Kitabı oku: «The Baby Chronicles», sayfa 3

Chapter Five

Monday, March 22

“Whaddayamean, you want it by Thursday?” Harry roared through his closed office door. I began to count the seconds until he’d roar again. One, two…

“Whitney, get in here!”

Three.

Harry was at his desk, riffling through the stacks of papers that spilled willy-nilly over the edges of the desk and onto the floor.

“Maybe I can find what you’re looking for,” I suggested tactfully. Harry views paper as having as much relevance to the present day as dinosaur eggs. Armed with his cell phone, BlackBerry, iPod, DVD player, CD player, memory stick, hard drive, external drive, tape recorder, Dictaphone, tablet PC and walkie-talkie, Harry believes paper is obsolete.

That’s what I’m for—keeping the obsolete in order and out of his way.

“That contract we signed with Franklin and Terrance? When did we say we’d meet with them to discuss the changes they want?”

“Thursday.”

He sagged like a deflated balloon. “That means I can’t go to my mother-in-law’s place for dinner.” The import of his statement sank into his consciousness, and he straightened a little. Then he grinned. “That means I have an actual excuse. I don’t have to eat her salt-free tuna casserole or those hockey pucks she calls biscuits.”

“I’m so glad you’ve turned this into a plus so quickly,” I murmured.

“Call my wife and tell her what’s happened.”

“No fair. I’m sick of being the bearer of bad tidings.” Harry couldn’t go to his mother-in-law’s last week, either, and he missed out on a Scandinavian feast of boiled cod, boiled potatoes and white cake—food so pale it would disappear in a snowstorm.

“You’re good at it, I’m not. Besides, my wife believes you.”

“That’s because I always tell the truth.”

“Whatever. Listen, I’ve got to get busy on this. Close the door on your way out.” He promptly turned me out. I was as relevant as the three-day-old newspaper lying on the floor beside his desk. Therefore, I was able to stand there and study him, my mercurial, bighearted, Danny DeVito-like boss, without his even noticing my presence.

Harry’s aged in the past couple years. Another chin here, an additional roll around his waist there, two more scowl marks on his forehead…but the biggest difference is definitely his hair loss. For over two years, he’s managed to look as if he had, if not a full head of hair, at least an energetic and animated one, but now even the curly perms aren’t doing the trick. Today he’d been running his fingers across his pate and he’d disturbed the carefully arranged and lacquered spit curls so that they stood on end like exclamation points and question marks hovering above his head.

Quietly I slipped out of his office. Kim, who I’d barely had a chance to talk to all week, caught my arm as I passed her desk. “Let’s go out for lunch soon.”

“Great. Where do you want to go—”

“Let’s do Vietnamese. I’ve been craving pho,” Mitzi chirruped helpfully from behind us.

We spun around to find Mitzi licking her chops.

“Let me guess. You want to eat with us now because Arch won’t be home for dinner.”

“Podiatry convention,” Mitzi said, as if that explained everything. Mitzi often joins us. She never waits for an invitation. Instead, she bestows upon us the privilege of her esteemed presence.

“So Dr. Foot isn’t coming home tonight?”

“His name is Archibald Whitman Fraiser the third,” Mitzi said primly. “Not ‘Dr. Foot’ or ‘Sole Man.’”

“Right. Archie.” I mentally patted myself on the back for my heroic self-control. Not once have I pointed out the ludicrousness of a foot doctor whose name is Arch.

“What is ‘fuh,’ and why would anyone want to eat it?” Kim asked.

“Beef noodle soup.”

“Why didn’t you just say so?”

I picked up my sweater and headed for the door, glad that I had soup to anticipate. Last time Mitzi picked the restaurant and recommended the food, we ended up at an Indonesian place. Fortunately, neither of us ordered Mitzi’s suggestion, semur otak, which, we discovered later, was beef brains sautéed in spiced sauce. More proof that you can’t trust someone who doesn’t like chocolate.

