Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Amy
Beacon Hill in January is one long slip-and-fall lawsuit waiting to happen.
The sidewalk is a combo platter of slush and black ice. My boots keep doing that little skid that says, Why do I live in a place where my face freezes four months out of the year?
Because I was born and raised in the North, and I'm a masochist.
I wrestle the café door open and stumble into warmth, the smell of coffee and toasted bread and cocoa.
Exposed brick, tiny tables, pendant lights.
This is the kind of place where they write inspirational quotes on a chalkboard on the bathroom wall, right next to the toilet, with a handy selection of pastel chalk available so you can add your potty poetry, too.
Our round table in the corner has four waters and a basket of sliced sourdough in the middle.
The Basket.
Shannon's already seated there, wrapped in a gray sweater the color of despair, hands cupped around an iced coffee so enormous, it must be medically inadvisable for anyone over fifty.
"It's nineteen degrees," I say, unwrapping my scarf. "Are you a reptile?"
"My soul runs hot," she replies, sipping. "The ice keeps the rage at bay. The perimenopause fairy is a cruel bitch."
"Oh, please," I scoff. "You're not that old."
"How old are you, Amy?"
I do the math.
"You're still not that old!"
"It can start in your mid-thirties for some women," she says, closing her eyes and sighing.
"Let's not talk about this!"
Carol slips into the chair next to me, cheeks pink, blonde hair frizzed from the cold, expression already pre-apologizing for whatever Mom is about to do today. She takes one look at the bread basket and makes a face.
"We're not touching that," she declares.
"Obviously not," Shannon agrees.
"Of course not," I echo.
We all stare at the bread for three silent seconds like we're at a carbohydrate wake.
Carol's phone buzzes. She glances down, groans, and shows us the screen.
It's Mom: On my way! I'm bringing THINGS
I don't have to check my phone to know we're in for it.
The bell over the door jingles and there's Mom in a purple puffer coat and leggings two shades lighter, hauling her purse and a bulging canvas tote bag that says PREGNANCY WISDOM in glitter vinyl. So much glitter and sparkle that the bag is one sequin away from sentience.
"Amy!" she cries, barreling over. "My glowing preg — er, girll!"
I just hit thirteen weeks and all is well, but my pregnancy is still not for public consumption. Since Mom is the opposite of discreet, I have to give her points for trying. Points she desperately needs, because she's in the negative numbers.
I get full-frontal Mom: hug, two-cheek kiss, her hand immediately on my belly, like she earns a satoshi with every rub.
"Hi, Mom," I say, laughing.
"Hey." Shannon lifts her iced coffee.
"Hi, Mom," Carol says, eyeing the tote like it might contain a live animal... because it might.
Mom shrugs out of her coat and plants the bag on the floor beside her chair, patting it.
"I brought some things."
"We guessed," Shannon mutters.
We order coffee for Carol and me, decaf cappuccino for Mom, and more iced nonsense for Shannon. As soon as the server leaves, Mom turns to me with laser focus.
"Coffee? Really, Amy? How brave. When did the morning sickness start? Is it worse at night? Do smells set you off? Is poor Hamish holding your hair while you retch?"
Three phones buzz. It's a new group chat called MOM brOUGHT THINGS
Shannon: nausea?
Me: 0
Carol: fatigue?
Me: 0
Shannon: hemorrhoids?
Me: i hate you
"Mom," I say out loud, "I don't have morning sickness. I told you."
She blinks.
"Yes, but I thought you were lying."
"Why would I lie?"
"You're the youngest. You're always trying to set yourself apart from your older sisters. That's what babies in the family do."
"I'm not lying."
"No morning sickness? At all?"
"Nope."
"Well. It's early.”
“I’m thirteen weeks along.”
“Fatigue, then. You must be exhausted."
"I'm not." I shrug. "I go to bed at ten instead of midnight."
"Because you feel like warm concrete and you have to scrape yourself up to function for the rest of the day," Carol says, as if that's a foregone conclusion.
"Uh, no. Just an earlier bedtime."
She stares at me, hard.
"Dr. Biswas says everything looks perfect. I feel... normal. Just with sore boobs and an extra heartbeat hitchhiking inside me while my blood volume doubles and I grow an organ that feeds the baby. You know. Normal."
Mom looks like she's the offended spokesperson for all women who've ever puked into a decorative gift bag in a card store. And then had to buy it.
"Any food aversions?" she presses. "Cravings? Do you suddenly hate chocolate? Or maybe you want to lick drywall? For me, with Carol, it was ice cubes. With Shannon, nachos at three a.m. With you, it was Oreos, opened up, raisins stuck in the middle, then dipped in pickle juice—"
"You were iron-deficient," Carol says. "That was anemia."
Mom waves this off.
