Chapter 18 Liz #2
Angela stayed away, Victoria stayed away, Ace stayed away.
Liz’s body continued to expand, seemingly by the minute, and she could not only feel, but also see her baby’s movements—a sharp jab of an elbow or a knee that caused a ripple of movement beneath her skin.
Liz observed it with fascination even though her back ached constantly and she dripped with fatigue.
She ate muffins and ordered diapers. She test-drove strollers with Preston.
She skipped Dawn’s class to avoid Victoria.
She wrote back to the group text with Cara, Madison, and Freya, who were busy putting the finishing touches on her baby shower, not that Liz cared what color flowers they chose or if the “Oh Baby” cake was from SusieCakes or Magnolia Bakery.
She texted her friends that the final guest count was up in the air, lying that Victoria might have to attend a work conference and saying that Angela was always unreliable, so who knew if she’d show?
Liz still couldn’t bring herself to tell Preston what had happened at Victoria’s shower.
The longer she waited, the harder it got, because she’d also have to explain the delay.
It was easier to pretend things were fine than to detail all the ways they weren’t.
Liz didn’t want to explain why she’d excommunicated her parents and best friend; she didn’t want to have to defend her choices.
One morning, after a night interrupted by at least four bathroom visits, Liz was lying in bed, her computer propped on her belly-desk, when she got the email.
She sat up so quickly, the laptop slid off her body and careened into the comforter.
Liz dug it out and reread the email in wonder.
A female indie filmmaker wanted to schedule an interview with her.
Preston’s coworker had passed along Liz’s information and résumé, and she wanted to follow up directly.
Liz was so thrilled that her third-trimester fatigue lifted like a curtain.
She shucked off the linen sheets and leapt out of bed—as much as a very pregnant person could leap.
It was more of a slow roll to an upright position.
Liz went into the bathroom and splashed her face with cold water and brushed her teeth, then pulled on a stretchy sundress before she replied to the email, as if her appearance could be detected over the ethernet highways.
Yes, she was available. Yes, she was interested in the project.
As Liz was telling herself not to get her hopes up, at the same time vowing that she’d figure out childcare and do whatever it took to make this situation work if the opportunity did come about, Liz got a response from the filmmaker, asking if she wanted to hop on a quick Zoom and get to know each other.
Liz briefly considered the wisdom of playing it cool—was this like dating, when you weren’t supposed to be available last minute, unless you were only in the market for a one-night stand?
Liz decided that even if that were the case, she was far past the point of playing anything cool.
She wrote back that she’d love to, swiped a hairbrush through her tangles, smeared blush on her cheeks, and tried to figure out how to turn on the enhancing filter on her Zoom app.
Ten minutes later, Liz was having a surprisingly great conversation with Noora Khan, a filmmaker whose documentary short about her heritage had sparked conversation and interest at Sundance.
Noora had signed with Preston’s agency and the indie finance team helped her get funding for her first scripted feature.
Liz raved about Noora’s short and said she knew how hard it was for anyone to get a movie off the ground, not to mention a female writer-director.
Liz was struck by Noora’s focused passion for her film, and she found herself developing a girl crush in record time.
“Straight up, I don’t have room in my life for bullshit,” Noora told her. “The budget on this is supertight and so’s my crew—everyone has to get along and pull their own weight.”
“After my last job, I think I’ve used up enough energy petting egos for a lifetime,” Liz said. Then she chastised herself for bringing up The Catch, even though Noora had her résumé.
“Yeah, what was it like working on that show?” Noora asked.
“Horrible,” Liz said. “I’m surprised you still wanted to meet me, with that on my résumé.”
“My girlfriend is obsessed with The Catch. Which is obviously a glaring character flaw. But I’m more interested in why you left.”
Liz thought about forming a carefully worded, polite response.
Then she left that idea in the rearview.
“The Catch is toxic. I was sick of being part of it. I want to do something I’ll be proud to show my child one day.
