When in Doubt, Add Butter (21 page)

Wouldn’t it?

Chapter 15

It wasn’t any of Vlad’s words that ended up haunting me that night, but my own.

I’m not expecting.

Forget the context, whatever he meant, whatever
I
meant at the time, the upshot is that I heard my own words and realized with all the chaos and craziness that had been going on around me lately, there might have been something wrong that I hadn’t been paying attention to.

Sensitivity to smells, like chicken or onion.

Unexpected queasiness, like when I was making the eggplant for the Olekseis.

Hair-trigger moods, like freaking out because Mr. Tuesday might not have found me attractive when I was at his apartment, looking like total shit,
being his employee.

The constant appetite for hot sauce, especially with sharp cheddar cheese.

None of this stuff was normal. At least not for me. How on earth had I not stopped and wondered, if not what these strange changes in my mind and body meant, at
least
where the hell my period was.

I was wondering now. As I scrolled through iCal on my computer, dread grew in my heart with every week that had passed without me notating five days with red
X
’s. Back, back, back … There it was.

Seven and a half weeks ago, I’d had my last period.

Five and a half weeks ago, I’d had my one-night stand.

Look, you’re probably already thinking I’m no genius for taking even that long to put two and two together, and I see why, but I was not the kind of girl who got pregnant. (Well, not anymore.) It never even occurred to me as being a possibility. I had always been so
incredibly
vigilant about being protected (or doing nothing at all), that the idea that there might ever be a mishap or problem was absolutely out of the question.

Unacceptable.

Silly, I know. It was obviously a possibility. Until you no longer have the equipment, it’s a possibility. And even then, you still hear the stories of “miracle births” sometimes.

It’s just that it didn’t feel that way to me. To me it had never, ever in my adult life seemed like a possibility because I straight-up, flat-out did not want it.

I’m going to be honest about this now: I was never the little girl who played with baby dolls. One of my earliest memories is of Penny trying to steal a Baby Tender Love from the Toys R Us on Rockville Pike. She was caught immediately, of course—an eight-year-old with a box shoved up under her Snoopy T-shirt is hardly subtle, but still, anyone who wants a baby so badly that she’s willing to have
DOLL THIEF
stamped on her record forever is clearly meant to have babies.

I, on the other hand, played dolls with her only halfheartedly. If asked by a grown-up what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would say I wanted to be
like my mother
. Talk about a self-fulfilling prophecy! I got my chance to be like my mother, a struggling single mom with no good man in sight.

As time went on and boyfriends disappointed me, I began to call the hope chest my mom had given me for my twelfth birthday a “hope not” chest. The wife-beater-wearing, beer-swilling jerk Mrs. Rooks had put into my head never fully left my mind.

But the whole kid thing … The images of myself watching
The Bishop’s Wife
with a glass of wine and half-eating the (delicious) cookies my son or daughter had left out for Santa were all new for me. The desire to have a little person sleeping soundly upstairs, and someone to uncork the wine while I picked out the movie—I’d never thought of them as being nice before. But lately …

First I called Lynn.

“Those condoms.”

She didn’t ask what I meant. “Huh?”

“From your drawer. How old were they?”

“Honest to God, I don’t know. Like I said, I’d forgotten they were even there. I think I must have gotten them when I lived on Calvert Street like seven years ago. Maybe more. Why? What’s the problem?”

“Nothing. I hope.” My throat tightened. “I really, really hope.”

There was a long silence.

Then: “You’re thinking they failed.”

“At least one of them. Maybe.”

“Oh God, Gem, you have to get a test.”

“I don’t want to get a test!”

“Because you don’t want the answer?”

“That’s exactly why.” My stomach hurt. There was a lump in my throat. I’d been here before. I didn’t want to go back.

“Gemma.” Her voice was firm. “Get the test. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about and you’ll feel better. Then call me back and tell me what happened so
I
can feel better, okay?”

I told her I would, but the words rang hollow to me. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to.

But I knew I had to.

