Hot Little Hands (25 page)

Amelia took the subway into the city later that week. It must have been around six o'clock because the stations were full of people in work clothes, tapping on their phones. Since quitting her job, she had lost her sense of the hours when other people did their normal other-people things. She felt outside of time. Before the pregnancy, this had been a sad, alienating feeling—she would sit at her desk watching the sky turn dark behind the Pencil Factory, and wonder how her old students were faring under the replacement teacher, and whether Hank might come over that night. Now the timelessness felt like good practice for motherhood, when she would again be outside regular hours, but tethered to the baby's schedule.

As a mostly unbroken rule, Amelia's dad was the most even-tempered person in the family. When the girls had lived at home, he had occasionally gotten flustered by a missed curfew, or a bad grade in history (“It's my field,” he would say, his face turning grim over someone's report card. “Why didn't you ask for help?”), or a window left wide open when the heat was running. But mostly he could be counted on to play the bewildered, put-upon dad-with-a-sense-of-humor, sighing dramatically when he was annoyed, and saying things like, “Can you girls turn down the Fiona Apricot music, I'm trying to read,” which never failed to make everyone laugh.

So Amelia was surprised to find him being loud and grumpy when she got to their apartment half an hour before the Goodwins' arrival.

“What is all this stuff?” He was bent over the coffee table, tossing magazines around. “Why is it that sometimes I don't feel like I live in my own home?”

Amelia found her mom arranging a cheese plate in the kitchen. “He's in a bad mood,” her mom said. “He thinks they want us to sign a contract. They mentioned something in the email. Good heavens.” Her hand flew to her chest when Amelia took off her coat to reveal one of Hank's old
BROWN UNIVERSITY LACROSSE
T-shirts barely covering a seven-months'-pregnant belly. “I almost forgot.”

“Me too,” Amelia said. “I accidentally rubbed this guy's ass with my stomach on the subway. It was gross.”

“Why don't you sit down?” her mother said.

“I will, when they get here.”

“Not now,” her mom said. “On the subway.”

“No one budged,” Amelia said.

“They're in denial,” her mother said. “We're all in denial.”

“Well, now I have to get changed,” Amelia's dad said, stomping past the kitchen on his way down the hall. “Why do I have to be here for this? Why is there a ‘this' in the first place?”

“Is he talking about the baby?” Amelia asked her mom, taking a seat at the table.

“No.” Her mom pulled a bottle of blood-orange juice out of the refrigerator. “It's this meeting. The tone of the email was friendly but your dad's worried about this ‘reaching an understanding' business. Joel Goodwin works in litigation. Dad thinks they're worried you'll want money from Seth one day.”

“Oh my God, I almost spit out my juice.” Amelia cupped her hand under her mouth and went to the sink, laughing. “How could they think that?” She wiped her chin with a dish towel. “Seth is a part-time bartender at (Le) Poisson Rouge. He has three roommates, and he still has trouble paying his rent.”

“Not from Seth. His parents. Dad thinks they're worried you'll go after them.”

“So they want me to sign, like, a prenatal agreement? I don't care. I'll do it.”

“It's the principle of the thing,” her dad said, coming into the kitchen. His face was red above his shirt and tie. “You're not some white-trash girl who got knocked up just so you could scam some of the Goodwins' hard-earned cash.”

“That's right,” Amelia said. “I had a perfectly good book I couldn't finish.”

“Mike,” Amelia's mom said. “ ‘White trash'? That's not okay. I know you're worked up but—”

“There's no shame in that term anymore. My students use it all the time. Mimi? Isn't it okay to describe someone as white trash?”

“Is it? Um, I don't really—” Amelia leaned her elbow on the table and her chin on her fist. “I guess I'm really out of touch these days.”

“Congratulations, darling!” Seth's mom was a short happy woman, with a Jersey accent and a year-round tan. She grabbed Amelia's face. “We're so thrilled for you. Really.”

“Don't know why Seth didn't tell us sooner,” Mr. Goodwin said with a smile on his face, reaching out to shake Amelia's dad's hand, and then hugging both women. “Guess he thought we'd be mad.”

