Death By Chick Lit (12 page)

Hang on, Somerville. Open mind. Remember: just use the baby shower as this-could-be-you research. See how it feels. No harm, no foul. You don’t have to get pregnant tomorrow. That’s all.

Her gaze wandered around the subway car, whose air-conditioned cool was welcome even though the summer heat hadn’t fully hit. Someone facing her was reading the celebu-baby magazine
Bump Weekly
. Lola stared at the cover. “Exclusive photos—IN UTERO!”

On second thought, maybe if I get pregnant I’ll get some goddamn ink, she thought, her imagination sprinting ahead.
“Middling Novelist Accepts True Calling. ‘I realized that it wasn’t my relative, and may I say, undeserved, obscurity that was making me feel unfulfilled,’ says Lola Somerville, author of the novel
Pink Slip,
gazing adoringly at her most recent creative project. ‘It was just the fact that I hadn’t met this little fella.’ ”

See, I’m nurturing. Of my career.

 
Oona’s apartment was what Manhattan rental agents called “cozy,” or “sweet.” She and her husband, Mick, had shared the studio for years: it contained a bedroom and a living room, which were the same. The baby would fit as long as Oona never actually gave birth.

“Hi, Lo!” As it was, Lola could hardly fit her arms around her friend for a hug. Oona, with spiky hair and clunky shoes that weighed more than she did—or used to—was one of those people who didn’t “fill out” when they got knocked up, but rather, who seemed to gain only the exact weight of the baby, and only exactly where the baby was. Lola thought she looked pretty hilarious, like the picture in
The Little Prince
of the snake who swallowed the elephant.

As Oona drew her in, she whispered in Lola’s ear. “I’m apologizing in advance for my sister-in-law.”

“Wha—?”

“Hi! Welcome!” An ash-blond woman in stirrup pants bounded up to Lola. Her knit sweater featured a pattern of beribboned pacifiers. She handed Lola a balloon filled with water.

“Here you go!”

“Thanks,” said Lola. “Is this to drink?”

“She’s funny!” the woman said to Oona. “I’m Heidi,” she said to Lola. “And that’s for later,” she winked.

“One game, Heidi,” hissed Oona. “
One
game.”

“I know,” Heidi smiled gaily. “I’ll let you know when we’re ready!” she told Lola. She excuse-me’d her way across the apartment and busied herself with a wayward streamer.

“Can I get you a drink?” Oona asked.

“Can you get
you
a drink?” Lola said.

“I wish.”

Huh. Maybe it would be good for me not to drink for nine months, Lola thought.

She sipped her punch, feeling the sweet buzz after a single swallow.

Nah.

“So jeez, Lola, how are you holding up?” asked Oona. “These murders—I mean, so scary!” She patted her belly. “It’s like, what kind of world am I bringing Quetzalcoatl into?”

“Queztalcoatl?”

“Yeah,” said Oona. “Feathered serpent god of ancient Mexico.”

“Ah. Well. Beats Owen and Milo,” said Lola. “I mean, specifically, beats up Owen and Milo at recess.”

Oona laughed. “We know it’s a boy, but we haven’t settled for sure on a name. I just feel like it’s too jinxy until he’s actually born and living and breathing. I mean, I’m not even really comfortable having a baby shower! But we felt weird just ducking the issue and saying ‘he’ all the time. So for the meantime, we just picked a name we were sure we’d never ever in a million years actually use.”

“Gotcha,” said Lola. “Anyway, I’m fine, thanks for asking. Freaked out, obviously, but fine. It’s good to be at a happy occasion.” She patted her friend’s arm just as Oona was swarmed by an arriving group of guests.

Waving and mouthing “Bye,” Lola walked over to greet the other guests, vaguely wondering why there was plastic sheeting covering the floor. She was always happy to see Honey Porter, yet another fellow writer. They’d met when Lola had tripped over Honey’s laptop cord at Starbucks. Lola was mortified to have been such a klutz, and Honey was mortified to have been caught writing at Starbucks. They bonded.

Honey now had triplets. And she was a single mom. Lola hadn’t seen her in forever. Honey had never been spotted commuting between prenatal yogilates and prenatal massage in adorable ensembles from Bun in the Oven. More like Grace Kelly, she had simply vanished for nine months and then reappeared, glowing. Lola imagined this was because Honey was old-school, but realized it was likelier because she’d been too pregnant to move.