But first I called Penny.

“How did you know you were pregnant?”

She didn’t miss a beat. “My stomach got really huge, and started moving around by itself, and then a baby came out.”

“Funny.”

“What do you mean, how did I know I was pregnant? You were there when I took the test!”

“I know, I know, but what made you think you should take the test? What were the symptoms?”

“Whoa, wait a minute. I don’t think I like where this is going. Why are you asking?”

“No reason.”

All right, yes, I know exactly how stupid this conversation is. Though many have tried, no one in the history of the world has ever been able to talk themselves out of being pregnant. The human body is a miracle and so on, but not so much of a miracle that you can simply
will
yourself into or out of a pregnancy.

But denial is a powerful thing, and that’s exactly the pool I was swimming in.

Penny was having none of it. “Holy cow, Gemma, you are
not
pregnant from that one-night stand, are you?”

“Well, I
hope
not!”

“How long ago was it?”

“Five weeks, give or take.”

I heard her sigh. “No period, I guess.”

Irritation niggled at me. “Yes, Penny, I have my period right now—isn’t that a major sign of pregnancy?”

“I had to ask!”

“No, you didn’t! It’s not helpful!” Wasn’t impatience another sign of pregnancy? My heart began to pound. This was starting to feel real. What was I going to do? What if I was pregnant? What would I do?

No, no, no, no, this wasn’t possible.

Not again!

“Okay, so five weeks isn’t
that
long,” Penny said. “That makes your period, what, three weeks late?”

“About.”

She sighed again. I wanted to tell her to stop, but that would, literally, be telling someone how to breathe. “This could be perimenopause.”

“That’s what I thought!” Though I hated to admit it out loud.

“Or even menopause, really.”

“Slow down, Cloris Leachman, you’re older than I am, this is
not
menopause.”

“Okay, then, it’s pregnancy!”

“I’ll take menopause!”

We were silent for a moment.

“Seriously, do you have symptoms or did you just look at the calendar and realize things were off?”

I closed my eyes, knowing just how this was going to sound. “I’m suddenly really sensitive to smells—”

“Oh my God.”

“I know. I
remember.
”

“Remember that time Dell was cooking bacon, and I had to leave the house because it smelled like he was frying up the old man next door?”

My gag reflex tightened. “Stop.”

“Okay, sorry. Go on.”

“I’m a little oversensitive.”

“All right, all right, I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll be more respectful. Just go on.”

“I am. I mean that lately I’ve been a little oversensitive emotionally. I feel like crying easily.”

She sucked air in through her teeth. “Okay—?”

“And I nearly puked the other day when I was making eggplant for the Olekseis. I mean, seriously, it just suddenly seemed completely revolting to me.”

“Get over here.”

“What?”

“Get over here
now.
You’re taking a pregnancy test.”

*   *   *

An hour later, we stood side by side in her bathroom, the mirror reflecting our shocked expressions as we looked down at the extravaganza on the counter.

“Do you think there’s any chance that they made a bad batch and the indicators are in wrong so two lines means
negative
instead of positive?” I said in a voice that sounded questioning but really wasn’t. Obviously, I knew.

“And all five of these tests are from the same bad batch from different brands?” Penny shook her head. “Seems unlikely.”

The sticks were lined up on the counter like some ironic little picket fence. If just one of them—just
one
—had had a different answer, I would have felt at least a little hope.

But no, they were all the same.

“You’re gonna have to find the guy, you know,” Penny said.

“First I’m going to have to decide what I’m going to do.”

“Okay … yes, you’re right.” She put her hand on my arm. “You have time for that. You know that. There’s no point in pretending you haven’t been to this crossroads before.”

“Right.” I took a shaking breath.

“It’s okay, Gem. It will be okay. No matter what.”

“I’m not sure that’s true.”

She hesitated. A hesitation that spoke volumes before she said unconvincingly, “It’s true.”

“I know what I’m going to do.”

“What?”

