When You Least Expect It (13 page)

“I’m tired. I’m going to go back to my room,” Lainey said.

“Of course,” India said quickly.

“I was the same way during my pregnancies. I could never stay awake past eight o’clock,” Mimi sympathized.

“Do you need anything? Do you want to take a brownie back with you?” India asked, also standing.

Lainey wondered if India was planning on escorting her back to the guesthouse. “No, I’m fine. I just want to go to sleep.” Her stomach gave another queasy shift.

“Good night,” everyone chorused.

“Nice to meet you,” Mimi said.

Lainey, turning to leave, didn’t respond. She was fairly sure that if she opened her mouth, she’d throw up right there, in the middle of the living room.

I hated working in the dining room. It was too open, too exposed. Every time India walked by, or Lainey went into the kitchen to scrounge around for snacks, or Otis scratched himself, I was interrupted. Writing fiction requires a suspension of reality—you have to submerge yourself in your made-up world in order to create it. It was impossible to do this with the constant distractions.

So I did the only thing I really could do under the circumstances: I spent most of my time surfing the Internet. I was particularly fascinated to discover a sci-fi fan site that had a message board dedicated to my series, Future Race. The board was called FutureRaceFanatics, and had two dozen posters, including at least five who seemed to be regular commentators. They discussed all manner of Future Race lore—characters, plotlines, speculation on future books. The amazing thing was that these readers had found all sorts of symbolism in the books that I hadn’t consciously placed there.

My favorite poster went by the handle HippyChick and had a grinning skull with a bowtie as her avatar. She posted things like:

She also defended me from detractors. One poster—Xerxon—posted the message board equivalent of a drive-by shooting, calling Book Five—
The Battle at Quad Vector-Nine
—“a derivative, wholly unoriginal series that rips off both
X-Men
and
The Terminator
and yet isn’t half as interesting as either.” HippyChick took him out with a flamethrower:

I liked her spunk. I considered posting on the boards, and thanking them for their kind words and support, but decided against it. I didn’t want to be caught Googling myself. It lacked dignity.

The phone ringing interrupted my cyber-sneaking. I made sure to close the browser before answering, in case India or Lainey came in and saw what I was reading. It was yet another downside to working in the dining room—my computer screen was in full view for anyone passing by to see. It wasn’t like I spent my time
surfing porn sites, but it reminded me unpleasantly of what it had been like to work in an office—always having to be on edge that your boss would walk in at any moment and catch you goofing off. The whole point of being self-employed was the freedom to slack without censure.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hey, yourself,” a familiar voice said. It was my brother, Peter. He was two years older, worked in the thrilling field of podiatry, and lived in Jacksonville, less than a mile away from our parents’ house. Whenever I spoke to Peter, and he brought up his new car, or flat-screen television, or the trip he was taking with his dimwitted wife, Stacey, I tried to remind myself of how I, too, had once had a lucrative job—soul-sucking, it was true, but lucrative, or at least more lucrative than my current career—and had given it up to live my dream of being a writer. It always made me feel a bit better, at least right up until my monthly mortgage statement arrived.

“What’s up with you? Anything new?” Peter asked. And then, without waiting for a response, he continued, “Stacy and I have some big news!”

I knew what he was going to say even before he completed his announcement.

“Break out the cigars, little bro! Stacey’s pregnant!”

“Wow. Congratulations,” I said, wondering if there was any possible way I could hide my sister-in-law’s pregnancy, along with the future child, from India.

“It’s crazy, isn’t it? Can you believe it? Me, a dad,” Peter said. “Mom’s ecstatic. She’s already going crazy buying crap for the baby, and we don’t even know if it’s a boy or a girl yet.”

So our mother knew. That meant it would only be a matter of time—days, certainly, maybe even hours—until India found out. I sighed. I was going to have to break the news to her before my mother got to her first.

