When You Least Expect It (27 page)

“No,” India said. “We decided not to find out.”

“Do you mind the pink? I supposed we could do something more gender neutral, like green or yellow, it’s just that we found
these adorable pink floral plates and paper napkins at the party store, and I just had to have them,” she said. She smiled at Lainey. “Pink’s my favorite color. It’s a good thing I’m having a girl.”

“But what if I have a boy?” Lainey asked Stacey.

“What do you mean?” Stacey asked.

“You just said you’re having a pink shower, right? Pink plates, pink invites, pink everything. I assume the guests are going to bring girl presents, right? So what if I have a boy? India isn’t going to want a bunch of baby girl clothes,” Lainey said.

“It’s okay, Lainey,” India said calmly. “We’ve talked about it. The invite is going to specify that although the shower is a joint shower for Stacey and me, the guests are only to bring presents for Stacey.”

“What? But that’s total bullshit!” Lainey said.

Stacey’s eyebrows arched so high they disappeared under her bangs. “Excuse me?”

“Who would want to have a baby shower and not get presents?” Lainey asked.

“Lainey, it’s fine,” India said.

“No it’s not. It’s bullshit,” Lainey said again.

“She has a point,” I said. I’d thought the whole concept of a joint shower was doomed for disaster, ever since India had first told me about the plan.

“None of the women attending the shower know India. Well, except for a few of Carol’s friends, but mostly it will be my girlfriends who will be there. It would be weird to ask them to bring presents for India,” Stacey explained.

“You’re right, it would be strange,” India said. “Really, it’s fine, Lainey. Would anyone like some more salad?”

“Then why are they bothering saying it’s your shower at all? If it’s all pink, and all for Stacey, why bother putting your name on the invitations?” Lainey demanded.

“Carol wanted me to be included,” India explained.

“It doesn’t sound like it to me,” Lainey muttered.

There was an awkward pause.

“So, Lainey, what do you do?” Stacey asked.

“What do I do when, Stacey?” Lainey shot back.

Stacey blinked and then tried again. “I meant, what do you do for a living?”

“At the moment, I’m a mule for a heroin dealer, but I’m hoping to get promoted to the position of assistant dealer.” Lainey held up one hand and twisted her fingers together. “Fingers crossed.”

Stacey and Peter stared at her.

“She’s joking,” India said. “Lainey’s a manicurist, but she didn’t want to be around the nail salon fumes while she’s pregnant, so now she’s working at my studio.”

“Are you a photographer, too?” Peter asked Lainey.

Lainey hesitated. “Not exactly. I’m learning.”

“She’s being modest. Lainey is a natural,” India said proudly.

“That’s great,” Peter said. “That way this isn’t wasted time for you. You’re learning a skill. It’s like they used to do in the olden days. What was that called? When a younger boy—no offense, ladies, but it was mostly men going into the workforce those days—would work for an established craftsman in order to learn the trade?”

“Apprentice,” I said.

“Right. She’s like your apprentice.” Peter winked at Lainey. “You’re a multitasker.”

Stacey stared down at her mahi-mahi, looking alarmed. “India, I should have asked you. Is there mercury in this fish? Oh, wait, you probably don’t know about mercury, do you? I mean, since you’ve never been pregnant.”

India cleared her throat. “Lainey isn’t my apprentice. She’s just doing me a favor by helping out at the studio,” she said evenly. “And the mahi-mahi does not have mercury in it. I checked. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go get another bottle of wine.”

India stood and walked into the kitchen, letting the door swing behind her.

We all stared after her.

“I’m going to go help her … find the bottle … uncork it,” I muttered, and shot out of the room after her.

India was standing in front of the open refrigerator, staring into it, her arms crossed in front of her chest.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

India didn’t answer me. I moved closer, concerned that close proximity to Stacey might have pushed India over the edge.

“Honey?” I tried again.

“Everything’s fine,” India said. “Or it will be, right up until I get arrested for stabbing Stacey with a butter knife.”

“Not a butter knife. It would be too hard to pierce the skin. If you’re going to stab her, commit to it. Use a chef’s knife.”

But when India turned to look at me, tears were glittering in her eyes.

“Why is it that a horrible, selfish, shallow woman like Stacey can get pregnant, but I can’t? How does that happen?” she asked quietly.

