2 Months 'Til Mrs. (2 'Til Series) (3 page)

Each guest was worse than the last, poking their nose
in her business or bringing up bad missteps and memories of her youth. She only
wished she’d been smart enough to jump on diaper duty when she had the chance.
Her father had been MIA for at least twenty minutes. And come to think of it,
Connor and Lacey had disappeared too, leaving her to mingle alone. She could
have done the whole alone thing back in New York without an audience.

“Catherine Marie Hemmings.”

Her blood ran just a few degrees colder as she took in
the vision of the old woman coming through the front door. “Mrs. Davis?” she
eked out, feeling like that same little six-year-old who used to have
nightmares about that buzzard face. Old Mrs. Davis had seemed ancient back
then, but shockingly seemed not to have aged a day since—perfectly preserved
for future generations of first graders. She always called all her students by
their full given names. Catherine remembered Francis Ballzwacker Ramone; poor
kid never had a chance….
Since when is Mrs. Davis friends with my parents?
...
They probably hit it off at that parent-teacher conference when she
told them how I tucked my dress into my tights after going to the bathroom and
then traipsed coolly through the hallways giving the kindergarteners and my
whole class a peep show…. Just me and Ballzwacker—the biggest losers of
Loserville….
Although she’d heard that Ballzwacker joined the circus,
married a trapeze artist, and had three trapezing little ones, so he was doing
better than Catherine Marie Hemmings by a long shot.

“You’re all grown up!” Mrs. Davis announced to the
room, her voice still strong thanks to regular exercise yelling at little kids
who won’t stop fidgeting in their little seats.

Of course I’m grown up,
Catherine thought
bitterly. She couldn’t help but notice that the woman had stated a mere fact,
no kind words or modifiers. Just plain grown up. It was going to be a banner
start to the New Year.

I need a drink
—something much stiffer than the
grape juice she’d been drinking. Unfortunately the “bar” was in the family
room, a minefield of guests away. She made a break for it but within mere feet
she was face-to-bosom with Mrs. Bertrand, the neighbor who’d seen
her
run straight into a lamppost while playing jailbreak. Big Boobs Bertrand had been
quick to come to her aid, nursing her bloodied nose and icing the egg on her head
with a frozen bag of peas. But she’d also been quick to share the story,
telling everyone that Catherine never even swerved. Soon enough all the
neighborhood kids knew, and then it spread through school, and then town, like
a bad case of head lice, making her Peabrain Hemmings—too stupid to avoid a
lamppost. Her parents took her to the doctor over that incident to find out if
she was blind or suicidal. She’d worn glasses and now contacts ever since,
which promptly put an end to her blurred vision. But it took years to overcome
Peabrain. Not until seventh grade was she free of that nickname, only to fall
right into notoriety all over again as Cats Domino, the girl who singlehandedly
knocked down every last music stand in the orchestra room. In her defense,
Breck
Taylor had just spoken to her
—asked if she could move out of his way so he
could get to his locker (which she did). No self-respecting girl in the entire
school could have kept her equilibrium after that.

She craned her neck around Bertrand’s chest; sure she
would see her old orchestra teacher, Mr. Savoy, somewhere nearby as well. Or
another witness to the collective embarrassments of Catherine Marie Hemmings. It
was like she was caught in a twisted Old-Home pinball machine, getting flippered
and batted from one bad memory to another. She couldn’t step anywhere without
another stumble and fall down memory lane—and man was she thirsty what with all
the gabbing!

Suddenly she spied a narrow winding path between the
minglers, the kitchen doorway in view on the other end. If she could just make
it there she could dip into the cooking sherry, if her mother even had such a thing.
Worst case, her mother might commandeer her time to help out washing dishes or
preparing platters, and even
that
was better than suffering in her past
faux pas.

Catherine surged forward, ducking slightly, bobbing
and weaving, carefully averting her eyes from any wandering contact. She was
almost to the foyer, the light from the kitchen beckoning from beyond—

“Little Catherine Marie!” Aunt Judy cooed, weaving
through the crowd from the other direction with a cocktail in hand and Uncle Al
on her heels, blocking the only exit. “What’s a pretty girl like you doing
without a husband on your arm?” She shook her head sadly, tsk-tsk-ing, and Al dutifully
joined in.

Catherine knew the skit well enough, having been
through it every time she’d seen them ever since their youngest had married off.
Brenda was coming up on her fourth wedding anniversary this spring, and she
knew this because Aunt Judy made sure to keep a count of the years in her
annual Christmas letter. Brenda was three years younger than her hopeless cousin,
and as far as Aunt Judy was concerned, her daughter was a model of perfection
(Brenda’s small shoplifting problem in high school paled in comparison to
Catherine’s continued singlehood).  