I’d love to do something that makes a positive difference in the world, but I’ll settle for not being part of the problem. ”
Noora smiled at Liz across the pixelated screen. “I heard about the email,” she said.
Liz started. “I thought the show’s lawyers had buried it.”
“Nothing that good stays dead,” Noora said. “It was leaked all over the internet. Anonymously, of course. But it was one of the reasons I wanted to meet you.”
“And they say to use LinkedIn.”
Noora laughed, then got down to brass tacks. “I work hard, I work fast, and I also work on instinct because it’s always served me well. I like you, Liz. Are you in?”
Liz flushed with pleasure. “Yes. Absolutely.”
They discussed the shoot schedule, Noora’s time frame for editing, and how Liz’s pregnancy, which would by then be a baby, might affect her ability to work on the project.
Liz said that while she couldn’t honestly tell Noora what postpartum life would look like, she was as dedicated to this project as she was to her unborn child; Liz was determined to take advantage of this opportunity and prove herself.
This was good enough for Noora, who told Liz she’d send her the script and storyboards.
They signed off Zoom with plans to touch base again soon, then Liz shrieked with excitement.
She wandered around the house, buzzing with joy and checking on the crib that Preston had put together over the weekend.
A bit later, still filled with newfound energy, Liz set off on a walk around the neighborhood.
It was the most physical movement she had asked of her body in weeks.
Liz panted as she tackled the street’s incline, but she also waddled with purpose.
She admired the houses and gave a neighborly wave to two women power walking past her in visors and ankle weights.
Liz breathed in the crisp, perfect, eighty-degrees-in-September air; this was one of the reasons why people moved to Los Angeles.
Liz reveled in how lucky she was to live in this city, and to be herself, in this moment.
She also recognized that soon she would be pushing a stroller on this very walk.
When Liz got home, her feet ached when she removed them from her sneakers, and she noticed that her entire body was swollen, but she chalked it up to the shock of exertion.
Plus, maybe it had been warmer outside than she had realized and she was dehydrated.
Liz chugged a bottle of Preston’s electrolyte-enhanced water, but she didn’t deflate.
Still, she wasn’t concerned until she sat down and crossed one leg over her other calf for a minute.
When Liz removed it, there was a two-inch indent in her leg.
That didn’t seem right. But Liz didn’t start freaking out until she opened her computer, Googled her symptoms: “fat feet + very swollen + pregnancy” and scrolled through some of the potential causes for edema.
She called Dr. Rosenblatt’s office and described what was going on, expecting the nurse to say they’d call her back, or to tell Liz that she was overreacting.
Instead, the nurse put her on a hold that was so brief it filled Liz with fear.
Normally, she could expect a wait time as long as the cable company’s.
“Liz?” The nurse’s voice crackled back on the line.
“Yes?”
“Dr. Rosenblatt would like to see you as soon as possible. Can you come in right now?”
Liz’s skin immediately broke out in pinpricks and an icy sheen of sweat, like when she had gotten food poisoning from a shady street-meat cart outside an even shadier club in Hollywood that Cara had taken them to one night in their twenties.
Liz remembered that Madison had gone home that night with a B-list actor from a ’90s sitcom who asked her to sign an NDA before they hooked up. And Liz had thrown up—for three days.
“Is it bad?” Liz asked the nurse.
“Dr. Rosenblatt wants to examine you. We’ll see you soon?”
Liz managed a strangled yes, then hung up the phone, shoved her grotesquely inflated feet into flip-flops—the only footwear that could handle their girth—and grabbed her car keys.
She didn’t want to call Preston and worry him for no reason.
It was probably nothing, she told herself.
Even though the internet hadn’t listed the thrill of employment as one of the causes of edema, it wasn’t like the internet knew everything.
Liz drove down Sunset, its glittery billboards showcasing Florence Pugh’s Tiffany & Co.
ad, Sofia Richie Grainge’s K18 hair care routine, and Gigi Hadid’s supermodel-endorsed knitwear line.
Liz was surrounded by glamour and beauty and elegance—what could be wrong?