“He wanted to come tonight but he's working,” Amelia told them.

“A boy,” said Mrs. Goodwin. “You're going to have a boy.”

“Come in, come in. Would you like juice? Or wine?”

“We brought champagne,” Mr. Goodwin said, holding up a bottle. “Of course you can't have any.” Everyone looked at Amelia and laughed.

“I'll get the glasses,” Amelia's dad said, exchanging a glance with her mom.

“Follow me,” her mom said. “Right in here.”

The Goodwins had arrived with an agenda but it wasn't a financial one. After a round of cheers and a few questions about Amelia's pregnancy and due date, and a passing around of photos of their existing grandchildren, born to their daughter, Tammy—both of whom were pale-skinned and pinch-lipped, and whom Amelia hoped mostly resembled Mr. Tammy—Mrs. Goodwin got to the point. “We're Jewish,” she said. “Our kids are both Jewish. Our daughter married a Jewish guy.”

“It's very important to us,” Mr. Goodwin said to Amelia's dad.

“Amelia went to Camp Tziporah for years,” her mom said. “She still has the necklace.”

“I'd be fine with him having that as an influence,” Amelia said. “You could have him for the Jewish holidays. We could have him for the others.”

“And you'd be—” Seth's mother's hand went to her throat. “That would be okay?”

“Of course,” Amelia said.

“And what's your plan regarding circumcision?” his dad asked, addressing Amelia directly now.

“Well—” Amelia thought about it, remembering all the nights she'd had to lie around in bed with Hank while he bemoaned the sensitivity he was sure he'd have if he hadn't been circumcised. “You can tell,” he always said, “because it's sensitive all around here. So you know that extra skin would have been just as sensitive. I'm missing out. I was robbed. It could feel so much better.”

Amelia wished she could explain to Seth's parents that, though she preferred the look of a circumcised one, she was going to forgo the bris to spare some future girl the arduous task of having to placate a guy in an interminable, phallus-gazing, postcoital rant. She said, “I'm not doing a circumcision. But we can talk about a bar mitzvah.”

The Goodwins looked at each other and nodded. They seemed happy enough with that. The conversation turned to other issues.

“What are you going to be called, Nina?” Mrs. Goodwin asked her mom. “Grandma? Nanna? Nanny?”

“Oh God,” her mother laughed. “I've been so busy, I haven't even begun to think.”

“I was like that with the first one,” Mrs. Goodwin said. “I felt that I was too young still to be a grandmother. You get used to the idea.”

“Oh no, it's not about that,” Amelia's mom said. “I just haven't—”

“I'm a Bubba,” Mrs. Goodwin said, “and Michael's a Zayde.”

“I want to be a Maman,” said Amelia. “Like in French.”

Amelia's mom raised her eyebrows at the Goodwins. “That's what happens when you have a baby at twenty-two,” she said.

“Hey,” Amelia said, “at least I'm not getting some bad tattoo or something.”

“Yes,” her mother said. “What a relief that is to me.”

None of Amelia's friends had been to a baby shower before, let alone organized one, and it showed. They arrived at Amelia's apartment on the Saturday night of her thirty-second week, with the makings for whiskey sours, a piñata in the shape of a baby, and a T-shirt saying
BIG FUN
like the one worn by the fat girl in
Heathers.
(“That's dark,” said Amelia. “Super dark.” Then she pulled it on over her dress.)

They had a pizza party, immediately followed by an ice cream social. Then the other girls got drunk and watched Amelia stand in front of the piñata with an old tennis racquet in her hands.

“Smash it!” Akiko said.

“I feel bad.”

“It's not a real baby.”

“You made it look so realistic.”

“It's got Melody Pops inside.”

“Seriously?”

“And Pixy Stix.”

Amelia whacked the fake baby until it was just a mess of plaster, newspaper, and glitter on the floor. The girls ate the candy and did the African Anteater Ritual dance from
Can't Buy Me Love.
Then they changed into pajamas and watched the movie itself. After that, Amelia sat on the couch with her T-shirt pulled up, and they all scrawled with Sharpies on her belly, as though it were a cast covering a broken limb.

