Sorority Sisters

by Claudia Welch

  “Come on, Diane,” Holly says.

  Diane ignores her. So does Missy. Missy is staring Diane down, but it’s not working since Diane is just staring back. Missy shakes her head and smiles at Diane. “Okay. I want a blowout, drunken brawl of a funeral. That’s what you can do for me. None of this sad-sack shit. I’m going out and I want you guys to party, and I want you to act like I’m there with you. And if Craig shows up, I want somebody to kick his ass.”

  “I’m in,” Ellen says.

  “I knew the ass-kicking would get you,” Missy says.

  “You’re sure? That’s it?” Diane asks. “Nothing else, like, between now and then?”

  “Do you need anything now?” I ask.

  “Hell, no. I’m fine,” Missy says. “Where’d you learn that stare-down, Ryan? I used to be able to have my way with you.”

  Diane barks out a laugh. “I’m a naval officer. I do stare-downs every damn day.”

  “I knew having a ROTC sorority girl was a bad idea,” Missy says.

  “At least I didn’t carry a backpack,” Diane says, throwing her napkin at Missy.

  The waiter comes over to refill our water glasses, which is the only thing that prevents brunch from turning into a napkin war

  Ellen

  – Spring 1983 –

  So, I’m pregnant. I’m divorced. I’m a new broker with Dean Witter and making ends meet. I’m in labor.

  That is my life.

  I should probably be panicking. I’ll get to it later, when I have more time.

  “Shit,” I say, rubbing my back.

  “Four minutes apart,” Karen says, looking at her watch. “Your back hurts?”

  “Like hell,” I say.

  “Might be a back labor. They’re gruesome, from what I’ve heard,” Karen says. “Mine was normal.”

  “Normally painful?” Diane says, holding up a hand as Karen opens her mouth. “Shut up. I don’t want to hear about it. It’s all gruesome details.”

  “Your mom should be here soon. I called her from the restaurant,” Laurie says.

  We’d been out to dinner in West Hollywood. Diane is still in San Diego, but she got a promotion and a transfer, and because of my due date being two weeks ago, we were out celebrating Diane’s promotion and Karen’s first girls’ night out after her delivery in LA territory. Figures I’d go into labor before my Alaskan king crab was delivered. Laurie paid the tab, when all we’d had was drinks and half a basket of bread. That figures, too. Laurie likes to pay when no one is looking, and then we shove folded bills into her purse when she’s not looking. Tonight, everyone is looking at me.

  “At least your water didn’t break,” Karen says. “Mine did with Ben, and I had the whole thing planned in case it happened in the grocery store, like they say. I was all set to run to the pickle aisle and chuck a bottle on the floor and call it pickle juice.”

  “Who the hell says that?” Diane says.

  Karen shrugs. “Everybody. It’s what you’re supposed to do, to hide it.”

  Diane starts laughing. “Where’d your water break?”

  “In a Hallmark store,” Karen says, starting to laugh. “Not a pickle in sight! I could have thrown down a bunch of cards, maybe sop it up, but . . .” She shrugs, still laughing.

  “They’d probably have made you pay for the cards,” I say, feeling another backache coming on.

  We’re in Laurie’s car, a nice four-door Mercedes, leather seats. I really don’t want my water to break in Laurie’s car. I’m sure she feels the same way about it.

  “We’re almost there,” Laurie says. “I’ll park the car and you guys go in.”

  “No, I’ll park the car,” Karen says. “You go in with her. You’re the one who’s good with legal forms and stuff.”

  “Thanks, Mitchell,” Diane says. “What are we, pickle juice?”

  “Basically,” I say, the pain subsiding. “What? You didn’t know?” I say to Diane, her profile lit up by a streetlight. I can see her smile, but it’s a nervous smile. She hadn’t planned on this. I’d planned on it two weeks ago.

  “You can follow us in,” Laurie says. “Follow the paper trail.”

  “If that’s what you want,” Karen says to me. “Believe me, it’s not a spectator sport. You might not want an audience.”