“Just haven’t found the time,” she answered dolefully,
as if she too found it to be a shame, playing along because they were old and
likely on their last legs, what with Aunt Judy’s drinking and Uncle Al’s
two-pack-a-day habit.

“I just hope that you don’t wait too long,” Aunt Judy
cautioned. “I was talking to my Brenda about—”

“Where
is
Brenda anyway?” Catherine asked,
making a show of searching the room for her.

“Oh, she wasn’t feeling well this evening… actually,
quite a bit recently.”

“What a shame,” Catherine said dutifully. “I hope it’s
nothing too serious.”

“Oh, nothing like that!” Aunt Judy guffawed, sloshing
her drink dangerously near the rim in her excitement. “Brenda is pregnant, you
know.”

“No, I didn’t know,” she said blandly.
Didn’t
happen to put that in your newsletter. Wanted to throw that directly into
people’s faces and see their reactions.

“Oh, well, she is. And she has had morning sickness—morning,
noon, and night. I keep telling her that it must be twins!” She was downright gluttonous
with the news. 

“Oh, isn’t that wonderful.” Catherine tried to limit
the sour twist on her face.

Pregnant! Twins! Seriously? Brenda used to eat her
own boogers and now she is going to have her very own child who will probably
be a booger-eater too, or twins who will eat each other’s boogers. Eew! Am I
supposed to be jealous?
But the envy was there nonetheless. It felt oddly
like a blow to the funny bone—not funny at all; rather excruciating actually.
She found that each time she was accosted with another pregnancy she became
just a smidge more bitter. Even Georgia’s pregnancy had stuck in her craw. Her
best friend! Getting everything she dreamed of! And instead of unfettered joy
Catherine had found herself trapped somewhere between happiness for her and
jealousy over every single accomplishment Georgia had made in her life—growing
past 5’5”, having gorgeous strawberry blonde hair, perfect emerald eyesight, love,
and Love (her married name). And now a baby, too! Beside her, Catherine just
looked short and plain and usual… with
brown
blurry eyes and
brown
unruly hair and nothing as spectacular as
love
.

“When will she find out what she’s having?” Catherine
asked, trying to play her proper part as someone who was interested
at all
.

“She doesn’t want to know! Of course she wants it to
be a surprise!”

“Isn’t it a surprise no matter when she finds out?”
she asked innocently.

“It’s a surprise that they even got pregnant at all
what with her being over thirty,” her aunt lashed back. “You’re almost
thirty-five, right? ... This March?” Her aunt tapped her finger against her
lips like she was truly concerned.

“Well, thirty
is
the new twenty,” Catherine
said, shrugging.

“From what I’ve heard, a woman can be the new
husband,” Aunt Judy noted.

“Excuse me?”

“I just want you to know that settling down… with
anyone… I wholly support it. A girl shouldn’t have to live alone just because
she doesn’t want to live with a man. Love blooms where it blooms.”

“I can’t believe my aunt called me a lesbian,”
Catherine
said under her breath, completely bewildered by what had just happened. She
hadn’t even had a comeback. She just took it spinelessly. Though she should
have expected as much from Aunt Judy; as the oldest in her mother’s family, she’d
always been the bitter one. And coldhearted. 

Catherine oozed down into a chair in the corner of the
family room right next to Uncle Dick. He was the perfect companion for her,
seeing as how he didn’t like anybody either. And even though he was generally
ornery half the time, the other half of the time he was asleep, like right now,
the Christmas tree lights bathing him in a glow that made him almost festive to
be around.

“So you’re an
actress
. That explains a lot.
Always were flighty as hell. Certainly not the brightest bulb in the package.”
The old man spoke eerily, right out of a sound sleep. Or maybe he was playing possum.
You could learn a lot of secrets that way. Too bad his hearing was shot.

“I said lesb—” But Catherine stopped herself before
coming out to Uncle Dick. Better an acting rumor than an alternative lifestyle
chinking away at her prospects as a newly single lady.

“What?” he cranked back.

“Nothing.”

“You thespians are a dime a dozen in New York City. You
hardly got a chance kid.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” she groused.

“A commercial for condiments is hardly called making it.”

