The Solomon Sisters Wise Up (28 page)

“Why do I crave that?” I asked. “Am I crazy?”

“I used to crave pistachio nuts,” Giselle said. “That helped me gain fifty-five pounds when I was pregnant.”

“Wow. I read a typical weight gain is twenty-five to thirty, but I’ve already gained ten pounds and I’m only eleven weeks along now.”

“Sarah, I hope you know that you can always come talk to me about the pregnancy or babies or the father of the child—anything. I’ve been through quite a bit in that department. And if you don’t want your dad to know you’re pregnant, I’ll respect that.”

“Thanks, Giselle. I really appreciate that. All of it. I’m not ready to tell Dad yet. I’m not sure why, but I’m not.”

She nodded. “So for this hot date, why don’t we raid my closet? I’m sure the clothes I’ve put away as my ‘when I drop a few pounds’ outfit will fit you just fine now.”

Very much relieved, I followed Giselle like a happy puppy.

It was amazing how comfortable clothing two sizes up was. And as I waited in the living room for Griffen, who was picking me up at any minute, I didn’t have to constantly squirm and tug at the way-too-tight-around-the-ribs-and-tummy black leather jacket that Ally had bought me only six weeks ago for my birthday, because Giselle had brilliantly moved the buttons. I hadn’t even known you could do that.

Giselle had dressed me in a stretchy black knee-length skirt that didn’t pull on my tummy, a slightly loose, slightly long black cardigan sweater, and with my knee-high black leather boots, I looked both perfectly stylish and perfectly slightly pregnant.

I’d known Giselle was nice, but I hadn’t realized how nice. As she’d plucked things from the back of her closet, creating
yes
and
no
piles for me, she’d told me about Gunther, whose real name was Harold, a wanna-be rock star whose band put out a record that flopped in the U.S. but was something of a minor hit in Europe, where he’d set up shop. They’d been seeing each other for a few months when Giselle had discovered she was pregnant. Harold-Gunther denied he was the father.

“We only did it a few times,”
he’d said, like a thirteen-year-old, according to Giselle, and that had been the last she’d seen or heard from him.

I shook my head. “I don’t understand how someone could not care about his own baby—baby-to-be,” I said as Giselle had nixed a ruffly sheer shirt with a camisole under it. The hem of the camisole ended right above my belly, drawing attention to it. “Griffen doesn’t want anything to do with the baby,” I confided in her, and then I burst into tears and she’d pulled me into a hug.

“If he doesn’t want anything to do with you or the baby, then why is he having you meet his parents—on such a major holiday, no less?” Giselle asked.

That was a good point, and one that kept me company until Griffen rang the doorbell at eight o’clock.

I pulled open the door, and there he was, looking gorgeous and nervous. He smiled somewhat awkwardly at me, asked if I was ready, and off we went, walking to the subway in near-silence, except to talk about whether we liked white-or dark-meat turkey better, how he didn’t like cranberry sauce because he’d grown up mistaking it for horseradish, and whether or not we thought it impolite for men to disappear into the living room with their plates midway through dinner for football, which he’d reported that his father and uncle had done this afternoon (we both agreed it most certainly was rude). As we headed down the steps into the subway station, he took my hand and said, “Careful,” and his hand felt foreign instead of comforting.

Our train came in as we reached the track, and we sat down on the hard orange seats, Griffen’s thigh against mine, which felt comforting instead of foreign.

Pregnant women are horny! said
But I Don’t Know How To Be Pregnant!
That was one of the few things about pregnancy I did know—or learned fast. I’d spent many a night thinking about Griffen, about the nights we’d spent together.

He opened his knapsack and took out a very large, very smushed red gift bag. “Here,” he said, handing it to me. “For you.”

Surprised, I took the bag and set it on my lap. This time there was white tissue paper puffing out. “Is Thanksgiving a gift-giving holiday in the Maxwell family?”

“Hardly,” he said. “I just wanted to get you a little something. I didn’t know which one to get you, so I got them all.”

I pulled out
What To Expect When You’re Expecting, The Girlfriends’ Guide To Pregnancy
and
But I Don’t Know How To Be Pregnant!

“I hope you don’t have any of these already,” he added. “I couldn’t believe how many books on pregnancy there were at Barnes & Noble. I figured I had a good chance of getting you some you didn’t have.”