“Lola, what a total and complete nightmare!” said Honey. “Mimi, Daphne . . .”

“I know,” said Lola. “What say we talk about happier things?” She meant it.

Honey smiled. “No problem, believe me.”

“So what’s going on?” Lola asked, setting her water balloon carefully on a coaster. “You look amazing, by the way.”

She did. As good as ever, in fact. Rested, even. How did she do that? Honey was like a dark, downtown Anna Nicole Smith at the late icon’s most pinup fabulous. Her thick ink-black hair was pulled into a French twist; she wore red lipstick and—day or night—black, black, black. Motherhood clearly suited her. While not one for clichés, Honey positively glowed.

“Aw, thanks,” said Honey. “Well, the babies are, you know, insane but great.”

Lola, forcing herself to do her fieldwork, was listening closely. Both insane
and
great. Hmm. Plus, nice rack.

“Have they started blogging yet?” Lola asked.

Honey laughed.

“Anyway, I’m impressed you’re even out,” said Lola.

“Well, the neighbors have been a godsend. And the lil’ devils still sleep a lot. I think they wear each other out,” said Honey. “Also, those mommy movies keep me sane—you know, those morning showings where you can bring your babies? Last week the babies slept through
2 Fast 2 Furious
from beginning to end. It was great.”

“Lucky you!” said Lola. “That one always makes me cry.”

They laughed. “So are you back working and stuff?” Lola asked. Honey did roughly what Lola did these days: some reported essays, which editors call
think pieces
, and some dumb stuff for money, which Lola called
I don’t have to think pieces.
Lola was sure the work question was a safe one, sure to not raise any rivalry; after all, the woman had just had triplets.

“Actually?” said Honey. “My book just came out.”

Book? What book? How did I not know about this?

“That’s great! Forgive me, I had no idea!” said Lola. “What’s it about?” Maybe it’s about parenting, or something else I don’t care about. I mean, will care about someday soon.

“It’s the story of a slightly dizzy but ultimately smart gal who works in the media industry and has to decide which suitor is Mr. Right—while, all along, learning about life, love, and ultimately, about herself,” said Honey.

Lola laughed.

“No, I’m serious,” said Honey.

“You’re incredible,” said Lola. “What’s it called?”

“
Eenie Meenie Minie Man,”
said Honey. “I’m sure it won’t sell. They were going to send me on this big media tour, but you know: triplets. And no husband. So I’ll have to rely on the kindness of Amazon reviews. I’ll send you a copy. But I promise, you don’t have to actually read it.”

“Of course I’ll read it, Hon,” said Lola. “Congratulations.” They clinked glasses. “Listen,” said Lola, hand on Honey’s arm, “Let me go say hi to Sylvie.”

“Sure,” Honey said. “And I’ll go take care of
her
.” She nodded toward Blanca Palette, who was sitting on a chair in the corner, glowering as usual.

Sylvie, whom Lola had known vaguely in high school and had re-met through Oona, had just come in. Unlike Honey, she was looking rattled.

Lola had just taken two steps toward her, plastic sheeting crackling, when she was interrupted by three sharp claps from Heidi.

“Okay, everyone, balloons between your legs!” she exclaimed. “Time to play My Water Broke!”

Twenty

After the largest display of good sport-itude in history, in which Lola and all of Oona’s friends consented to shuffle around the apartment, water balloons between their thighs, to see who could keep hers there the longest (Honey won), they filled their plates with pasta salad and settled in to watch Oona unwrap gifts. (Apparently Oona had wanted to have a no-gifts shower, but Heidi wouldn’t hear of it. Since Heidi’s family was in the process of buying a major Manhattan real estate management company, Oona—knowing full well her soul was at stake—had chosen to tiptoe around any risk of alienating her sister-in-law. The one major battle Oona had dared fight—and she won—was her veto of Heidi’s other proposed activity: making, and painting, a plaster cast of her pregnant belly.)

Lola swallowed some pesto penne. She looked up at Sylvie, who was leaning on the stove, and patted the three inches next to her on the couch, but Sylvie shook her head. She smiled and cocked her head toward the punch bowl. Lola took this to be the international symbol for “I need to stay close to the drinks.”

