Not Ready for Mom Jeans (8 page)

“Same as usual.” I smiled at him and began to let my guard down a fraction of an inch. “Sam’s a teenager—What?” I stopped as he started shaking his head.

“Nothing. Just last time I saw her, she was … well, not a teenager.” He laughed.

“Trust me, she’s all teen now.” I smiled and nodded my head. “My parents are doing well and Mark’s living in the city, doing the bachelor thing.” I shrugged a little. Greg was never this interested in my family. I’m surprised he remembered that I had an actual family and was not just raised by wolves in the forest. With him, it was all career first, family second. Children, bad; living with five-thousand-dollar couches and city lofts, good. In fact, it was shocking to me when Jake actually wanted to meet my parents when we were dating and still always suggests that we hang out with my family. A mutant, he is.

“Did Mark tell you I saw him at a bar about a year ago?” Greg said as he laced his fingers together on the dark oak table.

“Yeah, I think so.” I tried to look nonchalant but remembered Mark said Greg was with some stunning six-foot brunette.

“I think I was with my ex at the time,” he said.

“Oh, huh.” I tapped my pen against the table. “How’s your family?” I asked nonchalantly as I fiddled with my wedding band.

“Great. Mom and Dad are doing wonderful.” He smiled and folded his arms across his chest. His white oxford shirt crinkled at the elbows.

“Huh. Well, anyway, let’s meet again in two weeks. Sound good?”

“Works for me. “ He sighed and stood up

“Yeah.” I led him to the door. “Well, call me if you have any questions,” I said, and stuck out my hand.

“Good to see you, Clare,” he said, and shook my hand with both of his.

I made it all the way to my office before I exhaled. As I sat down at my desk, relief washed over me because I felt like I had pulled it off; I kept my composure, wore matching clothes, and conducted myself professionally, as though I didn’t still harbor an urge to drive to Sara’s day-care, snatch her up, and head for Mexico. I appeared like a successful working mom—to my ex-boyfriend, nonetheless.

Yet as I allowed myself to acknowledge some pride, a small part of me screamed,
Fraud! Liar!

Thursday, March 27

I was at my desk, in the middle of drafting a deadlines calendar for Greg’s golf outing, when my phone rang, jolting me out of my musings about the invitation print run.

“Clare Finnegan.”

“Clare, oh good, I’m so glad I got you!” Reese.

“Why? What’s going on?”

“I need you to meet me at the hospital.”

“Are you in labor?” I clutched the edge of my desk. It was too early; Reese wasn’t due to give birth for a few more weeks.

“I think so. Meet me over there as soon as you can,” she said, and hung up.

I jumped up and stood still for a minute, paralyzed. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I stared at an invoice for the golf outing for a minute. Then a voice inside my head yelled,
Get moving, asshole. Reese is about to have this baby while you stare at the price of golf balls.
I immediately raced around my office and collected my purse and coat and threw myself into the car. I narrowly avoided four accidents on the way to the hospital and finally arrived at the maternity wing, red-faced and panting.

“Where’s Reese?” I yelled to a nurse.

“What?”

“REESE! You know, blond lady. Tiny. Pregnant.”

The nurse stared at me.

“Hel-lo? Do you understand? REESE!”

More stares.

I was about to start screaming when I heard a voice behind me.

“Clare, I’m right here. Leave that poor woman alone.”

I whirled around and saw Reese, looking excited but nervous and in obvious pain.

“Oh my God! Are you OK? What do you need me to do? Where’s Grace? Where’s Matt? Are you in pain? Where’s the doctor?” I knew I sounded like I was under the influence of an amphetamine, but it was as if my brain had no control over my mouth. (Not the first time.)

“Clare, I’m fine. Grace is with my mom, Matt’s on his way from work. The hospital lost my preregistration paperwork, so I need you to take my insurance card downstairs and register me so I can be admitted.” She held out a card in her hand as she winced in pain.

“I can do that. Are you sure it’s OK if I leave you?” I asked her.

