by ML Nystrom
It didn’t take me long to remember.
It took him three attempts to settle his chair the way he wanted it and several minutes to prepare his coffee and Danish. Three packs of sugar and three creamers stirred three times clockwise and then three times counterclockwise. Three taps of the wooden stirrer on the edge of the cup. Three sips, and he was ready to hear me.
He took a bite of his Danish, chewed three times, and swallowed before speaking. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you again. You made it clear you weren’t ready for a long-term relationship.” He wiped his fingers of the sticky sugar and took my hand in both of his across the table. “Dare I hope you’ve changed your mind about us? We run in the same circles with the same class of people. We make a great couple. I care for you so much, Melanie. I’d do anything for you to take me back into your life.”
Fuck, I have to do this! I’d rehearsed my speech several times over the last few days and had my words down pat. Now that I was facing the task of telling Peter he would be a father, my tongue stuck to the roof of my dry mouth. My stomach spun and threatened, but I’d become an expert with morning sickness. Make that all-day sickness.
“Peter, I have to tell you something.” I hesitated. The hope in his eyes was so obvious. He thought we were getting back together, and I was about to burst his bubble. “Fuck, this is hard.”
“Just tell me, darling.” His voice cajoled softly and tenderly.
Oh, God, someone shoot me. Please! “I’m pregnant.”
A sudden bath of ice water dumped on his head couldn’t have frozen him any faster. He reared back in the chair, his face going slack. The tone of his voice changed from pretty fluff to diamond hard. “Say again?”
“I’m pregnant. I thought you should know.”
“So you think it’s mine?”
I wasn’t expecting that. “Uh, yeah. Who else’s could it be?”
He let go of my hand and leaned back, taking three more sips of his drink. “Well, you don’t lead a celibate lifestyle, and your commitment phobia is legendary.”
Seriously? So much for the sweet boyfriend, pining away because he cares about me so much. My eyes narrowed. “Exactly what are you implying?”
“You’ve never been committed to one man long-term, nor have you wasted time mourning a broken heart.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
He took three more sips and another bite of the flaky pastry. “Oh, come on, Melanie. Everyone in the city knows you go through men like water. Couple of weeks, no more than a month of hard banging, and you’re done. Hell, you fucked two other men at my gym before dating me.”
Crumbs fell from his mouth to land on his blazer. He made a half-hearted attempt to brush them away. “One more week with you, and I would have won. There’s a betting pool going at the gym to see who lasts the longest. The pot is up to seventeen hundred dollars now. Besides, we used condoms every time we fucked, since you wouldn’t take the pill.”
I was taken aback by his reaction to my news and the sudden one-eighty from hopeful lover to asshole ex. I guess I had expected him to be the kind, loving man I remembered. Betting pool? Longest? My spine stiffened, and angry heat infused my body. “I told you I can’t take the pill or any other hormonal birth control. It messes me up too much. Do you remember we thought the condom might have broken once?”
“Yeah, once. Only once. And it was just a little tear.”
“That’s all it takes.”
He sighed and continued his ritual of three sips per one Danish bite. “So what are you going to do about it?”
I ignored the you instead of we. “I have an appointment with a doctor this afternoon.”
He nodded. “It’s for the best. Neither of us wants to be parents.”
It didn’t take a genius to figure out what he was assuming. I realized the thought had not even occurred to me. It took me zero-point-zero seconds to dismiss it. I’d always been pro-choice and still was, but for the last five days, I’d done a lot of thinking and planning. I wanted this baby.
“Not that kind of appointment.”
He frowned. “Adoption?”
Now I was getting irritated. Must be the hormones, right? “No, I’m keeping the baby.”
His faced twisted up, and he banged his coffee cup down on the table hard enough to knock over the snowy-white mountain of paper bits I’d built. “Is this some joke? You? A mother?”
Forget irritated. I was mad. Red-hot angry mad. “Yes, me. A mother. What’s wrong with that?”
“Everything. You like to drink. You go out to bars and clubs like some people go to church. You sleep around. A lot. You cuss like a sailor. None of that says mother material.”
