hit the button every five minutes for the past four hours.

  I feel bad for that woman. Julie can be frightening when pissed off. In college, she peed on the toothbrush of a girl in our dorm because she tried to convert her to Scientology.

  I took a deep breath and wearily turned back to the silent auction item descriptions when I heard Mule Face’s unmistakable voice wafting down the hallway outside my door.

  “. . . Medieval Castle for dinner and then went dancing at Shooters until two in the morning. So tired today but it was worth it. That boy can move.”

  For the second time today, I laughed alone in my office. (Of course, Christina happened to walk by again and I’m sure she now thinks I have some kind of hallucinogenic drug/uppers addiction.) The image of Mule Face bumping and grinding with Big D was hilarious enough, but the fact she went to Shooters made me want to lie on the floor. The killer is they went to dinner at Medieval Castle, one of those places where actors joust on horseback while patrons eat their dinner with their hands.

  “. . . meeting him for lunch. I’ll introduce him to everyone.”

  Yes! I cannot wait to meet the man who is clearly seriously medicated.

  12:00 P.M.

  Mule Face just brought Big D into my office, introducing me as “This is Clare, you know, Clare, right?”

  I quickly stood up, hoping my shirt covered my unbuttoned pants. (Again, my bloat is from the baby. Not all the burritos I’ve been eating.)

  He warmly stuck out his right hand, met my eyes, and smiled. “Nice to meet you, Clare.”

  I smiled back at him as Mule Face did a terrible job of hiding her clear disappointment we were being so civil to each other. I’m sure she was hoping that her contempt for me could be shared with another human being. (Note to Mule Face: It is. Just call my mother-in-law.)

  I surveyed Big D up and down. Dressed very plainly in rumpled khaki pants, a white button-down, and blue striped tie, he certainly wasn’t a movie star. But he seemed to have a calming and patient aura about him.

  Obviously, our encounter disturbed Mule Face. Normally, she would’ve brought up topics like the time I infected the entire office with a computer virus because I downloaded an attachment called “Prostitute Arrested for Assault on Dildo” or the time when I spilled an entire grande gingerbread latte on myself seconds after buying it and minutes before giving a presentation. I know this from experience. Her last boyfriend knew about every boneheaded thing I’d ever done publicly and would inevitably end up drinking too much at corporate events and loudly regaling everyone with reenactments involving wild hand motions with high-pitched shrieks while Mule Face laughed and looked at me with fake sympathy. For whatever reason, I can’t picture Big D doing the same thing. But there has to be something massively wrong with him for choosing to date her. Maybe he’s a secret cross-dresser or had scientific experiments involving plutonium done on him as a child?

  1:00 P.M.

  He’s not listed as a registered sex offender in the state.

  1:45 P.M.

  LexisNexis search brings up no criminal history.

  2:16 P.M.

  He didn’t appear to be hypnotized and/or under the influence of psychedelic drugs.

  3:27 P.M.

  Undiagnosed brain tumor?

  4:47 P.M.

  Severe untreated mental illness or schizophrenia?

  5:15 P.M.

  Possible immigrant in need of a green card?

  6:00 P.M.

  I’m completely baffled how Mule Face found a guy willing to date her who doesn’t belong on Dateline’s To Catch a Predator. I’ve decided to table the issue until further research can be done. Besides, Jake and I are going to dinner tonight and I need to concentrate on what I’m going to wear. I’m thinking my stretchy new jeans, unbuttoned of course, and a black-and-white top, with my favorite black jacket. I’m figuring I might as well wear my cute things until I’m forced to wear maternity muumuus.

  7:00 P.M.

  My apartment is officially a black hole. My things keep disappearing. I can’t find my black strapless bra anywhere. I thought I put it in my laundry basket last week but I ripped apart everything and can’t find it. So, I guess no black-and-white top tonight. Gah.

  11:52 P.M.

  Jake and I left to have dinner at the wine bar around eight. I know a wine bar seems like an odd choice, but besides serving excellent parmesan-crusted scallops, the place is dimly lit and perfect for snuggling into a booth and talking. I’d taken two bites of our appetizer when I felt a strange cramping. I ignored it, thinking it was merely growing pains, and continued to shovel the artichoke dip into my mouth. Before I could eat another piece, the pain came again, only this time much, much stronger. I set the chip down on my appetizer plate.

  “What?” Jake asked as he saw me pause.

  “Nothing. I mean, I’m not sure,” I said.

  We sat silently for a few moments.

  “I guess it was nothing,” I said, and picked up my water glass. “Who knows what my body is doing these days.”

  “Are you sure?” he said.

  “Yep,” I said cheerfully. As we finished our appetizer, I stood up and went into the bathroom. I came out about fifteen seconds later, white-faced. “Jake, we need to leave. I think something’s wrong.”

  “What?” His hand froze as it reached for his wine glass.

  “I’m bleeding pretty heavily. I’m not sure what’s going on.” My hands began to shake, matching my voice.

  As we walked to the car, Jake started freaking out. “What should we do? Should we call the doctor? Do you want to call your mom?”

  “I don’t know. My mom doesn’t even know I’m pregnant, remember? And I haven’t even seen Dr. Clarke yet—I just made my first appointment yesterday—but I guess I’ll try to give her a call. I’m sure it’s nothing.” My voice belied my confident words.

  I called information and was connected to Dr. Clarke’s office. An answering service picked up and said they would page the physician on call, who would call me back. Jake and I sat in the car in the parking lot, unsure of what to do.

  “Should we go home?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. They might want to see me. Let’s just stay here for a minute.”

  “But aren’t you, um, bleeding?”

  “Yeah, but I’ll be fine for a few m
oments.”

  We sat silently in the car, watching the minutes tick on by. I wondered if this was it. If the pregnancy was over. I wondered if Jake would be relieved. I wondered if I would be relieved. But mostly, I wondered why I felt so terrified if this pregnancy wasn’t something we planned.

  My phone beeped and we both jumped. I answered it and Dr. Gwam, Dr. Clarke’s partner, told me to go to the ER to get checked out. He said most likely I was fine, but I should still get checked out just in case since it is still so early.

  On the way to the hospital, I twisted my hands in my lap and watched my knuckles turn white. In the ER, a very sweet-faced nurse led us into a room and let me know a doctor would be with us shortly.

  “Are you OK?” Jake asked as he gripped my hand while I sat on the exam table.

  “I don’t know,” I said quietly. I tried to focus on the lettering on a blood-pressure monitor.

  Dr. Hoffsteder, the attending ER physician, came in and asked for my history. His face told me he thought I was miscarrying. He started most of his sentences the same way: “I’m sorry, how many weeks are you?” and “I’m sorry, who is your regular OB/GYN?” Jake flinched each time he spoke a pseudoapology.

  Since the baby is still so tiny, Dr. Hoffsteder explained the only way to see what was going on was through an internal ultrasound. It didn’t sound pleasant and certainly didn’t appear pleasant when they whipped out what looked like a dildo attached to an imaging machine. I laughed in spite of the situation as they applied what looked like a condom to the dildo-camera.

  Immediately, an image appeared on the screen. A grainy, black-and-white, snuff-film image of this little circle with a flickering inside.

  “Is that it?” I said, and tried to sit up. Dr. Hoffsteder motioned for me to lie back. I looked over at Jake and whispered, “Do you see it?”

  “I do,” he said, his mouth open.

  “It is OK?” I asked Dr. Hoffsteder. Suddenly, I felt as though my insides liquefied and in the two seconds it took for him to answer, I realized I’d never wanted anyone to say yes more than in that moment.