I said con-fi-dence, you old coot…. And while
you’re at it, don’t knock condiment commercials. That guy—whatshisface on
Friends—had his first big break in a Heinz commercial and just look where he is
today—everybody remembers his name… or at least his old character name. If it’s
good enough for Joey—

“Actors.” Uncle Dick waved her off. “Your generation
needs to learn how to face facts. The American dream isn’t for dreamers,” he
asserted, continuing down his mistaken road. “Get a job. Make some real money. Pay
your bills. You think that you should
love
what you do. There’s no shame
in hating your job. I hated my job for over forty years.”

“That’s quite an accomplishment,” she said
sarcastically.

“It supported me and my Sharon—God rest her soul—and
that made it all worth it. We aren’t all destined for greatness. Some of us are
just here to be.”

Catherine looked over at the old man, feeling oddly
repulsed and heartened at the same time. “You really loved her,” she said
breathily.

“Haven’t had a well-starched shirt since she passed.
And she made a mean roast beef… although her meatloaf—” He stopped and
shuddered.

“But love is—”

“Love is eating that meatloaf!” he guffawed. “She made
it once a week for fifty years and I choked it down every time, along with the
leftovers. Shoulda got a dog just for that reason alone, although even a dog
would have better standards.”

Catherine felt a tight smile come to her lips,
thinking about her own kitchen inadequacies and wondering if someday some man
would love her not just in spite of them, but somehow for them too.

She watched the teeming swarm of people in the room,
so many conversations going on at one time. The last she remembered her parents
having a party like this she was almost a full foot shorter and she’d been in
charge of watching Connor and Josephine and all the young cousins—a paid gig…. That
was the winter that Josey died and the parties ended. Catherine shivered at the
memory, rubbing her arms to warm herself. 

The seal broke on the front door yet again, and a gust
of cold air snaked its way down the hall and directly into the family room—another
insufferable guest.

“So glad you could make it!” Elizabeth sang from the
foyer. “I didn’t think we would see you what with your new addition.”

“It’s tough to get out. We packed half the house to
bring with us.”

Catherine’s breath caught. She’d know that voice
anywhere. At any other time, hearing it would make her heart warm with relief,
especially after what she had been going through for the past hour. But here? Now?
It was completely out of place. Like a knife in the back.

She got up off the couch and walked toward the sounds
of rustling jackets and merry greetings, ready to confront the traitor in her
midst. When she reached the foyer, she found Georgia and Lacey in mid-hug.
Ah,
but of course—new BFFs.

She hadn’t seen Georgia since before Christmas because
she’d spent it in Minnesota with Fynn while Georgia was entertaining her
parents and her in-laws at her perfect suburban home in New Jersey—her first
time hosting Christmas—with her perfect newborn baby and her perfect husband.
Even her ham had come out perfectly, while Catherine had brought an inedible
broccoli casserole to the potluck at Fynn’s sister’s house and then burned the
dinner rolls when she was put in charge of browning them—although she put the
blame firmly on the electric oven, seeing as how she had a gas oven in her
apartment where she stored her measly supply of pots and pans, and she had
never burned those once.

“Catherine! Oh my God!” Georgia squealed with delight
over Lacey’s shoulder. “I can’t believe you’re here!”

Why wouldn’t I be here? This is my family.
“I
can’t believe
you’re
here,” she retorted darkly.

“No, wait,
why
are you here?” Georgia asked;
panic suddenly blooming on her face. “You’re supposed to be in Minnesota! With
Fynn! What happened?” She came rushing toward her, arms open wide in a gesture
that looked all too consoling, like she was certain something must have gone
terribly awry, but even though it had, Catherine didn’t want to explain herself
to people like Georgia who seemed to think that she was usually to blame when
her relationships ended in Shitsville—of course in this exceptional case her
friend would be right.

Catherine stiffly accepted the hug, which she took
more as an invasion of her personal space than a kind greeting, and found
herself fighting for breathing room in Georgia’s pregnancy-and-nursing-enhanced
cleavage—
she has finally outpaced me there, too
. Catherine had always
had more curves, but her friend now had them only where they counted most.
Some
girls have all the luck.

When Georgia finally pulled away, Catherine took in
the black leggings and kitten heels and the belted charcoal tunic sweater that
made her friend model chic. She was already looking fabulous again after
popping out a kidlet a mere month ago, not that she’d even looked pregnant when
she
was
pregnant, at least not from behind—no width and no waddle—while
Catherine usually looked a few months pregnant after dessert. Both she and
Lacey looked fabulous already, but that was probably because they coordinated
their diets and workouts like they were twins separated at birth who’d just
found each other and were making up for lost time.