How dare he be so fucking judgmental? “So when a man drinks, goes out clubbing, and sleeps with a lot of different women, he’s a fucking rock star. His friends congratulate him on winning longevity betting pools. When a woman does it, she’s a slut. Double standard much?”
He shrugged. “It’s the way it is, and you can’t possibly need money from me either.”
“What the fuck do you mean now?”
He threw the last of the Danish into his mouth and chomped on it. No careful threes this time. “You know exactly what I mean. Your family has a shit ton of money, and you get a monthly cut of it. In fact, you’ll be rich the rest of your life and not have to lift a goddamned finger. You were born with a fucking silver spoon in your mouth, and you’re still sucking on it. If this is your ploy to get child support from me, get ready to fight, baby. You have to prove I’m the father, and I can drag this out until that kid graduates college.”
Oh, no. I’m so done with this!
I stood up and threw my cold coffee at his face. “I don’t want a goddamned thing from you, asshole! This is my kid, and I’d rather raise him alone than deal with your fucking lame ass.”
He spluttered, and the chair screeched as he pushed back. His knees knocked into the edge of the table and raised it a few inches, and the noise caught the attention of several passers-by.
“Bitch!” His yell was to my back, as I’d already turned and walked away. Bitch was right. It stood for Being-In-Total-Control-of-Herself. I’d wear the title proudly.
My rage kept me going until I got to my car, started it, and drove away. Only then did I let the tears roll down my cheeks.
“Fuck that asshole!” The clock on my dashboard said I had an hour before my appointment, and I wasted time and gas driving in circles around the city. I had expected the conversation with Peter to go differently and longer. His anger shocked me, as I thought he would try to convince me to stay with him for the baby’s sake, or perhaps want to coparent with me. I never dreamed he would attack me as he did. His words repeated on a loop in my head while I drove around on autopilot.
“Is this some joke? You? A mother?”
“You like to drink. You go out to bars and clubs like some people go to church. You sleep around. You cuss like a sailor. None of that says mother material.”
“You were born with a fucking silver spoon in your mouth, and you’re still sucking on it.”
My hands clenched the steering wheel. Yes, I liked to go out. I was single. What else was I going to do? Stay home and knit a closet full of blankets and scarves while waiting for the Saturday night HBO movie feature? A fucking betting pool? How many men had betting pools on how long they lasted in a relationship? Hurt, frustration, and anger all rolled into a big iron ball and sat in my gut. The silver spoon remark bugged me the most. I might have come from money and had a lot in my bank account, but dammit, I still worked like everyone else in the world. So what if my money paid for college without taking out massive school loans? I didn’t go to an uber-fancy private high school or Ivy League college. I graduated with honors from a state university, and I earned my degrees with hours of studying and classes. Teaching was a calling, not a hobby to fill a rich girl’s time. I worked hard every fucking day for my students and spent huge amounts of time tutoring
and coaching. I cared about my students with a passion.
Fuck, I wanted to call Bevvie so bad. I’d do that later after this appointment. Thank God I had one person in the world that didn’t judge me. Make that six, as her kids and Connor didn’t either. Owen’s name popped into my mind. He’d carried me to the guest bedroom, driven me home, made sure I ate, and argued about leaving me alone. I took a big breath and let it go along with some of the anxiety roiling in my gut as I added another tick on my side.
Chapter Five
The hour was up, and I dashed away my tears as I drove into the parking lot of the OB-GYN. I decided to try my BFF’s recommendation, since her guy was in our insurance network and delivered all of her kids. The doctor’s office was clean and cool with a nice grayish blue décor in the waiting room. A TV mounted on one wall played some random talk show with a host spouting about recipes using chickpeas. I sat in a row of chairs and filled out a clipboard full of medical forms.
Across from me sat two women with huge stomachs who looked like they were ready to pop. I couldn’t help but hear their loud conversation.
“I gained ninety-five pounds with ma first one an’ seventy-five with ma second. This is ma third an’ the doctor don’t want me gainin’ nothin’ at all.”
