Neal was working in pharmaceutical research then. He’d thought about graduate school for a while but didn’t know what he wanted to study, so he got a job in a lab. Then he got another job in another lab. He hated it, but at least he worked better hours than Georgie. Neal was done every day by five—and home making dinner by six.
There was a nice day care they were considering on the studio lot. They went and visited, and Georgie put their name on the waiting list.
It was going to be fine, Neal said. It was all going to be fine.
It was just happening so fast.
They’d always assumed they’d have kids someday, but they hadn’t really talked through the details. The closest they’d come was on that first date, when Georgie said that she wanted kids and Neal hadn’t argued.
After they’d been married for seven years, it seemed like they should probably get on with it—the trying, not the talking. Georgie was already thirty, and lots of her friends had had fertility problems. . . .
She got pregnant the first month they stopped using condoms.
And then it was happening. And they still didn’t talk about it. There was no time. Georgie was so tired by the time she got home from the show, she fell asleep most nights on the couch during prime time. Neal would wake her up and walk behind her up their narrow staircase, his hands supporting her hips and his head resting between her shoulder blades.
It was all going to be fine, he said.
Georgie was thirty-seven weeks along when they went out to celebrate their eighth wedding anniversary. They walked to an Indian restaurant near their house—their old house in Silver Lake—and Neal talked her into having a glass of wine. (“One glass of red wine isn’t going to hurt at this point.”) They talked about the studio day care some more; it was Montessori, Georgie said—for probably the third time that night—and the kids had their own vegetable garden.
There was an Indian family sitting one table over. Georgie was terrible at guessing kids’ ages before she had her own, but the family had a little girl who must have been about a year and a half. She was toddling from chair to chair, and she reached out and grabbed Georgie’s armrest, smiling up at her triumphantly. The girl wore a pink silk dress and pink silk leggings. She had a cap of black hair and gold studs in her ears. “Oh—sorry,” the girl’s mother said, leaning over and sweeping the child up onto her lap.
Georgie set her glass down too hard, and wine splashed out onto the yellow tablecloth.
“Are you okay?” Neal asked, his eyes dropping to her stomach. He’d been looking at Georgie differently since she started to show, like she might split open at anytime without warning.
“I’m fine,” she said, but her chin was wobbling.
“Georgie—” Neal took her hand. “—what’s wrong?”
“I don’t know what we’re doing,” she whispered. “I don’t know why we’re doing this.”
“Why we’re doing what?”
“Having a baby,” she said, glancing tearfully over at the pink-swathed toddler. “We’re just—all we ever talk about is what we’re going to do with it when we’re not there. Who’s going to raise it?”
“We are.”
“From six to eight P.M.?”
Neal sat back in his chair. “I thought you wanted this.”
“Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I shouldn’t get what I want.” Maybe I don’t deserve it.
Neal didn’t tell her it would all be fine. He seemed too shocked to speak. Or maybe too angry. He just watched Georgie cry—his brow low, his jaw forward—and refused to finish his chana masala.
The next morning he told her he was quitting his job.
“You can’t quit your job,” Georgie said. She was still lying in bed. Neal had brought her a mug of hot black tea and a plate of scrambled eggs.
“Why not?” he said. “I hate it.”
He did hate it. He’d been there three years, the pay was terrible, and his boss was an unrepentant egomaniac who liked to brag about “curing cancer.”
“Yeah,” she said, “but . . . do you even want to stay home?”
Neal shrugged. “You’re going to be miserable if we put this baby in day care.”
“I’ll get over it,” Georgie said, knowing that she would and feeling guilty about that, too.
“You don’t want me to stay home?”
“I haven’t thought about it, have you?”
“There isn’t anything to think about,” he said. “I can do this. You can’t. We don’t need my paycheck.”
“But . . .” Georgie felt like she should argue, but she didn’t know where to start. And, actually, she really, really liked this idea. She already felt better about the baby, knowing that it would be with Neal, that they wouldn’t be turning it (they didn’t know the gender yet, but they’d settled on “Alice” or “Eli”) over to a stranger nine hours a day.
