We Are Water (33 page)

“What did she name her baby?” I ask.

“Nineliez. Nineliez Maria. Her partner’s Puerto Rican.”

“That’s pretty,” I say. “Different.” She’s just said “partner,” not “husband” or “boyfriend.” Maybe her daughter’s gay. Maybe she used a sperm donor, too.

“At this point, you can’t really tell what that new little munchkin’s going to grow up looking like, but I suspect it’ll be Spanish. Her mother’s got some Dutch from her father and some German and British from me, but the Spanish will most likely be dominant. What are you?”

“Me? Well, I’m Irish on my mother’s side and Italian and Chinese on my father’s.” I think about how Andrew, Marissa, and I look so different from one another. He’s got Mama’s red hair and green eyes, her fair skin. I have Daddy’s dark hair and Mediterranean complexion. Marissa’s the only one who you can tell has some Asian in her.

“Heinz fifty-seven varieties, eh?” Dolly says. “I can see the Italian in you but not the Irish or the Oriental.” Oriental? In Berkeley, you could probably get fined for saying something so politically incorrect. “Good lord, if it wasn’t for my high blood pressure, I could eat Chinese food every day of the week. Too much sodium, though. A few years after I got sober, I asked my Higher Power to remove my craving for alcohol and He did. But I still crave egg foo yong and General Tso’s chicken. I’d pray on that, too, but I figure the Good Lord’s got a few more important things on his agenda.”

“Oh, okay. When you said before that you were a grateful alcoholic, I assumed, well . . . ”

“That I was an active drunk? No, ma’am. I’ve been sober for thirty-one years. Best decision I ever made, joining AA—next to divorcing those two lunkheads I was married to. Both of ’em drank like fish. Problem was, I used to try and keep up with them. After I quit, I gave Number Two an ultimatum. ‘It’s either me or the booze,’ I told him. And when he went out and got soused that same weekend, I packed his bag and showed him the door. Lucky for me, I had a good job and the house was in my name. I’d gotten it in the settlement from my first divorce.”

“Huh,” I say, unable to think of anything else. Mr. Aisle Seat has already polished off his cocktail, I assume, because he’s just bent his can in half and stuck it in his seat pocket. Oh, wow, you’re strong enough to bend aluminum. What a he-man! Turning back to Dolly, I ask her how her daughter’s doing—the one who’s had the baby.

“Well, she’s having a little trouble with breast-feeding,” she says. “Getting the baby to latch on. But she’ll get the hang of it. Course, I’m no expert on the subject. Back when I was having mine, the doctors were pushing formula instead of breast milk. You planning on nursing yours?”

I tell her I am because all the baby books say it’s better for them. Builds up their immunity. “And I’m not going to rush into giving my baby solid food either,” I say. “I read this article online said that feeding babies solid food too early can lead to obesity and diabetes later on.”

“Well, take it from me, honey. You can read up on the subject all you want, but the best way to learn how to be a mother is by being one. When I brought my first home from the hospital, I wasn’t even sure how to pin a diaper. Had to have my cousin Etta come over and show me. On-the-job training: that’s what mothering is.” She reaches over and pats my knee. “But you’ll learn quick enough, same as everyone. Did your mother breast-feed?”

Did she? I don’t know. I don’t remember her nursing Marissa. “I’m not sure,” I say. “Maybe not, though. I have a twin brother.”

“Well, I guess that’s why the Good Lord equipped us gals with two breasts instead of one,” Dolly says. “Course, some women have triplets, so that busts my theory.” She chuckles some more. Mr. Business lets out a fed-up sigh. Well, excuse us. And by the way, I can smell your booze breath.

“I like your bracelet,” I tell Dolly. She slips it off and hands it to me for a better look. The little dime-sized medal hanging off of it has a butterfly on one side, three words on the other:
SERENITY, COURAGE, WISDOM
. In my peripheral vision, I see Aisle Seat Guy take a peek at Dolly’s bracelet, too. “This is from the serenity prayer, right?” I ask.

“Uh-huh. You know it?”

“Sort of. At the soup kitchen, they have AA and NA meetings right after lunch twice a week, and when they say that prayer at the beginning, sometimes I stop and listen to it. It’s so simple, but it says a lot.” Listen to me: the agnostic who hasn’t prayed since she was a little girl.

“Well, the Good Lord wants our lives to be simple,” Dolly says. “Love one another: that’s all He wants. It’s us that makes things complicated.”

She smiles. I smile back. We’re both quiet after that, but when my thoughts wander back to breast-feeding, it reminds me of something. “Oh, shit!” I say. It just slips out.

“Something the matter?” Dolly asks.

“No, I just thought of something I forgot to do before I left work yesterday. Sorry for swearing.”

“Didn’t hear a damned thing,” Dolly says. “What’d you do? Forget to turn off the coffeepot?”