GET WELL SOON
!
wrote Dana. Gabby drew a love heart with an arrow through it and the word
MOM
inside.

The girls had crimped their hair and were pressing decals onto their fingernails when the doorbell buzzed at around ten o'clock. “Did you guys get me a stripper?” Amelia asked, heading for the door. But it was Georgia and Isobel.

“Are we late?” Georgia asked.

“I didn't think any of you could make it,” Amelia said.

“We brought you this.” Isobel handed her a paper bag containing a big horseshoe-shaped inflatable cushion: aqua with yellow dots.

“It's to sit on,” Georgia said. “When you're breast-feeding.”

“For me to sit on or the baby?”

“I dunno,” said Isobel. “For the baby, maybe? The woman at Bump said these are the biggest things right now.”

“Take it back if you don't want it.”

“No, I like it.”

“How do you know? You haven't used it yet.”

Her sisters came into the living room and looked around at the other girls. “Cute,” said Isobel. “This is just like your slumber parties when you were little.”

“Yeah, except now we don't have your diary to read for entertainment,” Gabby said.

“Are you serious?” Isobel looked at Amelia. “Is she serious?”

“She's joking,” Amelia said. “Totally joking. Do you guys want a drink?” They didn't. Amelia sat on the couch and her sisters squeezed in next to her.

“How come your laptop's out?” Georgia asked. “Were you writing something?”

Amelia felt her face turn warm. “No, we were—Facebook-stalking all my old boyfriends.”

“All?” Georgia said. “You've only had, like, two. Unless you count Seth as an ex-boyfriend now?”

“How would you know how many boyfriends I've had?” Amelia said. “You don't know everything.”

“Sorry.” Georgia tilted her head to the side. “So how many boyfriends have you had?”

“Um, three,” Amelia said. “Including Seth.” Her friends laughed. Georgia and Isobel visibly elbowed each other.

“Your sisters are bitches,” Dana announced after they'd left. Amelia and her friends were lying on air mattresses in the living room—Amelia on her side, the others on their bellies—all sharing three pillows in the middle.

“Massive bitches,” Akiko agreed.

“Oh, they're okay,” Amelia said. “They try. They brought me a present.”

“Your mom probably paid for it.”

“True,” Amelia said. She looked down at the inflatable cushion, which she'd put between her knees to take the pressure off her back. “Yeah. They are kind of bitches, I guess.”

That Wednesday there was a new woman at yoga. She looked like she was about thirty, and she wasn't showing yet. There had been a few new students in recent weeks; a bunch of the women from before had already had their babies, and had either given up their yoga practice or switched to the Happy Baby class on Fridays.

The new woman laid her mat out in front of Amelia's, and she moved through the poses with ease and, Amelia imagined, some impatience. These days, Amelia found it difficult to maneuver herself into even the most basic positions. She was grateful for the slow pace of the class, the breeze-and-bells sounds playing through the speakers, the soothing voice of the instructor. She focused hard when they were told to visualize the beginning of their labor at the beginning of class, and she felt a surge of happiness when the instructor had them picture holding their newborns at the end.

In the changing room after class, the new woman said, “Excuse me?” to no one in particular. “Does anyone wanna go get a juice or something?” Amelia smiled and turned away, letting one of the other, newer students make plans with her. The woman was probably really nice but, with her tiny sports bra and flat, stretch-mark-free belly, she really had no idea what Amelia was going through. The trimesters of pregnancy were kind of like elementary, middle, and high school, Amelia decided. It would just feel weird now to hang out with someone who was so far behind.

When Amelia came out of the studio, Jane was standing in her old spot on the street, waiting.

“I told you already,” Amelia said, coming up to her. “I'm keeping it.”

“I know,” Jane said. “I'm just taking a break from work.” She linked her arm through Amelia's. “I'll walk you home.”

“Finally,” Amelia said, “someone treats me like a pregnant lady.”

Jane was having a bad week. “I'm thinking about quitting my job,” she said as they turned onto Greenpoint Avenue.

“Why?” Amelia asked. Jane's arm felt tiny against her side. “You love your job.”