“I’m fine. Matt should be here any minute.” Reese waved me toward the door.

“Sure?” I stood there, unsure of whether to go east or west.

“CLARE!” I hadn’t heard Reese raise her voice in years.

“Sorry! I’m on it!” I raced to the elevator and down to Registration. When I got there, I discovered an enormous line of people, many of whom looked as though they had been waiting since about, oh, 1986. After tapping my foot impatiently and silently cursing every person in front of me, I made it to the front of the line.

“I need to register my friend. She’s having a baby upstairs.” I waved my hands wildly around my midsection.

“We need her to come down here and sign consent forms.” The woman didn’t even look up at me.

“She’s in labor, she can’t. She told me to sign them.”

“Uh-huh,” the woman said, and examined her long, decal-covered nails.

“Uh-huh so we’re OK, then?” I leaned toward the exit.

“No. Let me see her insurance card.” I forked over the card. “It says here her deductible is five hundred dollars. We take check or credit card.”

“What? No. She hasn’t been treated yet. She’s just being admitted.” I shook my head as though I hadn’t heard the woman correctly.

The woman stared at me as though I had told her aliens were upstairs administering colonics and would she like one?

“She just got here,” I repeated, my eyes wide.

Nothing.

“She just needs to be admitted.” I stared at my registration nemesis.

“Her co-pay is one hundred dollars. Do you have a credit card?” Registration woman spoke her words slowly, like she was trying to help me understand English.

“No, you’re not listening.” I slapped the card back down on the table.

“We take debit cards, too,” decal lady said.

That. Was. It.

“Are you enjoying your first visit on Earth?” I said.

I knew it was rude, but it worked. She gave me an evil look, slid Reese’s card back to me, and waved me off.

“Your friend is admitted.” She made a big deal of rolling her eyes at her coworker. I really wanted to engage her in a verbal altercation but didn’t really want to have my eyeballs scratched out by fingernails decorated with stickers. I flew back upstairs and found Reese in one of the labor rooms. She had changed into a hospital gown and was lying in bed watching
Oprah
.

“OK, I think everything is fine except this bitch downstairs—” I waved my arms around until Reese put her finger to her lips.

“Shhhh!” she said, and intently watched the television.

“What?” I sat obediently down next to her.

“Shhh!” she said again. I sat silently and watched as Oprah talked to the designer Nate Berkus about what lighting to use in small spaces. After he finished, Reese turned to me. “OK, sorry. I just really wanted to see that.”

I guess women really are more laid-back with their second pregnancy.

“Uh, OK. Is there anything that you need?” I asked, and tried not to stare at the stirrups.

“Yes, call Matt again. I keep getting his voice mail. He should be here by now.”

I picked up the phone and dialed Matt’s number, but it went straight to voice mail again.

“Sorry, voice mail again. I’m sure he’s on his way,” I said as I snapped my phone shut. I said a silent prayer to God that Matt truly was on his way, not porking his secretary in a seedy motel or something.

“Uh-huh,” Reese muttered, and stared at the fetal monitor.

“How’s everything going in here?” a voice said from the doorway. Dr. Clarke.

“Hey, going well. Boring as usual,” Reese said. She fanned her face and I stood up to hand her a rubber band.

“Hi, Dr. Clarke,” I said.

“Clare, hi! I didn’t expect to see you here. The last time I saw you in one of these rooms, you were giving birth yourself.” She smiled and patted me on the back.

“Yes. I’m glad it’s not me in the bed this time.”

“Oh, come on now, it wasn’t so bad.” Dr. Clarke smiled and I got a really strange flashback of her yelling, “PUSH!” a few short months ago.

“Easy for you to say. Sorry.” I turned to Reese.

“Reese, you’re at four centimeters, so I anticipate it’ll be a few hours before you deliver. We’ll give you an epidural in a little bit. But for now, I’m going to go ahead and break your water to get you moving along.” She wheeled a cart full of Scary Medical Things over to the bedside.

“Sounds good,” Reese said.

