All the Good Parts (17 page)

Sophia Carver-Wittelstein shared a meaningful glance with another of the pregnant ladies. Dr. Warner worked this side of town, but he was a he, and a former college basketball star. I’d gone to him once or twice before switching over to Dr. Bridge, and he was nice enough, but a terrible conversationalist. And he had big hands. Not Paul Pietrowski big, but large enough that they should have been a serious consideration in his career choice.

“Wonderful,” Sophia Carver-Wittelstein said, smiling tightly. “Then you can relax.”

“So can you, Sophie,” Dr. Bridge said. “That baby’s not ready to come.” Dr. Bridge took another swig of wine and caught my eye. Her eyebrow lifted at the sight of my bulging belly and carrot-covered boobs. “Did I miss all the fun already?”

“Next game!” Sophia trilled.

The caterers brought out a huge metal tub full of water and carried it outside onto a stone balcony. The cold October air whooshed in when they opened the glass doors, and I shivered. “What now?” I asked Carly.

“This one is so fun,” she said, her eyes shining wickedly. “You’ll love it.”

I was pretty certain I wasn’t going to love it at all. The men and I assembled on the balcony. Sophia stepped out as well, though someone had thought to cover her in a cashmere wrap. She dropped an armful of rubbery things into the water. “Nipple bobbing! He who can grab the most nipples in a minute wins,” she shouted triumphantly, and the men roared. “And no teeth!” she added with an exaggerated wink.

“Well, that’s no fun,” said the man next to me. His baby belly had shifted to his side, making him look like he suffered from a very large kidney tumor. Dried pureed peas stuck to his neatly trimmed beard.

I stayed back, last in line, before realizing my mistake—by the time I reached the front, ten men would have slobbered and snotted into the water, making my dip a germy, disgusting dunk into a human cesspool.

“I’m not doing this,” I said to Carly.

“You so totally are. You will bring shame on the House of Brophy if you don’t. And you’d never want to do that, would you?”

I wanted to say that I technically was not a member of the House of Brophy, but then . . . I wanted to be. To belong. What was a little inhaled dirty water compared to that? I could capture nipples with my teeth. I could do what was necessary.

“Suck and spit,” Carly murmured. “One at a time, and use your teeth if you have to. Be methodical, not frantic,” she added as we watched a guy sputter and bob. Water soaked the front of his dress shirt, his hair, and the tops of his ironically paint-splattered canvas sneakers. Sophia Carver-Wittelstein called time, and he regarded his small pile of bitten nipples with disappointment.

Carly shoved me forward. “You’re up.”

Salmon-colored nipples floated atop the murky water. Sophia Carver-Wittelstein smiled cruelly. “Go!” she screeched, and Carly roughly dunked my head.

The water was lukewarm, not bracingly cold as I’d expected, and for some reason that was worse. The rubbery edge of one nipple touched my mouth, and fighting nausea, I grabbed at it with my teeth, coming up to spit it onto the table. “Again!” Carly shouted and pushed at the back of my head, hard. The momentum sent my forehead into the bottom of the tin basin, and I jolted forward, catching myself with my hands, but it was too late. The basin tipped, water sluicing down my front, drenching me from head to toe.

“Disqualified!” Sophia Carver-Wittelstein trilled.

Someone handed me a towel. “I’m done,” I muttered to Carly as I followed her back inside.

“Oh, no, you don’t. One more,” she said. “You’ve done great so far. This next game should be easy for you, especially if motherhood is in your future.”

I wondered if I could handle one more. Everything was sticking to me, my sweater, my hair; even the water had somehow gotten under the fake baby bump and made my skin itch. My eyes felt swollen and tired, and the muscles in the back of my neck bunched up like an accordion, but when I glanced up, Dr. Bridge was giving me the thumbs-up. “You can do it,” she mouthed.

We lined up again, wounded warriors, covered in filth, disfigured by battle. The table had been cleared of baby food, and in its place lay two baby dolls, each one balancing atop a pile of diapers. The game was a simple relay race, Sophia Carver-Wittelstein explained. We were to divide up into teams, then dash for the table when she blew her whistle, change the baby, rush back to our line, and hand it off so the next person could repeat the process.

One problem—no one wanted me on his team. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Carly said, and she nudged me toward the front of one line. “She’ll go first,” she told the pea puree–encrusted hipster dude, and he backed up to make room for me.