“You’re sure?” she asked, moving to get out of bed. She was huge—Georgie got huge with both pregnancies—and she was having spasms in her lower back every time she sat up. Neal bent in front of her so she could put her arms around his neck, then pulled her upright with his hands on her hips. “It’s a big sacrifice,” she said.
“Taking care of my own child isn’t a sacrifice. It’s what parents do.”
“Yeah, but are you sure? Don’t you want to think about this?”
Neal was looking at Georgie’s face, not smiling—just meeting her eyes without flinching, so she’d know he was serious. “I’m positive.”
“Okay,” she said, and kissed him, already feeling so relieved. And feeling some sort of evolutionary satisfaction. Like she’d made the right decision picking this man; he was going to find all the best sticks for their nest and chase off all the predators.
They stood together, curled over the mass of baby between them, and Georgie felt like everything was going to be fine.
That’s how Neal had become a stay-at-home dad.
That’s how Neal had thrown away his own career before he’d even figured out what he wanted from it.
What would happen now? If they stayed together? (God, was she really asking that question?)
Noomi would start school next year. Would Neal go back to work then? What would he want to do—what would he want to be?
A railroad detective?
CHAPTER 25
Neal didn’t call her back.
Georgie lay on her bed and watched the phone. She was trying to figure out whether she could see the magic if she looked hard enough. Whether the phone shimmered or glittered or made some sort of spooky Freaky Friday noise when it was doing its thing.
One of the pugs, the boy, wandered into the room. He stood next to the bed barking until Georgie hauled him up with her.
“I don’t like you,” she said. “I don’t even know your name. In my head, I call you ‘the Sweaty One’ and the other one ‘the One Who Looks Like It Bit a Brick.’”
She did know their names. They were Porky and Petunia
Porky nuzzled his flat face into Georgie’s stomach and whimpered. She rubbed her knuckles into the skin at the back of his neck.
The door was open, and Heather leaned in.
“I’m still fine,” Georgie said. Heather had been checking on her ever since they got back from the mall and Georgie had run to her room to brood over the phone.
“I brought you some Pringles,” Heather said.
“I don’t want any Pringles.”
Heather walked over and sat on the bed. “Well, now you’re just lying.” She shook a stack of chips out onto the bedspread, and Georgie and Porky started eating them. When the can was empty, Heather wiped her fingers on Georgie’s borrowed velour pants and lay down on the bed next to the dog. “Are you okay?”
Georgie didn’t answer. She started crying instead.
Porky climbed into her lap.
“He hates it when people cry,” Heather said.
“Well, I hate him, so he’s making it worse.”
“You don’
t hate him.”
“I do,” Georgie said. “His face is always wet, and the best thing he smells like is bacon bits.”
“Why don’t you just call Neal?”
“He probably isn’t home. Besides, I don’t want to talk to him if he doesn’t want to talk to me.”
“Maybe you’ll change his mind.”
Georgie tried to smooth out the wrinkles over Porky’s eyes.
“If you and Neal split up,” Heather asked, “will you move back in here?”
“Why? Am I in your way?”
“No. I kind of like having you here. It’s like having a sister.” Heather elbowed Georgie. “Hey. You’re supposed to say, ‘We’re not splitting up—Neal’s just visiting his mom.’”
Georgie shrugged.
After another minute or so, Heather elbowed her again. “I’m hungry,” she said.
“Where’s Mom?”
“At her work Christmas party.”
“We could make some more cheesy apples,” Georgie said.
“I ate all the cheese slices.” Heather turned on her side and rested her head in her hand. “I guess we could order a pizza. . . .”
Georgie forced a smile she knew wouldn’t happen on its own. “That sounds perfect.”
“I guess I could call Angelo’s,” Heather said.