"The point is, pregnancy makes your systems go wild. Any weirdness at all? You said at Christmas you were craving Hamish's—"
"YOU WILL NOT TALK ABOUT DICK CHEESE, MOM," I hiss. "Anyhow, I never said that."
Package Parm, Carol texts in our group chat, making eye contact with Shannon.
Ball Brie, Shannon writes back as she smothers a snicker.
Please, no. I cannot handle an entire lunchtime of smegma jokes. And yet, I cannot help myself, because I will not be one-upped.
Weak. I am weak, because I reply with: Boaby burrata
Carol replies: ? What's a boaby?
I answer: Do you srsly have to ask in this context?
"Why are you all texting at once?" Mom asks.
"Work," we all reply in unison.
She just sighs and turns to me.
"You really have no problems at all?"
"Not really," I say. "No pregnancy problems. I'm sleeping fine, working fine, eating normal food, not throwing up. The end."
Under the table:
Shannon: she said not really like she's apologizing
Carol: nausea 0 fatigue 0? Our rage toward her: 1000
The drinks arrive. The bread basket glows in the middle of the table like sin.
"We're not touching that," Mom repeats. "Simple carbs are—"
Shannon tears off a piece and pops it into her mouth.
"Delicious?"
I follow suit because I'm eating for two and this baby needs a complete amino acid profile. Don't ask me which amino acids are in bread. Mother's instinct says they're important, whatever they are. The bread is warm and ridiculous and if you could marry sourdough Hamish might be in trouble.
"Amy! That is all gluten!" Mom gasps.
"And joy," I say.
"We're supporting a small business," Carol offers, delicately buttering a slice.
"I brought a pregnancy book." Mom digs into her tote with a sigh.
Of course she did. She plunks a paperback on the table: Your Perfect Pregnancy: Balancing Hormones, Hope, and Your Bowels.
I choke on my coffee.
"Mom! We are in public!"
"What? It's medical."
"I realize this is a shocking breach of Jacoby family protocol, but I vote we don't talk about anyone's bowels while eating," Shannon contributes.
"That reminds me," Mom says, brightening. This will clearly be awful, because what is there about bowels that could possibly remind her of something worth talking about? "I found the cutest baby shower game idea."
Carol stiffens.
"Oh, no."
"It's called Constipation or Porn?"
Shannon cough-laughs so hard, iced coffee nearly exits her nose.
"You did that for my baby shower with Ellie! You called it 'Labor, Constipation, or Porn!'"
"I did?" She frowns. "Huh. I wonder why I don't remember that?"
"Because you conveniently block everything you do that causes wide-scale trauma in others," Carol says.
"That can't be why." Mom waves her off. "Anyhow, you read a line out loud," she goes on, excited, "and people guess whether it's from a romance novel or a commercial for fiber supplements. Like 'Harder, push harder—'"
"Mom!" I reach over and clap my hand over her mouth. "Stop!"
Her eyes are wide above my fingers. I pull my hand away slowly.
"We are not playing Labor, Constipation, or Porn? at my baby shower. Or ever. Not in person, or on the internet, or in any virtual reality ever discovered in perpetuity."
"It's hilarious!" she insists.
"It's disgusting," Shannon says.
"Mom," I say, voice steady now. "New rule."
Her face shutters for a second and I know exactly where her mind goes: our cancelled wedding. Love You, Maine. The elopement debacle. Both mothers in handcuffs in the back of a police car.
The lessons they promised they had learned.
"I want a baby shower," I say quickly. "I want the whole circus. Food, games, presents, people arguing over who gets to hold the baby first when he or she is born. But I want Shannon and Carol to plan it. You can help if they ask. No colon content. That’s final."
Silence. Then Mom's shoulders drop.
"You don't trust me," she says softly.
"I do," I lie. "I just know you. You're a creative, overinvested, yoga-obsessed event planner with ideas outside the accepted norm."
Shannon snorts into her straw.
"I'm a trailblazer!" Mom protests.
Shannon begins humming "How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?"
One letter off.
Carol taps me under the table.
"Hold the line," she murmurs. "Hold the line."
"I need to be involved," Mom offers weakly. "How about centerpieces?"
"Non-bowel-themed," Carol says firmly.
"Okay," I say. "Shannon and Carol are in charge. No party games involving any bodily fluid or function."
"I can live with that," Mom says, eyes going shiny, but her tone makes it clear she's already scheming. "Do the same rules apply to Fiona?"
"Of course."
The waiter appears and we're saved by our food: four chicken Caesars, dressing allegedly on the side. Mom and Carol immediately dump the entire ramekin on top while Shannon and I pour about half over ours. Mom spears a piece of romaine and eyes me again.
"My ankles looked like manatees when I was pregnant with you."