“No, nothing like that. I was supposed to order more cases of nutritional supplements from our pharmaceutical supplier, but I got distracted. The freezer in the basement had gone on the blink, and some of the meat had begun to thaw, so . . . well, let’s just say I never went back to my desk.”

“Nutritional supplements? Like vitamins?” Dolly asks.

“No, no. Enfamil for the crack babies and Ensure for our elderly guests and the ones with HIV AIDS. We got a grant last year that lets us buy and distribute them, and I’m trying to stockpile as much as possible. The funding runs out at the end of the year.”

“And they won’t renew it?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Nothing’s a sure thing anymore.”

“Well, good luck,” Dolly says. “Canned formula’s gotta be better than mother’s milk with crack in it.” She tells me she drank during her first couple of pregnancies. “My doctor recommended it, in fact. Told me to have a glass of wine or two in the evening to settle myself. I drank and
smoked
with my oldest. Course, back then they didn’t have all the warnings they do now. I wish they had. My Jimmy was the puniest of my six, although you’d never know it now. He goes six one, six two, and could stand to lose twenty or thirty pounds. So who’s picking you up when we land? Your parents?”

“My father.” When I told Daddy I was flying in to Logan instead of Hartford, I said I didn’t mind renting a car and driving out to the Cape. But I was relieved when he insisted on picking me up. . . . Andrew says he thinks Daddy’s taking Mama’s remarrying hard, but Marissa says he’s fine with it. Now I’ll be able to see for myself how he’s doing. Sometimes he seems okay when I call him, and sometimes he seems, I don’t know, distracted or something. “Actually, my parents are divorced,” I tell Dolly. “I’m spending some time with my father first. Then I’ll visit my mom.” And meet her wife, I think.

“Well, I’m sure they’ll both be tickled pink to see you. This their first grandchild?” I nod, smile. “I bet they’re excited.”

“Oh, yes. Very.” Will they be?

Dolly asks me how much time I’m taking off after the baby’s born. “Six weeks,” I say. “I could take more time than that, but it would be without pay and I can’t afford it. I’m just making ends meet as it is.”

“What about your hubby? Doesn’t he work?”

Oh, shit. My husband. I borrow Axel. “He, uh . . . he teaches at a community college, but only part-time. He’s looking for a full-time position, but no luck yet. The job situation’s pretty tight right now.”

“So what’ll you do once your maternity leave’s up? Use day care?”

“No, I can’t . . . we can’t afford that, either. I’m planning to bring the baby to work with me.” Dolly wrinkles her nose and tells me that will be difficult. “Well, if the bus stop near my apartment is any indication, half the new moms in Berkeley are toting their infants to their jobs. And I’m sure my volunteers will be glad to help out when I get busy with other things. . . . Berkeley’s expensive, and we could probably get a cheaper apartment in Oakland. But it’s not as safe there, and I’ve heard that the schools aren’t very good. Besides, raising a baby is going to be a big enough change without worrying about moving, too.”

“Right,” Dolly says. “Well, you’ll figure it out.” And with that, she takes her newspaper from the seat pocket, puts on her glasses, and starts to read.

Rather than sitting there feeling guilty about lying to her, I pick up
Home from the Hospital
. Fish around in my purse for the yellow highlighter. I’m in the middle of the chapter on nursing—what to do about breast infections—but I just keep reading the same paragraph without absorbing anything. Dolly’s got a point about overpreparing. Why read about some infection I might not even get? . . . Her daughter’s lucky that Dolly’s coming to help her with the baby. I wish Mama wasn’t going to be so far away when my baby comes. Maybe she could fly out and stay with me for a few weeks. I won’t ask her, though. She has her work, and she’ll still be a newlywed. But if she volunteers . . .

Mama: a newlywed and a grandmother, all in the same six months. And me: an unwed mother. When my friend Cindy Soucy and I were in middle school, we would sit at lunch and plan our futures: how we’d meet our boyfriends at college, get married after graduation, and start our careers. Then we’d have kids; she wanted two and I wanted three. We were in fifth grade, I remember, and both of us had just started menstruating. . . .

“Mama, something’s the matter with me. I think I better go see the doctor.” I point to the evidence: the bloodstained crotch of my pajama bottoms. She frowns, says nothing’s wrong. “Go down to my studio and wait for me. I’ll be right down. I just need to get something.”

While I wait for her, I look around at her artwork. It’s weird, kind of scary-looking. I don’t like it, but I would never tell her that. It would hurt her feelings. Sometimes when it’s my turn to do the laundry and I go down here while she’s working on some new piece, she’s concentrating so hard that she doesn’t even seem to realize I’m there. And I try to be as quiet as I can because she’s concentrating and has this angry face. It’s the same face she gets when Andrew’s done something to make her mad and she goes off on him. Goes mental, kind of. It’s scary when she gets like that. But yeah, she makes that same face when she’s working on her art. No wonder it comes out like this. Mama’s art is . . . angry.

