Bumped (19 page)

A LARGE SIGN AT THE ENTRANCE TO IVY OBSTETRICS AND
Birthing Center reads:

NO INFANTS ON PREMISES
All deliveries are brought to separate processing
facilities immediately following postpartum approval
screenings by the Newborn Quality Testing Service

I reluctantly approach the security kiosk.

“I’m here for Shoko Weiss.”

The guard slouches over her screen and starts fingerswiping. Like many obsolescents, she’s obliterated any signs of her ancestry with a total body overhaul. This is fresh work. Everything from the slant of her green eyes and the delicate slope of her nose to her toasty brown skin and white-blond Afro is all right on trend for the season. She could be from all continents, or none at all. She could be from another galaxy.

“Name?” she asks, without looking at me.

“Melody Mayflower.”

Her head jolts up.

“Melody Mayflower?”
Her squinty eyes are bulging beyond capacity. “Omigod.”

Uh-oh. I was afraid of this. That they would remember me from last time. That I was the one with the girl who went all Postpartum Psychotic on them. They don’t want to take any chances this time around.

The guard is fumbling with the pen. “Um, could you sign this?”

I do.

With a shaking hand, she taps to clear the screen.

“Can you? I mean, do you think you could? Would it be possible for you to . . . ?” She holds out the pen once more.

I don’t remember having to sign in more than once last time, but I’m not going to argue unnecessarily.

She taps a few more times.

“And just one more time?” she asks. “Only this time, write something like, ‘To Poe: Be breedy! Love, Melody Mayflower.’”

I drop the pen. “WHAT?”

“It’s for my little sister,” she explains. “She’s, like, your biggest fan.”

I have
fans
?

I sign the autograph anyway because it seems easier than
not
signing the autograph and having this girl put out on the MiNet that I’m a for seriously starcissistic bitch who won’t sign autographs.

I race right up to the front doors, not even bothering to lock my bike before ditching it in the bushes and rushing through to the second security checkpoint. When I get there, I’m greeted by a second guard who must have gone to the same surgeon because she looks almost identical to the first.

She too has a pen in hand.

Before I can ask to whom I should sign the autograph, my hand is seized by one of the wrinkliest ladies I’ve seen in a long time. For serious, she’s old enough to have biological children
and
grandchildren. I know she works here because she’s wearing the scrubs worn by all staff members: pink and blue stripes entwined with embroidered ivy leaves.

“I’m Madison Lutz-Lewis! Branch manager!”

She’s got a shockingly firm grip.

“I’m Melody May—”

“I know who you are!
Everyone
knows who you are!” I try to shake her off, but she will not let go of my hand. “We’re beyond excited to host a celebrity! We’re aware that you could choose to deliver anywhere in the world, but we do hope that when it’s your time to deliver your precious pregg, you will at least consider Ivy Obstetrics and Birthing Center.”

I pry her mottled claw from my flesh. “I’m not here for a tour. I’m here to help my friend.”

“Yes!” she yips. “Miss Weiss!”

Ms. Lutz-Lewis has only one mode: POSITIVE! But it’s a relief to talk to someone who seems like she might know something worth knowing.

“You can’t see her!”

“I can’t? Why not?” I’m about to go diva on her ass. If I’m such a celebrity, I might as well start abusing all the privileges that come with it.

“Miss Weiss is in the OR.”

“The OR? So she’s having a cesarean?”

Part of me actually smiles at this, thinking it’s
so
Shoko to get exactly what she wanted with this second pregg. She swore after the first one turned her breedy bits into a U.S. Buff-A burger (her words) that she was going to let them go in through the belly the second time around.

“No more pushing,” she had insisted. “This time they can pull the sucker out.”

“I can’t comment on births in progress.” Ms. Lutz-Lewis is still smiling, but the tiniest deflation in tone tells me that Shoko is not having a routine C-section.

“Please,” I whisper. “She’s my best friend.”

Ms. Lutz-Lewis puts her hand on my back and gives a gentle push.

“Take a seat in our waiting area and one of our highly trained medical professionals will come talk to you shortly. In the meantime we will do everything we can to accommodate your every need! We have fresh linens for guests pulling all-nighters.”

It’s way past midnight and I’m too exhausted to argue anyway. I trudge to the waiting room, which is also decorated in the infantile pastels and twining ivy motif. The room is empty except for a brittle blond piece of plastic I instantly recognize as Destinee, Shoko’s RePro Rep. She’s a ruthless cradlegrabber who used to work in corporate real estate before shifting her focus to human property. I know her well because she has repeatedly tried to woo me away from Lib.

“I recall that your last experience at our center was not optimal. . . .” Ms. Lutz-Lewis is in full pitch mode. “And I hope that we can prove to you that we may not be the fanciest, but we do run a top-notch facility.”

I ditch Ms. Lutz-Lewis to interrupt Destinee’s MiChat. “Destinee!” I cry out. “What’s happening to Shoko?”

Destinee pretends she’s thrilled to see me and apologizes to whomever she’s speaking to.

“The delivery is one hundred percent perfect,” Destinee says to me in a voice as tight as her face.

“That’s not what I asked!” I say. “How is Shoko?”

Every time I say Shoko’s name, Destinee twitches inside her shimmery suit. This only makes me want to push more.

“WHERE IS SHOKO? I NEED TO SEE SHOKO.”

“Let’s finish this conversation in facespace tomorrow when you pick up your delivery,” she MiChats. “Congratulations, again!”

Then she blinks off, rips out her earbud, and collapses into a chair right next to latest ad from the Save America Society. It presents real girls and their awesome thoughts on pregging. Every five seconds, a new girl. A new reason to pregg.

