by Tracy Weber
“Aren’t you in bed yet?” I asked.
“Nope. I can’t sleep without you here, so I’m making a sandwich. If you’re nice to me, I’ll make a batch of those vegan brownies you love so much.”
I grinned. Michael was learning. I wouldn’t complain about coming home to a messy kitchen if he’d baked something worth cleaning it for.
A metallic rendition of Brahms’ Lullaby floated through the birth center’s sound system, signaling that a new baby had been delivered. Hopefully Rhonda’s wouldn’t be far behind.
“I need to get back, Michael, but I’ll call again in the morning. Give Bella a kiss for me.” Bella’s distinctive sharp bark sounded in the background.
“Bella says she misses you.”
Michael’s intention was sweet, but we both knew what my hundred-pound German shepherd was actually saying: Give me a bite of that sandwich. Now.
I smiled. “Tell her I miss her, too. I miss both of you. Don’t feed her too many treats, and try not to make a mess.”
“Me? When have I ever made a mess?”
I ignored his obvious sarcasm, told him I loved him, and clicked off the phone.
Smart-ass.
A vegan protein bar and another peanut-butter-coated cracker later, I grabbed two bottles of water from the fridge and started to head back.
Whispered voices stopped me at the family room door.
“I told you, we can’t do this here.”
I peeked into the hall, toward the sound. Four doors down, a fiftyish man in a white doctor’s coat leaned over a woman wearing a black cocktail dress and red stilettos. The female, a mid-thirties Hispanic woman with heavily lined, deep cocoa eyes, gave him a sultry pout.
“If not here, where? I’ve been waiting in that hotel room for hours.” She nuzzled his neck. Her right hand lay flat against his chest. Her left explored significantly farther south.
The man’s voice turned low and throaty. “You’re killing me.” He reluctantly pushed her away, exposing his handsome face, designer glasses, and perfectly tousled George Clooney like hair. “I told you I’d call as soon as I could leave, and I will. But we can’t be seen like this. Not here. Especially not now.”
She ran a burgundy fingernail down the center of his sternum. “So what if someone sees us? I’m tired of sneaking around. It’s time for you to get a divorce. Past time.”
The man flashed a conciliatory smile. “Patience, Mariella. Patience. I told you. As soon as the lawsuit is settled, I’ll leave her.”
She grabbed his lapels and pulled him closer. “In case you haven’t noticed, patience isn’t my strong suit.”
This time, he didn’t resist her. Their show zoomed right past PG on the fast track to R.
And they were blocking my way back to Rhonda’s birthing suite.
Fabulous.
What was I supposed to do now? I considered tiptoeing past the two lovers, hoping they wouldn’t notice me. I considered announcing myself loudly, in hopes that they’d scurry away. I even considered spraying them both with the nearest fire extinguisher in an attempt to cool them down before the building ignited.
Their show was that hot.
In the end, I didn’t have to do anything.
Nurse Tamara appeared behind them and froze. At first she seemed angry, but then the right corner of her mouth slowly lifted, forming a grin that seemed more contemptuous than friendly. She tapped the man on the shoulder, surprising him.
“You certainly live up to your nickname, don’t you, Dr. Dick? Can’t even keep it in your pants for a few hours at work? My lawyer’s going to love this.”
The man’s mouth dropped open, but he remained silent.
Mariella grabbed Nurse Tamara’s arm. “Back off, Tamara.”
Nurse Tamara shoved her away. “You back off, you little gold digger. If you think you two are going to live happily ever after, you’re a fool.” She gave Dr. Dick a scathing look. “That scumbag won’t leave his wife until the day he dies.”
She pushed past the shocked-looking couple and marched up to me. “Summer wants you to go back and meet the new nurse. My shift’s over.” She continued to the end of the hallway, then stopped at the exit and growled over her shoulder, “I’m out of here. I’ve had enough of this circus for one day.”
“Tamara, wait!” Dr. Dick ran after her. The heavy metal door slammed behind them.
Mariella stared at the glowing green-and-white exit sign, face locked in an expression of surprised frustration. After several long, uncomfortable seconds, she frowned at me. “What’re you staring at?”
