Page 38

When I woke the next morning, I braced as I sat up, waiting to feel the wave of nausea. Holding my breath, I pressed my hand to my stomach, trying to gauge whether I should run to the bathroom or not.

My stomach was calm. I drew in a deep breath and waited.

Nothing. Still calm. You’d think I’d be thrilled at the passing of the sickness, but immediately I worried.

What if the baby was in trouble? My hands slid to my belly, still round and hard, and I waited for the kid to kick.

I needed feedback from her, and again she was being coy.

“Come on,” I whispered. “A kick or a tap would be greatly appreciated.”

Nothing. “Damn.”

“Why are you cussing?” Margaret’s groggy voice rolled out from under the blue sheet on her bed.

“I’m not sick,” I whispered.

“Why are you whispering?”

“Because what if not being sick is a bad sign?”

Margaret peeked her head out from under the sheet. A riot of blond curls framed a face lined from a pillow’s crease. “Are you cramping or bleeding?”

I glanced under the sheet. “No. All clear.”

She sat up and yawned. “Is the baby moving?”

“No, but she goes dark for long stretches. She’s a mind of her own.”

She reached for her thick dark glasses on the nightstand and looked at me with now-magnified blue eyes. “Imagine that.”

“This could be serious.”

“Drink a soda or eat a cookie. The sugar will juice her little ass into action.”

“Really?”

“I’ve known my share of pregnant women.” She rose, her bare feet curling as they hit the bare wood floor. “Are there any cookies in this place right now?”

“I’ve cookie dough in the freezer.”

“Better be cooked. Salmonella.”

“Right. There’s a ginger ale in the back of my refrigerator.”

“There was. I cut it with bourbon last night.”

“You took my baby’s ginger ale and mixed it with booze?”

“Hey, I remember you taking a bottle of Rachel’s breast milk and putting it in your coffee.”

I shrugged. “It had been a late night.”

“Exactly.”

“Fine.” I rose. “I need to hook up with some sugar so I can make the kid move.”

Margaret sat up. “When did you become such a girl, Daisy?”

“I’m not sure when I crossed that dark line, but I’m there.” I grabbed shorts from the edge of the bed and pulled them on. I reached to fasten the button but discovered I couldn’t. “Crap.”

“Ah, the tall and slim Daisy has joined the ranks of the mortals.”

“I wasn’t always slim.”

“You have been for at least fifteen years, and that’s a lifetime in my book.”

I tried to suck in my belly, but it wouldn’t budge.

Margaret laughed. “Time to get some fat-girl pants. Wonder if Rachel has any?”

“If she does, they’ll be too short.” I dragged a hand through my hair. “My life is out of control. Totally out of control.”

“Chill, Diva Daisy. I’ll get some clothes on, and we’ll hit the box store for some maternity clothes and some sugar.”

“Maternity clothes.” A groan rumbled in my throat. “You might as well be talking about space aliens or alternate universes.”

As she chuckled, she dug a safety pin from her satchel and handed it to me. “This will hold the drawers up until we can get supplies.”

“I need to be back by nine. The new workers are showing, and Jean Paul’s movers are coming.”

“It shouldn’t take long. Not like we’re looking for fancy clothes.”

A half hour later I stood by the maternity sign in the Walmart.

We’d stopped at Starbucks, and I’d bought a coffee and a couple of sugar cookies. The cookie had tasted so good. It seemed as if it had been years since I’d eaten food that wasn’t a saltine. When the kid didn’t move after the first sugar cookie, I ate a second. This was an emergency, after all.

Finally, as I sipped my coffee, the kid kicked. My hand slid to my belly. Do it again, I thought. One more time. And miracle of miracles, she kicked.

Margaret stared at me over the rim of her coffee cup. “Is she moving?”

“Yes.” I took her hand and placed it on my belly. Baby Maggie kicked again.

Margaret grinned. “Well, imagine that.”

The stress seeped from my body. “Okay, now that I know the baby is fine, I can think.”

“Then let’s hit the maternity section.”

Minutes later, as I stared at the shapeless clothes, a full-blown panic attack threatened. In my regular clothes, I could fool myself into believing the kid was abstract. Yeah, she’d moved, but I was still me. But in these clothes, I wasn’t myself.

Margaret handed me several pairs of black shorts with elastic waistbands and a pair of jeans with a full elastic front panel.

“The shorts will get you to mid-October, maybe early November. But the jeans will take you through the duration.” I accepted the hangers. “Right.”

Margaret pointed toward the changing rooms. “Now you have to go into the nice dressing room and try them on.”