I’ll talk to her as soon as we’re done with the gift derby, thought Lola. She turned her attention to Oona and her spoils.

Crib bumpers?

Nipple shields?

Wipes warmers?

Activity Spirals?

Babies
need
all these things?

Lola’s elephant, while well received, seemed positively quaint.

 
“Okay, everyone who’s not pregnant, stand in the middle of the room!”

“Heidi?” Oona was smiling one of those not-really-a-smile smiles.

“It’s not a game!”

Lola and a handful of other guests allowed themselves be ushered into the corner of the room that was still covered by the plastic sheet.

Please don’t tell me there’s a bouquet, thought Lola. The whole point of getting married is never having to catch one again.

“Ready?” giggled Heidi, reaching into a bag.

Glittering confetti cascaded over Lola and the others.

“Baby dust!”

Lola picked a sparkle from her tongue and excused herself to go to the bathroom. As she entered and fumbled for the light, a hand reached out from behind the door and closed around her wrist. A voice came from the darkness. “You’re going to have to come with me.”

Twenty-one

“Sylvie?”

“Lola, I really can’t take another minute of this shower. Will you
please
come out and get a drink or something with me?”

Hoo boy. I really need to go home and get something done, not to mention spend time with my husband.

Then again, I so never want to be the kind of person who can’t help a friend in need because she has to “spend time with her husband.”

“How about Mooney’s or Looney’s or whatever it’s called, around the corner?”

“Anywhere that doesn’t attract a pregnant-woman kind of crowd works for me,” said Sylvie.

Ah. Say no more.

“Done. Let’s go.”

As it turned out, the party was ending anyway. Oona’s water had just broken for real.

Mooney’s/Looney’s was a dying breed, but not only because its hard-drinking regulars were slowly killing themselves. More because most downtown “dive” bars had been built three years ago, deliberately trashed by the designer, and then given names like Dive. One had graffiti in its bathroom the night it opened. It was unusual for young women like Lola and Sylvie to come into one of the older joints, especially during the afternoon, but the ancient, pink-faced bartender didn’t give them a second glance, likely because he appeared not to move his head very much in the first place.

They carried their pints to a splintery table.

“Lola, it’s so gross,” Sylvie said. “We’ve been trying for eleven months now. Meanwhile, it feels like every other couple I know got pregnant from sharing a toothbrush.”

Sylvie, an online magazine editor, was one of those people who looks boring but isn’t. She never did much with her straight, shoulder-length, dirty blond hair, never wore anything that Lola really noticed or remembered. But that’s because, Lola figured, she never felt she had to compensate for anything. Self-possessed and insightful, she basically walked through the world saying, “I’m interesting, so my look doesn’t have to be.”

Lola laughed. “Oh, God, Sylvie, I’m sorry.”

“It’s just hard. It’s so visceral, this need.”

“Of course it is,” said Lola. “Otherwise there’d be no babies.”

“Uch, and the stupid things people say to me: ‘Oh, you’re lucky—I
sneeze
and I get pregnant!’ or ‘Hey, just open a bottle of Bailey’s and
relax
.’ ”

“That’s unbelievably offensive,” said Lola.
“Bailey’s!?”

Sylvie smiled and rolled her eyes. “Like there’s any way to relax when the very first thing you do in the morning is take your temperature and pee on a stick. I swear, my charts look like John Nash’s sketchbook. Then boom, what’s supposed to be this beautiful mystical life-creating congress is like the Bataan Sex March.

Then
all there is to do is wait, so you sit there going nuts and Googling every twinge you feel to see if it could be an early symptom, which is not as crazy as it sounds, because I happened to blow my nose at the ear doctor’s the other day and he said that
sniffles
could be a sign of pregnancy.”

“Whoa,” said Lola.

“Right?!” said Sylvie.

“Yeah,” said Lola. “Um. Charts?”

“Wait,” said Sylvie. “I’m a jackass. You guys aren’t trying right now, are you?”

“Not yet,” smiled Lola.

“And after what I’ve said, you never will, will you?”

“Nope!” said Lola. “Kidding.”

Mostly. Lola gulped down some beer.

“I’m sorry I assumed,” said Sylvie.

“It’s really fine,” said Lola.

“I was just so craving finding someone else who can relate. Other than the women on Trying to Conceive Internet message boards who call sex BD for ‘baby dance.’ ”