“Nothing. Sorry.”
I scooted past her and jogged back to the birthing suite. When I opened the door, Summer and a new nurse were whispering in the corner. Rhonda squatted on a dark green birthing ball, holding her belly and rocking back and forth.
Still at four centimeters.
Two
Twenty-one very long hours later, Rhonda’s baby arrived. A seven-pound, three-ounce girl she named Miracle. And she was. A miracle, that is. By hour fifteen of Rhonda’s twenty-seven hour unmedicated labor, even I wanted an epidural—or at least a triple shot of morphine with a laughing gas chaser.
But when that baby finally arrived, every trace of bone-weary exhaustion evaporated, replaced by joy-filled, wide-eyed wonder. Miracle burst into the world screaming, as if she’d been desperate to belt out her message. Ten perfect fingers, ten perfect toes. A full head of perfectly curly black hair. If kidnapping wasn’t a felony, I’d have gathered her up in my arms and whisked her home with me. Proof positive that sleep deprivation had drained every remaining drop of my sanity.
The second miracle of the night was that I somehow managed to drive home to Ballard without causing an accident. I stumbled into the kitchen, so exhausted that I almost didn’t notice the dirty dishes Michael had stacked on every available surface. A few minutes after midnight, I took a quick shower, slipped into a well-worn T-shirt, and brushed my teeth. Michael stirred but didn’t awaken, so I gave him a kiss on the cheek, crawled into the Kate-sized hole between him and Bella, and closed my eyes, determined to not stir until the next evening’s yoga class. Or Armageddon, whichever came last.
Seven blissfully unconscious hours later, I awoke to a low, desperate moan.
“Not today, sweetie. Michael’s in charge.” I reached across the bed to nudge my sleepy-headed boyfriend awake and found nothing but the heart-shaped note he’d left on his pillow.
Sorry, hon. Tiffany needs the morning off, so I have to open Pete’s Pets. Love you. See you tonight.
Ugh. Why did Michael insist on opening his pet supply store before eight? I flopped back on my pillow and groaned. Bella, like Dr. Dick’s red-stilettoed companion, wasn’t known for her patience.
Bella whined again, punctuating her point by scraping her polar-bear-sized paw across my lips. I rolled over and covered my face with my elbow. “No. Give me fifteen more minutes.”
She replied with a single sharp bark.
An inch away from my ear.
Then another.
Then another.
I rolled to face her and stared into her gorgeous, deep brown eyes. “Fine, you win. But Michael better have made coffee.”
She didn’t give me a chance to change my mind. She flew down the stairs like a coal-black jetliner, skidded to a stop in our newly remodeled kitchen, and plopped into a perfect sit in front of the blender. I staggered like a zombie behind her.
She barked again.
“I know. I get it already.”
The bittersweet smell of hazelnut coffee lured me to the counter, where I claimed the last semi-clean mug and filled it with the delicious brew. Between sips of life-restoring stimulant, I gorged on Michael’s brownies and surveyed the kitchen. All in all, the damage could have been worse. Every dish in our combined-household kitchen was stacke
d on the counter, and Michael had strewn what appeared to be three weeks’ worth of junk mail across the table. But at least he hadn’t sullied Bella’s sacred food-preparation area. Thirty minutes of dishwashing and a good counter scrubbing from now, the place would be worthy of the cover of Kitchen Digest again.
I still couldn’t believe that I—a yoga teacher with zero cooking skills—lived in a house with stainless steel appliances, stone flooring, and custom maple cabinets, but who was I to complain? Michael loved cooking. The kitchen made him happy, which made me happy. Besides, now that the construction was finally over, I loved our new home upgrade. I especially loved Michael’s new bathroom, which he could trash to his heart’s content.
I swallowed the last bite of brownie, then carefully measured Bella’s special low-fat, grain-free, organic kibble and ground it into a fine powder. Then I added eight ounces of warm water and mixed in Bella’s prescription enzymes. My dog suffered from Exocrine Pancreatic Insufficiency (EPI), an autoimmune disease that had destroyed her pancreas and left her permanently unable to digest food without added medicine. Fortunately, she’d been stable for almost a year now, knock on wood. I finished stirring the disgusting-looking concoction and set the timer for twenty minutes.
