The Nine Month Plan

  “That’s fine. I’ll run out and get you a banana split from Carvel later if you want, sweetie.” Danny gives Barb’s arm an affectionate pat as she passes him on the way to the bathroom.

  If only Nina didn’t feel so darned wistful just being around the two of them.

  Barb and Danny’s baby will be born at the same time as her and Joe’s. Rather, Joe’s. The three of them are going to go through parenthood together, while Nina goes off to see the world.

  If only the idea of diapers and bottles filled her with anticipation, the way it would if she were a first-­time mom.

  But you are a first-­time mom, she reminds herself.

  No, she isn’t. Not really. She isn’t a mom at all. Not to her siblings, and not to the baby she’s carrying for Joe.

  And that’s the way you want it, Nina. Remember?

  She looks at Joe. He doesn’t see her. He’s busy talking to Danny about tomorrow’s Giants game.

  What if you stay here and raise the baby with Joey?

  But that would never work. Not in the long run. How will she feel when Joe dates other women? When he decides to get married? She would just be in the way. And she might even be jealous.

  Not because of Joe, she tells herself hastily. But because of the baby. It might be hard to see some other woman being a mom to her child.

  Well, if you’re not planning to do it yourself, you want the baby to eventually have a mom, don’t you, Nina?

  Don’t you?

  Of course she does. She wants Joe to meet somebody wonderful who will step in and love the baby. Just as she did with her younger siblings.

  Come on, Nina. You’re having doubts. Admit it. At least to yourself.

  Oh, hell.

  All right.

  Maybe there’s a part of her—­a teeny, but increasingly restless part of her—­that’s wondering what the heck she’s gotten herself into.

  It isn’t just the chilling reminder that there’s a remote chance she might suffer the same condition that caused her mother’s death. She’s done some reading on eclampsia since the doctor’s appointment and all of it has been reassuring. Well, most of it. In the back of her mind is a fear for the baby’s well-­being . . . and for her own.

  She went full speed ahead with the pregnancy, thinking only of Joe, and giving him the child he longs for, and repaying the huge debt her family owes him.

  Okay, and thinking of herself, too—­of seizing this one and only chance to experience pregnancy and childbirth.

  Why the heck didn’t she think beyond that? Beyond next summer?

  Come to think of it . . . has she ever thought beyond next summer?

  Of course you have. You’ve been planning it forever. It’s when your life is going to begin.

  She has a plan. She’s been saving every spare cent for years. She’s going to travel. She’ll live wherever she feels like living for as long as she feels like staying, and when she gets tired of the place or the ­people, she’ll move on. There will be nothing holding her back. Not ever again.

  If she wants to spend the whole summer in the south of France, she will. Or if she wants to spend next winter skiing in the Alps, or on a beach in Australia, she will.

  In fact, maybe . . .

  Well, maybe she’ll even decide to come back here for the holidays next year. Just to see how everyone is, and for the baby’s first Christmas . . .

  Stop it! Stop thinking like that, Nina.

  “Nina!”

  “Hmm?” She blinks, looking up to find Danny waving his hand at her as though he’s been trying to get her attention.

  “I said, are you sure you don’t want a beer after all? Barb won’t mind. You don’t have to be on the wagon just because she can’t drink.”

  “Nah, it’s okay. I don’t mind sticking with seltzer. Just get on that snack situation, will you?”

  “All right already. Geez!” Shaking his head, Danny heads into the kitchen to refill the bowls.

  Nina glances at Joe.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  “Sure! Why wouldn’t I be okay?” She takes another mouthful of M&Ms from the bowl.

  “It’s just . . . I saw you watching them.”

  “I can’t help it. I’m craving chocolate.”

  “Not the candy, Nina. Them. Barb and Danny.”

  Oh. So Joe suspects that she was craving something more than chocolate.

  “I wasn’t watching Barb and Danny,” she says defensively.

  “Yes, you were. And you looked wistful.”

  “Wistful.” She snorts. “I am not the least bit wistful, Joey!”

