Unexpecting (Unexpecting #1)

28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“Nausea in the morning is a common occurrence during the pregnancy, but normally dissipates before the second trimester. Chicken broth and crackers are helpful in relieving the symptoms.”

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

Dr. Francine Pascal Reid (1941)

“ I don’t know why they call it morning sickness,” I grumbled a week later on Sunday morning. I was eyeing my omelet with a great deal of unease. “It’s morning, noon, and night for me.”

I’d been plagued with it for two entire weeks. It was just like having a hangover, only worse because you couldn’t promise to stop drinking in hopes you’d feel better. I was tired and nauseated all the time except just after I threw up, which was when I felt my best and tried to eat as much as possible, which would inevitably return to haunt me within the hour.

″Do you want me to make you something else?” Cooper asked sympathetically, standing at the stove.

″No, I want this. I’m hungry. But I know I’m going to throw it up after. And I’m sure regurgitated eggs aren’t as nice coming up as they are going down. I still have no stomach for chicken or rice.” I was trying to retain my cheerful demeanor, but it was difficult at times. And this had only been two weeks. I had many more to go.

Emma made a face. “I don’t think I could handle throwing up all the time. ”

″I think I must be getting used to it,” I told her, taking a bite. “I’m calling Dr. Dennis tomorrow. Apparently there’s some wonder drug that will help.”

I pushed my plate away. I’d eaten about a quarter of my omelet, and that was about all I could do. Sebastian was sitting on my feet, waiting for the scraps. While I was probably going to be losing weight by not being able to keep anything down, my cat was going to be quite fat eating what I couldn’t manage. I scraped most of the omelet into his upstairs food dish and smiled gratefully as Cooper handed me a plate with hot buttered toast. I could eat toast without it popping back up five minutes later. Toast and French fries and crackers. Everything else was iffy.

″So I think I’ll go shopping this afternoon,” I told them. “Brit’s wedding is coming up, so I won’t have too much free time until that rigmarole is over. I’m going to need some maternity clothes and baby clothes and diapers and a crib, a stroller…” I ticked the items off on my fingers. “I’ve got lots to buy.”

″How far along are you?” Emma asked.

″About eight weeks. Although it really doesn’t seem that long. I mean, they calculate from—”

″Don’t you think you should wait a bit?” Emma interrupted gently. “I mean, there’s a reason people wait until three months to tell people, isn’t there? Not that I want to put a damper on your excitement or anything.”

I gave her my best condescending smile. “Nothing is going to happen to this baby,” I said, with my hands over my belly.

″I’m sure it won’t but—”

″It won’t. It can’t. I won’t let it. End of story.”

″Okay.” Emma smiled at me. “At least don’t go buying everything right away. There are things called baby showers, you know.”

″Oooh, presents.” If there is anything I love, it’s getting presents. Not that this baby isn’t present enough. Then my stomach gave an uneasy lurch, and I stood up. “But right now I think I have to deal with a throwing-up present. Thanks for breakfast, guys, and I’ll see you later,” I told them as I rushed downstairs.

Later that morning, I was pulling my wet clothes from the washing machine to toss them in the dryer when I discovered someone had forgotten to take his clothes out of the dryer. Cursing under my breath, I started pulling them into my empty basket. I’d done J.B.’s laundry enough times to recognize his boxers and gym shirts. I guessed this was what happened when I stopped doing his laundry for him .

When my clothes were safely tumbling dry, I took the basket with J.B.’s clothes back into my apartment. I was tempted to just go and dump everything onto the floor of his room, but realized at the last moment that it would just be a childish way of expressing my bitterness toward him.

I had to get over my resentment and anger at J.B. After all, he didn’t want to have a baby. This wasn’t planned between the two of us. Sure, it’s what I’d always wanted, but obviously J.B. wasn’t sharing my feelings on the matter, and I knew that all along. And he did try to do the right thing, even though he made a huge cock-up of it. There was really not much I could do. I couldn’t force him to be happy about a baby he didn’t want. What it came down to was that I wanted—I expected—him to be happy about the baby. I thought once he got over the initial fear, some sort of paternal gene would kick in and he’d be happy and excited, like me. I never expected the anger or him coming with his tail between his legs to propose a quick and small wedding only to have his mother hate me. It all came down to the fact that I was disappointed in J.B., and there was no one I could blame for that but me.