———

When India arrived home, I followed her into our bedroom, where she was swapping her black knit top and khakis for a T-shirt and faded denim cutoffs. I sat down on the edge of the bed, watching her change.

“I had the most amazing idea today. It just came to me while I was doing a shoot at the beach,” India said, as she pulled a T-shirt with the caption
THAT’S HOW I ROLL
screen printed across the chest. “It was a mom-and-daughter portrait. The little girl was about three, and her mom was pregnant. It was pretty cute. The girl was wearing a pink and green sundress, and the mom was wearing green jeans with a pink polo,” India said. “It gave me the most amazing idea for a show.”

“Portraits of people wearing color-coordinated outfits?” I asked. “Preppies on the beach?”

“Pregnant women!” India said. “I’m going to do a series of tummy portraits.”

“Tummy portraits?” I repeated, suddenly picturing photos of naked women with swollen stomachs and heavy, pendulous breasts.

“A lot of photographers are doing them. Ever since Demi Moore posed pregnant on the cover of
Vanity Fair
, it’s become popular among women, even regular suburban moms, to have a pregnancy portrait taken. I haven’t done a lot of them myself, but I was thinking it would be a great area to branch into. I could do a whole series and then have a show at my studio. Who knows, maybe I’ll become the go-to person in West Palm, in all of South Florida, even, for maternity portraiture.”

She was bright-eyed and pink-cheeked in her enthusiasm. Even her hair seemed to crackle with energy as it danced and bounced off her shoulders.

I looked at her, nonplussed.

“What?” she asked.

“You’re not seriously considering this,” I said.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Um, because it’s a terrible idea?”

India fisted her hands against her hips and frowned at me. “That’s pretty much the opposite of supportive,” she said.

“India.” I sighed. “Just last month, we had to leave the Palm Beach Grill before we’d even had dinner because there was a woman with a newborn baby sitting at the next table. The month before that, you refused to go to that baby shower for your friend Mona.”

“Not friend,” India qualified. “She’s a distant acquaintance. And really, it’s tacky to invite people you hardly know to your shower just to get extra presents.”

“My point is that you—understandably—have a hard time being around pregnant women. So why voluntarily put yourself in a position where you’re photographing their pregnant stomachs?”

“I photograph babies all the time,” India countered.

“Pregnant stomachs are different. It’s almost like … well, fetishizing them.”

“It is not.” India rolled her eyes, grabbed a stack of laundry off the bed, and walked into the closet to put them away. “I’m just thinking of creative ways to expand my business. You’re the one who’s always saying we need to make more money.”

“You’re really going to go with that line of argument? That you’re doing this for the money?” I asked.

India turned around to meet my gaze. Her expression was defiant. “So maybe I’m not. Maybe I want to celebrate our baby, our unconventional pregnancy. What’s wrong with that?”

“You’re planning to photograph Lainey?”

India nodded, her eyes brightening. “If she’ll let me. I’d love to take a series of photographs of her, documenting the changes in her body as she goes through the pregnancy,” she added.

“Have you talked to Lainey about it?”

“No, not yet. I just got the idea today. Why? Do you think she’ll mind?”

I shrugged. “I have no idea. Who knows what Lainey thinks about anything? She isn’t exactly easy to read.”

“I know what you mean. I think she’s just overwhelmed by everything. She’s had some pretty big changes to adjust to lately. Breaking up with her boyfriend, the unplanned pregnancy, moving in here. It’s a lot for one person to process.”

I knew how she felt. It was a lot for me to process, too.

“I talked to Peter today. He had some news,” I said carefully. India, still in the closet, had turned to sort the dirty clothes in the hamper. Her back visibly stiffened.

“Stacey’s pregnant,” she guessed.

“Yep,” I said.

India turned around slowly. She didn’t look upset. Then again, I’d seen her impassive when faced with the troop of power walking, stroller-pushing mothers who lapped our block every morning, only to discover her quietly crying in the kitchen ten minutes later.