  “Okay. Whatever.” He looks away and sips his beer.

  “Don’t say it like that, Joey!”

  “Huh?”

  She swings her legs off the arm of the couch and sits up. “Don’t say ‘whatever’ like you don’t believe a word I say.”

  He shrugs. “Nina, I just wonder sometimes if you’re okay with this whole thing.”

  “Well, it’s a little late for that, isn’t it? It’s not like we can undo it.” She can hear her voice getting a tad hysterical, but she can’t seem to help it.

  “No, but Nina . . .” He comes to kneel before the couch, touching her arm gently, “it doesn’t have to be this way.”

  “What way? What way doesn’t it have to be, Joey?”

  “Like this,” he says. “With us.”

  “What other way can it be? Do you want to take over carrying the baby? Because I’ll gladly—­”

  “Nina, stop it.” He takes her hand and squeezes it. “I mean that you don’t have to—­you can feel more involved in this.”

  “Joey, I’ve gained fifteen pounds and my throat is raw every freakin’ morning from vomiting. I don’t think it’s possible to feel any more involved than this, and frankly, I don’t think I’d want—­”

  “Not physically involved, Nina. I’m talking about the rest of it.”

  She’s silent. She can feel her hand trembling in his warm grasp.

  “I’m talking about after the baby’s born. I’m saying, maybe you’ll want to stick around for a while.”

  She fights to keep the surge of emotion out of her voice.

  She asks flatly, “Stick around and do what?”

  “Never mind,” he mutters, as Danny and Barb’s footsteps approach the living room again. “Forget I said anything.”

  And she tries. Really, she does. But she can’t.

  Surely Joey didn’t mean . . .

  Of course he didn’t.

  Nah.

  And even if he did . . .

  Well, Nina’s not going to stick around one second longer than she has to. The rest of her life belongs to her, and her alone.

  Maybe you’ll want to stick around for a while. . .

  Nina pushes the thought away. What does Joey know? She’s stuck around her whole life.

  She closes her eyes, and an image of a newborn baby promptly fills her head. A newborn baby, with scrawny arms reaching up in age-­old instinct, reaching for its mother, just as Ralphie used to do.

  When her infant brother did that, Nina was the one who bent toward him, who cradled him in her arms.

  Who will do that for the baby growing inside of her?

  Joey.

  Joey will be the daddy.

  Can a man take the place of a mother?

  Not any more than a sister could. Nina tells herself. This baby will grow up knowing something is missing, just as Ralphie has. This baby will grow up reaching for someone who will always be out of his grasp.

  It doesn’t have to be that way, Nina reminds herself.

  I can stay.

  I can be the baby’s mommy.

  I can . . . but I shouldn’t. And. . .

  She pushes the wistfulness
aside again.

  And I won’t.

  Chapter Twelve

  THIS ISN’T THE first time Joe’s been invited to spend Thanksgiving with the Chickalinis. Nina invites him every year, ever since his parents moved to Florida, but he always ends up going to his Aunt Theresa’s in Bensonhurst. The woman doesn’t know how to take no for an answer, and she sees it as her duty to look out for him in her sister’s absence.

  This year is no different. Though he insists to Aunt Theresa that he won’t be coming, she keeps calling right through Thursday morning, interrupting his annual television viewing of the Macy’s parade.

  “Joey, how can going to a neighbor’s house be the same as being with family?” Aunt Theresa asks in her thick Brooklyn accent. “Does your mother know about this?”

  “She knows, Aunt Theresa,” Joey says, watching the Arthur the Aardvark balloon dip dangerously close to a treetop as it drifts down Central Park West.

  “And what did she say when you told her?”

  “She said that was fine,” Joey lies, taking a mouthful of store-­bought pumpkin pie smothered in Cool Whip—­his traditional Thanksgiving morning breakfast.

  Actually, what his mother had said was pretty much the same thing Aunt Theresa said—­that neighbors were neighbors but blood was blood.

  “Ma, the Chickalinis might as well be blood relations,” Joey pointed out. “You know they’re just as close as family.”