“Is everything okay with you? With Fynn?” Georgia
asked earnestly, motherly concern in her eyes.

“Fine,” she said tightly, a string pulled taut to the
breaking point.
Of course everything isn’t fine! I look dowdy and plain and
pitiful! I didn’t just lose seven-plus pounds in one push and yet I’m the one
who looks deflated! I’m all alone! And if that weren’t enough, I was left off
the guest list of my own family’s party, while you—a satellite acquaintance—were
included!
But she refused to say any of that. Sure Georgia had coaxed her
through many of life’s pitfalls since they were first thrown together as
roommates—random dumb luck perpetrated by a computer in the housing department
at Penn State—but now was different. Georgia was in a different stage of her
life. She didn’t know what it was like to be single anymore. God and the state
backed her relationship, making it practically impossible to fall apart in a
stupid snowstorm. She wouldn’t understand what Catherine was going through. 

Georgia grasped her hand, holding it tightly, not
letting her walk away like she wanted to, now that she’d made her point with
her show of iciness. Georgia looked to her husband and flicked her head toward
Catherine subtly.
They don’t even have to speak,
she thought bitterly,
but she allowed her friend to guide her out of the foyer and through the
kitchen and up the back stairs to her childhood bedroom.

“What gives?” Georgia demanded—tough Love—leaning against
the bureau.

“You were invited to the party?” Catherine challenged,
sitting down on the bed.

“Yeah, why?” she said gruffly, sounding hurt that it
would matter.

“I wasn’t.”

“You weren’t what?”

“Invited.”

“But you were supposed to be in Nekoyah, sexing it up
with your man,” she pointed out.

“But I could have been invited anyway. Maybe I would
have changed my plans.”

“Yeah, right,” Georgia chuckled, throwing back her
head of flowing strawberry hair.

“I just can’t believe that no one even told me—”

“Zzzt.…” Georgia put a hand up to stop her. She
narrowed her eyes, framing them with tons of lusciously thick, mascaraed
eyelashes. “You look like hell, Cat. Why are you—”

“Why do you look even better now than you did before
you got pregnant?” Catherine accused, deflecting the question and jabbing at
the same time. She could just see the left half of her own reflection in the
mirror over her dresser and it wasn’t pretty. In spite of the touch of makeup
her mother had insisted she put on, the dark circle under her eye was garish,
and coral was really not her lip color. Plus she could feel her shoulders
slumped like she had a bad case of osteoporosis.

“Seriously, Cat, what are
you doing here—”

“Incoming,” Lacey called out from the door, carrying
an infant in each arm—Niki, bald as could be, and Nell with a head full of dark
hair.

“Oh, sweetie, you want your mommy?” Georgia cooed,
reaching out for Nell. She cuddled her close, forgetting anyone else in the
room. “You’re hungry already!” She said it like it was a newsworthy revelation.

“They both are,” Lacey noted. “I hope you don’t mind,
Cat. I thought it would be easier to feed them up here than among the masses
downstairs.”

Catherine cringed. Somewhere along the line her
sister-in-law had taken to using her nickname without the proper permits.

Without her consent or response, suddenly it was a regular
boob-fest in her childhood bedroom. She hadn’t seen this many naked breasts in
all of her years of gym put together. Contrary to popular belief as per every
high school movie ever, the locker room in her high school wasn’t a
free-for-all with chicks walking around half naked or all naked, and the
showers were
never
used by
anyone
. So to have two women whip out
their boobs right in front of her, even though it was completely natural and
entirely shameless, was totally awkward and unnerving.
Take that, Aunt
Judy—lesbian, my ass
.

Catherine eyed the squatters in her midst, realizing
she had become invisible as all the suckling and cooing and mothering took the
forefront. A part of her couldn’t help but think that she could be getting
suckled right about now, too, if she’d only had one last vacation day to use
for the year and flown out Thursday instead. Or if she’d just quit her job and
to hell with the consequences. But now she wouldn’t be getting suckled ever
again because of her cockamamie psychic bullshit about the weather telling them
something “vital” about the impossibilities of their relationship. Yes, she’d
really used the word
vital
.

Catherine Marie Hemmings is still a total tool.

“I need a drink,” Catherine announced suddenly,
feeling woefully inadequate. Even though she hadn’t wanted to talk to Georgia
about Fynn anyway, she still felt upstaged by Lacey and their new bond—
don’t
you have your own friends? Do you have to take mine?
Right at that moment
it hit her that she was probably destined to end up entirely alone—no Fynn, no
Georgia, no nothing.