When You Least Expect It (29 page)

“Some of her poems were really over the top,” I said defensively. “I don’t want the C-word in big, twenty-four-point font next to my photographs.”

Lainey laughed—everything Georgia did seemed to delight her—and Jeremy snaked a hand around my waist and gave me a squeeze.

“Everything looks great,” he murmured in my ear. “And you look fantastic.”

“You think?” I smoothed down the sapphire blue slip dress Mimi had practically forced on me. I rarely dressed up, but Mimi had insisted that this was not the night to show up in jeans.

“I definitely think,” Jeremy said. He gave me one last squeeze and then turned to set up the bar.

When I turned back around, I noticed that Lainey had gone still and quiet, one hand resting on her swollen abdomen and her face inscrutable.

“Maybe you should go sit down,” I said. “You look pale.”

Lainey glanced up and smiled briefly. “I’m fine. The baby’s just kicking a lot.”

“It’ll be a while, at least an hour, before anyone arrives.”

“No, really, I’m fine,” Lainey said, waving me off.

Mom breezed in then, empty-handed.

“The food has arrived,” she announced portentously.

“Where is it?” I asked, frowning. “Where are my trays?”

“Out in the car, waiting for Jeremy to bring them in,” Mom said. “And you’d better hurry. Otis is in the car, too, and he was sniffing at them.”

Jeremy hurried off to save the food. My mom took his place at the table, deftly uncorked a bottle of red, and poured herself a generous glass.

“This looks nice,” she said, sipping at her wine and looking around the room. “They’re really quite powerful, aren’t they? All of this naked femininity surging forward. And you,” Georgia said to Lainey, “photograph like a dream.”

I took the glass away from her. “No wine yet. I need you to take Miles home,” I said.

Mom looked sadly after her glass, but sighed and nodded. Jeremy came back in, sweating and carrying the trays. He also had Otis, straining on his leash and sniffing the air excitedly.

“What exactly was the reasoning behind bringing Otis?” he asked my mother.

“Why should he be left out of the festivities?” she asked. “Besides, I put his nicest collar on.”

Otis sat down and began to gnaw enthusiastically at an itchy
spot on his back leg. Jeremy stared down at him and then looked at me.

“I’ll take him home with me,” Miles offered.

“Thanks,” I said gratefully. I glanced at Jeremy. “Please tell me Otis didn’t get into the food.”

“No, although not for lack of trying. I think the Saran Wrap confused him. Otis has never been a brainiac,” Jeremy said.

“Poor Otis. You’re unfairly besmirching his reputation,” Georgia said reprovingly. She sighed, and glanced around the room again. “I have to say, I think my poems would have been a nice touch. I know you were worried about being upstaged, India—and I’d never want to do that to you—but I still think they would have worked well together. There’s such a synergy between photography and the written word.”

“India, should I start opening the bottles now, or wait until the first guests arrive?” Jeremy asked, winking at me.

“Definitely now,” Georgia said. She jingled her car keys. “As soon as I get back from taking Miles home, we’ll get the party started.”

When you’re hosting an event, there’s always that stark, scary moment when you worry that no one will show up. So when seven o’clock rolled around and the studio was still empty, save for myself, Lainey, Jeremy, Mimi, Leo, and my mother—who was now noticeably tipsy, face flushed and voice merry—I began to experience the first pangs of terror.

No one is going to come
, I thought, my stomach shifting sourly.
I’ll have gone through all of this work, put in all of this time, and no one will bother to show up
.

But then, to my great relief, the guests began to arrive, first slowly and then at a steady trickle. Suddenly, the studio seemed filled to capacity. Laughter and chatter mingled, and guests crowded around first the photographs and then me, congratulating me on the show. Several people asked about my availability—
one was getting married and shopping for a wedding photographer, another was expecting a first grandchild and wanted to have a portrait taken of her daughter-in-law. But one couple took me aside to inquire if the photographs were for sale.

“Absolutely,” I said, delighted.

“I think that series there would look wonderful on the blank wall in our living room,” the woman said to her husband, pointing to the group of black-and-white close-ups of one woman’s bare torso. “Don’t you agree?”

Her husband nodded enthusiastically. “It’s what we’ve been looking for.”

I was jubilant. I’d hoped to get bookings—that had always been the best outcome of my previous shows—but actually selling photographs was an unexpected bonus.

“You, my dear, are a hit,” Jeremy said, appearing beside me. He looked especially handsome tonight in a charcoal jacket over a crisp white shirt. His cowlicks were sticking up, as usual resisting all his efforts to gel them down into place. His hair drove him crazy, but I loved the ruffled effect. “I’ve had crowds of people complimenting me on my talented wife.”