“Does it matter? It’s all elastic.”

Margaret sipped her coffee. “Try the damn clothes on, Daisy.”

“Fine. Come back with me.”

“Are you two years old?”

“My maturity level has diminished in the last weeks. So yeah, two about sums it up.”

We chose the handicapped changing room for the extra space. Margaret sat, and I handed her the garments before I unfastened my safety pin. The pants dropped to the floor, and I couldn’t resist scratching my belly.

“That’s sexy.”

“I gave up on sexy when the nausea hit. It’s all about what feels good now.”

Margaret rifled through my choices. “They’re all black.”

I accepted the first from her. “Black is my favorite color.”

“Yeah, but don’t you think you should go for the lighter shades of tops or pants now that you’re dressing for two?”

“I’ll do whatever I have to do keep this kid safe, but I’ll not walk around in light-colored pants that make my ass look bigger.

That’s asking too much.” I slid on a pair, which comfortably hugged my belly.

My pants had been tightening for weeks, and I’d ignored it.

“Nice to have pants that don’t squeeze the life out of me. ”

I turned sideways in the mirror, inspected the fit and my growing belly, and then glanced at Margaret.

She shrugged. “Not a fashion statement, but it gets the job done.”

“I’ve seen women who breeze through pregnancy and look so trendy.”

“Rachel always looked cute and pulled together,” Margaret said. “I never thought much about it, but now I wonder how she did it. She’s a goddess in my book.”

Margaret studied my Union Street Bakery T-shirt draping over the pants. “Make peace with the fact you won’t see fashionable for a while.”

“How can you say that?”

“You work in a bakery, which is manual labor in anybody’s book. Not many knocked-up, sexy bakers in the world. Rachel was the exception.”

I studied my image in the mirror. I’d not taken the time to remove my mascara last night, which had left darkened smudges below my eyes.

My hair was pulled into a wild ponytail, but wisps of hair had escaped to frame my face and make me look a little crazed.

My boobs also spilled over the edges of my bra.

“This baby is going to tear me a new one.”

Margaret laughed. “If it’s any consolation, Rachel looked wretched toward the very end. Fat ankles, puffy face, and her ass was big too.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better? I’m only at the halfway mark.”

Margaret shrugged. “Cut yourself some slack. Your plate is full. And Rachel did get back her figure months after the girls arrived.”

“Months after the delivery.” I groaned. “That means I’ll look like hell for another seven or eight months.”

Her gaze softened. “This isn’t forever, Daisy, and it’ll be worth it in the end, when Baby Maggie arrives. Now try on the rest of the pants and the jeans. There’s work to be done at the bakery.”

Twenty minutes later I was $150 lighter, wearing a new pair of black shorts and a maternity bra under my T-shirt, and carrying a bag filled with more pants, bras, and panties. I was officially for-the-world-to-know pregnant.

My stomach settled, my appetite returned with a vengeance, so Margaret stopped at a chain restaurant for a couple of egg bagels.

The food tasted so good, and I gobbled the bagels.

I toyed with going back for a third bagel, but Margaret reminded me Baby Maggie was the size of my thumb and didn’t need the calories.

When we arrived at the bakery, Jean Paul was talking to three very burly-looking men who looked as if they’d tripped out of prison.

Long hair, tattoos, stained T-shirts, faded jeans, and boots.

As tempted as I was to ask where he found these guys, I didn’t.

I’d learned with Jean Paul that knowing all the details wasn’t always the best course of action.

Margaret and I introduced ourselves, and I showed the men the equipment in the basement in need of being moved to the main floor.

I couldn’t imagine anyone being able to move any of the equipment, but the men didn’t appear worried over the task.

“You must go upstairs,” Jean Paul said. “It’s not safe for the baby.” A couple of the men glanced at me and then to my belly. One craggy-faced guy beamed. I’d heard tales of men giving up seats for pregnant women, opening doors and acting generally silly.

The power of the bump.

And so Margaret and I moved back to the first floor to stand and direct the placement of the equipment.

The first large standing mixer made it up the stairs in the arms of two men who barely appeared to be straining.

Encouraged that this might not be so bad and might go quickly, I made the mistake of mentally revising the schedule that had been set aside for moving.

The second mixer, a good 50 percent larger, didn’t cooperate as well as its smaller cousin.

I heard a couple of bangs and crashes, and curse words rose from the basement.

While the first mixer had taken fifteen minutes, the second took an hour of maneuvering.

And when it arrived, the movers were red faced and breathless.