When she comes back down to the basement, she hands me the “something” she had to go get—that awful booklet with the cartoon drawings, “From Girl to Woman.” “The most important thing you have to remember now that you’ve started ovulating,” Mama says, “is that from now on, you should never, ever put yourself in a situation where you’re alone with a boy or a man. Because you just can’t trust them.”

“Not even Daddy? Or Andrew?”

“Of course you can trust them. But otherwise you have to be very careful from now on.” Other men flash in my mind. Mr. Genovese across the street? My English teacher, Mr. Fogel, who told me he thinks I’m a good writer? “What about Uncle Donald?” I ask her.

“Oh, Ariane, don’t be silly. Of course you can trust your uncle.”

Mama’s nervous. I can tell by the way she’s picking away at her finger. While she’s in the middle of explaining why I can expect to bleed once a month from now on, the basement door bangs open and Andrew comes clomping down the stairs. Mama’s mad. “Didn’t I just tell you that your sister and I needed some privacy?”

“Yeah, but Gary just called me. A bunch of us are going to ride our bikes down to the field to play baseball. I need to get my glove.”

“Not now, Andrew!”

“Yeah, but I
need
it now, or else I’m going to get there after they choose up.”

Shaking her head, she gets up and goes to the big box where he keeps his sports stuff. Instead of tossing him his glove, she hurls it at him. It hits him in the face.

“Ow! Jesus Christ, Mom. You didn’t have to nail me with it.”

“What did I tell you about that ‘Jesus Christ’ stuff? Now go! Get out!”

She glares at him as he takes the stairs. When the door at the top slams, she turns back to me. “Any questions?”

I ask her why I can’t trust men anymore.

“Because males have a kind of built-in instinct that females can trigger once they get their period. A kind of sexual radar. Animals, humans: all males. You remember how we sometimes had to keep Missy in the house before we got her spayed? How all those male dogs would congregate in the yard and wait for her to come out?”

“Yeah, but . . . ?” I don’t get the connection.

“And do you remember what happened that time when Missy got out and that boxer down the street jumped on top of her and started humping her?”

“Yes.”

“Well? You know what rape is, don’t you? . . .”

God, why did she have to put it that way? Scare me like that? Males were horny, dangerous dogs: that was her message. I remember going upstairs to my room with that booklet she gave me, my hands trembling as I turned the pages. I didn’t calm down until Cindy Soucy told me what
her
mother had said: that once a man and a woman fell in love and got married, sex was a beautiful part of their life together, not just the way that babies got started. . . .

It’s so weird the way life turns out. For me, at least, maybe not for Cindy. Until she tried to “friend” me on Facebook last month, I hadn’t heard from her in years. I’m too busy for social networking, I told myself. Told Marissa, too, when she tried to “friend” me. From what people who are on Facebook say, it’s a colossal waste of time, but what I don’t get is why they’re always on it anyway. . . .
You should never put yourself in a situation where you’re alone with a boy or a man.
Did Mama decide she was a lesbian after she met Viveca, or was she always one? And if she was, why did she marry Daddy? . . .

I’m nervous about meeting Viveca. I want her to like me, and I really want to like her—to show her that I’m cool now about her and Mama’s marriage. Marissa’s always saying that Viveca’s awesome, but that time when I asked her why, all she talked about was their shopping trips, and how Viveca has taken her to the Plaza Hotel for tea. Last month when Rissa got all spastic because Jimmy Choo was on the guest list for the wedding and I asked her who he was, she was like, “Oh my god, Ariane, what planet do you
live
on?” It wasn’t until after we’d hung up that I thought of what I
should
have said: that I pretty much live on Planet Soup Kitchen, where the needs are a little more basic than the need for designer shoes. I didn’t dare pack my Birkenstocks when I was getting ready for this trip, which was ridiculous now that I think of it. I live in Berkeley, for Christ’s sake! It’s not that I’m intimidated by my little sister, but from everything she’s said, and from the pictures I’ve seen, Viveca seems so chic and glamorous. I guess I just don’t want her to look down on me: Annie’s shlumpy older daughter. The fat one. No one to share her life with, no prospects on the horizon. . . . I wonder what Mama has told Viveca about me. Does she know how angry I was at first when I found out about their affair? Does she know I’m fat? At my last ob-gyn appointment, my weight had gone up to one seventy-seven—my high school weight. And I’m bound to gain a lot more in the upcoming months. God, I just hope I don’t go over two hundred. That would be more than I’ve
ever
weighed. I think back to that conversation I once heard my mother and father having about me when they thought I was out of earshot. . . .