“This is my first, and I haven’t gained a lot, but my ankles have swelled up bigger than my calves. I have to wear flip-flops all the time ’cause I cain’t wear no shoes.”
Oh jeez, is this what I’m in for? I kept my head down and marked the bubbles on the form. Damn, these questions got extremely personal. Thank God for HIPPA privacy rules!
“It’s easier the second time round. The first one done stretched me all out so’s I had no trouble at all pushin’ out ma next one. Took no time at all. Only a couple hours in labor an’ done. Almost had her in the truck on the way to the hospital. I reckon this’n gonna come fast too. He’s been wrestling against ma bladder somethin’ fierce. I gotta pee all the time even when I just went.”
Please stop talking! I wished my ears came with switches so I could turn them off. Or at least mute. This was getting a little TMI-ish.
“The doctor said I might have to have a C-section. I hear when they open you up, they put all your guts in big bowls while they get the baby out. Is that true?”
“I don’ know ’bout that, but I kinda wisht I had C-sections. Both a mine have been natural. Ma first was nine pounds an’ ma second was eleven. Let me tell you, I got tore up good. Doctor had to stitch me up stern to stem on that one.”
God, please make them stop talking! My gorge rose. I’d read about the episiotomy cut, tearing, stitches… Fuck me, I wanted to run screaming from the office.
“Miss Miser? You can come on back.”
No, I’m so not ready for this! “Thank you.”
I got up on shaky knees and wobbled after the squat older nurse. Her wide hips swayed with every step as she walked back to the labyrinth of examination rooms.
“Step on the scale, please.”
To my surprise, the scale showed a weight loss. I was six pounds lighter than my normal one hundred forty-seven. At five foot eight, I was right in the middle of what normal should be for my height and weight. “The book said I would gain weight.”
“It’s not unusual for you to lose a little in the beginning. Don’t worry, you’ll gain it back.”
“That woman out there in the lobby said she gained ninety-five pounds with her first pregnancy.”
The nurse made a tching noise and gave me a wry look. “Yeah, not all of that was baby. She put on nearly a hundred pounds and had a nine pounder. I’m sure you can do the math. She’ll sit out there and tell everyone she’s an expert in child birthing and rearing, when she and everyone else knows each pregnancy is different. Just eat right, no alcohol or smoking, drink lots of water, lighten up on caffeine, and take your prenatal vitamins. Rule of thumb is around a twenty-five-pound gain, give or take.”
Babies are complicated. I kept my mouth shut while she took my blood pressure, temperature, and asked all the triage questions I just answered on the forms. Redundant much?
She left me alone with instructions for me to strip naked and put on the ugly hospital gown, open to the front. “The doctor will give you a full examination. That include belly, breasts, abdomen, and pelvic.”
Shit’s getting real. I could still get off the table, get dressed, and run. I didn’t know what good it would do, but I had that option, right?
As I was contemplating the benefits of going home to crawl in bed and ignore the world, Dr. Reule knocked on the door and entered. Damn, how close to retirement was this guy? His thin, slightly stooped form and shuffling gait didn’t inspire a lot of confidence, but Bevvie trusted the man. The nurse followed him and pulled out the sock-covered stirrups.
He picked up the clipboard full of notes and squinted at it while his reading glasses stayed perched on his head. “Good afternoon, Miss Miser. How many times a day do you move your bowels?”
Bev warned me about his bedside manner. I grinned and acted cheeky to lighten my mood. Or maybe hide my fear. “Gee, doc. I usually get a few dinners and a bottle or two of wine before I share that kind of personal knowledge.”
By the confused look on his face, my joke fell flat. I didn’t try again and kept my comments to myself.
The next half hour was the most intimate and thorough doctor’s examination I’d ever had. There wasn’t a place on my body that didn’t get poked, prodded, touched, and measured. I had to joke with myself as I answered the questions he asked and the nurse typed the information on a portable computer cart.
“Do you have regular periods?”