I couldn’t hold back the laugh. “Nope, I don’t have a one of these.”

“Good.” He smiled at me, somewhat nervously. “You’re looking really good, Sarah. Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah, and thanks. You look good too, Griffen.”

And he did. So good.

“I bought these for myself,” he said, and pulled out of his backpack,
The Guy’s Guide to Fatherhood, Fatherhood 101
and
My Boys Can Swim!
“I’ve started reading this one,” he said, flipping through
Guy’s Guide.
“Did you know that newborn babies sleep twenty hours out of the day? Or that babies go through eight to ten diapers a day?”

“You
have
been reading,” I said. “Me too.”

“A lot of it sounds pretty scary. Colic, for instance.”

I nodded. “But it lasts for only three months. Though that probably feels like forever at the time.”

“I’ve been reading up on everything a baby needs,” Griffen said. “For the first day alone, you need a ton of stuff, like a car seat and a crib or bassinet and enough diapers and clothes.”

Okay. Hold on here. “Griffen, I’m a little confused. I thought you didn’t want any part of this,” I said. “Have you changed your mind?”

The train screeched to a stop. “This is us,” he said, taking my hand.

Saved by the stop. My question was on the tip of my tongue, but the station was too noisy for us to talk.

“Did you like growing up in the city?” he asked me as we emerged out of the station and into the cold night air. “I did and didn’t. I had Prospect Park right there—” he pointed “—but it’s not having woods to play in. That’d be nice for a kid.”

I glanced at him. I sensed I should just let him talk, and he did, telling me all about Park Slope and how it used to be a normal neighborhood but had turned into million-dollar brownstones and even more expensive than Manhattan. Just when I couldn’t take it any longer and was about to repeat my question, we arrived at his parents’ house, a two-family on the outskirts of Park Slope in a working-class neighborhood. The Maxwells occupied the bottom floor and two twentysomethings lived upstairs and paid way too much rent, according to Griffen, which provided his parents with a nice income now that his accountant father was retired.

“Do I look okay?” I asked him on the top step to the house as he pulled open the storm door.

He turned to look at me, really look at me, and after a moment said, “You look great, Sarah. You really do. Pregnancy glow and all that, I guess. Not that you didn’t look good before too, I mean.”

I smiled. “Thanks. You look good too, Griffen.”

And he did. Very good. The contrast of his black leather jacket with his silky light blond hair…those pale brown eyes, that Roman nose, those lips….

“Look, before we go in, maybe I should warn you about my parents,” Griffen said. “They’re not exactly thrilled that you’re pregnant.”

“You’re telling me this now?” I asked. “So I can have, what, two seconds to prepare for the fact that your parents hate me?”

“No, no, no—it’s not that bad,” he rushed to say. “They’re just old-fashioned. It’s more a ‘not married’ thing than anything else.”

“Phew,” I said. “You had me worried there for a moment. At least your parents and I will have something in common.”

He stared at me with the same someone-just-punched-me-in-the-stomach expression as he had when I told him I was pregnant. “Are you kidding or not?” he asked. “I’m not sure.”

Could he look any more nervous and uncomfortable? What was I, a leper?

“Um, I guess,” I said.

He eyed me, clearly trying to figure out whether the I guess went to “I’m kidding” or “Not,” then gave up and rang the bell.

“Why doesn’t he use his key?” I heard a grumpy-voiced man call out. “Did he lose it?”

“I don’t know, Bert. How am I supposed to know?” responded a grumpy-voiced woman.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. I knew this type. These were not going to be the polite-let’s-have-tea-andmadeleines-and-not-even-bring-up-the-fact-that-you’repregnant parents that I’d expected. These were in-your-face, ask-you-questions kind of people.

The door opened, and a heavyset fiftyish woman with Griffen’s blond hair opened the door. A heavyset, fiftyish man was behind her, smoking a cigar.

“Dad, the cigar—” Griffen said, gesturing to me.

“What?” his father asked.

“Bert, put out the cigar. The girl’s pregnant!”

Bert grumbled and disappeared down the hall.

“Mom, this is Sarah, Sarah, this is my mother, Marlene Maxwell.”

Marlene Maxwell. It must have been quite a glamorous name in her day.

Marlene Maxwell looked me full in the face, and after the nice-to-meechas, led us into a living room I didn’t expect. Pale yellow leather couch and matching loveseat, with chrome legs and a glass coffee table, pale yellow filmy drapes shot with white silk string, blond wood bookcases, wall to ceiling. The faces and voices didn’t match the furniture.

