“Mom, there is no way in hell I am letting you name my child.”

  Jonathan gave me a scolding look as I said this. I shrugged my shoulders at him.

  I know just how to push my mother’s buttons.

  So here we are.

  We look like the perfect couple.

  Jonathan is wearing his Banana Republic navy blue coat and sexy straight-leg Levis (that really show off his ass). He has on a bright blue shirt under his coat (which shows off his eyes).

  I can see the other women looking at this gorgeous man next to me. Probably wondering how the hell I ended up with him.

  Here I am in my black skinny jeans, black converse, and a shirt that says: “condoms hate me”.

  I realize that maybe I should have worn something different. Something more appropriate. Luckily I brought a light sweater with me. So, as I look at myself in the reflection of the large fish tank in the lobby, I put on my sweater.

  Best to not scare the doctor, I suppose.

  There!

  Much better.

  Wait- Oh fuck!

  This is my Rainbow Bright sweater from college. It’s mostly white, but on the front there is a small rainbow pony, rearing.

  Maybe I should have asked Jonathan for wardrobe help.

  I look over at him and his perfectness. He is reading a magazine. How do you become so organized and perfect? How does one learn to speak well and have impeccable manners, and read facial cues so well?

  A Sociopath?

  He has learned to just take me as I am. And I guess I am thankful.

  I look in the fish tank reflection once more.

  Okay, doctor, prepare yourself for the wonderfulness that is…Rainbow Bright!

  The receptionist calls: “Mr. And Mrs. Clark?”

  Jonathan grabs my hand and I reluctantly stand.

  I whisper to the receptionist as I pass by, “We aren’t married, he’s my baby daddy.”

  Jonathan grabs my hand really hard.

  It hurts.

  Message received.

  We make our way down the hall. We gather and wait in a large room filled with pictures of body parts and genitalia.

  One picture reads: “The Miracle of Life”.

  I say out loud, “It’s not a miracle, it’s science you idiots.”

  “Could you at least try to pretend to be nice to the poor man when he comes in?” Jonathan asks me.

  “How do you know it’s a man and not a woman?” I rebut.

  He rolls his eyes.

  In walks Dr. Johnson.

  The most handsome black man I have ever seen.

  It’s like watching an episode of ER up in here. He welcomes us with his low, smooth voice.

  I sure as hell am going to pretend to be nice to him.

  “Hello Mr. And Mrs. Clark, how are we today?” Mr. Johnson says, looking down at his files.

  Before I can stop myself I burst out with, “Oh, we aren’t married.” And do a weird little girly giggle.

  I can tell Jonathan is hurt.

  I just shrug my shoulders.

  I am such a bitch, it isn’t even funny.

  The doctor ignores me and moves on.

  “So I hear we have a baby brewing? That is very exciting. Let’s get started with an ultrasound, shall we?” Mr. Johnson is very polite. And he is making me feel tingly all over!

  You shall not act on this, Emily! You shall not act on this!

  I am repeating this to myself over and over again.

  I sit up on the chair-bed-thingy and lay back. I am nervous for some reason.

  Dr. Johnson rubs the cold cream attached to his radar stick-thing on my belly and it feels kind of cool. He looks at the screen which, to me, just seems like a murky pool of water. Like when you try to open your eyes in a river.

  You can’t see shit!

  “Everything looks very good here, Emily.” Dr. Johnson soothes me.

  Yes, it looks good from here too (The whore in me says).

  “Would you like to know the sex of the baby?” The Doctor asks, looking over at Jonathan and I.

  I blurt out, “No!”

  At the same time, Jonathan smiles and says, “Yes, of course!”

  We both look at each other for a second.

  “Wait, you don’t want to know what we are having?” Jonathan furrows his brow at me.

  “I want it to be a surprise! It’s more fun that way.” I look over at the Doctor and smile.

  “But then you can’t plan for it properly,” Jonathan adds, turning towards me as if that is going to make me change my mind.

  Here we go with the planning, and the organizing and the OCD habits.

  “Did you know that planning and organizing leads to cancer?” I tell Jonathan.

  He smiles.

  “You are full of shit,” he replies.

  The Doctor just sits and waits patiently while we duke it out.

  Then he comments, “Why don’t I take Jonathan out of the room and fill him in, and you wait here Emily. You can rest assured that you have a healthy baby inside of you. And that’s all that matters.”

  The voice of reason.

  Dr. Johnson touches my hand and I get shivers up my spine.

  Oh, what I would have done to you in a previous life.

  I nod, and as they step out of the room, I look down at my seemingly normal looking belly and say, “You are stuck with us little one, sorry about that.”

  I pull down my shirt and rest my arms on my stomach.

  They come back in, and Jonathan is smiling ear to ear.

  He is so annoying right now!

  Sexy-man-doctor smiles at me, and even though I know I shouldn’t, I am imagining him giving me a naked back massage.

  Jonathan touches my hand, and the thought disappears.

  “Well, thanks doc, it’s been swell,” I say as I get up off of the table.

  “Wait a second. We have to go over a couple of things first.” The doctor pats the seat, and I sit back down, obeying orders.