“And what did you say?”

He smirked. “I told them I taught you everything you know.”

“Liar.” I laughed.

“Guys, we have a little situation,” Mimi said, appearing out of the crowd. She looked lovely, dressed in a creamy confection of layered sheer silk. I coveted her strappy silver sandals, which added four inches to her height.

“What’s wrong?” Jeremy asked. “We’re not out of wine already, are we?”

“No. I think Lainey just went into labor.”

Leo drove us all in his cavernous Suburban to the hospital. I felt oddly calm. Lainey, too. She sat quietly, breathing deeply, turned inward.

Jeremy, on the other hand, was freaking out.

“Don’t stop for the red, don’t stop for the red! Man, what are you doing? Do you want her to give birth in your car on the side of the road? Do you really want to set up flares, and hope that the placenta won’t stain your upholstery?” Jeremy roared.

“The four cars ahead of me all stopped for the light,” Leo pointed out.

“It’s okay, we’ll get to the hospital in plenty of time,” Mimi said soothingly.

“Aren’t we supposed to get a police escort in this sort of situation? I’m calling 911,” Jeremy said, grappling with his cell phone.

“There’s no point. We’ll be there before they could get a patrol car—or, more likely, an ambulance—dispatched to us,” I said.

Jeremy ignored me. “Hello, 911? Yes, I’m with a woman who’s in labor. We’re on our way to the hospital, and we’re stopped at a red light. Do I have permission to run the light?” He paused, scowling into the phone. “What do you mean you can’t give permission over the phone to override traffic laws? What good are you?”

I plucked the phone out of Jeremy’s hand. “Please excuse my husband. He’s just a little panicked right now. But everyone’s fine, and we’re almost at the hospital.”

The 911 dispatcher—a woman with a deep voice—chuckled. “My husband was the same way when I had our first baby. Men can’t keep it together when they’re about to become daddies,” she said. “Good luck to you, ma’am. I hope you have an easy delivery.”

She thought I was the one in labor. I don’t know why this surprised me—it was the obvious conclusion—but her words flattened me. The fact that I wasn’t the one going through this—the contractions, the broken water, the outward push of the baby—made it suddenly all seem like make-believe to me. I felt like an impostor, the artificial sweetener of mothers.

“Thank you,” I said, and hit the off button on the phone. “You’re in luck, Jeremy. The dispatcher has an idiot husband, too,
so they’re not going to arrest you for making harassing phone calls.”

“Harassing? Did she say that? Give me the phone back, I’m going to—oh, thank God, the light’s green. Lainey, are you timing your contractions?”

“No,” Lainey said. “I’m not wearing a watch.”

Jeremy glanced at his wrist. “Shit, I forgot my watch. Leo, do you have a watch?”

Leo reluctantly unbuckled his watch and passed it back. Jeremy stared at it intently. “All right, Lainey, tell me the next time you have a contraction. I’ll start timing them.”

The night passed by in flashes, slowing down and speeding up in turns, making it all seem somehow unreal. Going from the darkness of the night into the hyper-bright hospital. Waiting patiently while Lainey was checked in by a nurse in Labor and Delivery. The long hours that stretched by, interrupted by Lainey’s gasps of pain as yet another wave of contractions washed over her, and the occasional visit by the attending doctor to check how dilated she was. Lainey and I passed the time watching a
Project Runway
marathon on cable television, while Jeremy asked Lainey how she felt every five minutes, until she finally lost her temper and threatened to ban him from the room. The arrival of Dr. Jones, looking crisply professional in her scrubs and white jacket, assuring us that everything looked fine. Lainey finally getting the green light to push. The rush of activity as a nurse-midwife appeared to assist the doctor. Lainey’s cries as she worked through the contractions. Jeremy’s hand tight on my shoulder. The midwife’s no-nonsense encouragement. Dr. Jones’s quiet efficiency. Lainey’s tremendous effort as she endlessly strained and sweated and groaned.

And then, finally, just as the sky was starting to lighten into a new day, Dr. Jones announced, “I can see the head. Come on, Lainey, you’re almost done.”

A now sobbing and exhausted Lainey gave one final great
push. And suddenly there he was, sliding out into Dr. Jones’s waiting hands. He was surprisingly long, and covered in blood and white slime. His eyes were shut, his mouth opened in an outraged squawk. Tiny hands closed into fists. His head was slightly squashed.

