The Storm (Fairhope) (20 page)

Damn!

After a brief moment of quiet, the crowd leapt to its feet, hysterical, going wild over Gavin’s spontaneous romantic outpouring.

“That’s
my
kind of man!” a thirty-something with nicely sculpted silicones shrieked, her eyes watering underneath gobs of mascara.

“We love you too, Gavin!” a mob of college fraternity boys shouted, beer sloshing in their wake as they fell all over each other, laughing and notoriously drunk.

“Damn, girl! How did you land him? I want to see his fine ass in that uniform!” the overweight grocery store cashier next to Grace teased. “Someone throw some ice water on me.”

What is this about?
I mouthed to Andrew, still overcome with shock at Gavin’s unexpected public display of affection.

Baffled, he shrugged his broad shoulders, but his expression read purely impressed. He was probably imagining that Gavin would definitely get laid tonight after that.

Silent tears streamed down Grace’s cheeks, landing on the iridescent blue dress that matched her striking eyes. She ignored the hoopla of the crowd and flew to her husband, flinging her body dramatically in his chiseled arms. He wiped a tear off her face and tenderly lowered his mouth to hers, locking lips in an act of heartfelt passion. The loudest cheer of the night echoed over the crystal clear sunset as they embraced, lost in their own world.

OFFICIALLY DIAGNOSED WITH toxemia, the day arrived that enlarged my heart forever, making room for the earthshaking, indescribable love that only a mother can fathom. Armed with waterproof mascara, extra clothes, and all things baby, I braced myself to enter this unknown world of motherhood.

Butterflies flipped somersaults in my stomach as we checked in the hospital and were led to a spacious room. Andrew’s lush sofa bed was more comfortable than our own bed, and the bathroom was decked out with expensive-looking granite countertops, a tile-framed Roman tub, and ornate vanilla-scented candles. The huge flat-screen television came complete with surround sound and a selection of the latest DVDs.

“I feel like we’re on vacation.” Andrew dramatically collapsed on the plush couch, propping his feet up on a luxurious ottoman. “The nurse said we got the best room in the house.”

“Vacation … I don’t know about that,” I complained, frowning at my puffy feet from the height of my bed. “Look, my veins have completely disappeared. At least I have fresh paint on my toenails.” I glanced at my misshapen fingernails. “I should have gotten a manicure, too.”

“No one gives a rat’s ass about your nails right now, Jana”

“I hope I don’t end up having a C-section, so I can eat ASAP. I’m starved.”

“I hope you don’t, either. I would like to have sex
as soon as possible, and a C-section means extra weeks of the do-it-myself variety.” He sat on the couch grinning, handsome as ever across from his beached whale of a wife.

I snickered, and our laughter faded into a powerful silence. He came to me and casually took my hand, and an unspoken peace swept over the room as we prepared to enter our next phase of life as parents. The moment we’d anticipated for more than nine months would soon be here.

After fuzzy hours marked with Pitocin, Phenergan, the earliest epidural any pregnant woman had coerced her doctor into, the show hit the road. I was higher than Lindsay Lohan from the Phenergan and sedative the night before, and wondered why in the hell a woman would skip pain relief in favor of natural childbirth. That was a perfect example of how I would define insanity.

Andrew considered taking a front row seat to the delivery, but I stopped him mid-swagger.

“Get back up here,” I hissed and gestured to the space beside my head. “You’ll never want to have sex with me again.”

“I’m curious.”

“I don’t give a damn. Man’s stupid curiosity has never gotten him anywhere.”

“Yes, ma’am.” As Dr. Wilson chuckled, Andrew sheepishly obeyed, taking his stance at the front of the bed.

“Jana, are you ready?” A big smile spread across Dr. Wilson’s face, and his nurse nodded at me. “It’s show time.”

“Uh huh.” My speech was jumbled. This epidural was the shit.

Miraculously, my narrow hips pushed out an eight pound baby minus the assistance of that vacuum thing. Our tiny miracle entered the world wide-eyed and curious. I’ll never forget the look on Andrew’s face as his gaze lifted to follow Calla’s first powerful cry. Instantly mesmerized, I watched him fall in love with our beautiful little creature. Glued to every move the nurses made with Calla in tow, he huddled over them as they performed their routine.

“She’s perfect,” he whispered as they handed her to him for the first time.

I nodded in agreement. My eyes brimmed with tears as he tenderly stroked her cheek. “I think she looks like you. She has your perfect nose.”

For the first time in my life, I watched Andrew blush. “I see your eyes, Jana, and your cute curvy lips.”

Calla’s dark eyes fluttered open, and quickly shut again.

“She’s an itsy bitsy perfect combination of the two of us.” I gestured for him to come closer.

Not taking his eyes off our daughter, Andrew lowered to my bedside until we were both cuddling her.

“I never knew I could love like this. My mother was right; we are going to worry for the rest of our lives now.”

Fatigue started to spread through my body, and I heard the nurse mutter something to Andrew about me needing rest. “Her body has been through a lot…”

“I feel like my life just changed forever.” I smiled sleepily, leaning back and letting Andrew take over with Calla.