  “Now you are almost five months. Have you been taking prenatal vitamins?” He asks while he holds his notepad and pen.

  “I haven’t been taking anything. Except the occasional smoke break! Haha.” Silence falls over the room and Jonathan rolls his eyes. “Oh. I’m just kidding. Sorry.” I start to bite my nails.

  The doctor asks me a list of questions, which make me feel like the ignorant scum that I am.

  It hits me that I am not even close to being prepared for a baby.

  When the visit is over, I turn to Jonathan. “You think you are so cool now because you know the sex of the baby.” I poke him in the ribs with my finger.

  “Yes. I am cooler than you!” He smiles at me and opens the door to the offices, letting me out into the brisk air.

  “Just so you know, we are heading out right now to buy the things you need. You are not in charge of yourself anymore. I am,” Jonathan says as he unlocks his car.

  “Uh, what?”

  He leans on his Mercedes and looks over at me. “Babe, you are probably the second most irresponsible person I know.” He hops into the car.

  “Ouch, that hurts!” I say as I climb inside.

  But I know he is right.

  And I need to get my shit together.

  Prenatal vitamins, here I come!

  6

  Helping Cindy

  I don’t remember ever actually asking my parents to move in with us.

  All I recall is them just living here.

  Weird how that happens with relatives.

  They get too close to soon. Granted, they are my parents. But David and Gwyneth Hawkins are a different breed and must not be trusted.

  Anyone who claims that the British “Ruled the world for a thousand years” and is proud of that fact, should not be allowed at the dinner table.

  But What am I do, I mean really? Let them live out on the street?

  Hey!

  I could let them live out on the street.

  No!

  My mind often wanders to places it shouldn’t.

  Image number one: mother eating out of a trash can on the east side of town. Father talking to pigeons by the beach. It isn’t in a romantic way either, he is kicking at them and telling them that he “will never tell them his secrets!”.

  In this image, they are both completely insane.

  But, my parents aren’t quite to that level yet, so I will keep these images to myself.

  Isn’t it wonderful how no one can read anyone else’s mind? I mean, we would all be fucked.

  Actually, Long Island Medium on the TLC channel. She can actually read people’s minds I think.

  Teresa or something. Now, She’s a crazy bitch.

  Here I am, stuck up in my room on yet another rainy day in February, because my father is downstairs watching the news and yelling at the television, and mother is measuring the baby’s room for furniture which she thinks she is buying me.

  Jonathan is at work. It is a Monday. I haven’t puked for three days.

  Yay for me!

  But the hunger pains are still there. And so I eat in bed and watch my favorite shows. Currently I am binge watching documentary on serial killers, and it’s fascinating.

  Jonathan says I should try and watch more upbeat films and shows, so that I can send the baby subliminal messages of positivity. But, I think the baby should be a realist when he/she/whatever it is, pops out.

  They should be well equipped to deal with the facts of the world from day one. And one of those facts is that serial killers exist.

  Next to my bed is: a bag of BBQ potato chips, carrot sticks, a bowl of ranch dressing, two York peppermint patties, and a pile of cashews. The cashews are sort of just sitting on the desk because I couldn’t find anymore clean bowls.

  Mother told me today she is cleaning the house. I tried to tell her that the maid comes on Tuesdays, and today is Monday, so she shouldn’t bother.

  But then she said, “This is embarrassing, Cecilia, or Lucia, or Maria, or whoever should not have to see it like this!”

  I responded, “First of all mom, her name is Cecelia, so good guess. Second of all, cleaning is her job. She won’t mind. Trust me.”

  So, I guess that is what mother will be doing today.

  Last night Jonathan and I tried to have sex “quietly” even though our house is enormous and mom and dad are sleeping downstairs.

  But, whatever, Jonathan wanted to be respectful. We decided the closet was the best place. Jonathan threw me up against my clothes and a few fell off of the hangers. The shoe boxes started to come tumbling down as well.

  So much for quiet.

  Once we get going, we really can’t stop.

  He started to get sort of rough and I reminded him that I have his child growing inside of me. Well, I guess that freaked him out a bit, because he start apologizing profusely and laid me down gently on the bed. He said we probably should wait to have sex again until the baby comes out.

  “No Jonathan! That is absurd. We can have sex, you just can’t throw me against a wall.”

  “I know, but what if I like, thrust too deep or something?” He sits down next to me on the bed and looks at me with a worried expression.

  “Babe, it doesn’t work like that. It is completely safe to have sex while I am pregnant. In fact, I’ve read that it is even good to. Plus, you don’t have to use a condom! It’s a win/win.”

  He wasn’t looking amused, so I gave in and just told him not to worry. I then began to rummage through my pile of snacks I keep next to the bed.

  Today, will most likely be a ‘no sex’ day as well because Jonathan will be home late and Mother wants to make me a special dinner.

  Mind you, my mom never has to cook, so when she does, it tastes something in between rubber and sandbags.

  But, at least she is trying.

  I look at the clock and it’s 10AM. I am already bored with the day so I decide to sneak out.

  I am wearing my Hello Kitty adult Onesie that Cindy ordered me for Christmas this year.

