A Bump in the Road (14 page)

“I don’t care if you think your brother’s weird. He’s still hot,” Julie said as she eased back into the massage chair at the Blue Water Salon.

I took a sip of my cucumber water and eased my feet into the bubbling tub below me. As soon as my feet hit the water, I felt my body instantly melt a little. “The answer is still no. Man, I haven’t gotten a pedicure in years.” I closed my eyes.

“I know. I can tell,” Julie said, looking disdainfully at my chipped toenail polish. “So, how are Natalie’s shower plans coming?”

“Haven’t done anything yet. I’m not really supposed to. I’m just
supposed to let Marianne plan the entire thing, then pay for it and show up.”

“That blows. How’s everything else been going?” The manicurists pulled our feet out of the water and started vigorously exfoliating.

“Fine. Work’s a little hectic with the Gala coming up, but fine.” I looked at her and shrugged.

“Those rich bitches still giving you a hard time?”

“Shhhh,” I said to her and frantically looked around. Thankfully, I didn’t spot anyone I recognized. “Yes, but shut up,” I hissed to Julie.

“Calm down, drama queen. No one can hear me.” The manicurist looked up and gave me a small smile, letting me know that she and everyone else in the room did indeed hear every word Julie said. “And Jake? What’s with him?”

“OK, I guess. Still kind of freaked out. But you know what’s even weirder than . . . everything? The fact that it’s getting to be not totally weird. Know what I mean?”

“Yeah. You’re not bugging out as much, which is bugging you out.”

I nodded. “I think so.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a familiar person being led into the pedicure room. Brown hair, well dressed, pretty.

Jessica Greene. I tried to silently communicate this to Julie, but she caught her reflection in the mirror and started adjusting her boobs as she rambled.

“Don’t worry about anything. Even though you’re knocked up, you’ll still be a hot preggo lady. And you and Jake will be great parents. God, isn’t it weird that in a few months, you’ll be a mom?” Except she said what sounded like: “MOM” as in, “Hey world, did you hear? Clare Finnegan is pregnant! Hey, Jessica Greene! Did you catch that? Please spread the word around.”

“Hey, Clare.” Jessica caught my eye from three chairs down and waved.

“Hey, Jessica,” I said. I smiled back at her and then turned to Julie and narrowed my eyes.

“Holy shit,” Julie whispered. She didn’t say much until we walked outside of the salon, feet looking beautiful. “Clare, I’m so sorry. There’s no way in fuck she heard, right? Don’t worry, she didn’t hear. There’s no way she could have.”

“Julie, she definitely might have. Remember, not even my parents know about this yet. You, Jake, and some ER doctors are the only people in the know. I would’ve liked to keep it that way.”

“I’m so sorry,” she repeated.

I’d just about forgiven her when Jessica walked out of the salon and appeared next to us.

“Clare, did I hear that right? Are you pregnant?” Jessica beamed at me while Julie looked around for a rock to crawl underneath.

“Um . . . no.” I felt my face start to get hot. “Her.” I pointed to Julie, who looked surprised. “She’s pregnant!” I said gleefully. “Yes. She’s pregnant. She’s due at the end of the year.”

“How wonderful! Congratulations!” Jessica said to Julie.

Julie met my eyes for a second and paused before she turned to Jessica. “Yes, thank you.”

“Gosh, I hope my boobs get as big as yours when I’m pregnant,” Jessica said as she eyed Julie’s cleavage. “It’s the one benefit of pregnancy, right?”

“Yes, it is! Julie used to be an A cup before she got pregnant!” I chimed in.

“Er, yes,” Julie muttered under her breath.

“Well, I gotta run. It was great to see you, Clare! And congrats to you, too!” she said to Julie before swaying off toward the parking garage.

When she was out of eyesight and earshot, I turned to Julie. “Even?”

“Fucking even,” she grumbled.

Julie eventually forgave me yesterday but it took agreeing to step inside Abercrombie & Fitch so she could ogle the underage half-naked guys working. It helped that I told her to forgive me or I’d force her to be my date to Natalie’s baby shower.

Julie may not want to attend, but Wifey1025 sure does. I thought about saying yes for a moment, just to enjoy introducing her to Marianne, but decided against it when visions of me hog-tied and gagged in her backseat flashed across my mind.

Despite my bout of nausea during the meeting with Tony G., I really thought I was going to escape the Pregnant Plague. Due to my seemingly endless appetite, I figured I was one of those lucky people who don’t experience morning sickness. But right after Jake and I watched a horrible movie, I started to feel horrible. I assumed that the rumbling, burning, twisting surge in my stomach was due to the craptastic acting in the movie, but this morning I woke up and felt like I’d drunk the better part of a bottle of tequila. Within seconds, my head was hanging over the toilet. I pray it was just a fluke because I can’t spend the next thirty or so weeks with my head in the toilet. The second I start making frequent bathroom trips, Mule Face will make the assumption that I am (a) a drug user who uses the stalls to shoot up, (b) alcoholic, or (c) pregnant.

After I spewed every color of the rainbow this morning, I tried to get ready for work. Thirty minutes later, I gave up. It was no use—no matter how much concealer, blush, or mascara I shellacked on, the pasty white skin and purple bags under my eyes did not go away. Where the hell is the pregnancy glow? Or the shiny hair?

