Spicing Up Trouble: a romantic comedy (29 page)

A soft knock on the door, then Tad and a nurse came back in.

"Alexia, this is Sue. She will be helping me take measurements and analyze the screen," he said.

"Hi," she said as she sat at a computer.

"Lay back and put your feet in the stirrups," he said as he put on gloves and squeezed gel on the missile.

"Is the submarine going inside me?" I asked.

"Yes, it has a camera attached. I need to see where the baby is, check out your uterine wall, and generally poke around. Ready?"

"As I'll ever be, admiral."

The cold probe eased its way in. I tried a vibrator once and the battery died. Twice. Eleanor said I did it wrong. How many ways were there to do it with a hollow piece of plastic?

"So far, so good," he said as he pointed to the screen.

It could be the ocean floor for all I knew. Dark, murky, white to gray swirls against a black background. He pivoted to the left and pushed a button.

"There's a baby," he said, pointing to an ink splotch.

I craned around to see better and started to cry. I knew I was pregnant, but to see him filled my heart with joy.

"And there's another baby," he said, moving the probe lower.

Two as in more than one?

"Excuse me, I'm not myself today. You mean another image from the opposite side," I said.

"No, I mean twins. You are carrying two children, Alexia. Congratulations," he said as he withdrew the camera.

Underwater images get blurred. Fluids flowing through me obscured the image creating a mirror effect. See, I offered logical explanations for the doctor's mistaken conclusion.

"Are you sure there's no mistake?" I asked.

"Do you want me to go back in and scope for more?"

Sue smiled and continued to type. Very funny. A comedian for a doctor with a trusty sidekick.

"Alexia, Sue is going to get Ben. You stay put and try to relax."

Easy for him to say, he just doubled his bill. Me? I was battling surprise, delight, and terror. My personal set of triplets. My bottom lip trembled, and the tears washed down my cheeks.

Sue left and Ben entered the room in two minutes. I cried harder and couldn't speak.

"What's wrong?" he asked, looking pale as he took my hand.

"Alexia's sobbing for three. You're expecting twins," Tad said.

Ben laughed. Obviously in shock.

"Fantastic. An heir and a spare," he said, leaning over and kissing me.

"I'll leave you to get dressed. On your way out, make your next appointment, and pick up a folder. I'll have them add information about multiple births," Tad said.

"Is there a problem?" I whimpered.

"No, not at all. You're young and healthy, I anticipate a smooth delivery. We'll know more as the months progress, but no worries."

Ben squeezed my hand.

"Thanks, I'll try to stay calm," I said to myself who needed convincing.

Tad grabbed his laptop and left.

I let go of him, balled up the sheet, and dropped the gown. Ben handed me my clothes, and I started to dress.

"Let's not tell anybody anything until Thanksgiving. I want to see their faces," he said.

"Aren't you a teeny bit nervous?" I asked as I snapped my pants.

"Everything will be fine. Let's concentrate on what we'll need: cribs, clothes, diapers, a house, a nanny," he said.

"Tent dresses, sensible shoes, widened doorways, 52G bras," I said, tucking in my shirt, possibly for the last time.

"Alexia, other than you, this is the best thing that has ever happened to me. I think it's fantastic. I realize nobody is growing inside me, but I'll do anything to make you more comfortable. It will be a wild ride, but I'm game."

He hugged me tightly and loosened some of the tension. Everything would be fine. I could do it. He kissed my cheek and moved on to my mouth.

"I know it will be crowded, but we are so not giving up sex," I said, wrapping my leg around him.

"Especially if your breasts grow into watermelons."

Wasn't it an old wives' tale about swallowing seeds and they would grow? Those women knew more about oral sex than I thought.

A few weeks later, I asked Ben to take me to the grocery store. Nothing built anxiety better than pushing through pre-Thanksgiving shoppers. I knew my list by heart. I've been throwing down turkey day since I hit sixteen. Mom nurtured my recipe clipping and handed the kitchen over to me.

"We've always eaten the big meal early around noon or so. Then at six o'clock, we have turkey sandwiches and dessert. Will this fit in with your dad's schedule?"

"Sure," Ben said, following me.