I’d just gotten into place when the whistle blew. I half stumbled to the table, catching the baby just before it tumbled to the floor, and ripped its diaper off. I grabbed a diaper from atop the pile.
Piece of cake,
I thought.
I’ve done this a thousand times.
Maybe I couldn’t balance baby food on my fake pregnant stomach or catch floating nipples with my teeth, but by God I could change a diaper under pressure. Plus, there was no A+D to remember, and this baby wouldn’t be squirming and screaming bloody murder. I could do this.

I tugged the diaper around the baby doll’s tush and peeled the adhesive strips from the flaps, pressing them onto the plastic. When I lifted the doll, the diaper fell right off. The plastic strips had failed to adhere. Growling, I snatched another diaper from the pile. Same problem. I tried another, pressing the strips with my fingers until they ached.

“Come on!” my teammates cried. “We’re losing!”

“Who doesn’t know how to change a freaking diaper?” someone called.

“Single,” said another. “No kids.”

I grabbed another diaper, this time running my hand over the strips. They felt slick. “Something’s wrong,” I croaked, indignation clogging my throat.

“Yeah,” said a male voice. “We lost.”

The other team cheered. I felt a hand on my shoulder and got turned around so dizzyingly quick that it took me a moment to realize I was looking at my sister, her face waxen and bloodless. When she spoke, her voice was low, but it cut into my daze. “Karma sure is a bitch, isn’t she?”

“What?” I said, my whole body shivering. “What are you talking about?”

“Kara Svenson says hello,
Mrs. Brophy
.”

I thought I might throw up right where I stood, all over Sophia Carver-Wittelstein’s pristine stone fireplace, but expensive wine apparently liked to stay put. “I’m sorry,” I managed.

“Are you? So is Kara Svenson, immigration-lawyer extraordinaire, who was
so
happy to meet me last week and
so
sorry she didn’t have better news and is
so
looking forward to meeting me at the fucking deportation hearing!”

Heads swiveled in our direction. “Let me explain,” I pleaded, lowering my voice to a whisper. “He asked me not to tell you until things were certain.”

“And you
listened
?” she hissed. “How could you? How could you even carry on a normal conversation with me, knowing something like that?”

“I’m sorry,” I said again, hoping if I kept repeating the words they might start to mean something. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“I think you need to leave,” Carly said. “I can’t look at you. If I do, I’ll have to deal with all this and I don’t want to right now. I want to drink a few glasses of wine and eat a gourmet lunch and feel like my life is not falling apart.”

“But—”

“No. Stop talking.” She ran a trembling hand over her pale face. “Go. I’ll make an excuse to Sophia,” she said, and left me standing, wet as a used dishrag, in front of the gaping hole of a fireplace. I closed my eyes, wishing it would swallow me whole.

“Do you want to get out of here?” A voice. Female.

“Yes,” I said, not caring who it was. I opened my eyes. Dr. Bridge stared back at me, holding my purse in her outstretched hand.

“Then let’s blow this place.”

CHAPTER 20

“There’s one problem,” Dr. Bridge said as we dashed down the slate staircase leading to the driveway. “Tim dropped me off because I planned on drinking their very expensive wine. I haven’t got a car.”

“Can you ride on the back of my bike?”

“Haven’t done that since the seventh grade,” she said, but she looked excited, not wary. “I know a place that makes great margaritas. It’s not too far, and they use real lime juice. Worth the ride.”

“Shout the directions loud enough so I can hear them.”

We rode for a while, Dr. Bridge laughing and holding on to my shoulders for dear life, crossing from Willow Ridge into neighboring Ranger Park, a more urban-type suburb despite its name.

Casa Mamacita was a traditional-style Mexican restaurant occupying the corner of a busy intersection. We locked up my bike and went straight for the bar.
“Dos margaritas, por favor,”
Dr. Bridge said. The bartender shot me an uneasy glance. Or rather, my stomach. I’d forgotten to remove the fake baby belly.

I was tempted to leave it on to freak him out, but instead, I asked for directions to the bathroom. I flicked the light on and nearly screamed at the horrific woman looking at me in the mirror. My hair had blown wild on the ride over, sticking straight off my head. My teal sweater had dried oddly, bunching up in places and marred by patches of crusted baby food in others. My eye makeup had turned from elegant to raccoon.

I looked disturbed. I felt disturbed.

My phone showed zero messages. I typed one to Carly:
I really am sorry. Can we talk for just a minute?

I’d just finished peeing when a response came through:
I need to think about you before I talk to you. And right now, I think I never want to talk to you again. Stay away.

Baby belly folded over my arm, I sidled up to the bar. The bartender’s eyes rounded. “Not pregnant!” I shouted. “Bring on the margaritas.” I looped the fake belly onto the stool next to me and plopped down next to Dr. Bridge. Strangely, I missed the extra weight in front, the pressure against my skin. I felt colder and shivered. My drink appeared, and I took a swig.