Despite the way the day started, I put it out of my mind because
today was my first doctor’s appointment. I made up a lame excuse about having a meeting with Jessica and Betsy and ducked out of the office. As I drove over, my heart raced from nerves because this would make it really, really real. Yeah, I’ve taken five thousand pregnancy tests, but once an actual medical professional is involved, oh so much more scary.

It didn’t help my anxiety when a teenager in a Range Rover tailed me. She got really pissed off when I slowed down and stopped to let an ambulance pass. I stopped just for kicks and also because
it’s the law
. At the next light, she pulled up next to me and gave me the finger. Normally, I would’ve laughed and blown it off, but a red, blinding, hormonal fury came over me and I rolled down the window and yelled, “Learn how to drive,” followed by a word I have never, ever said. A word that I would never, ever let Jake use. A word all women hate. Which is exactly why I used it. Four letters, starts with a C and ends with a T. It’s so horrible. I have no idea where it came from. It must be the hormones.

But, I’ve never felt like such a badass.

I can’t believe it—being pregnant has turned me into a trash-talking hoodrat.

Feeling very feisty, I cranked up Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg for the rest of the drive. I turned it down a little when I had the horrible thought of my unborn child hearing the lyrics and being born with a set of gold teeth and a clock around his/her neck à la Flavor Flav. I would have only myself to blame. I mean, the kid just heard his mother say the C word and crank up music about smoking pot.

I thought,
Hmmmm
. . .
must ask Dr. Clarke if it has ears yet
.

Regardless of my newly found badass status, the minute I walked into the office, the nerves returned. As I sat waiting for my name to be called, I discreetly glanced around the room. Immediately, I noticed the other pregnant women waiting. I also noticed almost all of them had their husbands/boyfriends/sperm donors with them, except for one girl who appeared to be a lesbian and had her female partner with her. Jake wanted to come, but I told him not to bother since I
figured I’d just get the standard pamphlets and pap smear, so said the pregnancy books. But suddenly I felt like I did when I was in grade school and my mom forgot it was the one day we could wear our normal clothes instead of our uniforms and I was the only loser kid who showed up in a plaid skirt and kneesocks.

I’m already screwing up this mothering/pregnancy stuff.

“Clare Finnegan,” the nurse called. She looked surprised as she said my name. She glanced at my chart again as I walked toward her, and she smiled. Once we were in the room, she said, “Congratulations! I didn’t think we’d see you back so soon! You were just here a few months ago.”

“Yeah, well, neither did I.”

She took some blood and made me pee in a cup, which I screwed up like always and pissed on my new white cashmere pants. She asked me a million questions about my medical history and left. Dr. Clarke came in soon after.

“Well, Clare, welcome back!” She smiled at me.

“Yeah, well . . . thanks!”

“So, I hear you had a little scare a while back. How’s everything been since?”

“Great. Well, except for the nausea. But good, otherwise.”

“Good to hear. Sometimes those kinds of things just happen. But you were right to get it checked out. So, how did your dad react?” Dr. Clarke and my dad went to medical school together and occasionally run into each other at the hospital. The last thing I want is for her to tell my father.

“No one really knows yet.” Isn’t there some kind of oath that they take or something—she can’t accidentally tell him or anything, right?

She saw my look and winked. “My lips are sealed.”

“Thanks. The last thing my father needs is a heart attack. My sister already has that angle covered.”

She handed me a packet with a bunch of leaflets and crap. I caught the word “incision” and quickly looked away.

“Here is a bunch of information on everything. Do you have any questions?”

“Um, yeah. A few.”

“Shoot,” she said, and sat down on one of those miniature stools.

“Well, I heard there’s a bunch of stuff I’m not supposed to eat like cheese or something, lunch meat, caffeine . . .”

“Bullshit.”

“Huh?”

“It’s all bullshit. Unless you’re eating a pound of bologna a day, you’ll be fine. Everything in moderation.”

“Really?” I love Dr. Clarke.

“Really. Our relatives in Ireland ate corned beef every day and drank stout and we all turned out OK. You’ll be fine. Don’t kill yourself trying to be perfect. Just limit the obvious ones, like alcohol.” I seriously am in love with that woman.

“Do people ever give birth like on TV, with those blue sheets on and all covered up?” She just stared at me after this question and I wound up blurting out another, more ridiculous question: “Can you really get a brain aneurysm while giving birth, like I saw in a movie?”

Pregnancy has turned me into an idiot.

After more staring, some stifled laughter, and a bunch more leaflets, she gave me her estimate of the Scary Day, a.k.a. my due date: January 6.

Apparently, according to medical research, in January, an organism bigger than a cat will be forced out of me. It looks like my New Year’s Eve is going to be a real hoot.

On my way out, I set up more appointments. I never knew pregnancy was so time-consuming. I was almost out the door when I saw Abby, my office’s receptionist. She gave me a friendly wave and furrowed her brow in slight confusion. Probably because she knew I was just here a few months ago since Dr. Clarke’s office called to confirm my appointment and she gave me the message. She’s probably thinking I have some weird, untreatable STD requiring multiple visits, and will tell everyone about my mutated strain of venereal disease.