“We’re all college graduates,” I proclaim. “We can put this together ourselves.”
Clapping my hands, I motion for everyone to get on the floor with me. After three tries of trying to lower myself to the ground and making Hope and Carin nearly pee their pants laughing in the process, D’Andre takes pity on all of us and helps me onto my knees. Which is where Tucker finds us.
“Is this some new fertility ritual?” he drawls from the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame. “Because she’s already pregnant, you know.”
“Get yo ass in here, white boy, and put this thing together,” D’Andre snaps. “This is ridiculous.”
“What’s ridiculous?” Tucker stops next to me, and I take the opportunity to lean against his legs. Even kneeling is hard when you’re toting around an extra thirty pounds. “We took it apart. How can you not know how to put it back together?”
D’Andre repeats his earlier excuse. “I’m an accounting major.”
Tucker rolls his eyes. “You got an Allen wrench?”
“Are you mocking us right now?” I grumble. “I don’t have any wrenches, let alone ones with names.”
He grins. “Leave this to me, darlin’. I’ll get it fixed up.”
“I want to help,” Hope volunteers. “This is like surgery, except with wood and not people.”
“Lord help us,” D’Andre mutters.
“Come on.” Carin tugs on my arm. “Let’s start washing some of this stuff we bought.”
With a boost on my ass from Tucker, I get to my feet and waddle after Carin.
“How does it feel to not be waiting tables?” she asks as we make our way into the laundry room.
“Weird. It’s hard finding a job for three months that doesn’t require some heavy manual labor. I went to a temp agency to see if they had anything for me, but they weren’t hopeful. Apparently pregnant women aren’t on the top of the candidate list.”
“So Tucker’s really not going back to Texas?”
“Nope. He wants to stay close to the baby.” I grimace. “But his mom…he’s so close with her. I think there are problems there.”
“Oh Lord. You don’t want to mess with a southern boy’s mama,” Carin warns. “I’ve heard endless complaints about grits from Hope.”
I have too. Still, what are my options? “So I should leave Harvard and move to Texas?”
“No. Just eat your grits. Whenever she offers them to you. No matter how sick they make you.”
“That’s morbid.”
“Have you thought about what you’re going to do about the baby when you’re in class?” she asks as we load the washing machine.
“I don’t know yet. Harvard doesn’t offer day care. I’ll try to find an in-home care provider, I guess.”
Thinking about all these issues is stressing me out, but I don’t want to complain about it too much. Carin and Hope are already feeling guilty about not being able to help out more, but fuck, they have their own lives to worry about.
“What about your grandmother?”
“God. You should’ve seen her face when I asked. She told me she’d already raised one kid—” I point a thumb at my chest, “—that didn’t belong to her, and she wasn’t raising another one.”
“Harsh.”
We move into the kitchen and start in on the baby bottles. “Harsh but true. I can’t dump this load on her.”
“What about Tucker?” Carin shakes out a clean bottle and sets it in the dish rack.
“What about him?”
“He’s the dad. He has to help. You can take him to court and force him to pay you child support.”
My jaw drops. “I’m not going to do that. And he is going to help.” I pause. “As much as I’ll let him.”
Carin makes a disgusted noise. “You’re so stubborn. You don’t have to do this all on your own, B. You make it sound like he’s just along for the ride. What’s going on with the two of you?”
I pick up one of the clean bottles and twist a nipple, trying to imagine myself holding the baby and feeding it with one of these. “He never intended on staying here. He’s just here because of me and the baby, and I feel like I’m ruining his life.”
She scoffs. “He was part of this too. You’re not the Virgin Mary. There was no immaculate conception.”
“I know. But I still could have gotten an abortion.” Honestly, that’s a thought that weighs on me every minute I spend trying to figure out how I’m going to make this all work.
“But you didn’t, so stop looking backward.”
“I know,” I say again.
“You have feelings for him.”
I busy myself with finding a place for the clean bottles and other baby gear. “I like him.”
“You can say the other L word. It won’t kill you.”
Annoyed, I glare at Carin. “Like you’re any better, Miss Commitmentphobe. Since when have you run around telling guys you’ve hooked up with that you love them?”
“Never, but I’m not afraid of it like you are.”
“I’m not afraid of it.” Am I?
She rolls her eyes.
“Whatever. It’s irrelevant, anyway. Tucker’s in this because he’s in love with the baby and that’s good enough for me.”
Carin opens her mouth to rebuke me, but Tucker strolls into the kitchen before she can get a word out. “Ready?” he asks me.
I flick a gaze toward the microwave clock. Crap. It says we have about twenty minutes before class starts.
“Yup. You guys are going to have to leave,” I tell Carin. “Tuck and I are going to a breathing class.”
She raises a brow. “For what?”
“To help her when she’s in labor,” Hope explains as she enters the kitchen with D’Andre on her heels. She comes over and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “Call us later, okay?”
“I will. And thanks for helping out today. All of you.”
“No thanks necessary,” Hope says, and Carin and D’Andre nod in agreement. “We’re here for you, B. Now and always.”
Emotion wells up in my throat. I have no idea how I wound up with such amazing friends, but I’m sure as heck not complaining.