“Kim, you really need to consider a new wardrobe,” Mitzi observed as we walked through the dimly lit restaurant decorated with faux bamboo paper, red brocade and elaborate hand-carved panels. “Preppy is fine, but…”

“Tailored,” I blurted out automatically. “Kim likes her clothes tailored.” I didn’t want Kim and Mitzi to get into it before we’d even been seated. If Mitzi says Kim’s clothes are too preppy, then Kim will say Mitzi’s are too Barbie, then Mitzi will tell Kim that if she’d ever read a magazine that had some meaning, like Vogue, instead of burying her nose in something fluffy like Newsweek, she’d know how people dress these days. To that, Kim would reply…Well, it’s just better if I stop the conversation before it gets started.

Much to my surprise, Kim turned around, gave Mitzi a munificent, approving smile and said, “Mitzi, for once I think you’re right.”

Mitzi nearly tripped and fell headfirst into the koi pond. “You agree with me?”

“Yes, I do,” Kim said firmly. “Today I think everyone is right.”

Even Mitzi? What had made Kim’s mood turn on a dime? Last I’d talked to her, her and Kurt’s negotiations over the baby issue had reached an impasse.

Mitzi regarded Kim suspiciously. Historically, Kim and Mitzi haven’t agreed on anything. So far, they haven’t even agreed to disagree.

After that, Mitzi couldn’t take her eyes off Kim. She observed her warily, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop or to find out what kind of joke Kim was playing on her. I ended up ordering spring rolls and chicken sticks, with three bowls of pho to follow, while Mitzi charily ferreted out clues as to why Kim might concur with her about anything.

Mitzi observed Kim guardedly until the appetizers came. Then she picked up a chicken stick, waved it in the air and demanded, “What’s going on with you?”

“Me?” Kim tried to look innocent, but her eyes were sparkling.

Then, as if she was simply too full to hold it in any longer, she blurted, “Kurt and I are going to have a baby!”

Mitzi, who had been drinking from her glass, turned into a human fire hydrant and spewed it across the table.

“Kim, are you kidding me?” I gasped. “For real? Are you sure?”

“It’s not exactly what you think, but…” Kim hugged herself with glee.

“How many ways can you be pregnant, silly?” I felt giddy with pleasure.

“I have to tell you what—”

“That’s just awful!”

Shocked, we both turned to stare at Mitzi. Her livid face was the color of an eggplant. “Just awful…” she muttered. “Why you?” Then, so softly that I almost missed it, she added, “Why not me?”

I was still unsure about what I’d just heard, but Referee Whitney came to the rescue. “Settle down, you two. Kim, you first. I thought Kurt was worried about having another child.”

“He was, but we settled that. We’re going to adopt!” She glowed incandescently. “I don’t know why we didn’t consider it initially. I want to love, nurture and raise another child. I want Wesley to have a brother or sister. Adopting is the perfect answer. We won’t be rushing into a pregnancy before the doctor gives me the go-ahead, we’ll get the baby we all want, and some child will get a loving home. We’ve been praying about it, and everything is falling into place. Kurt’s as excited as I am.”

“Adopt? You aren’t having one from—” Mitzi pointed to her flat belly “—here?”

“No, but I’m having one from here.” Kim put her hand over her heart. Then she scowled. “Why do you think my having a baby is ‘awful’ anyway? I’m a wonderful mother!”

“It’s not that…I’m sure you are…Wesley will grow out of this stage he’s in eventually…he’s got to improve sometime.” Mitzi wasn’t doing herself any favors.

Then she surprised us both by bursting into tears.

Mitzi does not cry. Much, I expect, for the same reason that the Statue of Liberty does not cry—she’s too hardheaded. Granted, Mitzi can make others cry, but she is traditionally tough as nails. As she says, “crying ruins your makeup.” But tonight she threw caution—and a lot of mascara—to the winds.

It took both Kim and me, patting her back, hugging her and murmuring helpless platitudes—and some fervent unspoken prayers—to calm her down.

Finally, over steaming bowls of pho, she started to talk.

“I didn’t mean I’m not happy for you, Kim,” she mumbled into her broth, “or that you shouldn’t have more children. I’m sure Wesley will grow up to be human eventually.”