I think the nurse smiled affectionately as my eyes fluttered closed.

“It did, sweetheart. Your life is now all about her.”

Our first weeks with Calla were a beautiful mess. Nothing else mattered but her. Not sleep, not food, not sex (at least for me). We kissed sleep goodbye and embraced the nocturnal lifestyle with sinful amounts of coffee, M&M’s, and the rebirth of romance novels on my Kindle. Grace, who needed the practice for her own upcoming arrival, took up residence at the Cook house the week after our mothers retreated back to their own beds.

With bags under our eyes and stomachs growling, we proudly introduced Calla to our friends who brought dinner to us, dressing her in frilly outfits like an American Girl doll on display. I soaked in the beautiful fragrance of being a first time mother, my professional worries taking a backseat to my precious angel.

Much to my surprise, I adored my new role. Holly embraced her new responsibility as my homemaking mentor even after my not-so-graceful exit with Grace from the church seminar. She taught me how to whip up impressive meals in record time and how to let Calla “cry it out” when necessary. Her fantastic organizational skills made me want to vomit, but I definitely learned a lot that helped my day-to-day parenting go much smoother. She gave me the confidence I needed to believe I was actually good at this mothering thing. I could not master the whole ‘schedule’ thing those popular how-to baby books touted, which had proven to be bullshit. Calla Cook slept when she wanted to sleep and ate when she wanted to eat. Holly said that was normal.

I convinced myself that I did not miss my career, ignoring wistful memories of comfy scrubs, smiles on patients’ faces when they swore my device changed their lives, and the aqua skies and pristine beaches of our last President’s Club adventure in Jamaica. I swallowed my feelings and wore the title of “Mom” like I was President.

The weeks turned to months, the extra time my “maternity leave” bought me looming to a close. The clock was running out on my final decision to sue or not. The severance agreement would be due.

Listening to Calla’s sweet breaths as she slept peacefully each night helped tune out my sadness. The whisper spun its love throughout my heart as I played this game called parenting, and I felt God by my side. No matter what happened next, He would never let me fall, and neither would Andrew. I believed.

“I’M
FREE
!” GRACE, her face exploding with exhilaration, busted through the restaurant doors. She was a postpartum woman escaped out of the dungeon, ready to get reacquainted with the world.

To celebrate Emma Milton’s freedom from house arrest, Grace and I met for lunch while the shots were still fresh, racing to beat the side effects that could ruin the next twenty-four hours. Born nearly a month early but topping seven pounds, Grace’s doctor’s best guess was a miscalculated due date.

“This one’s a firecracker,” Grace said, her voice cloaked with its usual animation. She nudged toward passed-out Emma, snug in her car seat. She swung the carrier over the side of the booth in our favorite Mexican restaurant, rolling her eyes dramatically. “Sweet baby Jesus, don’t let her wake up.”

“So she must take after you and not Gavin.” Gavin was the fire extinguisher to Grace’s uncontrollable flames.

We housed the chips and salsa like two ravenous wolves. “Holy shit, this stuff never tasted better.” She made a face. “I should have waited until my Dr. Pepper got here.”

“Holly said the babies scream more when they get older. She swears that by the time they hit six months, we will be dying of embarrassment in public.” Holly started popping out babies at twenty-one, had a litter by twenty-six, and was therefore an expert in my eyes.

I surveyed the restaurant, taste buds pining for the white cheese dip that belonged in my mouth, pronto.

“If Emma throws a tantrum during my first taste of life outside the walls of my home, I’m going to have a nervous breakdown.”

“She won’t, and even if she does, there’s no one around to shoot us dirty looks,” I said confidently, checking to make sure I had extra diapers, just in case. Calla was snoozing and drooling to her heart’s content, but I thought I smelled something.

Since it was nearly two o’clock in the afternoon, Grace and I were the only two people in the restaurant. Crunchy chips littered the floor along with specks of flyaway salsa, courtesy of the lunch hour crowd. The bus boy must not get tips.

“Thank goodness. I need my sanity. Gavin’s back on nights, so I face this beautiful beast alone.”

I thanked our teenage waiter as he delivered the coveted cheese dip and drinks. I washed the salt down with two hundred calories of Coke and watched Emma sleep. “I do
not
believe that sweet face is a little terror.” Grace and Gavin’s sleeping beauty clasped her finger, cooing angelically.

“Ha! It depends. She already hates strangers, which I guess is good.” Grace grinned. “Jana, I’m in love. Being a mom is exactly what I dreamt it would be.”

Returning, the waiter peered curiously at flamboyant Grace as he scribbled down our order. Lit up like a candle, she chattered a million miles a minute about the ridiculous cost of mother’s day out, the national account she landed at work, and how a stripper infected Gavin’s partner with herpes when a lap dance made its way to the back room.
She’s almost
too
happy,
I thought perceptibly. Was this a “flight of ideas” like Grace’s mom had talked about in high school? Her breathless rambling lasted ten full minutes before I could edge a word in.

Emma began to stir, the distraction that broke Grace’s excessive conversation.