  Karen had Ben nine weeks ago; she’s the resident expert on kids and pregnancy, and I don’t know how I would have managed this whole pregnancy deal without her. She and Jim have been there for me every step of the way. She even found a crib for me, and then Jim set it up. I call that sacrifice above and beyond the call of duty.

  Blame the phrasing on Diane.

  Another pain hits me. It starts in the back and wraps around my hips, pulling and tugging, aiming low.

  “Just under four minutes,” Karen says. “Good thing we’re here. I’ll park. You go. Diane, stay with me. We’ll walk through the scary parking lot together.”

  “Roger that,” Diane says.

  Laurie stops the car, we do something very closely resembling a Chinese fire drill, and then Laurie has me by the hand and we walk into the brightly lit hospital together.

  And here I thought I was having a kid by myself.

  * * *

  Six hours later, and not only am I not by myself; I do have an audience. My mom is not part of the crew; turns out she can’t stand to hear her daughter scream. Diane is with my mom in the hall trying to convince her that it’s completely normal not to want to hear screaming. Diane’s holding her hand. I can tell, even from where I’m screaming.

  “Seven centimeters,” the nurse says just before she leaves the room. “Not much longer now.”

  “She’s been saying that for three hours!” I . . . yeah, I scream it.

  “Try to relax,” Karen says. “It goes faster when you don’t tense up.”

  “If I could move, I’d kill you,” I say, laying my sweaty head back on the pillow. Every single thing annoys the shit out of me. My skin hurts. My eyes hurt. My throat hurts.

  Karen rubs a cold washcloth on my forehead. “If I had a mirror, you’d kill yourself.”

  “Bitch.”

  “Play nice. I’m the one with the working body, the washcloth, and the checkbook,” she says.

  “Checkbook?” I say, feeling another pain building up steam, getting set to launch itself down my exhausted body.

  “I figure, since these are desperate times, I could try bribing someone for drugs.”

  “God. Do it!” I say as the pain grips me, stomping across my abdomen and knifing between my legs. “Damn kid. Killing me.”

  “I talked to the nurse,” Laurie says from the other side of my bed, her hand lying over mine as I grip the side rails. “About drugs. She said you’re too far along and by the time they took effect the baby would be born.”

  “You believed that shit?” I say. “Bitch-slap her. Get me some drugs!”

  “I tried,” Laurie says.

  “Get tough, McCormick. You’re too soft to be a drug mule. God, where’s Missy when I need her.” The contraction fades out, slowly and reluctantly.

  Karen chuckles and says, “Take it easy between contractions. Try to relax.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “Yeah. Do it anyway.”

  “I’ll go get the nurse,” Laurie says. “Someone needs to stay in here and monitor you.”

  “Coward,” I say, holding Karen’s hand with the washcloth in it over my eyes. She brushes my hair back from my face and straightens the light blanket around my waist. “Am I going to be able to do this, Karen?” I say softly over my sore throat.

  “Piece of cake,” she says.

  “No. Really. This whole motherhood thing. I’m scared. Too late to do anything about it, but I am.”

  I rea
lly am. I’ve been careening between joy and terror for the whole nine months. I’m exhausted and confused and flat-out terrified. I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t know if I have a maternal bone in my body. In fact, I don’t think I do. What if I’m like Ed?

  That’s the terror at the core of my nightmares.

  Karen takes the washcloth away from my eyes and looks down at me. She’s smiling. “You’re a natural. You’re going to be the best mom any kid ever had.”

  “You’re just saying that because it’s too late to say anything else,” I whisper. I can feel another contraction coming.

  “Caught in the act,” she says, smiling down at me.

  “Bitch,” I say on a tired laugh.

  “Exactly,” Karen says forcefully. “That’s what motherhood does to you; it turns you into a snarling bitch, and all that bitchiness is aimed at protecting your kid from all the bad stuff out there. Are you the kind of woman to sit back and let your kid take it on the chin? Hell, no.”