“Perfect,” Georgie said, “but tell them we don’t want any of those wrong pizzas. If we get a wrong pizza, we’re sending it back.”
Heather smiled back at her. “Do you like artichoke hearts?”
“I love artichoke hearts. I love all hearts.”
Heather bounced up and pressed redial on her phone. She ordered the pizza, already jiggling her leg and biting at her lip. “I’ll wait in the living room for it,” she said as soon as she ended the call.
“Good idea,” Georgie agreed.
Georgie and Porky went back to their melancholy staring. Georgie at the phone. Porky at Georgie.
“I’m sorry,” Georgie said, scratching under his collar. “But I really don’t like you.” She thought of Noomi. Noomi liked the pugs; she said they looked like really ugly kitties. “Meow,” Noomi would say, getting as close to Porky’s face as he’d let her. (Which, to Porky’s credit, was pretty close.)
“Meow,” Georgie said now.
Porky sneezed.
Both the pugs loved Neal. Georgie knew he fed them table food. (Because he was a soft touch. And because he hated her mom’s cooking.) As soon as Neal sat down on the couch, the pugs would start nipping at his jeans until he had both of them in his lap. That’s how Neal ended up every Thanksgiving afternoon and every other Christmas—with two little girls and two little dogs sacked out in his lap. Neal, tired and bored, but smiling at Georgie from across the room, his dimples playing hide-and-seek with her.
She felt the tears welling up on her again.
Porky whined.
“Oh God,” Georgie said, sitting up. “I have to do something.”
She took one more look at the phone. It didn’t ring.
“Come on.” She set the dog on the floor and left the room.
“What’re you doing?” Heather asked. She’d taken down her hair and spritzed the curls with something, and she was waiting by the door—literally, leaning against the frame.
“Losing my mind,” Georgie said.
“Can’t you do that in your room?”
“I thought you were worried about me.”
“I was. I will be. But now—” Heather pointed emphatically at the door. “—there’s a pizza coming.”
“That’s what happens when you order one.”
“Right,” Heather said, goggling her eyes at Georgie. “The pizza will be here any minute.”
“Oh, right.” Georgie said. “I’ll just . . .”
The doorbell rang. Heather jumped.
“I’ll just get my clothes out of the dryer.”
Heather nodded.
“It might take a while . . . ,” Georgie continued. “You just . . . shout or something when the pizza gets here.”
Heather nodded again. The doorbell rang again. Georgie felt like telling Heather that none of this mattered, that her pizza-boy dramatics were nothing compared to Georgie’s magic, life-destroying phone of destiny—but instead she turned deliberately toward the laundry room.
As soon as Georgie was through the door, she heard the whimpering
Porky was standing outside the open dryer, barking at it. “Damn it, Heather.” Heather must have let Petunia into the dryer again—to take a nap on Georgie’s warm, clean clothes.
Georgie stomped down the back steps, irritated with every living thing in the house. Porky looked up at her and barked. “What’s the problem?” Georgie asked. “Do you want to drool all over my clothes, too?”
She leaned over the dryer door to look for the other one, lumpy old Bit-a-Brick. That’s when Georgie saw the blood. “Oh God . . .”
Porky started barking again. Georgie crouched in front of the dryer, trying not to block the light. All she could see was a pile of clothes streaked with blood. Neal’s Metallica T-shirt was on top, moving; she pulled it out of the way. Petunia was curled underneath, gnawing at something, something dark and wriggling.
“Oh God, oh God—Heather!” Georgie shouted. She jumped up and ran back in the house. “Heather!”
When she got to the kitchen, Heather was standing at the front door, staring at Georgie like she was planning how to kill her later. The pizza boy was standing . . .
Oh. The pizza boy was a girl.
Smaller than Heather; wearing dark jeans, a short-sleeved white T-shirt under thin leather suspenders, and a ball cap that said ANGELO’S. The girl looked kind of like Wesley Crusher, but prettier and with nicer arms. It was a good look.