I kicked Kim under the table to stop her from lunging over it to throttle Mitzi.

“But I wanted to be the first one to announce I was going to be having a baby.”

I realized that my jaw was hanging somewhere by my kneecaps and shut my gaping mouth. Kim, too, looked dumbstruck. Mitzi and a baby? Those two things went together like, well, like a hairpin and a flashlight, a toenail clipper and a feather boa, a cotton ball and a spare tire. Frankly, I think Mitzi and a baby are the most unlikely combination of all.

“You’re going to have a baby?” I choked out. “A real one?” I don’t know why I said that, except that most everything else about Mitzi is artificial—her nails, her eyelashes…

“Of course a real one! At least I thought I could.”

Mitzi looked as though she might start to cry again. “Arch and I have been trying to get pregnant for almost two years. Our doctor recommended a fertility expert. He’s optimistic, but offers no guarantees.”

“So you will be having a baby soon!” Kim blurted. “They can help so many infertile couples these days. We’ll all pray for you, won’t we, Whitney?”

“Of course.” I did a double take as I glanced at Mitzi again. She was scowling as if she’d just put her foot in a wad of discarded bubble gum. “Mitzi?”

“You realize what this means, don’t you?”

“Not exactly.” I never have a clue what anything means to Mitzi.

“If Kim’s going to adopt, she won’t be gaining a lot of weight or looking anymore fat and dumpy than she already does.”

Mitzi can ruin a compliment like no other living being.

She turned her sharp eyes on me. “That means that you’ll have to get pregnant, too, Whitney, after Arch and I are expecting.”

“I will?” Chase and I hadn’t discussed planning a baby around Mitzi’s whims. “Why?”

Mitzi rolled her eyes and looked at me as if I were dumb as rock.

“Because if I’m going to grow a stomach like a basketball, there has got to be someone in the office—besides Harry—who is fatter than me!”

Of course. I can’t think of a better reason to bring a child into the world than to make Mitzi’s waistline look good. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself.

Chapter Six

“Why didn’t you tell us you were trying to get pregnant?” Kim demanded. “We could have prayed for you and your health all along.”

An uncharacteristic look of uncertainty flickered on Mitzi’s features. Mitzi is nothing if not confident—confident to the point of crazy-making, in fact. As Harry says, “Mitzi may be mistaken, but she’s never uncertain.”

“I thought I’d get pregnant right away, and I wanted to surprise everyone.” She eyed Kim speculatively. “Especially those who think I’m an irresponsible bubblehead.”

Everyone on Planet Earth, you mean?

“When it didn’t happen right away, I thought I’d better wait until that little strip turned color.”

I imagined Mitzi with a case of home pregnancy kits, testing, testing and retesting, like Dr. Frankenstein waiting for his monster’s finger to twitch.

“We thought it was a fluke, of course. I never fail a test of any kind, so I didn’t see how I could fail this one. But now that weeks have turned into months…” Genuine puzzlement filled her face.

“The doctor says that there are wonderful fertility drugs available.”

The expression of distaste on Mitzi’s face spoke volumes. Mitzi doesn’t like unpleasant or disagreeable things. These include gargling, splinters, hangnails, cleaning out the stuff left over in the kitchen sink and looking at herself in a mirror when she’s having her hair colored. Putting a worm on a fish hook or washing squashed bugs off a dirty windshield—even if it is the windshield of her Porsche—is beyond consideration. I’d never get her started on a hair clog in the shower drain or the thought of Mr. Tibble or Scram urping a hair ball, either.

Her aversion to the nastier parts of everyday life is legend around our office. She once tried to get the fire department to come because she’d heard rumors that someone on the first floor had seen a mouse. She refuses to look in garbage cans for fear there might be a browning apple core inside. Then there was the day that Bryan came down with the stomach flu and she sent him home in a taxi with a brown paper grocery sack over his head so he wouldn’t breathe on her.

Any sort of test recommended by a fertility specialist no doubt ranked right near hair ball urping with Mitzi. Clearly, Mitzi is motivated to have a child, or she would never consider it.