*
“You don’t sound too excited about this,” Tucker comments twenty minutes later. He holds the door to the community center open for me.
“And you are?” A yellow sign decorated with balloons greets us. “This process is so hard that I have to learn how to breathe? That’s not normal.”
“You watch any of those YouTube videos?”
“God no. I didn’t want to psych myself out. Did you?”
“A few.”
“And?”
He gives me a thumbs-down. “I don’t recommend them. I’m wondering why we use brass balls to describe someone who’s really strong, because after the second video, my balls tried to climb inside my body. Plus, my YouTube history is officially fucked.”
“Ha. Exactly why I didn’t watch any.” I wag a warning finger at him. “Stay by my head during the birth or you’ll never want to have sex with me again.”
“Naah, I can separate the two.” He drags his hand down my spine to rest it on top of my butt, which, like my boobs, is growing in size. “This ass is made for tapping.”
“So anal is all I’m going to get after childbirth?”
He grins broadly. “Why not both?”
Before I can respond, a curly-haired older lady wearing a rainbow-colored peasant skirt sweeps forward to greet us. “Welcome to Labor of Love workshop! I’m Stacy!”
“John Tucker and Sabrina James.” Tuck introduces us both.
Stacy doesn’t shake his hand. Instead, she makes a prayer gesture. “Please find a mat on the floor.”
“This is going to be too hippy dippy for me,” I murmur as we make our way to the three rows of yoga mats spaced out on the floor. The room is mostly full, but we find an empty mat in the back.
“It’s a lesson on breathing. I think that’s the definition of hip
py dippy.” Tucker helps me into a seated position. “Want me to practice giving you injections instead?”
“Maybe?” I’m only half joking. I read that there are complications with medications, and I haven’t decided if I’m going to opt for the epidural.
The lights dim and Stacy moves deeper into the room, hands still folded in prayer.
“I think she knows something we don’t,” Tucker murmurs in my ear. “That’s why she’s praying all the time.”
“She knows that no amount of meditation is ever going to make childbirth pain free.”
The man next to us clears his throat. Tucker chuckles softly, but we both shut up.
In the front of the room, Stacy turns on a projector. The words “Welcome to Labor of Love” appear. And then she proceeds to read off the slide.
“We’re here to help ease you through the labor process. The mainstream media and health organizations feed you an endless supply of fear and paranoia, but the truth is that childbirth does not have to be a painful experience. Today we will start our journey to a joyful and pleasurable labor. These three classes will help you refocus your negative feelings, drawing in serenity and pushing out fear.”
“Are we in a breathing class or signing up for a cult?” Tucker whispers.
Cult. Definitely cult.
“Partners, helpers, move into position behind the mama.”
“I already hate this woman,” I hiss as he crouches behind me.
“Because she called you mama or because she says it’s not a painful experience?”
A man a few mats down raises his hand. “Where should we put our hands?”
“Great question, Mark.”
Oh God, she remembers all our names.
“During labor, the appropriate position will be the lower back, but for today, we’re concentrating on relaxation, so please place your hands on your partner’s shoulders.”
Next to me, one expectant mother is taking copious notes, as if Stacy in the peasant skirt is the oracle of laborhood, speaking the ten commandments of birthing.
“If she says, ‘There’s nothing to fear but fear itself,’ we’re out of here,” I say a little too loudly.
The gunner and her equally serious partner turn around to glare at me. A burble of laughter threatens to escape. Can we get arrested for disturbing the peace in a breathing class?
Stacy waves her hand toward the projection screen. “First we’ll watch a short video of the appropriate breathing pattern, and then we’ll practice.”
The video consists of five minutes of a woman panting, her lips forming different shapes while her partner counts off.
“You think she’s really got a baby in there or is it one of those foam things?” Tucker asks, his hands lightly squeezing my shoulders.
“Foam,” I say instantly. “She’s not even sweating. I sweat just trying to get my shoes on.”
After the video ends, Stacy goes around the room to check on all our breathing positions. “Deeper breaths, Sabrina. John, please rub a little harder. Place your fingers closer to her neck. Her neck needs more attention.”
His fingers start rubbing a long path along the side of my neck, drawing out a low moan. Shit, that does feel good. I guess Stacy’s right. I did need more attention on my neck.
“Good job, John,” Stacy coos. She straightens and addresses the class. “Now, I’d like you all to imagine a favorite memory. Something very good in your life. Close your eyes and bring that recollection to the forefront. Pin it to the wall of your mind’s eye.”
“I’m envisioning one of us is a Cyclops.” Tucker’s breath tickles my ear, and I start to feel something completely inappropriate downstairs.
“Maybe the one eye is your dick,” I counter.
The couple next to us huffs loudly. We both ignore them this time.
“All this shushing reminds me of the library.” His lips brush my earlobe. “Actually, it’s worse than the library because there’s no tables to hide my hand creeping inside your skirt.”
I squirm. “Shut up.”
“She told me to go to a favorite memory. Most of those involve either my big head or little head between your legs.”