I loaded up the cart with turkey, white and sweet potatoes, onions, carrots, celery, and green beans.

"Does your father like cranberries?" I asked.

"Sure."

"Any vegetables to avoid? Food allergies?"

"If you make it, he will eat it."

I picked up my stuffing and pumpkin bread ingredients. Next, apples for pie and vanilla ice cream. He found grape juice and smiled. I added a few bottles of wine and one of scotch. This was a no-calorie counting holiday. We got into the checkout line.

"I've never bought this much food at one time," he said.

"I'm sorry," I said, opening my wallet.

"Don't be ridiculous. We always went to a restaurant. My mom excelled at many things, but cooking never ranked in the top five thousand. This is a nice change of pace," he said, handing the cashier his credit card.

We lugged the bags to the car, then two trips with the elevator, and another half hour to unpack.

"We'll have to hire a delivery service. You won't be able to shop in a few months. Too much carrying, you'll be exhausted," he said.

I almost disagreed, but with my girth about to balloon, he was right.

"Also, I'll have Mark available for errands or driving you."

I kissed him and shooed him out of the kitchen. I had to get in the zone, tap into my training and skill to produce the ultimate Thanksgiving experience. I limited the spices because Eleanor said the Pilgrims hadn't discovered habañero chilis. Pity for them. My stomach curled up, and I took a deep breath. No time for nausea. We were planning a feast and making our double baby announcement to our family.

I've never been a fan of animal guts, even less so now. I didn't hurl as I pulled out the turkey's bag of innards, but paced myself. Starting two days early worked out well. Ben would come in the kitchen and watch: asking a few questions, sampling everything along the way, praising constantly.

Up and dressed at seven o'clock on Thanksgiving morning to cook the mighty fowl, I clicked on the oven and nothing. No spark, no whoosh, no heat. No fucking way.

"Ben," I wailed.

He ran, nude, into the kitchen.

"You're in labor already?"

"No, everything is ruined because the oven is dead."

"Of natural causes or do you suspect foul play?" he asked and laughed.

I went to the sink, filled a glass with cold water, and poured it over his head.

"Hey, I'm not a house plant," he sputtered.

"Anything else, funny boy?" This wasn't happening. Everything would be ruined.

"It will be fine. We'll buy a new one," he said, using a dish towel to dry off.

"What time is it?" I asked.

"Seven."

"What day is it?"

"Thanksgiving."

"What fucking appliance store is open at this fucking time in the morning on this of all fucking days?" I yelled.

"Valid point," he said as he went to the kitchen phone and dialed.

"Hi, Travis, is anyone in the building out of town?" he asked. "Mrs. Morton is gone until this evening. Perfect. When you can, come upstairs and bring the pass key."

"Doesn't Travis get the day off?"

"His family is scattered all over the country. He leaves tomorrow for Cleveland to see his sister, and then his other siblings will be around on the weekend. I pay him double for working on the holiday." Ben dropped the towel and started to clean up the water on the floor.

"I'm sorry I lost it. You came up with a working solution while I had a meltdown," I said.

"I'm not just a pretty face," he said.

"With a cute butt," I added.

"Thank you for noticing. I'll get dressed, and you figure out what needs to be done," he said, kissing my nose.

I stuffed my twenty-pound masterpiece, put it in my grandma's roaster, and waited. Mentally ticking off all the cooking times in my head, I will be up and down the stairs eighty times. A disaster in the making, I should call my sisters and beg off. How could I reach Mr. Cobb and tell him not to come? No, I refused to accept defeat so early in the day. The pregnancy manuals gave me strength, any setback can be overcome.

I'd been reading over the material from Tad's office. Great idea for telling the babies apartthink forehead tattoos. Breastfeeding in the football hold position: heads in hands, feet pinned under elbows. Don't fret over weight gain. Obviously written by a man, who in the next sentence, listed an exercise regimen for when the babies napped. Squat and lunge this, buddy. Ask for and accept help: one sister worked during the day the other at night. They'd bring a bottle of wine and critique me. No one had more advantages than I, and I felt useless. I babysat a few times and didn't like it. At twelve years old, no amount of money was worth the hours of crying, pooping, and pacifying children.

