Page 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

Tara

ANOTHER WEEK HAS passed. The morning sickness has faded a bit now that I’m into my second trimester. It no longer hits at all hours of the day. Funny enough, it decided it wants to be bedtime sickness. Hitting every night just as I get comfortable under the covers. Doesn’t matter what time I tuck myself in. It hits within minutes.

I thought it may have had something to do with lying down, so I tried to trick my body by laying on the couch in my living room for a bit before bed so I can get the throwing up over and done with before I get comfy. It didn’t work. Then I tried propping myself up while I slept, to see if it was the lying down that triggered it. Nope. Same result.

I finally gave up, and accepted my fate.

I’ve also accepted that the pickle cravings are here to stay. I swear, I’m sweating pickle juice at this point.

True to her word, my boss Sasha had an office set up for me within days. Now instead of working on experiments and research, I spend my days creating reports, typing up notes, transcribing dictated research results, and other odd and end paper work.

Its mind-numbing, and has given me far more time to think than I need.

My mind likes to run through the what-ifs. Playing various scenarios in which my life could have gone different up until this point. Then what my life might be like in the future.

What will my child look like? Will they look more like me, or like Sean?

What sport will they want to play? Will they want to play an instrument?

What job will they someday have?

Will I be a good mom? Will I ever by able to give them a daddy, or a sibling?

I need to stop thinking. I need to do something. Anything. It’s the weekend now. I’m free to find other things to occupy my mind.

The ringing of my apartment’s door buzzer interrupts my musings. Who could that be?

I go to the door and hit the intercom button. “Hello?”

“Bitch, let us up!” It’s Laura. One of my girls from college. I would recognize her voice anywhere. She’s also the only one who calls me bitch. It’s not a put down when she says it. To her, it’s a term of endearment.

I quickly hit the buzzer to let my girls in. I’m not sure who all came with her, but I’m glad they came. They always know when I need them. As they make their way up, I rush to my bedroom to throw off my ripped, comfy night shirt, and put on a bra and proper shirt. I decide my sleep shorts are fine to keep on.

When I get back into the living area, I find my girls have already made themselves at home. There’s three of them. Laura, Sam, and Britney. We’ve been a tight group since freshman orientation.

Looks like Sam brought liquor. Her usual. She’s a huge fan of any excuse to drink. “Mimosas?” I ask as she pours a glass of orange juice and champagne and passes it off to Britney. Meanwhile, Laura is pulling boxes of to-go food out of several bags.

Sam starts to hand me a glass, but I stop her. Pointing to my belly as a reminder. I told all my girls about my pregnancy right after the shit-show I had with Sean last week.

They were pissed on my behalf and wanted to storm the club and bitch him out. Jeremy was able to help convince them not to. When they finally relented, it was by assuring me that they wouldn’t seek him out, but if their paths just happen to cross, they make no promises.

I expected nothing less from them. If our places were reversed, I would have done the same.

Sam rolls her eyes at me and thrusts the glass into my hand. “It’s not a real mimosa, it’s a mock-tail, preggers.”

“What is a mock-tail version of a mimosa?” I ask.

The three girls laugh and in unison say “Orange juice.” I can’t help but to laugh with them. Of course it is. So simple.

I step a little closer, so I can grab some plates for us. I stop when the smell hits me. “Shit.” I mumble as my hands go to cover my mouth and nose. Too late. I can feel the bile rising and take off for the toilet.

My evil child hates bacon. Therefore momma is not allowed to have bacon. I freaking love bacon.

Britney comes to kneel at my side. She grabs my hair that I’ve been holding back and places it in a clip. Laura is on my other side. She’s got a damp cloth ready for me.

Laura leaves after a minute while Britney stays with me. Once I feel a bit better, we return to the living area.

I was not prepared for the scene we walked in on.

Sam is in the kitchen. Her mouth overflowing with strips of bacon. Her lips look stretched to the point of pain and yet she is still trying to stuff another one in.

I can’t help the snort that bursts out of me as I try not to laugh. She looks like one of those adorable chipmunks whose mouth is full, yet they are still trying to stuff one last nut in there.

She blushes as she realizes we are in the room, watching. Staring. She gives a shrug and starts chewing faster. We can see her struggle to swallow, while also trying not to laugh with us.

When Britney, Laura and I can hold it in no longer, we burst into laughter. It feels good to laugh.