  “I know, Joey, but Aunt Theresa’s feelings will be hurt. She always makes the sausage stuffing just for you.”

  “Yeah, well, Nina’s making sausage stuffing just for me too.”

  He was tempted to tell his mother the rest of it: about Nina carrying his baby. He figures that the moment his mother finds out she’s going to be a grandmother, she’ll forget all about Aunt Theresa and stuffing. But he and Nina have decided to wait until Christmas to tell anyone.

  Her pregnancy is growing more obvious with every passing day, but maybe that’s just because Joe’s been seeing her without her clothes, much to his delight.

  When she’s dressed—­especially in the chic maternity wardrobe he bought her—­she merely looks a little curvier than usual. So far, nobody seems to have noticed that she’s put on weight.

  Nor has anyone noticed that something’s going on between the two of them. They’ve done more sneaking around these past few weeks than Joe did during his entire teenaged career. This affair—­or whatever it is that he’s having with Nina—­is more tantalizing than he ever imagined possible. He’s doing his best to live in the moment and not analyze what they’re doing, or what’s going to happen when she leaves.

  “Joey,” Aunt Theresa says in his ear, “I bought an extra large bird, thinking you were coming. What am I going to do with five extra pounds of it?”

  “Make it into a pot pie or soup or something,” Joe suggests, wondering why Aunt Theresa always insists on calling the turkey “the bird,” and how the hell she expects him to ingest five pounds of poultry in a single sitting.

  Grumbling, Aunt Theresa hangs up at last—­but only after Joe promises to visit tomorrow night after work, and bring home all the leftovers.

  After the pie, a parade, and a long hot shower, he gets dressed and heads next door. He’s carrying a bouquet of roses he bought for Nina first thing this morning, along with an enormous tray of mixed nuts and dried fruits from the Korean grocery.

  Rosalee answers the door, looking plump and pretty in a green velvet jumper. “Hi, Joey.”

  “Hey, sweetie. Happy Thanksgiving.” He hands her the tray.

  “Ooh, yummy. Want me to put the flowers in a vase? They’re gorgeous.”

  “No, thanks. I’ll go bring them to Nina,” he says, then notices the odd look Rosalee shoots him. “I have to ask her something anyway,” he adds hastily.

  She shrugs. “Enter the kitchen at your own risk. She’s freaking out in there because the sausage stuffing doesn’t taste like Aunt Carm’s, and the sweet potato soufflé won’t rise or puff or whatever it’s supposed to do.”

  “Sweet potato soufflé?”

  “Don’t ask. She’s trying a new recipe. Oh, there’s Timmy!” she says, spotting her fiancé through the window.

  Joe heads for the kitchen, pausing only to stick his head into the living room to greet the three Chickalini men, who are gathered around the television. He’s careful to keep the bouquet of roses hidden behind the doorjamb, lest anyone get suspicious.

  “Hey, Joey,” they say in unison.

  “Come on, sit down, the Detroit game’s just starting,” Dominic says.

  “Hey, how come you’re all dressed up?” Ralphie asks.

  He and Dom are wearing sweats. Their father is in a dark-­colored dress shirt and black dress slacks.

  “Because you should dress up on a holiday, that’s why. Right, Joey?” Mr. Chickalini asks.

  “Sure. And anyway, this is comfortable,” Joe says, looking down at his khakis and crimson cableknit crewneck. He’s not about to admit to them—­or even to himself—­that he chose this particular sweater because Nina said something the other day about red being her favorite color.

  He continues through the dining room, where the table has an extra leaf and is set with Rosemarie Chickalini’s fine china. The house is filled with a delectable aroma, and Joe is struck by a wave of nostalgia for Thanksgivings past, when his parents still lived here, and his grandparents were alive, and they had Thanksgiving around the Materis’ big table next door.

  Years ago, they would play touch football in the Chickalinis’ yard on Thanksgiving Day: Joe and his brother, a ­couple of his cousins, Nina and her brothers, and a ­couple of their cousins. Ro never played; Nina was the only girl, frequently tackling whoever had the ball.