"Alexia, are you coming or what? Travis is waiting," Ben said.

Forget the pregnancy and cold oven, today was all about the food. Something I excelled at and liked to do. I picked up my pan like a sandbag and lugged it to the elevator. Ben took it from me as we traveled down to Mrs. Morton's apartment. Travis used the key and opened the door. He stepped in and turned on the light.

"Oh, it's lovely," I said.

Lavender and cream were the dominant colors of the living room. The modern kitchen was a chef's dream: gleaming copper pots and pans, state of the art appliances, and two conventional ovens. I turned one on to preheat. The blue flames danced.

"Success," I said.

"You're good to go. I can go back to bed," Ben said, setting the pan on the counter.

"Yes, you're exempt from the cleanup. You have saved me from major catastrophe," I said as I kissed him.

Travis coughed.

"I'll leave the key with you and absolve myself from any mischief you two make in here."

"Thank you, Travis," he said, picking me up and putting me on the counter.

We heard the door close and kissed again.

"You will not overdo it today. You should be sleeping. I will help any way I can. This isn't a competition. Everyone will be pleased. If they're not, they'll never be invited back," Ben said.

"I know, but this is one thing I do better than my sisters. I like a chance to shine."

"You have many qualities above and beyond them."

"You're blind to my flaws because you love me," I said as I kissed him. "The main thing is the turkey. Once it's in the oven, I have a few hours of downtime. I baked yesterday. The potatoes and veggies have to be assembled and will have to be heated. So, I'll need to carry the dishes back and forth."

"I know there are carts somewhere. I'll go downstairs and find one."

He helped me down from the counter, and I put the turkey in the oven.

"I don't like leaving the condo with the oven on," I said.

"It will be fine. We go at regular intervals and check on it," he said.

"This is good training for parenthood: being able to share responsibilities, have a contingency plan, delegation of duties."

"Is there a test at the end?" he asked.

"Actually two, one given today and the other in twenty years. No food poisoning the guests and how well the kids turn out reflects on the parents," I said.

"No wonder my dad hates me."

"He doesn't hate you. He wishes the cloning process didn't have so many loopholes for personal growth and rebellion."

"Once the babies are down for a nap," he said, pointing at the oven, "the parents should make love."

"Too true, you have my undivided attention for a half hour."

"Time's a wastin'," he said, taking my hand and hustling out the door.

Peeling potatoes was the dumbest chore: time consuming, messy, and mind-numbing. Maybe mashing them would curb my disappointment about my cooking odyssey so far. The sweet potatoes were boiled, de-skinned, cut up, and in a dish with butter and brown sugar. I would sprinkle on the marshmallows later. Ben did find a wobbly pushcart with two shelves. I'd been stacking and unstacking it all morning. I rolled it out in the hall and bumped into Irene.

"Are we eating in the car?" she asked.

"No, my oven died so I'm hauling food to another apartment to cook. It's been a learning experience. Now I know why I flunked out of culinary school."

The elevator doors opened again, and Eleanor stepped out.

"Did we order the meal to go?" she asked.

"No, kitchen malfunction. We're heading to a different location," Irene said.

All three of us got in the elevator with my cart. I pushed the button.

"So why did you leave cooking school?" Irene asked.

"She started a salmonella outbreak or stabbed the instructor. I know it had something to do with violence," Eleanor said.

"Partially. It was because I only follow the set path. I don't think out of the box. I am the box."

They rolled their eyes at each other.

"Hasn't Cobb made a dent in your self-image? You've made my bar a success. Your bottle of wonder sauce was written up on two more food blogs this week. The phone is ringing off the hook for reservations through the end of the year," Irene said.

She patted my back.

"The handmade lace and beading you add to my designs shove my boutique to the front of the line for evening wear. It's all my customers talk about and recommend. You've transformed our businesses into rousing successes and never accept a hint of credit. Must be your genes, just like Mom, always giving," Eleanor said.

Praise from both sisters? There must be something wrong with me. Did Tad tell Ben who told them to be nice in my last days? Did melodrama and paranoia accompany every pregnancy, and was mine a double shot?