When she's upset, though, all the security measures go into a reverse lockdown, my compassion flying out to find her, protect her, keep her happy.
Sound cheesy? Too bad.
“It's okay. It's temporary. Everyone says it'll be over soon.” She frowns. “Except for Carol. She said her morning sickness lasted for thirty weeks.”
“You won't be Carol,” I say automatically, hoping like hell I'm right.
“But I have two inside me. Two! All bets are off.”
I rub her belly, moving my hand along an imaginary infinity symbol. “This is the best bet ever.”
Her smile spreads. “Yeah. It is. We made babies. I'm growing humans inside me.”
“You are.”
Every day, we have this conversation. Every single day, at some point, we stare at her navel and pat ourselves on the back for doing what Neanderthals did long before you could order a coffee on a phone or book a seat on a private space shuttle (I was number three in line when they took deposits). From the dawn of man until now, hormones and desire have made it possible to procreate.
And I hear the desire part is optional for some people.
Definitely not us.
“You know what's missing here?” I grab my phone.
“You working?” Her tone goes sour.
A few taps, and the opening chords of the first song on Yes's The Yes Album begin on the kitchen speakers. Her shoulders drop, a long, slow inhale making her ribs widen, increasingly bigger breasts rising up, my palms curling in as if imagining how I'm going to cradle them momentarily. Neurology is complex, the complicated weaving of personality, basic functioning, biology, impulse, perception–the whole mix of what makes us fully human–coming to the fore as the melody finds its way through all the interconnected channels to tap into emotion.
That heart of mine, tucked behind the iron door of a safe?
It's tapping its toes now as she lets me put my arms around her, the back of her head pressed into my chest, her weight melting into me as we close our eyes and do exactly what all expectant parents should do.
Be.
Just be.
2
Amanda
“I can't believe you gag on saltine crackers but you can eat that,” Shannon says as she points to the roe resting on top of a carefully molded chunk of rice.
We're having lunch together at a trendy new “we serve a little bit of everything” restaurant in Beacon Hill in Boston, the kind of place where you can order black bean penne tossed with arugula/sunflower seed pesto, or various kinds of sushi, or vegan ice cream with pour-over coffee.
It's like a cafeteria for hipsters.
“It's orange. Apparently, I can eat salty orange things and nothing else.”
She snorts. “You told me this when we talked on the phone, but I thought you were kidding!”
“Not kidding.”
“I can't believe we're both afflicted by the same orange food problem in early pregnancy.”
“You rubbed off on me,” I say with a glare.
“Carrots?”
“Only carrot chips, like potato chips.”
“Oranges?”
“No. Not salty.”
“Salmon?”
“So far, yes, if it's more orange than pink.”
“What else is orange and salty?”
“Sweet potato fries.”
Shannon waits, as if there's a longer list.
“That's... it?”
I shrug.
“There has to be more. What about Goldfish crackers?”
I smack my palm to my head. “I never thought of those! I'll add them to my list.”
“I just expanded your dietary repertoire by twenty-five percent. You’re welcome.”
“Shut up. You had weird foot behaviors when you were pregnant with Ellie.”
“I did. No Cheeto smoothies, though.” Her shudder is so judgmental.
“You weren't pregnant with twins.”
“Here we go again. You're becoming as competitive as Andrew, Amanda.”
“It's a statement of fact. Not one-upmanship.”
“Okay. Fine.” Shannon flags down the server, who stops and gives us a patient smile.
“Yes?”
“You have microcreamery ice creams, yes?”
“Sure.”
“Any chance you have something orange and something salty?”
“How about orange sherbet and salted caramel ice cream?”
My stomach sings.
“Yes!” I say. “Can you add a side of anchovies?”
“Excuse me?”
“That was a bad joke,” Shannon tells her, laughing and rolling her eyes.
But it wasn’t.
“Two servings of orange sherbet and salted caramel ice cream,” I say.
“God, no!” Shannon practically screams. “Not two! Only one. I want a double scoop of chocolate peppermint, like normal people.”
I look at her like she’s crazy. “I wasn’t talking about your order!”
“Okay, then,” the server says, backing away slowly. “Two orange sherbet and salted caramel ice creams, one double scoop of chocolate peppermint,” she mutters as she walks away.
“‘Normal people’?” I throw out at Shannon.
“You know. Women who aren't eating for three.”
“You typically eat a pint of ice cream in one sitting, Shannon. Those pints say 'serves four.'”
She pats her stomach. “Then maybe I'm having triplets.”
“The older you get, the more you sound like your mother.”
We laugh, but I'm not kidding this time, either.
“How's Ellie?”
“She’s marvelous.”
“That Mommy and Me class working out?”
“It's going slowly. We're working on getting her used to the playgroup at the preschool, and next month, we're going to try leaving her there. We can't have a repeat of the gym daycare fiasco.”
I wince. “Did the daycare worker's toupee survive being torn off like that?”
“Yes.” She hunches over. “His ego was bruised more than his scalp, thank goodness.” Her eyebrows go up. “Dec says the guy got off easy. Ellie kicks Daddy's balls regularly, like her foot is a stick and his boys are a pinata.”
“She just loves you. A lot.” I bring my water glass to my neck and press the wet side of it under my earlobe, hoping it'll quell the unease in my stomach.
“And I love her a lot, too.” She eyes my belly. “Wait until you’ve spent almost a year holding a human leech against your skin twenty-four/seven.”
“Andrew has his moments.”
“Hah!” Sympathy takes over her face. “I'm sorry about the morning sickness, though.” A single orange globule of fish egg sits on my plate, taunting me, daring me to press my fingertip into it and lick it off the pad.
“Thanks.” Who knew one little fish egg could make my entire stomach start to rebel?
The server appears, tray aloft, setting my bowl of ice cream in front of me, delivering Shannon's with a flourish. Two napkins, two spoons–and then one intense whiff of Shannon's chocolate mint ice cream makes eating for three suddenly turn into nausea for three acres.