“I usually like those parties,” Dr. Bridge said after gulping down half her margarita. “But that was a little intense. Carly offered you up like a lamb to slaughter. What’s going on between you two?”

I told her about Donal and his possible deportation, and the secret I’d been asked to keep. Telling it to someone else brought a fresh wave of shame. “I betrayed her.”

“More Donal’s fault than yours,” Dr. Bridge insisted, signaling to the bartender for another round. “You were in a tough spot.”

“Try explaining that to Carly. I broke the sister code.”

“Sounds like you were just trying to do the right thing.”

“I can’t seem to do anything right lately,” I said, polishing off my drink to stay in line with Dr. Bridge’s pace. I wanted to get tipsy before I turned morose. “I’m starting to think maybe there’s something wrong with my instincts.”

“Why do you say that?”

I shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe it’s because it seems like there are all these little changes going on in my life, and I don’t know if I’m the one who caused them, or if I’m just reacting to things. I also don’t know if that matters or not. It should matter, right?”

The bartender arrived with not only our margaritas but also tequila sidecars, salsa, and a basket of chips.

Dr. Bridge grinned at him. “You’re married, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he said. “I have a wife. Four grown daughters, too.” He held up his ringless fingers. “How did you know?”

“You can guess when women need more alcohol and food.”

He laughed. “It’s written all over your faces. How about some guacamole?”

“How about yes?”

As soon as he left, Dr. Bridge leaned closer to me. “You’ve got the wrong idea about change. It’s not prompted by something happening to you. Change comes when you discover qualities you didn’t know you had.”

I drained the shot glass. “Unfortunately, I think I’m well acquainted with most of my qualities already.”

“How would you know?” she asked, scooping up some salsa. “One of the best things about life is that we continuously surprise ourselves.”

I shrugged. “Maybe you do.”

“Okay,” she said, switching topics, “besides family drama, what’s going on with you?”

The tequila coursing through my bloodstream made me chatty. “Even with all this mayhem, I’m still thinking about having a baby.”

“Really? That’s great.”

“I don’t know if it is. Money is still an issue, but hopefully I’ll work around that. Right now I’m working on some baby-daddy candidates.”

“You’re dating? That’s wonderful!”

“Not exactly dating.” I explained the shrinking pool of men in my life, telling her about Jerry’s offer, Paul’s rejection, Darryl’s addictive messages, and Garrett’s eager charm, purposefully leaving out his living situation.

“Jerry sounds sweet,” she said when I finished, “but this Garrett person, he’s the most practical choice if you don’t want a coparent.”

“It’s not that I don’t want one . . .” I wasn’t sure how to explain. I
did
want a partner. The prospect of parenting alone sometimes felt like I was deciding to fly a plane with one engine across the Atlantic. “I feel badly about searching someone out just for that purpose,” I admitted, “and then I’ll feel badly about thinking I can do it on my own. Then, I’ll spend considerable time feeling awful about putting a baby in a position of disadvantage from the start, and then I’ll get riled up that society has conditioned me to think that way. I’m kind of a mess.”

“Listen, I’m a doctor,” Dr. Bridge responded, her knowing, liquory smile telling me she understood what I struggled to articulate. “When it comes down to it, I see things in a purely scientific way. Making a child requires only one thing. Sperm needs to meet egg. Nothing else matters. Desire, love, guilt, shame—none of these things need to be present when conception happens. If Garrett is willing to give you his sperm and you’re willing to accept it, then it’s just a matter of biology. Meet your goal, and you can deal with all that other shit later.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

I wanted to tell her she was wrong, that it was so much more than that, but then maybe she was right. She had three children of her own. She’d guided hundreds of women through pregnancies and beyond. I wasn’t the first person to spill my soul in her office. She listened to people and really heard them, and that gave her a certain kind of wisdom.

Dr. Bridge cleaned the salsa bowl with her index finger, licking the last of it. She raised two fingers at the bartender and mouthed, “More.” The gesture made me think of Carly, and I checked my phone. Nothing.
Talk yet?
I tried again, and jolted in surprise when I got an almost instant response.

Donal tonight. You tomorrow. Traitor.

I stared at the phone cupped in my hand, wondering if it offered an emoticon for
I’m a total ass, please forgive me.

Dr. Bridge took the phone from my hand and shut it off. “Everything will work out for the best.”

“How can you know that? How can anyone?”

Dr. Bridge shrugged. “You love each other. The odds are in your favor.”