  She is literally the best friend/mom/older lady goddess that anyone could ever ask for.

  I zip it up the rest of the way, slip on my rain boots and grab my pink umbrella. I tip toe down the stairs. My plan is to make my way through the garage, and out the side gate.

  I get to the garage and out the side gate and to my amazement, I was never sighted by the helicopter parent that is Gwyneth.

  I make my way down the street, and take the turn to Cindy’s.

  If she’s not there I’m gonna kill her.

  I check my phone and decide to text her so I won’t have to knock a million times. Cindy keeps Gloria Estefan on high volume when she is at home. I’m not sure why and I’ve never asked, but something tells me it calms her. She has a lot on her plate. I mean six kids. I want to take a Xanax just thinking about it.

  I text: I am thirty feet from your house, get ready.

  No response.

  I knock at Cindy’s door.

  No answer.

  I look in through the glass and see nothing.

  No movement.

  I decide to check the door.

  Not locked.

  I enter into Cindy’s large, Colonial-style home.

  Her music is on, but not as loud as usual.

  “Cindy?” I yell up to her.

  I shake out my umbrella and slip off my rain boots.

  I check the kitchen and living room. It’s like a ghost town in this house.

  There are dishes stacked in the sink.

  There is a cereal box out on the kitchen island and a glass half full of orange juice on the dining room table.

  It seems dirtier than usual.

  I run up the stairs in my onesie, and trip on one of the steps because, well, have you ever tried running up stairs in onesie?

  I open her bedroom door and drop my mouth open in shock.

  Covering Cindy’s room is charts, pictures of dead bodies, blood spatter reports, letters, and creepy shit I can’t even explain.

  I walk in slowly as if I’m testing how hot or cold water is.

  Cindy is sitting on her bed, looking like a hot mess. Her hair is up in a bun. She has no make up on. She’s holding a television remote in one hand and has a pen in the other. There are tissues and paper crumpled on the floor.

  There is a plate of old spaghetti on her night stand. The curtains are all closed shut and it smells of old people.

  “Cindy? What the fuck is going on in here?” I ask as I scan the room. I walk up to one of the pictures on her wall and it looks like a murder scene.

  “Cindy!” I shout as I take the remote from her hand and pause the television. I look and see what she is watching. I throw the remote back down next to her.

  Right away I understand.

  Cindy turns to me and she looks so confused.

  “So they can’t do that to him right? I mean it’s not just.”

  “Okay Cindy, I understand what you are going through, I went through something similar myself.” I pause and grab her hands.

  I sit next to her on the bed. She is looking and pointing at all of the pictures around her room.

  I look at her dead on.

  “Cindy. Have you been watching the documentary Making A Murderer on Netflix?”

  She pauses and looks at me. “I have been going through it. I watched it twice. What can we do Emily?”

  Okay love, you need to get out of this room. How long have you been up here?

  “I don’t know. Two days maybe. Why? Is that bad?” She asks, in a somber tone. She obviously isn’t herself. She looks skinnier than usual. And there is a ketchup stain on the corner of her mouth.

  She is the anti-Cindy.

  “Here, get out of bed and let’s get you downstairs.” I pull her off of the bed and she grabs the remote and holds it close to her chest.

  “Cindy. Give me the remote. You have to let it go. Steven Avery is in prison now. But you never know. He could be freed. Somehow. But it’s not up to us. It’s OK. You have to move on. The rest of us have.”

  I am trying to console her, while being mildly agitated by her state.

  “It’s just so sad. I mean it’s awful. I hate it.” Cindy says as she stands to her feet.

  I open he blinds and she covers her eyes. Much like how I imagine a vampire might.

  I take her downstairs and make her tea.

  I hand her some Advil.

  She drinks.

  She talks to me about the case.

  About how she used all of her printer paper and cartridges printing out the photos and documents.

  She told me about how she started making phone calls, and reading message boards. She had her oldest son who is in high school, take the kids to their schools and practices the last two days. She told me how her husband is away on business. How she has never done this before, but it consumed her.

  “Cindy. I understand. I threw my remote across the room and it broke, last year when I watched it. But, you have to get over this. Because it’s just fucking weird. But also because, I need you to be stable.”

  She nods her head in agreement.

  I put her in the shower and while she’s scrubbing away, I am peeling off the paper from her walls and all of the notes she has complied.

  I throw them out, and then take Clorox wipes from under the bathroom sink and clean off her nightstand. She had spilled some sort of liquid on it.

  She cleans herself up.

  We go back to the way it used to be. Before she went fucking crazy on and American Documentary Series which doesn’t involve either one of us.

  We go back to me being the helpless and confused one.

  “Cindy, don’t ever fucking do that to me again. You are the responsible one in this relationship. I am not ready to take on that roll yet.”

  She nods her head and I help her with her makeup.

  7

  Grumpy Emily

  I am driving Cindy to the two sets of schools she has to go to so she can pick up her children.

  Two children for the 2PM pick-up from the elementary school, one child for the 3PM pick-up at the middle school, and then her two high-school kids drive home together, so they are left to themselves.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9