I sat on the yellow leather loveseat and Griffen sat down next to me. His mother sat across from me on the sofa, and her husband came rushing into the room, smelling like cigars.

“In my day, you could smoke in the house with a pregnant woman and babies,” Mr. Maxwell said.

“Things were
very
different in our day,” Mrs. Maxwell said to her husband with a none-too-hidden harrumph in her expression.

“You have a lovely home,” I said to change the subject. That and because I was supposed to say it.

“Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Maxwell said, folding her hands on her lap. Then she unfolded them, then folded them.

It was so strange that I made her nervous.
I
was the one who was supposed to be nervous. And I was. The house was warm, and as I was always overheated anyway, my cleavage was beaded with sweat. So much for the spritz of Gucci Envy that Giselle had given me for good luck.

Mrs. Maxwell handed me a plate of pumpkin pie, and I did what I always did when nervous and handed food: I started stuffing my face.

“You’re very pretty, dear,” Mrs. Maxwell said. “Isn’t she, Bert?”

“What?” Mr. Maxwell said, eating his pie as though he hadn’t eaten in days.

“Never mind,” Mrs. Maxwell said, smoothing her skirt over her knees. “So, Sarah, how far along are you, dear?”

“Um, thank you,” I said, “for the compliment. And I’m twelve weeks now. I can’t believe the first trimester is over. I’m still not quite used to the idea of being pregnant.”

“Well, I suppose you’re out of the danger zone,” Mrs. Maxwell said with a sigh.

Was she unhappy about that?

“In my day, you didn’t announce a pregnancy until you were at least three months along,” she added.

“I don’t understand that,” Griffen said. “If, God forbid, Sarah had lost the baby, wouldn’t she want sympathy?”

God forbid?
Interesting.

“You’re carrying high,” Mrs. Maxwell said, effectively changing the subject. “It’s a girl.”

“Mom, she’s not even showing,” Griffen said, smiling at me and shaking his head.

Mrs. Maxwell smacked her lips. “She’s showing a little. A mother knows. It’s a girl. Girls are harder to raise than boys.”

“Well, whatever sex the baby is, I’ll be thrilled,” I said.

“All that matters is that the baby’s healthy,” Griffen added. “And according to the doctor at Sarah’s ultrasound, all is well. Here,” he said, handing his mother the ultrasound photo.

Mrs. Maxwell looked at the picture, turning it upside down and sideways the way Zoe had. “I just can’t believe this,” she said, and burst into tears.

“Mom?” Griffen said. “Are you okay?”

“I just don’t understand this,” she said. “She’s going to have a baby, but you’re not even dating?”

“We’re just at a funny point,” Griffen said. “I found out that Sarah was pregnant and I needed some time to think, so we haven’t been seeing each other.”

A funny point?

Silence.

“Are you getting back together? Are you getting married?” she asked. “You make such a lovely couple, don’t they, Bert?”

“What?” Mr. Maxwell asked, staring at his stubbed out cigar. “Yes, the pie was very good.”

Mrs. Maxwell rolled her eyes, then got up and walked to the windows. She let out a deep breath. “Well, what’s done is done. There’s no sense in being upset about it.”

“Mom…” Griffen said.

“I’m just saying that I’m coming around to the idea,” Mrs. Maxwell continued. “At least there’s no stigma in a child being illegitimate. Years ago there was, but now, what with all the sex and violence on television, anything goes.”

“First of all, Mom,” Griffen said, “no one uses the word
illegitimate
anymore. There’s nothing illegitimate about a baby having parents who aren’t married.”

“And how would you know, Griffen?” Mrs. Maxwell asked. “Do you have unmarried parents? How about you, Sarah?”

“Mom, I thought you wanted to meet Sarah. That’s why I brought her here. If you want to interrogate her or make her uncomfortable or insult her, we’ll leave.”

“Oh, so now I don’t get to see my grandchild?” she said, her voice rising. “Do you hear this, Bert? They’re going to keep the baby from us.”

As Griffen shook his head in utter amazement, I was struck with the thought that his mother was much worse than my father. Perhaps clueless and always jovial was better than crazy.

“Marlene, no one said anything about the grandchild,” Mr. Maxwell said. “Do you see a baby here?”