It takes Sam a solid two minutes to finally finish clearing out her mouth. She looks like she’s trying to catch her breath. When she straightens up, she gives us another shrug, with a massive smile on her face. Like she’s proud. She should be. I’ve never seen someone chug bacon like that before. I’d be impressed if little nugget wasn’t so repulsed.

“I didn’t want to waste perfectly good bacon.” She says, defending herself.

Laura shakes her head. “You didn’t need to gorge yourself on bacon. We could have just opened a window. Right, Tara?”

I’m still laughing a bit. Keeping my distance from the lingering scent. “Yeah. Its not the sight that bothers me, it’s the smell.”

Britney moves behind me to open another window. “Is there ant left?” She asks Sam.

“A few.” She concedes. Britney nods, then goes over and grabs them.

I stay over by the window.

Once the bacon is gone, the girls divide up the food. Laura hands me a plate full of eggs, sausage, and roasted red potatoes with peppers and onions. It looks and smells amazing. Unfortunately, it’s not what baby wants. I love my girls, and am so happy they surprised me and drove all this way, I don’t want to seem ungrateful.

So, I don’t say anything. I try to ignore the compulsion to go get the pickles, and instead stir the fork around my plate so it looks like I’ve eaten some.

I must not be as stealthy as I thought, because Britney calls me out on it. “Does the baby not like the eggs?”

“Um, no they’re fine.” I say with a tight smile as I shuffle a giant scoop of eggs in my mouth. Definitely not bread and butter pickles. Damn.

“That is the face of a very unhappy baby.” She says with a laugh.

I concede defeat and put the plate down on the coffee table. “I love my little nugget, but he or she only seems to want one thing. All the freaking time.”

“Okay then. What is it? Do you need one of us to go out and get it?”

I’m hesitant to tell them. Not because I think they’ll judge my pickle addiction, but rather they will judge the obscene amount of pickles I have in my kitchen. Oh god, they can’t open my cupboards. “You know what. I can get it.” I say as I move to stand up.

Laura places a hand on my should and pushes me back down. “We came to spoil you mama, so let us spoil you and our future niece or nephew.”

This is why I love my girls. I hate that they all live back in Chicago. “I love you all. And thank you. Baby would really love a pickle.”

“Pickle, got it. That’s easy.” Laura replies as she bounces into the kitchen.

Wait for it….

“Holy Shit!” There it is. She’s seen my pickle collection. “Um, Tara, why do you have ten jars of pickles in your refrigerator?”

Immediately Britney and Sam jump up and run into the kitchen area. I don’t answer. The only answer I have is ‘the baby likes them’, and I feel like pregnant or not that answer makes me sound nuts. So instead of answering, I shrug and pray they don’t open the cupboard where at least another dozen unopened jars are.

My prayers go unanswered, because two second later, there is another round of ‘holy shit’s, followed by the slamming of multiple cupboard doors.

I give up and start laughing. “Stop judging me! It’s the only freaking craving I have.” I bury my face in my hands. “All the time. I got sick of running to the store everyday, so I had to stock up. And yes I know there are almost fifty jars, but little nugget is picky on which type of pickle they want, and it’s always changing.

All three of my girls are laughing with me when they come back to the couch. Each carrying a different type of pickle. I look between them, and can’t help but to shrink back into the couch a little and whisper. “Not those ones.”

Laura shakes her head with a smile, grabs the three jars and goes back to the kitchen. “What kind would you like?”

“Bread and Butter ones please.”

When she returns with the jar and a fork, I do a little happy dance. I can’t help it.

I feel them watching for a moment. It’s almost awkward silence, until Britney starts talking about her sister’s weird cravings. It makes me seem less crazy. I just hope baby doesn’t decide they want to start experimenting.

“I think the worst was the pickles with peanut butter, in ice cream.” Says Sam.

“Why ruin ice cream like that?” Asks Britney.

“Why ruin pickles?” I add.

Hmm…Would pickles and peanut butter be good?

No.

Maybe.

Crap. I might have to try it.

“So…are we going to shit talk your baby daddy some more, or should we start throwing out baby name ideas instead?” Questions Laura.

“If it’s a girl I call dibs on Sam.” Offers Sam.

Britney pulls the couch pillow from behind her and chucks it at Sam who’s on the floor across from us, leaning back against the wall. Instead of getting mad. She says “thanks” and proceeds to put the pillow behind her back.

“I’ve got a couple names picked for a boy. For a girl, I really like Aisling.” I admit.

“Aww….Aisling.” They seem to say in unison.

I take it they like the name.