He was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

“Look at him,” Jeremy breathed, as Dr. Jones held up our son for us to admire. He clasped my hand tightly, and tears streaked down his face. “Isn’t he amazing?”

Hours later, we were still staring at him. Liam Christian Halloway had been bathed, dressed in a soft white one-piece kimono, and swaddled in a striped blanket, before being handed to us. As though he were ours. Ours to keep. Our son.

Jeremy and I took turns holding him, snuggling his wee body, admiring every last inch: the snub little nose, the curve of his cheek, the dark downy hair, the tiny shell ears. I’d had the presence of mind to grab my Leica before we left my studio, and snapped photos of Liam lying in his bassinet and cradled in Jeremy’s arms.

“Can we unwrap his swaddling?” Jeremy whispered. “I want to see his feet.”

I hesitated. “I don’t know. What do you think? I don’t want to get in trouble.”

We giggled over this and then, feeling rebellious, unwrapped the blanket that swaddled him. Liam’s feet were plump and round, and his toes were very short, like a row of pink candies. I ran one finger over them, marveling at the perfection.

“I wonder how Lainey is,” I said. We’d been moved into a separate room shortly after the birth. Lainey needed to rest, the midwife explained, and it was better if we began bonding with the baby out of her presence. I was glad. As grateful as I was to Lainey, as much as I loved her for this gift, right now I just wanted to be alone with my husband and son. A perfect trio. A family.

“She’s probably exhausted,” Jeremy said. “I can’t believe what she just went through.”

“I know. She was amazing,” I said, and this time, I only felt the smallest twinge of jealousy. I was too happy, too in love, to give it any more energy than that. Now that he was here, in my arms, I no longer felt like an impostor mom. I felt like an actual, real live nag-your-kid-to-eat-vegetables and lift-a-car-off-your-trapped-child mom.

“When can we bring him home?” Jeremy asked.

“The on-call pediatrician has to sign off,” I said. “And we have to wait for Lainey to sign the papers, which she can’t do for forty-eight hours. So it will be at least two days, but hopefully not longer than that.”

“I can’t wait,” Jeremy said softly. He reached out and put his finger inside Liam’s tiny hand. Liam’s hand reflexively curled up.

“Who’s your daddy?” Jeremy cooed. “I am. I’m your daddy.” He looked up at me. “Is that just unbearably nauseating?”

“Oddly enough, no.” I smiled back at him.

The door to the room opened, and a nurse walked in. She wasn’t one of the nurses who’d assisted with the birth. She wore flamingo pink scrubs, had short dark hair streaked with gray, and looked very stern. The nurse glanced at Liam, lying unswaddled in his bassinet. Jeremy and I exchanged a guilty look.

“I’m sorry we unwrapped him,” I said, hurriedly pulling the blanket up over the baby.

“We wanted to see his feet,” Jeremy explained.

“I gave him a bottle an hour ago,” I said. I had been shyly proud of this. Liam had sucked down the formula like a champ. I thought I’d done well, too, cradling him so that I supported his head with one arm while holding the bottle with the other hand. “How’s Lainey doing? Can we see her yet, or is she still sleeping?”

The nurse hesitated, her lips pursed. She had gold-rimmed eyeglasses perched on her nose, and reminded me alarmingly of my foreboding third-grade teacher, Mrs. Simms. I suddenly
realized she wouldn’t meet my eyes, and felt the first cold ripple of fear. Something was wrong. Was it Liam? He’d been with us for hours, but maybe a blood test or something had come back, and now she was here to tell us he was ill.

“I’m here to take the baby,” the nurse said. “His mother wants to see him.”

“I’m his mother,” I said sharply. What was she talking about? Lainey? Did Lainey want to see the baby? I didn’t mind if she did, of course—it was only natural that she’d want to meet him. But shouldn’t I be the one to take him in to her?

The nurse sighed and finally looked directly at me. “You don’t understand. The baby’s mother has asked for the baby back. I think you should know that she’s having second thoughts about the adoption.”

After it was over, everyone left. A nurse took the baby away to be washed and evaluated in the nursery. India and Jeremy followed the baby out, barely looking back at Lainey as they departed. The nurses buzzed around for a bit, and Dr. Jones checked to make sure that the placenta was all out and that there wasn’t any tearing that necessitated stitches. But once she was cleaned and resting comfortably, Lainey was left alone in the hospital room. The television was on and turned to a cable news station, the sound muted. Lainey watched the silent flickering picture—the female anchor with her white-blonde hair and glossy lips, the male anchor dapper in his suit.