Bella barked again.
“I’m sorry. You know the drill. No food until the timer goes off.”
I won. Sort of. Bella moved to the kitchen door and whined, clearly asking to be let outside.
“Sweetie, Michael put in a doggie door for you.” I pointed at the huge white plastic monstrosity bisecting my otherwise perfect kitchen door. “All you have to do is push on it.”
Bella sat, stared at the door, and barked.
“Seriously, Bella. You’re smarter than I am. You can figure this out.” I opened the flap, exposing the paved walkway that led to her destination: the immaculate, newly planted yard Michael had created for her enjoyment. “See? The yard’s right there.”
Bella lifted her paw and scratched near the door handle, as if demonstrating what I was supposed to do. I considered crawling through the dog door myself in hopes that she’d follow, but that strategy had already failed. Three times.
“Fine, you win.”
I closed the door behind my self-satisfied-looking dog and loaded dishes into the dishwasher. I was scrubbing what appeared to be desiccated hash browns and gelatinized ketchup off of a plate when Bella barked at the door, ready to come back inside.
Seriously?
I trudged to the door and opened it again.
“I wish Michael were here so I could say ‘I told you so.’”
Michael had insisted on making several dog-friendly modifications to our yard, claiming that they would decrease Bella’s separation anxiety. He’d fortified our six-foot-tall fence, secured it with a mailman-proof lock, and installed a sign that read Caution: K-9 on Duty. He’d added a designated digging area and a plastic wading pool to one end and planted dog-friendly plants at the other. Over my many objections, he’d finished by installing the ugly white dog door that Bella had thus far refused to use. Evidently going outside wasn’t fun unless your human slaves accompanied you.
Intelligence tally so far? Bella: 537. Humans: 0. Not that I was counting.
All things considered, Bella’s reticence might not have been a bad thing. Six-foot-tall locked fence notwithstanding, leaving Bella on unsupervised guard dog duty seemed like a horrible idea. I’d been working hard to overcome my aversion to beards, but my dog had no such inclination. As for other dogs? Suffice it to say, if either furry man or furry beast entered Bella’s property, it might not end well.
As soon as the timer went off, Bella slurped down her breakfast while I finished downing my second cup of coffee. Fully caffeinated and daily futile cleaning complete, I was too wound up to go back to bed. Plan B it would be.
I opened the cabinet and pulled out a package of unsalted peanuts—the favorite snack of Blackie, a crow Bella and I had befriended a few months ago. I grabbed Bella’s leash.
“What do you think, girlfriend? Want to go to Green Lake?
Bella responded with an enthusiastic bark.
So it was decided.
By the time five o’clock rolled around, the prior night’s exhaustion had ripened into a happiness hangover. I felt positively giddy. I understood now why Summer was so passionate about being a doula. The pay was below poverty level; the schedule, unpredictable. From my experience over the past two days, the hours slid well beyond brutal to practically criminal. But the high at helping a new soul enter the world? It was like nothing I’d ever experienced. Beyond even Michael’s and my toe-curling … well, you know what I mean.
I serenaded Bella with Taylor Swift songs on the drive to Serenity Yoga and parked in my reserved spot in the building’s underground parking garage, or what I referred to as “Bella’s Happy Space.” Even though there was a surface lot nearby, I rented this coveted spot in the resident parking area specifically for Bella’s comfort. It was well worth the extra cost.
Figuring out what to do with Bella while Michael and I were at work had always been a problem; she suffered from significant anxiety when alone for more than a couple of hours, so she couldn’t be left at home for a full workday. She hated other dogs and was unpredictable around bearded men, so ditto on taking her into the yoga studio or leaving her at a doggie daycare. Fortunately, she loved hanging out in the back seat of my ancient Honda. Leaving my dog to guard my car wasn’t the most politically correct solution, but her vet and her trainer approved as long as I always parked in a cool, covered space and took her for a walk every few hours.