PREGGING IS
. . . PRETTY!

“I was MiChatting with Shoko’s
investors
, the Ruiz-Lees,” she says. “And they’re already worried about their delivery and don’t need you getting all shouty in the background.”

PREGGING IS
. . . PROUD!

“
What
happened? What’s going on?”

Destinee takes a pack of smokeless cigs out of her bag, removes one from the box, and takes a long, hard pull before answering.

PREGGING IS
. . . POWERFUL!

“The delivery is one hundred percent perfect,” she repeats. And before I can remind her that she’s said this already, she adds, “But it will be the last one Shoko ever makes.”

WE STAND IN FRONT OF A CLOSED DOOR ON THE SECOND
floor. I don’t wait for him to invite me in before opening it myself.

I’m initiating.

And I like it.

“This is my room,” Jondoe says. “Or
was
.”

The room comes as bit of a surprise.

“My parents have kept it just as I left it,” he explains. “They don’t seem to realize that I’m not fourteen years old anymore. I’m not the same person I was when I left.”

This room certainly does not look like it was ever inhabited by a world-famous sophisticate. It’s more like a child’s playroom, with half the space taken up by a messy assemblage of knee pads, shin guards, and helmets, surfboards, snowboards, and other sporting equipment I don’t recognize.

“Go ahead,” he says softly. “Take a look around.”

One wall collage is covered in images of a younger Jondoe flipping in midair and otherwise defying gravity with or without one of his boards.

A second wall collage brings him closer to earth. He’s licking a vanilla ice-cream cone, holding a trophy over his head, getting hugged by his parents.

It’s the third wall that really gets my attention. There’s a line drawing of Christ riding on a skateboard. Underneath the words:

SERVE THE LORD ON THE BOARD
X-TREME YOUTH MINISTRIES

“That was my passion,” Jondoe says, his voice right in my ear. “Before I found my true calling.”

He places his hand on the small of my back. I know I should inch away but it feels like his hand should have been there all along.

“Don’t you think it’s disrespectful to show our Savior in that way?”

“Jesus was as extreme as it gets!” exclaims Jondoe. “I mean, think of all the cool shit He does in the New Testament. He rocks all those miracles and then He goes out of His way to be a friend to all, the freaks and whores, everyone. He’s got major rebel cred, right? That’s how I see myself.”

His hand moves in a slow circular motion.

“But Jesus never tried to deny who He was,” I reply. “How are you serving Him through your work if no one knows the truth about you?”

A warmth spreads across my lower back, around, and down.

“My partners see the Truth with a capital
T
,” Jondoe says. “Maybe not before or after, but definitely
during
.”

I’m afraid to ask what he means by this.

“I make them see God. Or rather, God, working through me, helps them see God. He gets all the credit. Only our Creator has the power to stir such feelings of ecstasy. Each and every one of my preggs has been touched by His divine hand.”

His hand . . .

His hand is under my shirt!

“The more I give to God, the more blessings I’ll receive in return,” he whispers into my ear. “I’ll never be able to outgive Him, but I’m having fun trying.”

His hand is not one or two—it feels like thousands of hands roaming all over my body, even in the hidden places he hasn’t dared to touch. He is leaning into me and I feel as if I’m hyptonized. I should move away, I should . . .

“Oh!”

He’s pressing his mouth against mine.

I’m receiving him and he’s receiving me.

I’m losing myself and finding myself.

Through the sublime transcendence of this kiss.

POSTPARTUM HEMORRHAGING IS SOMETHING WE LEARN ABOUT
in birthing class. Not even a whole class. Half a class—fifteen minutes—devoted to “Bad Things That Could Happen But Totally Won’t So Don’t Worry About It.” We’re told that teenage girls just like us have been the most prolific breeders throughout human history and advances in modern medicine have eliminated nearly all the risks. “Placenta accreta,” “preeclampsia,” “uterine atony,” “hypovolemic shock,” “diminished myometrial contractability” are nothing more than multiple-choice responses on a exam. “Postpartum psychosis” is also something that we learned about. It too had (A), (B), (C), (D) answers to choose from, but never happens in real life. Or if it does, not to anyone we actually know.

So we are told.

Shoko nearly bled to death when her uterus failed to contract after it afterbirthed. And she might have too, if the on-site surgeon hadn’t rushed her into the OR and removed her uterus with a million-dollar laser.

I cannot believe this is happening. First Malia. Now Shoko. Who’s next?

“She’s recovering fine now,” Destinee insists in between drags. “But this is definitely a deal breaker for pregg number three.”

I want to strangle this horrible woman with her hair extensions but she’s my only source of information.

“Where are Shoko’s parents?” I ask. “Raimundo?”

A lung-rattling sigh. “They annoyed her too much last time, so she didn’t put them on the guest list for delivery this time. They’ll probably stop by tomorrow.”

“So we’re the only ones here for Shoko?” I’m afraid to hear the truth.

“You are,” she says pointedly. “Because I’m beyond tired and need to get some sleep before I face the Ruiz-Lees tomorrow and have to explain why a hysterectomy is not a violation of their option agreement.”

She click-clacks toward the exit but stops before going through it.

“And by the way,” she says with acid condescension. “If
I
were your Rep,
I
would’ve sealed the deal with Jondoe two years ago.”

I’m beyond terminated at this point. Even if I had the energy to make the ride home, I wouldn’t.

I take a pillow and blanket left behind by Ms. Lutz-Lewis and curl into the couch, committed to staying the night. Someone needs to be here for Shoko when she wakes up. As her birthcoach, that’s the very least I can do. But this time, I won’t just be there, I’ll be there for
her
.

More than I was for Malia.