  “Hell, no,” I repeat, just as I start to scream through another contraction. When it fades out, I say, “So, you’re saying I’m a total bitch, and because I’m a bitch I’ll be a good mom. Kind of a downer of a pep talk, Mitchell.”

  “Of course you’d put it like that,” Karen says, placing another washcloth on my face. “In my version you’re a fighter. You’ve never been afraid of a fight. That’s what a good mom does; she fights for her kid. Like I said, you’re a natural.”

  I smile up at Karen and she smiles down at me, and I feel the terror lift, fading away like a birth pang. This whole motherhood thing might just work out. I just might be a better parent to my kid than my parents were to me. What would my life have been like if my mom had been more of a fighter?

  Hell, what would Ed’s life have been like?

  That’s a vision that’s good for a laugh. Until the next contraction starts.

  Laurie and that worthless nurse come back in as I’m in the middle of it, the nurse lifting the blanket covering my bottom half like, hell, let the whole hospital look down there and explore around. “You’re doing fine. You’re at eight centimeters. I’ll go get the doctor,” the nurse says.

  “Thank God,” Laurie says under her breath.

  Diane pokes her head in and says, “Could you pipe down? Your mom is having a serious panic attack out here. Plus, you’re disturbing the other pregnant women with all your screaming.”

  “Somebody throw something at her,” I say.

  Diane comes in and stands next to Karen. They look down at me, these three friends of mine, these unexpected sisters. My own sister moved to Kentucky three years ago; I’ve seen her twice since then.

  “Hang in there, Olson,” Diane says. “Show that kid who’s boss.”

  “You are so full of shit,” I say.

  “I’d say your tail’s in a knot, but I was just down there and no tail, no knot,” Diane says.

  They look tired. They all look tired. It’s fourteen minutes past one in the morning and it’s showing on them. Their eyes are bloodshot, their lipstick gone, their hair a wreck. They’re not going anywhere; I know that.

  “You guys look like hell,” I say.

  “She hasn’t looked in a mirror, right?” Diane says to Laurie.

  Another contraction, and then the doctor comes in and mumbles his name. I have no idea who this guy is; he’s not my OB, but at this point, I don’t give a rip. Just get the kid out of me.

  He lifts the sheet, peering in between my legs, feeling around down there, the nurse at his side, everyone on the damn floor free to take a peek, and says, “Looking good.”

  Diane snorts. Karen elbows her in the ribs.

  “You’re almost there. Here comes another contraction, and I’m just going to press . . .” Doctor Mysterious sticks his fingers into my throbbing, aching hole and presses against my walls as they’re contracting. I do what comes naturally, without even thinking about it. I kick him in the chest. Not actually on purpose, but just to get him the hell away from there and stop making the pain worse with his damn fingers.

  The doctor falls back on his rolling stool, almost on his ass; the nurse gives me a horrified look and snaps, “You can’t do that!” And my friends all look at the doctor with bland, unsurprised expressions.

  “That wasn’t a good idea,” Diane says.

  “She can’t do that!” the doctor says.

  Karen shrugs. “That’s Ellen.”

  Laurie nods.

  The doctor gets back to business, nothing with the fingers this time. I suffer through another three contractions. I hear, finally, “Push! Push now.”

  I push. It feels fantastic—well, as good as it can, just like scratching an itch. I’m pushing; Karen has her arm around my back; Diane rushes out to tell my mom to get in the room before she misses it; Laurie is standing at my feet, watching the show, a stunned smile on her face. Me, I’m still pushing when my mom and Diane come back. I’m still pushing for what seems like an hour, but is only fifteen minutes, and when I think I’m never going to get this kid out of me, out she slips like a little seal, smooth and slippery.

  “It’s a girl!” the doctor says, triumphant.

  I hurt like hell all over. My eyes hurt. My throat hurts.

  But there she is. My girl. I have a daughter.

  Karen and my mom are crying. Diane has her back against a wall, shaking her head like she doesn’t believe it. Laurie is watching the nurse wash the kid off, wrap her up, bring her to me. Laurie watches it all, that little smile on her face. Me? I’m having trouble staying awake.