“I can’t have an abortion.” I’d thought about it. God help me, I had thought about it. Faced with an unexpected crisis, it’s hard not to think of
all
the options, but that was one I just couldn’t face. I was all too aware—whether right or wrong—that this was my last chance, and having an abortion would be a firm cap on any ideas I might ever have about having children, even if I had only a few years left to entertain the idea. “And I can’t give this baby up,” I went on. “I know I’m going to have the baby. No matter what I say, or whether I go through the motions of making a decision here, the bottom line is I already know I’m keeping the baby.”

“Okay, then.”

I turned to her. Her swollen belly hovered between us like a big sign from God. I knew how hard she and Dell had tried for Charlotte and how much harder they’d tried for this baby. The options I felt I had were not options she ever would have felt herself.

And they were choices I never would have dreamed I’d have to make again.

Most of the time, I pride myself on being a strong and decisive person—at least about big things. I know what I want and I know how to get there. If a roadblock pops up in the way, I’m usually pretty easy and flexible about finding a way around it.

Usually.

But this time, I was out of my depth.

This time I didn’t know what to do.

So I did the only thing I could at that moment: I cried.

Chapter 16

“It’s all about odds,” Willa said. “Even when something bad happens to you against the odds, in a way, that’s a form of luck.”

She wasn’t talking about my pregnancy, though she could have been. No, she was explaining her livelihood to me—and it was clear she was really passionately interested in it, Lex’s disdain aside. The odds, the numbers, the chance, the adrenaline—all of that made her come alive.

It was hard to find fault with that.

“Luck, huh?” I laughed. “There are a lot of people walking away from casinos in Atlantic City, Vegas, et cetera right now—minus their mortgage payment—who would disagree.”

I was making a carrot ginger soup, which, to my surprise, she declared smelled delicious, even though the ginger smelled so perfumy to me, I almost gagged.

“Well, that’s just bad sense.” She shrugged. “People come up with all kinds of
systems
for gambling, like the triple martingale at the roulette table, where you dominate two-thirds of the table and double your bets until you, theoretically, win, but the fact is, each roll of the dice is a Bernoulli trial.”

I waited for her to elaborate, but she didn’t, so I said, “It’s like you’re speaking a foreign language to me.”

“I mean each roll of the dice is random. You have an equal chance of any outcome each time. If you’re betting red or black, you have a fifty–fifty chance of either. You can’t predict anything that way. That’s why it’s better to stick to games that have more obvious chances of success.”

“Like—?”

“Poker. That’s where I make most of my money. The number of cards is finite and the values are clear.”

I got that.

Until she added, “It’s like dealing with people.”

“People,” I said, stirring the pot but turning my nose away from the gingery smell, “are never clear.”

“Not true. Everyone has their tells. You just have to figure them out.”

“Hm.”

I guess that was mine, because she narrowed her eyes and asked, “Who are you trying to figure out?”

I paused and turned to her. “I’m not sure. Someone seems to be sabotaging my work at the country club, and I don’t know who or why.” I wondered at the wisdom of admitting that anyone might be saying bad stuff about my cooking, but it was too late, I’d already said it. “Actually, yes, I do. I think it’s Angela Van Houghten, a woman I work for.”

It was quickly clear that she was undaunted by it. “Why? What’s her story?”

“Her husband made a pass at me.” I sighed.

As soon as I’d spilled it, I regretted it. Willa had warmed up a tiny bit to me, but it wasn’t like we were
pals
. This was just the kind of information that would prove to her I was more trouble to have around than I was worth. I was untrustworthy, whether with your husband, your cutlery, or your computer.

So it surprised me when Willa simply shrugged and said, “So you need to stop her.”

I met her eyes. Emotion wasn’t getting me anywhere. “
How?
She probably wouldn’t even admit it, much less stop it. This is
exactly
the kind of humiliation she would hate.
Hate.
”

“Well, no one likes public humiliation.”

“True. But no one likes it less than someone like Angela. I’m screwed.”