Unexpecting (Unexpecting #1)

8. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

“The sight of other babies will undoubtedly bring about maternal urges in the expectant mother, along with excitement and possibly panic.”

A Young Woman’s Guide to the Joy of Impending Motherhood

Dr. Francine Pascal Reid (1941)

B rit was right about one thing: during the next few weeks, I was too busy to do more than think about having a baby.

I’ve been teaching for over ten years, but when I decided to switch to kindergarten from grade three about four years ago, I could only find a morning class to teach. This unfortunately corresponded with my determination to get my credit card debt under control. So now I was teaching my little four- and five-year-olds in the morning at a nearby school, and in the afternoons and some evenings, I was the assistant manager at a wine boutique downtown. It’s interesting keeping the two jobs straight—ABC’s, 123’s, and runny noses in the morning, and pushing bottles of full-bodied chardonnay in the afternoons—but so far it’s worked out pretty well. I’ll have everything paid off within the next few months, but I’ll keep both jobs until I can find a full-time kindergarten class.

There was a lot to do at the end of June, and I was constantly filled with the usual bittersweet emotions I have at the end of another school year. All my little five-year-olds would be heading into grade one come September, and I could only hope that what I’d taught them would make that transition an easier one. I was sad to see the end of June roll around— although it’s great to have two months’ vacation from teaching—and have to watch all my little birds fly away from the nest of kindergarten.

But I got through it, like I do every year. This year the whole two-month vacation had kind of lost its meaning since I’d still be working at the store for the summer, with some extra shifts thrown in. But it did take my mind off the whole baby-making thing, which was good since I’d decided I needed to wait until my period came so I could start figuring out my cycle. I bought one of those ovulation kits, but I hadn’t opened it yet. I also made an appointment with my doctor for the first week of July so I could make sure the clock was ticking correctly. And then it would be off to the sperm bank, unless, of course, Morgan was right and the perfect man walked right through that door and was prepared to sweep me off my feet. Unfortunately, the more time that passed by, the more I suspected it would take a serious amount of sweeping to get me off my feet.

Being so busy made it easy to stop thinking about J.B. Not that there was anything to think about, but after our talk in the kitchen, I couldn’t help regretting how things had worked out. And I felt kind of bad about it too, sort of guilty, without knowing why. I finally managed to give myself a good talking-to, about how there’s no point in regretting because there’s nothing to regret; chances are it wouldn’t have worked out between us anyway. There’s nothing to do but get on with my life, which was exactly what I was doing before J.B. said anything. If I kept dwelling on it, it was going to affect my friendship with him, which was the last thing I wanted. Nothing had changed; we’re friends and that’s it.

As much as I wanted it to be.

But I couldn’t get what J.B. said out of my mind.

In any event, it was two weeks before anything exciting happened, but when it did, it sure was a kicker. And it also managed to take my mind off my “sort of” roommate.

The end of school fell on Wednesday this year, and the next day I spent the morning clearing the classroom. For the next few weeks, I kept my usual schedule at the wine shop—which is Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Fridays from two to six, and then on Thursdays, I go in at one o’clock until nine. I don’t mind working two jobs. I mean, I love teaching—people tell me I was born to be a teacher—but going from full-time to part-time was a bit of a strain financially.

I haven’t minded working two jobs, but having the summer off from school will make it easier to get to work on time in the afternoon. Like today. I spent too much time in the classroom, and then in the staff room, finding out about everyone’s summer plans, so I was pushed for time when I finally got to the subway, leaving no opportunity for lunch. Usually, I take the subway down to the store in the afternoon. It’s at Church and Wellington and the parking down there is nonexistent, so transit is the better way.

Almost falling down the escalator to get to the train before the doors slid closed, I managed to swing into an almost empty car. Unfortunately, the day was a hot one, and the car was not air-conditioned. I could smell the residue of sweat and even more unpleasant body odors still lingering. I quickly considered hopping out and trying another one, but then the train began to move. And I noticed the cute guy seated by the door. If I had to be trapped in the hot and smelly car, I might as well have something nice to look at.

I took a seat across from him. He was tall, blond, and built, sort of youngish and reading Harry Potter. Aha. Cute, intelligent (he reads), imaginative (he reads Harry Potter), and very cute.

As if he could read my thoughts, the guy looked up and smiled. I gave him my most cheerful smile. (I find it difficult to do sexy. I make more of an ass of myself, so I just focus on being friendly and cheerful.) “Which one are you reading?” I gestured at his book.

″Goblet of Fire.″

″I like that one.”

″It’s pretty good.”

″Have you read the last one?”

″I’m trying to read the others first.”

Of course, the thoughts racing through my mind had nothing to do with Harry Potter. All I could think of was that this guy might very well make a good father for my baby.

I must be desperate. Also, borderline obsessed and possibly insane if I’m looking at every male in sight as a potential father. This perfectly cute, seemingly nice man was sitting here having a conversation with me about Harry Potter, and all I could think of was getting into his pants. Literally.

The train suddenly screeched to a stop in the middle of the dark tunnel and knocked me off balance. I think it must have knocked some sense into me as well. I laughed uneasily as I pulled myself upright.