  “It’s touch football, Nina,” Joe would remind her. “No tackling.”

  But Nina couldn’t help herself. She wanted to win, and so she would tackle.

  In Joe’s memory, it is always cold and cloudy on the Thanksgiving Days of his childhood, with woodsmoke hovering in the air. Surely there were Thanksgivings when it rained, and when the sun shone, but he doesn’t recall those occasions.

  Nor does he recall whose mother called which set of kids in to dinner first, or who returned to the yard first, between the turkey dinner and the pie dessert. With bulging bellies, they were no longer interested in football. Rather, they lounged and talked until it was time for pie. In later years, Joe watched his male cousins flirt with Nina. By then, he had Minnie, but she spent holidays with her relatives in Manhattan. Without his girlfriend as a diversion, Joe found himself inexplicably annoyed whenever Nina giggled at something one of his cousins said.

  Okay, to be fair, maybe she didn’t giggle. Nina was never the giggly type.

  But in Joe’s memories of Thanksgivings past, it was always cold and cloudy, and Nina always giggled at his cousins Tony and Carmine and Billy.

  Next year, Joe realizes, he’ll have a family of his own. Maybe he can start a Thanksgiving tradition with the baby, even if it’s just the two of them and a ­couple of jars of strained turkey and pureed pumpkin and squash.

  He smiles at the thought, trying to banish the hollow sensation that washes over him. This is his first Thanksgiving sharing dinner with Nina—­and her last one here at home. God knows where she’ll be next year, but one thing is certain: it won’t be with Joey and his child.

  A pot lid clatters in the kitchen, followed by a colorful curse.

  Uh-­oh.

  He goes in to find Nina rushing to the sink and shoving her hand under cold running water.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks, hurrying to her side.

  “I just burned myself on the steam from the butternut squash. It hurts like a son of a—­”

  “Watch it,” he says, covering her stomach protectively with the hand that isn’t holding the flowers. “Little
ears might be listening. I thought you were going to try to control that mouth of yours.”

  “I have been trying! I hardly ever swear and you know it, Joey. But this really hurts.”

  “Let me see it.” He deposits the bouquet on the counter, reaches for her hand, examines it, and raises it to his lips.

  She smiles as he kisses her wet fingers.

  “Better?” he asks, reaching for a dish towel and gently drying her hand.

  “Much. But you know, my mouth is starting to hurt, too. I think my lips might be chapped.”

  “I’ll take care of that.” He pulls her into his arms and kisses her.

  “Mmmm . . .” She sighs. “Think anyone will miss us if we sneak next door to your room for a while?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.” Joe releases her reluctantly.

  “Are those for me?” Nina asks, motioning at the flowers. “They’re beautiful.”

  “So are you.”

  Her hair has escaped its restraining clip, as usual, and her face is flushed with exertion and the heat of the kitchen. She’s wearing a black velvet dress that hugs her full breasts and the slight swelling in her stomach. Looking at her, Joe wonders if anyone can possibly miss the fact that she’s pregnant now. She seems to have blossomed overnight.

  “Hey, Nina, the guys want to know if you’ve got appetizers.” Rosalee sticks her head into the kitchen.

  Joe quickly wipes the reverent look off his face.

  “Are you kidding me?” Nina asks darkly, shoving a sweat-­dampened tendril of hair from her forehead. “You can tell the guys—­”

  “Give them the nuts and figs I bought,” Joe advises Rosalee.

  “I don’t think that’s what they had in mind.”

  “What do you expect? Foie gras pâté?” Nina lifts a pot lid and briskly stirs something simmering on the stove.

  “I don’t know . . . Timmy likes cheese. Maybe if we’ve got some crackers we can make some whores divorce.”

  “Huh? ‘Whores’ . . . what?” Befuddled, Joe stares at Rosalee.

  “It’s hors d’oeuvres,” Nina corrects with a sigh, “and Ro, just tell Timmy and everyone else to cool their jets. Dinner will be ready soon.”