I wasn’t sure what to do, but I walked over to Reese’s other side and grabbed her hand. I stared at a picture of a little boy playing with a sailboat as Dr. Clarke did her magic down there. I wondered how the hospital picks out their artwork. Do they go to a gallery and pick stuff out or is there like a general “Ugly Yet Adequate Paintings for Hotel and Hospital Rooms” package they can order off the Internet? And who is the artist who does those paintings? Is he/she proud to have his/her artwork in hospitals or is it the equivalent to a rock band having their music played in elevators?

“Got it! OK, fluid looks clear. Now we wait,” Dr. Clarke said, and snapped off her gloves.

“Clear fluid is good. That means there’s no meconium in the fluid. Meconium is baby poop, which an unborn child can aspirate if it is expelled in the uterus. The baby might express meconium if it is stressed, and thus tinged fluid is a sign the baby is experiencing some kind of stressor,” I told Reese.

She stared at me. “Still watching
Maternity Ward
on the Discovery Health Channel?”

“Uh, yeah. Sorry.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself, Clare,” Dr. Clarke said as she walked out of the room.

“Call Matt again,” Reese said as she aimlessly channel-surfed.

“OK.” I picked up my phone. Voice mail again. “I’m sure he’s about to walk in the door.”

“Who’s about to walk in the door?” Julie appeared in the doorway, dressed in her scrubs.

“Hey, Julie!” Reese perked up. “Matt, he’s still not here.”

Julie ever so slightly glanced at me out of the corner of her eye. Matt isn’t exactly her favorite person, starting with his cheating in college and culminating when he hit on her in a bar a few months ago.

“So, how are you feeling?” she said.

“Fine. Bored. Nothing exciting is happening yet.” Reese shrugged.

“That’s good. Just don’t be one of those pregnant women in labor who scream and flip out.” Julie shuddered.

“I’ll do my best,” Reese said.

“I witnessed one delivery when I was training, it was this hippie woman who was doing it naturally without drugs. She was fully naked the whole time and her husband kept saying, ‘Push it out your butt, honey,’ while she was pushing.” Julie started squatting and grabbing onto the IV pole, a perfect imitation.

“Ugh. That couldn’t have been fun to watch,” I said.

“Not really, considering the woman was close to four hundred pounds.” Julie shrugged.

“Take my mind off this labor stuff. Tell me what’s new in the land of singledom,” Reese said.

My head snapped back and forth between the two of them, thrilled. It still hasn’t quite sunk in that they’re friends again after a year-and-a-half-long feud that began at my bachelorette party and involved lots of verbal venomous barbs and near death threats. It ended when they each wanted to throw me a baby shower and I forced them to do one together. After much arguing over favors—tiny bottles of liquor versus chocolates—they found a common ground: me.

And now they’re as close as they were in college. My mediation skills must be off the hook; the Middle East should definitely give me a call.

“I’m ready for a boyfriend,” Julie announced as she stopped using the IV pole as a faux birthing device. She spread her arms wide.

“Really? Anyone in particular or just generally?” Reese said as she winced and shifted in bed.

“Generally. Although I hear Greg is single these days,” Julie said, and tapped a finger against her cheek.

“Funny,” I said to her.

“What’s the big deal? So she has to work with him? They broke up a million years ago and she’s happily married. We’re all adults, right?” Reese said, her voice with a slight edge. She looked at me. “Right?”

I nodded mutely.

Yeah, who cares? It’s not awkward or anything, right? I totally have it together. I’m not still fat, exhausted all of the time, and a mere shell of my formerly fabulous self, right? Right?

“Whatever you say.” Julie rolled her eyes. “Forget about Greg. Back to me and my sex life. The Internet is going to do all the work,” Julie said.

“Online dating?” I said, my mouth open slightly.

Julie nodded and crossed her arms in front of her enormous chest. “Yep.”

“Internet dating? Isn’t that kind of unsafe?” Reese said.

“Get with it, O ye of little technology. Internet dating is socially acceptable now,” Julie said to her. She pointedly turned to me and raised her eyebrows.