″Someone’s not paying attention.”

″Nope.” He looked down at his book, still open on his lap, with the bookmark sticking out. I’m losing him. He wants to go back to his reading. But the bookmark—I like people who use bookmarks rather than fold down the page. “Normally you don’t see men reading Harry Potter. Not that there’s anything wrong with men reading Harry Potter…” I trailed off. What was I saying? “Not that there’s anything wrong with it,” I said stupidly.

″My girlfriend got me into them,” he explained. Ah, the mention of the girlfriend. A kiss-off if I ever heard one. I smiled ruefully. There was no response to that.

The train pulled into a station, and a woman got on pushing a stroller and all but collapsed in a seat beside me. I smiled at the mother. At least I thought she was the mother. She looked old enough to be a grandmother, or possibly the nanny.

″How old is your baby?” I asked. At the sight of a baby, I lost all interest in the cute guy. I felt like telling her I wanted to have a baby, but that would make me look like some weirdo. Not that I didn’t already look like a weirdo—for some reason, I enjoy talking to people on the subway. For most transit travelers, the rule is no eye contact, and shoes are checked out a lot, as well as the ads on the walls. But I find it nice to smile and wish a good day to my fellow passengers, especially if it’s not too busy. Just one of my quirks, I guess.

″Three months,” the woman said. She looked exhausted and bedraggled, and there was a stain on her shirt that might be baby spit-up. I thought she might be pretty if she lost fifteen pounds and covered up the horrible dark circles under her eyes. Was this what was in store for me? Would I look as bad as this? I’d never be able to talk to cute guys on the subway again.

I took a quick peek into the stroller. It was one of those where the baby lies down, so I couldn’t see much, only the corner of a pink and purple blanket. “What’s her name?”

″His,” she corrected abruptly. “Hector.”

″Oh. Sorry.” I see pink; I assume girl. I gestured to the stroller. “May I?”

″What?” Now she looked irritated.

″Just have a look.”

″Oh.” She leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes. “Go ahead.”

I fixed a smile on my face as I rose and peered into the stroller. Cute, girly blanket, stuffed elephant shoved beside him, little sweet face… ”Ah!”

″What?” The mother was on her feet .

″No, no, sorry. It’s just…” That was the ugliest baby I’d ever had the misfortune of laying eyes on! But you can’t tell a mother that. She’d probably try to push me off the subway platform for saying such a thing. “Ah-dorable,” I said with such false enthusiasm I was almost yelling.

My Harry Potter cutie looked up with a frown, and the woman scowled at me. “Please don’t wake him up.”

″No, no, of course—sorry.”

After that, I stayed huddled in my seat. I was sure my cheeks were as red as my hair since they felt warm to the touch. I’m glad I never mentioned I was thinking of having a baby, or the mother might have cursed me with ugly baby syndrome or something. What happens if I have an ugly child? Will I still love it? I’m sure all these offers of help would dry right up if the baby came out being green or something. I’m sure Elphaba’s parents (from Wicked, of course—such a good show!) were avoided like the plague when she came out looking a little funny and green. Everyone is always worried about having a healthy baby. Is it totally shallow and selfish to want your child to be good-looking as well?

But I was getting way ahead of myself. I shouldn’t be concerned with having an ugly baby before I’ve figured out exactly how to conceive one on my own. And how am I supposed to do that? I’ve got to hit a sperm bank unless I can find a nice man to loan me some sperm. I wondered what Harry Potter-reader would say if I suddenly asked him. Hey, there, my name’s Casey, and I’d really appreciate it if you filled this cup for me since you’re so cute and I like the fact you can read! Don’t worry, once I’ve got what I want, I’ll never bother you again.

Sure. He’d hit that emergency bar and hop off the train so fast, probably with both hands protecting his family jewels as he ran screaming toward the nearest exit.

When the subway hit my stop, I slid off as inconspicuously as possible. The mother was sitting with her eyes closed, and the cute guy had gone back to his book without giving the weird woman who talks to strangers in the subway another thought.

It’s a short walk from the subway to my store. When I got there, I found Hannah, who also works part-time, looking strained at how busy the store was. The afternoons are usually fairly quiet, but this weekend was Gay Pride Weekend and the wine store was located smack-dab in the centre of the alternative lifestyle district.

The afternoon flew by until Hannah left at seven. I let her go a few minutes early so that she could bring me back something to eat, and during a short lull in customers, I sat hunched on a box of wine behind the cash register eating my falafel as fast as I could. It’s not my first choice of food and it always gives me heartburn, but beggars can’t be choosers, can they? I was concentrating on not dropping sauce on my shirt, so that when the bell on the door dinged, I didn’t look up with my usual welcoming smile until I heard voices.

″I see a head over there—is that my favourite wine goddess?” trilled a male voice. An effeminate voice, but male nonetheless.

I glanced over the counter. “Hi, Cory.” Cory is one of my favourite customers. He’s big and black and beautiful and very, very gay. “Let me just finish here…” I swallowed one last bite and stood up. Then I almost choked when I saw who had just walked into the store behind Cory.

How the hell did Morgan know this was going to happen?