I filled Bella’s water bowl, cracked the windows two inches, and promised to come back and walk her soon. Usually I took the shortcut through the lobby to see if my friend and landlord, Alicia, was in the office, but she was enjoying a two-week vacation in Maui, so I skipped the long way around the apartment building, window-shopping at the street-level businesses and picking up a bouquet of vibrant yellow sunflowers at the PhinneyWood Market. I glanced through the window of Pete’s Pets but didn’t see Michael, so I headed to Serenity Yoga. I was still humming chipper breakup tunes when I floated through the studio’s front entrance.
Tiffany Kobrick—Michael’s (and currently my) employee—sat behind the desk, grumpily updating the studio’s database. Every cell in her body vibrated annoyance, from the tips of her greenish-blue toenails to the roots of her bleached blonde hair. She stood as I entered, exposing her newest yoga outfit: black and aqua capri yoga pants with a matching, form-fitting tank top. The words Love All, Serve All stretched across her barely contained breasts. If her annoyed scowl was any indication, she wasn’t in the mood for either at the moment.
She slammed a file folder onto the desk with an irritated thunk. “Kate, these intake forms are impossible. Can’t you ask your students to write legibly? If I have to work two jobs, they should both at least be possible. Pete’s Pets may have sucky hours, but at least I don’t have to decipher bad handwriting.”
Not even Tiffany could ruin my postpartum-by-proxy elation. I floated up to the desk, wearing a warm smile. “Come here, you. Give me a hug.” I opened my arms wide. Tiffany’s eyes opened wider. Her pupils contracted to the size of ultrafine pencil leads. I wrapped my arms around her and squeezed. She stiffened, as if expecting me to thrust a knife into her spine. When I let go, she backed slowly toward the wall, like a camper backing away from a grizzly.
“N-never mind. I shouldn’t have complained.”
I softened my eyes and tried to appear nonthreatening. “No, you’re right. Deciphering the handwriting on those forms is impossible. I gave you all of the crap jobs, and it isn’t fair.” I placed the file folder in the desk drawer and closed the laptop’s lid. “Take the rest of the day off. I’ll clean the studio so you don’t have to.”
“But the data—”
I held up my hand. “No argume
nts. The database can wait. You’ve been working hard, and you deserve a break.”
Tiffany peered at me, head cocked to the side, clearly wondering if I’d contracted some reverse form of rabies. “Thanks, Kate, but I still owe you another hour of work today, and I can’t violate Michael’s work-release program. He’s worse than the guards at the King County Jail. He told me that if he catches me slacking off, he’ll make me scrub out the dog waste containers with my toothbrush.”
She was referring to Michael’s keep-Tiffany-out-of-jail community service program. In short, Tiffany had agreed to give me 200 hours of work to make up for trashing my car a few months ago. In exchange, I’d agreed not to report her to the police. When Michael first proposed the arrangement, I’d balked. But I had to admit, his plan—which was to straighten out Tiffany while simultaneously forcing me to spend time with her—was working. Although Tiffany was nowhere close to being my friend, I despised her a little less every day.
I reached into my purse and tossed her my car keys. “How about a different job, then? Bella’s in my car. Take her to Greenwood Park for a walk and then clean up after Mister Feathers. After that, put Bella back in my car and go home. You deserve the rest of the evening off.”
Tiffany skillfully avoided acknowledging that I’d asked her to clean up the pigeon droppings decorating Serenity Yoga’s back entrance. Either that or my suggestion had shocked her deaf.
“You trust me with your car keys?”
My answer surprised both of us. “Yes, I do. When you’re done, put them in the top drawer of the filing cabinet. Remember to keep Bella at least fifteen feet away from other dogs. If Pete’s Pets is empty, you can take her inside to visit Michael. That way he’ll see that you’re working.”
Trusting Tiffany with Bella was a much bigger leap of faith than handing her my car keys. Damaging my dented old Honda Civic had been the reason she’d gotten into trouble in the first place, and she would never risk lengthening her stint of hard labor. Asking her to walk Bella, on the other hand, was huge. I never left Bella with anyone other than Michael or Rene, and even then I obsessively worried. I was obviously still high on baby juice.