I knew my sister loved me, but would she trust me again? Just the thought clouded my vision.

“No crying. Let’s talk about something else,” Dr. Bridge insisted, nudging me to join her as she gulped half her drink. “So, have you asked Garrett yet?”

“No, I’m trying to help him find a job first.”

“What does one have to do with the other if you don’t want a relationship?”

“I don’t know. It makes no sense, but that’s kind of how I’m operating.”

“Look. Look. I know I’m a scientist.”
Shhheyeintist.
“And I meant what I said, but I still believe that there are valuable things in life that don’t make any sense at all.” She lifted her tequila shot and motioned toward mine. “To science and nonsense,” she said.

I touched her glass with mine. “Especially nonsense.” The tequila warmed my blood, giving me a sense of surer footing, of security. False as it was, I welcomed it.

“Let’s have one more,” Dr. Bridge said, this time waving her arm at the bartender. “And then let’s go talk to this Garrett. It’s early still, and fuggit—I am
not on call
.”

It felt like midnight when we pushed unsteadily through the doors of Casa Mamacita, but the sun, still orange and bright, had only dipped, beginning its slow dive toward the horizon.

“Daytime drinking is the best,” Dr. Bridge said as she awkwardly straddled my bike. “But we’re going to need something more than salsa and chips if we want to keep this going. Want to take Garrett out to dinner?”

“Maybe . . . look, I’m not sure I want to ask him just yet. I mean, I’d like to, but the timing needs to be right, okay? Follow my lead.”

“Of course.” Dr. Bridge made a motion with her hand, and we set off. The Episcopal church was only a few miles, thankfully, as Dr. Bridge and I rode slowly, wavering a bit as I balanced her weight, hoping I wouldn’t get busted for a BUI.

I ignored the voice screaming,
What the fuck are you thinking?
loudly in my head, the one telling me to go home and sleep it off. Instead, I paid attention to the voice I’d assigned to Darryl, a deep, sexy baritone, ordering me not to be such a chickenshit.

I spotted the white spire poking through the rooftops of the impressive residences on this side of town.

“I don’t live far from here,” Dr. Bridge said. “Garrett lives in this neighborhood?” A simple question, but she couldn’t temper the admiration in her voice.

“He’s this way.” I led her to the shelter behind the church. Mr. Williams had his back to us, stooped, raking leaves. “We need to go around the block and come up on the other side,” I whispered. There was a fire escape. Perfect for climbing.

“Gotta ask you,” Dr. Bridge said as we rounded the corner. She was puffing heavily from the ride, though her only responsibility was to hold on. “This is where Tim drops off his old clothes. Is Garrett homeless?”

“Yep.”

“Interesting,” Dr. Bridge said, without judgment, as if it really was a fact neither here nor there, simply something to add to the overall picture. I loved her for it.

“I’m going to sneak up and knock on his window,” I said, turning toward her. “It’s right behind his bed. If he’s there, he’ll see me, and I’ll motion for him to come down.”

“You know where his bed is already? You’ve been in his room?” She smiled, a sloppy, lopsided grin. “That’s promising.”

We squinted up at the fire escape. It was more of a ladder, and a precarious one at that, but if it could hold a big firefighter, it could support me, right? I climbed a couple of rungs and paused, testing my weight.

“Up you go, Juliet.” Dr. Bridge gave my butt a shove.

I went quickly, hoping momentum would be on my side. Garrett lay on his bed, dark hair pressed against the window. I rapped on it, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

He unlocked the window and tugged it open. “Miss Leona? What are you doing?” There was wonder in his voice, but not much surprise. I supposed after living the way he’d been, reacting to surprises was not a good idea.

I smiled at him, completely at a loss.

“Are you all right?” he pressed. “You look different.”

“I had a challenging day,” I finally said. “And I came by to say hello.”

“Hi, Garrett!” Dr. Bridge shouted from below. I’d completely forgotten about her.

Garrett peered over my head, his face going slack with nerves. “Who’s that?”

“My gynecologist.”

“Oh.”

“You are adorable!” Dr. Bridge added. “You look exactly like Zac Efron, but taller! And . . . broader!”

“The doc and I are hanging out today,” I explained, feeling my face heat. “We’ve been drinking. A little bit. We were at a baby shower.”

Garrett turned back toward his room for a moment, then leaned toward me, blue eyes sparkling. “Well, I’m glad you were celebrating, Miss Leona, because I’m going to give you a reason to do more. I scored an interview with Rizer Technologies, Wednesday after next.” He paused, his expression growing dark. “Unless you think I’m not ready. Maybe I should tell them no.”