I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

“It’s not fair.”

“No, it’s not.”

We looked at each other. India’s eyes had a tendency to change color depending on the light she was in and what she was wearing. When she was dressed in dark colors, or near the ocean, her eyes deepened to indigo. Today, they were a pale blue, the color of faded denim. I held out a hand, and after a beat, India took it.

“Should we go back in?” I asked.

India sighed. “I suppose we have to. It would be rude if we snuck out the back door and made a run for it, right?”

“Probably. But completely understandable.”

“I guess we have to go back in. We can’t desert Lainey.”

“Something tells me that Lainey can take care of herself just
fine. But if we are going back, make sure you bring the extra bottle of wine. We’re going to need it,” I said.

The rest of dinner passed uneventfully. Whenever possible, and despite Stacey’s determined efforts, I tried to steer the conversation away from the following topics: pregnancy, baby showers, baby clothes, baby cribs, baby gymnasiums, baby play groups, pregnancy weight gain, post-pregnancy weight loss, breast-versus bottle-feeding, why my books hadn’t been made into movies yet, why India hadn’t yet been tapped to shoot a photo spread for
Vanity Fair
, new boats, new cars, vacations to Bermuda, and Peter’s virility. Exhausted, I finally let Peter run with one of his pet topics—the hassles of running a podiatry practice—until Lainey began to yawn luxuriously.

India stood up and began clearing the plates. “Would anyone like coffee with dessert?” she asked.

“I can’t,” Stacey said. “Caffeine isn’t good for the baby. It was so hard to give up, too. Can you imagine waking up in the morning without a cup of coffee? I nearly died the first week!”

“There’s the silver lining in our infertility struggles. We’d both be miserable if you had to give up coffee,” I said to India.

India rolled her eyes at me. “I can make decaf,” she offered.

“Actually, decaf isn’t all that much—” Stacey began.

India cut her off. “Peter?”

“None for me, thanks,” Peter said affably.

“Lainey?”

“Sure, I’ll have some,” Lainey said.

“As I was just saying—before India interrupted me—decaf coffee isn’t good for the baby, either. The chemicals they use to decaffeinate it are proven carcinogens,” Stacey said so peevishly we all turned to look at her. Her cheeks were very red, and she was blinking rapidly. “I don’t know why everyone keeps talking over me tonight,” she added petulantly.

I half expected Lainey to tell Stacey to stick her carcinogens up
her ass, or something along those lines. But to my surprise, it was India who had reached her breaking point.

“Well, Stacey, maybe if you were a little more sensitive to other people’s feelings and a little less self-absorbed, people would want to hear what you have to say,” India said. Her voice was calm enough, but an angry red flush was creeping up over her cheeks. That was always a danger sign. I wondered how much wine she’d had to drink.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Stacey asked sharply.

India thumped the stack of plates she was holding down on the table. “Stacey. I’m infertile. This is a painful topic for me. So why on earth do you think it’s appropriate to announce, not once, but three separate times over the course of one dinner, that you and Peter got pregnant the first month you tried? Or that you’d like to have three more kids after this one, because you read in a magazine article that it’s hip to have four children?”

“So I’m not allowed to talk about my pregnancy in front of you?”

“I didn’t say that. I’m just asking that you be a bit more thoughtful before you speak,” India said.

Stacey rolled her eyes at Peter. “Your mother was so right about how oversensitive she is. First I have to deal with her taking over my shower, and now I’m not even allowed to talk about our baby in front of her.”

“Excuse me?
I’m
taking over
your
shower?” India repeated.

“It’s supposed to be
my
special day, with
my
friends, and
my
presents, and
my
colors. First I have to put up with your name being on the invitations. And you obviously hate the pink theme, so I’ll probably be asked to give that up, too. It’s not fair!” Stacey wailed, and she burst into tears.

Lainey was staring at Stacey as though she’d just descended from an alien spaceship. “Is she always like this, or is it the hormones?”

“No, she’s pretty much always like this,” India said.

“You’re right, Jeremy. She is a pain in the ass,” Lainey commented.

“Excuse me?” Stacey’s voice was so high pitched that Otis—who had been lurking under the table, ever hopeful that some mahi-mahi would fall his way—slunk from the room with his tail down.

