And the face attached to it.
“Gerald?”
Rage turned him into a red marble statue, but then his mind comprehends who I am and his arm lowers, slowly.
“Andrew? Why the hell are you crashing my wife in the bathroom?”
“Suzanne?”
“Hey, Andrew,” says a muffled voice from the other side of the door, followed by the sound of a flush.
“What's going on out there?” Amanda calls out, her voice muted, too.
“Excuse me,” says Dr. Rohrlian with more authority than I expect, her presence sudden and fierce. “This kind of violence is absolutely unacceptable in our office. You two need to stop immediately.”
Gerald releases my shirt.
And rolls his eyes at me, looking at the Cheetos and the smoothie cup, which is now sweating.
But not as much as I am.
“It's a misunderstanding,” I explain to her. “I thought that was my wife's bathroom.”
“We're good,” Gerald says to her. “I didn't know what was happening. We know each other.” He glares at me, contempt no man should ever reveal to his former boss pouring off his scarred face like a nuclear reactor melting down. “Not that you're allowed to barge in on my pregnant wife when she's in the bathroom.”
“It was an accident!”
Just then, Suzanne walks out, looks at the food in my hand, and says, “Amanda needs an emergency smoothie?”
“Andrew?” Amanda calls out.
“Go help your wife,” Gerald grinds out.
“Thanks. I owe you.”
“Oh, you'll pay.”
This time, I take great care entering, relieved to find Amanda–and no one else–in the bathroom two doors down. Without a word, I take the bag of Cheetos, place them on the top of the toilet tank, and take all my frustration out on them.
“What are you doing?”
Bang bang bang
“Turning this into dust for your smoothie.”
“My what?”
Ignoring her, I open the bag. I pour the dust in, untape the spoon from the side of the cup, and stir.
Then I hold my masterpiece before her in triumph.
“A Cheeto smoothie. This will help you relax enough to pee.”
She looks down.
And gags.
“What's wrong?” A cold flush turns my skin to iron.
“It's chunky.”
“It's what?”
“If I take a bite of that, I'll throw up.”
“But–but I pulverized it for you!”
“It needs to be blended.”
“BLENDED?”
And... she starts to cry again, clutching her belly, making me feel more insanely pissed than I have ever felt in my entire life.
Because I can't give her what she needs.
I grab the cup, open the door, and move quickly to the same medical assistant who checked us in.
“Excuse me, Lisa,” I say, looking at her badge. “Is there a blender somewhere here? In the break room, maybe?”
“Blender? Like, a kitchen appliance?”
“Yes.”
She looks at me, then the smoothie. “You're unhappy with your... shake?”
“My pregnant wife is duct-taped to the toilet after an ultrasound, her bladder more distended than a beached whale, and I'm trying to find a way to get her to relax enough to pee.” I hold the smoothie aloft. “This is my one chance.”
“Pregnancy craving?” she asks, standing.
“Something like that.”
“Margie has a Vitamix in the cabinet, for some protein-shake diet she's on. Come with me.” She takes me down the hall to a beige door marked Employees Only. Inside is a wall of cabinets, also beige.
Lisa starts opening doors, hitting pay dirt on the third try. She pulls the monster out and plugs it in. I dump the smoothie in, clapping the top on, then I–
“Careful. These things don't just blend. They heat. You could end up with smoothie soup if you do it for too long.”
It's hard to hear above the machine, getting louder as I turn the dial all the way up to Liquify.
“THANKS!” I yell.
The mixture turns a perfect, day-glo orange.
“What is that, anyway?”
“Orange-vanilla smoothie with a bag of Cheetos in it.”
She lets out a low whistle just as I turn the machine off. “That's one I've never heard before.”
“She's pregnant with twins and her bladder is turning it into triplets. I'll do whatever it takes.”
“Good man. Go!” she says, slapping my shoulder like we're in a relay race. “I'll clean this out for you.”
“Thank you!”
I race back to Amanda. The sink is running. Poor honey. Must be trying again. I tap, then open the door.
She's standing at the sink, washing her hands.
She looks up and grins. Then her eyes drift to the smoothie in my hand.
“I peed!” she exclaims.
“You did? How?”
“Marie.”
“Marie?”
“I texted Shannon, who texted Marie, and Marie did this guided meditation thing she learned for teaching yoga. I imagined my Kegels were dissolving into breast milk that feeds the babies and suddenly, I peed.”
“That’s what made you pee?”
“Mm hmm.” Her stomach growls. “Man, I'm hungry.” She takes the drink out of my hand, eyes it, then sips.
And winces.
“That is disgusting, Andrew.” Before I can stop her, she tosses it in a perfect arc into the trash can, scoring three points.
“I–”
“Don't you have a work call?” She kisses my cheek. “I understand if you need to rush off.” Her own phone buzzes.
I stare at her.
It is going to be a long twenty weeks.
7
Amanda
My two p.m. appointment fills me with a deep sense of amusement.
And dread.
Mostly dread.
Because do you know which two names are written in that time slot?
Agnes DuChamp and Corrine Morris.
That's right. Those two.
The pinchers.
Regulars at my best friend's mother's yoga classes, older-than-dirt Agnes DuChamp and Corrine Morris like to pinch the asses of hot young men they meet. Hot men like my husband and his brother, who now refuse to attend Marie's yoga classes on the grounds that they bruise easily.
But also because they have actual boundaries.
Why, you may wonder, are The Pinchers meeting with me here at Anterdec?
Because I need them, damn it.
And to top it off, Agnes and Corinne are here long before two p.m. Of course they are.
“Pinch and Pincher are here,” Carol says in that droll voice of hers. “Who's next? Are you planning to put my mother on the payroll?”
“Marie? Why would we do that?”
“You're hiring her friends, why not Mom?”
“You want me to offer her a job?”
“Hell, no. I was making a joke. You think I want to work full time with my mother? There isn't enough cannabidiol oil on the planet to make that work.”
“Why do you and Shannon have such a visceral reaction to her?”