She reached into her Kate Spade purse and took out a slender metallic silver case, the kind expensive jewelry might come in. She opened the top and tilted the case toward us so that we could see what was inside.

“A thermometer?” Kim and I yelped together.

Mitzi snapped the case shut and put a finger to her lips. “Shh. I don’t want the entire world to know about this.”

“When did they start selling thermometers in jewelry stores?” Kim wondered aloud.

“Don’t be ridiculous. This is the case for my diamond tennis bracelet. You don’t think I’d carry a basal thermometer around in the ugly plastic thing it comes in, do you? I have to take my temperature every morning before I get out of bed.”

“Then why do you have it in your purse?”

Mitzi looked at Kim as if she had oatmeal for brains. “Because,” she said, drawing out every word as if she were talking to a sweet but slow child, “my housekeeper is cleaning my bedroom today. I couldn’t just leave it lying around and announce to the world what we’re doing, could I?”

“I don’t see why not,” I said. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” As soon as I said it, I wished I could take back my statement. Maybe Mitzi and Arch, even though they didn’t have to, felt shame or embarrassment that they were having trouble getting pregnant. Me and my big mouth. Insert foot, stroll around.

My high-school girlfriend, now the mother of two, had walked in Mitzi’s shoes and opened my eyes to the “comforting” things people say to women struggling to become pregnant. “If one more person tells me to relax and that I’ll get pregnant right away or to be patient, I think I’ll scream,” she’d told me. “And the next person says they know exactly how I feel, is going to ‘feel’ something they didn’t expect, like my hand over their mouth.”

Needless to say, I got the idea. Minimizing fertility problems is a knife in the heart to people who want a baby in their arms.

“I’ve also had my thyroid checked and we’ve been taking blood tests. If they don’t show anything, then…” Mitzi hadn’t noticed that I’d checked out of the conversation for a moment. She began throwing around words like follicle-stimulating hormones, ultrasound, hysterosalpingogram, biopsy, and several words that ended in -scopy, and I wondered how any of them would stack up against a discussion of one of Mr. Tibble’s hair balls.

Lord, I pray that Mitzi gets pregnant soon. Otherwise, it’s going to be a very tense spring and summer at Innova Software. I already have more information about Mitzi and Arch’s life than I care to.

For the first time in all the years I’ve known her, I saw fear flicker in Mitzi’s eyes. “But what if…” She left the question unfinished.

Beneath the flawless makeup, the two-hundred-dollar haircut and the designer suit, I saw the real Mitzi—uncertain, afraid, and longing for a child she wasn’t sure she’d ever have.

Kim gently laid her hand across Mitzi’s. “You can’t give up now, when you are just finding the help you need.”

“I’m an overachiever. Everyone says so. I should be able to do this on my own.”

Overachiever? That’s a quality I haven’t noticed in Mitzi, at least not around the office.

Still, my heart goes out to her. She’s been struggling for two years with the “what-if” of not being able to have a child. That’s a pain I, never having been in her position, cannot judge.

Later, back at the office, I still felt rattled by the alien expression of apprehension in Mitzi’s eyes.

Betty was at her desk, eating garlic stir-fry out of a white paper box. The odor wafted through the room, and I felt my eyes sting. I hope she finishes her lunch down to the very last snow pea, because if she leaves her leftovers in our refrigerator we’re going to need gas masks.

“Did you go out for Chinese?” I picked up the paper from her fortune cookie. “Treasures will come your way from unexpected places. Beware of the dishonest merchant.”

It figures—eBay again, even in Betty’s fortune cookie.

“Bryan brought it back for me from a Vietnamese restaurant.”

“What was that about?” Mitzi came into the break room, chewing on a large dill pickle.

I stared at the pickle. “And what is that about?”

“Oh, nothing.”

Hah. Mitzi replying to a question by saying “Oh, nothing,” is like asking Genghis Khan or Attila the Hun what they’re doing, gathering armies and polishing swords and having them innocently say, “Oh, nothing.” There’s always more than meets the eye.