“You said Stacey is a pain in the ass?” Peter asked me, his back stiffening.

“I have some good news for you, Stacey. The shower? It’s all yours. All of it—the nauseating pink theme, your annoying friends, the present whoring. I’m out. And for the record, I never wanted to be part of your stupid shower in the first place. When Carol asked me, I only agreed to participate because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings,” India said.

“Oh,
please!
You just didn’t want me to have my special day!”

I thought I heard Lainey mutter something along the lines of “Batshit crazy.” But no one else seemed to. Her voice was drowned out by India.

“Stacey, I’m going to give you some unsolicited advice. I know this is going to come as a shock to you, but there is a world out there that exists beyond you and your special fucking day. In fact, most people have problems that are bigger than the color scheme of a baby shower. And those of us who live out here in Grown-Up Land understand that. Perhaps it’s time you joined us,” India said.

“Excellent,” Lainey said approvingly.

“I knew you didn’t like the pink theme!” Stacey cried.

“Of course I don’t like the pink theme! I’m not a Barbie doll!”

India’s uncharacteristic outburst had shocked me into silence. I cleared my throat and said, “Look, why don’t we all just calm down.”

“Tell that to your wife,” Peter snapped. He pointed at India in an aggressive way I didn’t care for. “She’s getting Stacey upset.”

Stacey wept dramatically into her white dinner napkin.

“India’s not the one who started this,” I said mildly.

Peter snorted. “Please. Stacey’s right. India is too sensitive.”

That was it. No one had the right to call India oversensitive. Especially to her face.

“It’s not just the constant pregnancy talk. It’s all the little digs,” I said. “‘Morning sickness is so hard! Oh, but sorry, India, I guess you wouldn’t know about that.’ ‘Breast-feeding reduces the risk of getting breast cancer. But don’t worry, India, you probably won’t get cancer. You don’t have a history of it in your family, do you?’ ‘India, you’re so lucky you’re not going to have to deal with stretch marks! I wish I could have hired someone to be pregnant for me!’” I shook my head with disgust. “Seriously, Stacey, are you incapable of thinking before the words start coming out of your mouth? Can’t you just shut your piehole for once in your life?”

“This is starting to remind me of my family,” Lainey remarked.

Peter stood up so quickly his chair toppled over behind him. “Don’t talk to my wife like that,” he said.

“Oh yeah?” I said, with a casual bravado that disguised the fact that my pulse had ticked up a few notches. Peter and I hadn’t fought like this since we were kids, and he—being older, bigger, and stronger—had pretty much always whipped my ass back then. “I think I just did.”

“That’s it. Outside,” Peter said, jerking his thumb toward the back door.

“Sit down, Peter. I’m not going to fight you.”

“Are you chicken?” Peter asked.

“Are you eight?” I retorted.

Stacey had forgotten to pretend-cry; she, Lainey, and India were watching us, their heads swiveling like spectators at a tennis match.

“Jeremy’s right. We should all just take a deep breath and calm down,” India said.

“Shut up, India,” Peter snapped.

The force of the anger swelling up within me took me by surprise. Suddenly, I was standing, too, my fists clenched at my sides. “Don’t tell my wife to shut up,” I said.

“I’ll tell her whatever the hell I want,” Peter said. His jaw was clenched so tightly I could see a muscle pulsing. Suddenly, what I wanted more than anything was to hit him, right there on his stupid, perfect nose.

“Outside,” I said, and before I could think it through, I turned and stalked to the back door.

“Cool,” Lainey said. “A fight!”

“What?” India said. “No! This is crazy!”

I turned around to see if Peter was following me. He was trying to, but Stacey was holding him back.

“Peter, let’s just go,” she said.

“Who’s chicken now?” I jeered.

Peter shook Stacey off with more vigor than strictly necessary. She stumbled back a few steps, although she managed to keep her balance. He strode outside after me, the women following close behind him. I headed past the pool, to the postage-stamp-sized lawn next to Lainey’s guesthouse. I rolled up the sleeves on my oxford shirt, and turned, raising my fists in front of me. Peter shed his yellow cotton sweater and began jogging in place to warm up. Lainey, Stacey, and India had gathered on the pool patio, Stacey standing several feet away from the other two.