“Yes.” But only at the end of sentences.
“Hemorrhoids?”
“No.” Not counting my pain-in-the-ass boss at school.
“Any history of diabetes in the family?”
“Not that I’m aware.” My family isn’t very sweet.
If I didn’t find any humor in something, I would melt into a big emotional ball of tears like the Wicked Witch of the West. What the fuck am I doing? A mom? Who in the hell do I think I am? I can’t do this. Bevvie is the mom. She’s great at it. How am I supposed to measure up when everything in my fucking life is shit?
“Hmmm. Seven weeks or so? Might be a little soon, but let’s see if we can hear it.” The nurse handed him a wand-looking thing while the doctor spread a wet, clear gel on my stomach.
“Hear what?”
“The heartbeat.”
Heartbeat? There’s a heartbeat already?
He pressed the wand into my lower abdomen and slid it around. The room became quiet except for a soft quooh-quooh-quooh. “There it is. Strong and steady. Right now the fetus is about the size of an egg. We’ll set up an ultrasound in a few weeks.”
His voice faded away, and my whirling thoughts stilled. The only sound I focused on was the heartbeat of my child.
My child!
In less than nine months, I would have another person in my life. One who would totally depend on me. One who would stay with me all day, every day. One I would be responsible to teach, nurture, and shape into an adult. One who would love me without condition. One who would never abandon me. Fuck, I’m going to be a mother!
Quooh-quooh-quooh.
Tears filled my eyes as I listened to the pulse of my new future. Fuck, when did I get to be such a fucking crybaby? I dashed them away with a flick of my fingers and nodded at whatever the doctor said.
“You okay, hon?” The nurse helped me up after the man wandered out of the room.
“Yes, I’m fine. I’m just a little… I’m…” God, where are my words?
She patted my arm in a show of empathy. I was sure she had seen and heard it all working here. “Overwhelmed?”
I looked her square in the eye and made a statement that rarely came from my mouth. “I think I’m happy.”
Owen raised his eyes to the thick gray clouds overhead. The summer humidity and falling temperatures
of twilight meant an evening rain shower, and he’d timed it to finish the day’s work by when the first drop hit.
The owner picked out the octagonal design with built-in benches on the railings. Owen had showed him a different flooring pattern, where the slats were cut and laid in a Celtic knot, made even more noticeable by a different color stain. The time to complete the project had increased, but so did the pay.
Owen picked up a two-by-six board and glanced at the spot where the next piece would go. His chop saw started with the flick of a switch. He lowered his safety glasses before lining up the board and bringing the spinning blade down. The wood barely hissed as the saw cut clean through in one push. Owen took the fitted slat and slipped it into the open track. Perfect. Owen anchored it in with several deck nails and stood up to look at the finished flooring. Benches would go in tomorrow as long as the rain kept to the evenings and didn’t bleed over into the days.
“Hey there, Owen.” A man dressed in a blazer and tie walked toward him from the driveway. “I just got home from work. This looks amazing.”
The man, Jerry Harris, worked as a manager at a large car dealership. His pudgy stomach and hanging chin looked like he spent more time behind an office desk than walking the lot. “You’ve been at this all day I see. Very nice, very nice. When do you think you will finish?”
“Three days.”
“Wonderful. Randy Steagall is our district manager, and he wants you to see about building him something on his back porch. I think he wants an extension and then a screened-in part. Mind if I give him your number?”
Owen nodded his go ahead but stayed quiet.
“Excellent. I appreciate the fast turnaround. The last guy I hired to work on the house took three weeks to put on a roof. Three weeks! He gave me every excuse in the book. Back strains, sprained toes, something about license plates and his car getting impounded by mistake, girlfriend and wife problems at the same time, the dog getting sick and needing emergency surgery. I get that life happens, but every other day it seemed he had something happen that kept him from finishing the work. After he finally got done, I found out he doesn’t even have a dog and his domestic problems stemmed from him trying to meet other women on one of those singles meeting sites. Nice to find someone that has some integrity.”