Huh, Georgie thought, then said out loud: “Heather. It’s Petunia.”
“What?”
“Petunia’s having a baby.”
“What?”
“Petunia!” Georgie said, more urgently. “She’s having puppies in the dryer!”
“No, she’s not. She’s having a C-section in two weeks.”
“Great!” Georgie shouted. “I’ll go tell her!”
“Oh God!” Heather shouted back. She ran past Georgie toward the laundry room. Georgie ran behind her as far as the door.
Heather knelt in front of the dryer and immediately screamed. Porky was running back and forth across the tile floor—it sounded like someone rattling their fingernails against a metal desk. He was already hoarse from barking. “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” Heather chanted.
“Whoa,” someone said.
The pizza girl stepped around Georgie on the stairs. “Whoa,” she said again, crouching behind Heather.
“She’s gonna die,” Heather said.
The girl touched her shoulder. “She’s not.”
“She is. Their heads are too big, she has to have a C-section. Oh God.” Heather took a few crazy breaths. “Oh my God.”
“She’s going to be fine,” Georgie said. “She was built for this.”
“She wasn’t,” Heather said, crying now. “Pugs are bred to be useless. We have to take her to the vet.”
“I think it’s too late for that,” pizza girl said, looking into the dryer. “There are puppies in there.” Porky ran by the dryer again, and the girl scooped him up, running her hand over his skull and whispering, “Hush.”
“Right,” Georgie said.
Heather was still crying and breathing like she was making every effort to pass out.
“Right,” Georgie said again. “Heather, move.”
“Why?”
“I’m going to help Petunia.”
“You don’t even like her.”
“Move.”
Pizza girl tugged on Heather’s elbow, and Heather moved back.
“My OB didn’t like me either,” Georgie murmured. “Get out your phone, Heather. Google ‘pugs in labor.’”
“I would if I had a smartphone!” Heather snarled.
“I’ve got it,” ever-more-impressive pizza girl said. “Here—” She handed Porky to Heather. “—maybe you guys could get some clean towels.”
“Have you done this before?” Heather asked hopefully, taking the dog and wiping her face in its fur.
“No,” the girl said, “but I watch Animal Planet.”
“Google,” Georgie said, reaching into the dryer. Petunia had burrowed under the T-shirt again and was shivering, worrying something with her mouth. Georgie tried to nudge more clothes away, so she could see.
“Okay, okay,” pizza girl said. “It’s loading. Okay, here we go—‘giving birth can be especially challenging for both pugs and pug owners.’”
“So far, so good . . . ,” Georgie said. “It’s too dark, I can’t see anything.”
“Oh.” The girl held her key chain over Georgie’s shoulder. “There’s a flashlight.”
“That’s handy.” Georgie took the heavy key chain and found the stainless steel light.
“It helps when I’m delivering pizzas at night, to get the credit card numbers—okay, it says here that pugs have complicated pregnancies, and we should be financially prepared for a C-section. . . .”
“Skip ahead,” Georgie said. Petunia was wet and splotched with blood. The thing in her mouth was moving. Oh, God, she’s eating it.
“She’s eating the puppies!” Heather shrieked. She was leaning behind Georgie holding a stack of towels and three bottled waters.
“She’s not eating it,” pizza girl said, putting her hand on Heather’s arm. She held up her phone so they both could see. “It’s in its sac. They’re born in sacs, and the mom chews them out. It’s a good sign that she’s chewing them free. It says that pugs are notoriously bad mothers. If she didn’t do it, we’d have to.”
“We’d have to chew them out?” Georgie asked.
The girl looked at Georgie like she was insane—but still managed to look patient. “We’d use a washcloth,” she explained.
“I brought washcloths!” Heather said.
The girl smiled at Heather. “Great job.”
“What else does it say?” Georgie asked.
Still-competent-but-clearly-distracted pizza girl looked back at her phone. “Um . . . okay, puppies—there can be one to seven.”