“You don’t like pickles. Aren’t you the one who made the waiter take back a burger last week to remove the pickles and replace the meat so you wouldn’t have to taste pickle juice?”

“That was last week.” She took a determined bite of the gherkin.

“You didn’t have a palate transplant, did you?”

She glared at me in sheer annoyance. “If you must know, I’m practicing.”

“For what? A pickle derby?”

“For being pregnant.”

“Sorry, Mitzi, I don’t get it.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. Whitney, you have no foresight whatsoever. If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even have our girls’ night out on your calendar! You should really spend more time planning ahead.”

That’s what I thought I was doing by leaving girls’ night out off my calendar. Mitzi always plans it, and sometimes I just don’t want to have my body massaged with stones—there are already enough rocks in my head, thank you—to hear a clothing historian lecture on the invention of the girdle, or to attend an in-home brassiere party where we can all be fitted in the privacy of someone’s four-foot-by-four-foot bathroom. Kim, Betty and I have gone along with Mitzi’s wacko ideas, because we know camaraderie around the office helps foster a teamwork approach, but if she gets us invited to another one of those brassiere parties, I’m outta here.

“And just what are you planning ahead for, might I ask?”

She bestowed on me her “You poor, benighted idiot” look. “For when I’m pregnant, of course! Midnight cravings? Pickles and ice cream? Don’t you ever read anything other than software magazines?”

“Let me get this straight. You hate pickles, so you are practicing eating them so that when you get pregnant and have a craving for them, you will be able to tolerate them?”

“Of course. I want the entire pregnancy experience. I have to learn to eat pickles. Eating ice cream will be no problem.”

Weird as it all is, I’m impressed. If Mitzi will go to such lengths for a baby she isn’t even pregnant with, I can’t imagine what she’ll do for one she’s able to hold in her arms.

I looked at her, pickle halfway to her mouth.

She glared at me so I couldn’t speak. “Don’t you dare make fun of me, Whitney. Not only do Americans consume nine pounds of pickles per year per person, but Elvis loved fried pickles!” She turned and stalked off.

Well, if it was okay with Elvis, then it’s okay with me.

Monday evening, later, March 22

Chase was in the kitchen when I got home, making himself a tuna fish sandwich. Mr. Tibble and Scram were weaving in and out between his legs like skaters making figure eights on the ice. Scram was meowing at the top of his lungs. He thinks it never hurts to ask for what he wants—especially if it’s from one of his favorite food groups. Mr. Tibble normally doesn’t stoop to Scram’s level and act like a cat. He allows Scram to speak for him and express his displeasure. He also lets Scram steal food off the table and promptly takes it away from him. He does not let Scram go into the litter box first, sleep in his bed or have the one catnip mouse in the house that hasn’t been beheaded. For some reason, whenever I think about Mr. Tibble, I’m reminded of Mitzi.

“Hi, honey.” I slipped my arms around Chase’s warm, taut middle and laid my head against his back. I could feel him breathing, and his innate, irresistible masculinity held me there as firmly as if he were a magnet and I a metal shaving. “How are you feeling today? Stomach better?”

“I feel great. Must have been something I ate.”

“There could be something going around. Or maybe you have morning sickness.”

He put down the mayonnaise, wiped his hands on a towel and turned around in my arms to kiss me on the forehead.

“You understand, of course, that I can’t dignify that with a response.”

“Wise choice.” I plucked a carrot from the plate he’d prepared for himself.

“There’s too much pregnancy conversation in my life. I have more information about what happens when a couple goes to a fertility specialist than I ever wanted to know. Unfortunately, no matter how hard I try to get Mitzi to quit talking, it doesn’t work. I’m the little Dutch boy with his finger in the dike. Mitzi is the water and it’s hopeless to think I can hold her back.”

“Sometimes medicine can be an insane business—the E.R., people coming in on drugs, hallucinating, hyperventilating, bleeding—but it’s nothing like your office. Insanity there is considered the norm.”

“No one does drugs, but there is definitely a lot of hallucinating going on.” And I began to entertain Chase with Mitzi’s newest prepregnancy scheme, learning to love the common pickle.