But I missed him. I missed him a lot. I missed our friendship and just hanging out with him and even the simple conversations with him. And I missed the flirtation between us and the constant bickering and teasing. He didn’t come down for breakfast again this morning—Cooper said he left early to go bike riding, but I knew he was avoiding me. He didn’t know what to say, and so he was choosing to hide his head in the sand. Childish, sure, but what could I do about it? I wished I didn’t miss him so much.

While I was standing here cursing J.B. and his dickheadedness, I’d been mindlessly folding his laundry. I was holding a pair of red striped boxers in my hand, and I stood there with them for a long moment. These were the pair he was wearing that night, the night this whole mess began.

″Are things ever going to go back to normal?” I asked my cat. Of course, he didn’t answer. I picked up the clothes I’d folded and put them back in the basket to take upstairs.

″Where’s J.B.?” I asked Coop, who was still at the stove. I swear, it seems some days Cooper never leaves the kitchen. This time, there was no egg smell or other breakfast-like aromas wafting around. It was another smell entirely. My stomach tossed restlessly. Whatever he was making didn’t smell all that good for me.

″Why?” Cooper asked. “What are you going to do to him? ”

″I folded his laundry,” I said defensively. “And now I’m tempted to go and dump it into the compost heap in the backyard.”

Cooper laughed. “That’s more like it. You start being nice to him, and I’ll think there’s something going on. Something more than there already is…” he trailed off with a pained expression.

″I’m not mad,” I began, then slapped a hand against my nose. As Cooper stirred, the room was filled with an odour of…

″What’s that? It smells like—” I peered at the stove.

″Brownies with raspberry shiraz jam…” he trailed off, with a confused frown at my hand still holding my nose. “You like chocolate.”

″Why is this happening to me?” I cried. Cooper started to laugh. “Stop laughing! How would you feel if the smell of the one thing you love more than anything is making you feel like you’re going to puke? Fuck a duck!” I howled. I backed away from the stove.

Cooper was still chuckling. “Get out of here before you get sick then. J.B.’s not here. He’s still out with Ben.”

Ben. Ben and the books. I forgot all about the baby books Ben brought over for me. “Have you seen a pile of baby books around lately? Maura sent some over last week,” I asked from the doorway, still with my hand over my nose.

Coop shook his head absentmindedly. “Haven’t seen them. I think you might have enough of your own, though, don’t you?”

″Probably.” I’d been trying to breathe through my mouth and hold my nose, but it was not working. The rich chocolaty smell was getting through. “Goddamit!” Normally I’d be practically drooling by now. “It’s not fair to take chocolate away from me! I won’t have anything left! I gotta get out of here,” I cried and raced out of the kitchen with the basket banging against my hip and Cooper’s laughter ringing in my ears.

″It won’t be forever,” he called after me.

By the time I reached J.B.’s room upstairs, I really was ready to throw all of his clothes outside, hopefully to be trod on by an army of ants and pooped on by a dozen birds with diarrhea. How dare he get me pregnant? I’m carrying his child, unable to drink wine or even stand the smell of chocolate, and where is he through all of this? Riding his bike. What does he know about morning sickness? I wished a plague of morning sickness on him. I hoped he’d vomit every day for the next nine years and that the smell of garlic and beer and all lovely things he likes to smell, like women’s perfume and the exhaust from his motorcycle, would make him want to throw up every time he was around them and …

My rant ended as soon as I stepped into his room.

There, sitting on the floor beside his bed in a neat pile, were the missing baby books. There, sitting on the floor, like they were waiting to be read, were copies of The Baby Whisperer , Girlfriend’s Guide to Pregnancy , The MOMMY of all Pregnancy Books , and more. And there, lying face down on his pillow was What to Expect When You’re Expecting .

I placed the basket of clothes gently on the bed and reached over and picked up the book. It looked like J.B. was reading this—was he really reading this? A book about what to expect when you’re expecting? Really?

I flipped the book over. The Fifth Month. Oh, my God—did this mean…

I burst into tears at the thought.