“How far along is she?” she asked.

“I have no idea.”

“You didn’t ask?”

“Men don’t ask about things like that,” I said. “In fact, men don’t really talk about pregnancy at all, if we can help it.”

“Why not?” India asked.

“Fear. I once asked a co-worker at my old job who was hugely, enormously pregnant, if she was overdue. Apparently, she still had three months to go. She glared at me every time she saw me after that. I can’t tell you what a relief it was when she finally went on maternity break.”

“Coward,” India said.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I am. Anyway, I think Peter said the baby is due sometime in the summer.”

“Late summer or early summer?”

I shrugged. “I’ve told you everything I know.”

“Our baby is due in June,” India said.

It felt weird to hear her calling the baby, the one still residing in Lainey’s womb,
our baby
. “It’s not a contest,” I said. “It’s not like the first one to have a baby wins.”

“Of course it is,” India said. “Your mother will think it is. Have you told her about Lainey yet?”

“No,” I said.

“Why not?”

“I haven’t talked to her. Besides, I make it a policy never to tell my mother anything. It’s a strategy that’s been working well for me ever since I hit puberty,” I said.

“Does she know about Stacey?”

I nodded, trying to ignore the dread currently spreading through my gut.

“What did she say?”

“Peter said she’s excited,” I said cautiously.

“Then we should tell her our news, too. I’m sure she’ll be even more excited to hear she has two grandchildren on the way,” India said briskly. She scooped up an armful of dirty laundry and, stepping out of the closet, transferred it to the plastic laundry basket we used to ferry clothes downstairs to the laundry room off the kitchen.

“You have met my mother,” I said.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I think you should manage your expectations.”

“You mean she’s not going to be as excited about our baby as she is about Stacey and Peter’s?” India asked.

“Hey,” I said softly. “I’m not the enemy here. I’m not responsible for my mother. And I don’t know, maybe she will be excited. But …”

“But don’t get my hopes up?” India asked. She sighed. “Don’t worry, they’re not.” She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin,
a fighter steeling herself. “You’re coming with us tomorrow, right?”

This sudden non sequitur threw me.

“Coming where with who?” I asked, trying—and failing—not to sound suspicious.

“Seriously, do you ever listen to me?” India asked.

“All the time. Just last night, you were going on and on about how hot and studly I am,” I said. “I heard that.”

India rolled her eyes, but didn’t resist when I reached for her and pulled her toward me. Since I was sitting and she was still standing, this meant my head was nicely positioned between her breasts. She let her cheek rest on the top of my head, and I stroked her back. It was the closest contact we’d had in days, and I could feel the first stirrings of desire.

“So tell me again—what’s tomorrow?”

“Our first appointment with the OB/GYN.”

Oh, no
, I thought. Had I agreed to go? When? Why?

“You will come, though, right?” India asked. She linked her fingers together behind my neck, and her touch made me shiver.

The honest response to this would be
No
. Or even
Do I have to?
I was pretty sure neither would go over very well, so I instead said, “Is it important that I be there?”

“Yes,” India said.

“Then I guess I’ll go,” I said without enthusiasm. “Wait … I’m not going to have to be in the room when the doctor examines her, am I? Because that would be weird.”

“You’re going to be in the room when the baby is born,” India said.

“I am?”

“Aren’t you?”

She pulled away and looked down at me.

“I really don’t think I’m comfortable seeing her … you know. Her business,” I said.

“And what business is that?”

“You know.” My face was flaming.

“No. What?” India giggled.

“Everything up inside,” I hissed. I considered myself a modern man. On occasion, I purchased tampons for India. But I was not—nor, hopefully, would I ever be—the sort of man who was comfortable accompanying a woman he barely knew to a pelvic exam.

“You won’t be able to see that! Not unless you get down next to the doctor and peer up inside her with a flashlight!” India was now laughing so hard she was shaking.