  Labor? Yeah. I’ve never worked so hard in my life. If this is the first fight I fight for my kid and it’s a taste of things to come, then I’m going to spend the rest of my life being exhausted.

  I can do that.

  “Here she is,” Nurse Ratched says, handing my daughter to me. “Eight pounds, five ounces.”

  “Hi, Megan,” I breathe, looking down at her sheltered in my arms. “I’m so glad to see you. I’m your mom.”

  The doctor is talking down at my feet, looking between my legs again, the pervert, talking about the afterbirth. So I deliver that as well. It’s nothing compared to the kid. I just keep staring at my girl. My perfect daughter. My kid.

  Diane

  – Winter 1988 –

  Missy killed herself on January 22. She was driving out in the desert just east of Palmdale and crashed. She was going over 100 mph and it was 2:14 a.m. when she lost control of the car and it left the pavement. It rolled six times, landing on its roof. She was not wearing a seat belt.

  The accident was declared just that: an accident. She was not drunk and she had not been drinking. They think that she was speeding and one of her tires blew.

  She killed herself. We all know she killed herself. Missy was the one who did what she damn well pleased, every time, and she was not going to let diabetes eat her up piece by piece, swallow by swallow.

  Laurie is paying for a big party at the Beverly Hills Hotel. She rented the space and organized the food. Ellen, Karen, and I are paying for the liquor. Pi did the invitations; there were five hundred of them. Pi contacted everyone Missy had ever known, from kindergarten to the job she’d had the day before she killed herself.

  We don’t talk about how she killed herself. We just know that she did. We can see it in one another’s eyes, the horror of it, the shame we feel that we couldn’t fix it, couldn’t make it all go away, couldn’t find a way to fight for her in a way that would have any fucking meaning.

  We’re throwing a damn party for her because that’s what she asked for, but dammit, it’s not enough. It’s not even close to being enough.

  I feel like shit, like I want to cry all the time, but I can’t and I’m holding it down and it’s going to drown me. I can’t get any time off—that’s
a given—so I sent a check to Karen, and I’m here for the weekend to play at being blitzed and happy at a party that Missy said was the only thing she wanted of me. So, okay. I’m here. Let’s get the fucking party started.

  “You can’t cry,” Laurie says. “We promised Missy we wouldn’t.”

  “She’s not here to see me,” I say, the tears leaking out of my face. I’m not crying. I’ve never cried like this before. I’m absolutely silent, no hitched breathing, no sobs. God, I think I’m weeping, old-fashioned weeping, like in a Victorian novel. “And I’m not crying. I’m weeping,” I say. “Get off my case, McCormick.”

  We drive to the hotel on Sunset, avoiding the freeway since it’s always a mess, not saying a word. Sunset curves and winds beneath tall, waving eucalyptus trees, multimillion-dollar stucco homes on lush green lawns, office buildings, recording studios, restaurants, eighty-thousand-dollar cars cruising past homeless people hanging around bus stop benches. LA. La-la land. I soak it all up soundlessly. I miss it.

  I miss Missy.

  How the hell did a girl like that ever end up with the name Missy? She should have been named Delilah or Lefty or something.

  We’re the first ones here, because we left early and didn’t take the freeway, and I stand like a wounded buffalo while Laurie talks to the chick from the hotel.

  “Let’s go see where the bathroom is from the reception room,” she says.

  “Okay,” I say, walking at her side like some freak-show reject. I can’t seem to pull it together. It’s like Mom all over again, only different, because I didn’t see it coming with Mom and I saw it coming with Missy for about a decade, all in slow motion. It was like a dream that you couldn’t wake up from no matter how hard you try, and then when you do wake up, thinking it’s finally over, the reason it’s over is because Missy is dead.

  I can feel the tears running down my face. I think I’ve been crying nonstop for a week.

  “You’re not the only one, you know,” Laurie says stiffly.

  “The only what?”