“The important thing,” Stacy says with a raised voice and a pointed glare in our direction, “is to find peace. Now close your eyes and picture your happy place.”
Tucker hums.
Gotta admit, my recent good times all involve Tucker too, but this is definitely not the time or place to get horny. So I pull up the crimson shield and try to channel the euphoria of the news of my law school admission. That was a good memory too.
“Partners, as your mama is breathing, please give her a good massage around the neck and shoulders. Many mamas hold their tension there. Don’t be too gentle. Your mamas are pillars of strength. The next video we will watch is of the birth itself.”
Stacy taps something on the laptop attached to the projector. An image of a pair of giant cooking tongs appears on the screen. Okay, maybe they aren’t cooking tongs, but they look a hell of a lot like them. The camera pans out and we see the tongs being held by a masked surgeon. As the scene unfurls, a gasp fills the room.
A woman’s spread legs appear and it’s not pretty. I cover my eyes. Tucker’s hands tighten around my neck.
Stacy’s cheery voice narrates the scene. “Remember your happy place as we watch these next few videos. The implement being used is not a torture device but rather a forceps. If you’re not able to push with sufficient strength, your doctor will be forced to use these to pull the infant from your uterus, which can affect the shape of your child’s head and possibly lead to brain damage. Keep breathing, mamas. Partners, keep massaging. This is what will happen if you can’t conquer your pain. Remember that your mind controls the outcome.”
There’s another collective intake of breath as the screen shows a scalpel cutting into the flesh of a woman.
Tucker’s grip grows tighter.
“You’re choking me,” I mutter.
He doesn’t release me. If anything, the constriction gets tighter.
“And here we have the C-section. The infant will shy away from the light when the stomach cavity is cut open. The doctor has to reach in and drag the baby out of your stomach. Again, if you are unable to do your duty as a mother and push your baby down the vaginal canal, your doctor will be forced to cut the baby out.”
I tug on Tucker’s fingers. “You’re choking me,” I repeat.
Stacy taps to another scene. A gush of fluid and blood and, is that shit? pours out of the woman on the table.
“This is the most natural thing in the universe as evidenced by births in nature,” she says in a dreamy voice.
A montage of the bloody birthing scenes of different mammals follows.
I grab Tucker’s middle finger and wrench as hard as I can.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, falling away immediately.
“You were choking me!” I snap.
“I thought you said I was joking you!”
We stare at each other, filled with equal parts horror and hilarity.
“Communication is always the key,” Stacy sings from the front.
Laughter wins out. Tucker and I collapse against each other. We can’t stop laughing, and after a few seconds of calling our names and clapping for attention, Stacy finally asks us to leave.
30
Tucker
Fourth of July
“On a scale of one to I’m-ready-to-jump-out-of-this-speeding-truck, where are you on the freak-out scale?”
Sabrina jerks her head away from the car window. She’s been staring at the Boston scenery as if she’s never seen it before, never mind that she’s lived here her whole life.
“You can tell I’m anxious?” She grimaces, her pouty lips flattening out.
“Your fingers are white, so either you’re suffering from a serious condition that needs immediate medical attention or you’re squeezing the blood out of them intentionally.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her slowly uncurl her fingers until they’re straight and pink again.
“I’ve never met a guy’s parents before,” she admits, fiddling with the radio station.
“Good thing there’s only one,” I joke. Then her words sink in. “Wait—never?”
I remember her telling me she’s never had a boyfriend before, but I took that to mean college. Sabrina is gorgeous. If I saw her in high school, I would’ve laid in front of her locker every day until she agreed to go out with me.
It all makes sense now, why she’s been so on edge ever since I told her that my mom was coming up to meet her. At first, we tried to make a plan for Sabrina and me to fly to Texas, but the cost of two plane tickets and a rental car didn’t make sense, even though it meant Mom rescheduling a few appointments. Besides, turns out a lot of airlines balk at pregnant women flying. I guess they aren’t really keen on deliveries happening on board.
The bonus about staying in town is that I’m able to work this holiday weekend and get some of that extra time and a half that Sabrina’s always bragging about. I’ve been working part-time on a construction crew in the city and making decent money, which is awesome because I’m trying not to dip into my savings unless I absolutely have to.
“I already told you,” Sabrina mumbles from the passenger side. “No boyfriends.”
Abandoning the radio, she sits back with a sigh. Her stomach is big enough that she can’t even cross her arms unless she rests them on top of the bump. Which is not a shelf, she’s reminded me more than once.
“Thought you meant college. Were the boys in your high school deaf, dumb and blind?”
“No. They chased after me, but I didn’t have time for them.” She absently reaches down and rubs the curve of her stomach.
Every time I look at her, I’m struck anew with awe at the fact that my little girl is inside of her body. It also makes me fucking horny as hell. Thank Christ we’re having regular sex again.
“I was constantly hustling for scholarship money,” she goes on. “Working almost full-time at the post office since I was sixteen. In the summers I waited tables at night and worked at the post office during the day. Guys were…unnecessary. Other than, you know,” she waves vaguely toward her crotch. “Plus they didn’t know what to do with their equipment in high school. I was better off taking care of myself at home.”