Her glower deepens, and I subject her to an effusive embrace. “You look great. How’s your mom?”
“Fine. She sent you some blinchki.” She thrusts a Tupperware container at me and jerks her head toward the door. “I’m starving. Dean, you’re paying.”
“For you, anything.” He gives her one of his patented Dean West smiles, which would make any other woman melt.
On Kelsey, however, it has all the impact of a feather against stone. She rolls her eyes at me and strides into the tearoom, which is in an old, converted Victorian house. Chintz tablecloths and curtains dominate the interior, the clientele consists mostly of elderly ladies, and the tea and sandwiches are served on china plates and cups.
“So, what’s going on with you two?” Kelsey flips open the parchment menu and studies me and Dean through her rimless glasses. “Everything okay?”
Kelsey knows a lot of what happened between me and Dean, and she was the one I stayed with when we were apart. She doesn’t, however, know everything.
“We’re good,” Dean says.
Kelsey gives me a look. “Liv?”
“We’re good,” I agree.
It’s too early to tell anyone about the pregnancy, even Kelsey. At least Dean and I have talked about it, and we’re both doing what we’re supposed to do. He makes me a cup of horrible no-caffeine coffee in the morning and puts my prenatal vitamins on my plate. I walk on the treadmill at the gym, have scheduled my next two checkups, and when I’m not feeling nauseous, I eat lots of fruits, vegetables, and whole grains.
I try not to dwell on my fear that I don’t know how to be a mother. For most of my life, I didn’t even want to be a mother.
“So then she made this huge iced bread, which is called a krendel, and she knows I love it except that I eat it like a freaking cow, so she made me deliver it to the neighbors but only because their son is newly single after…”
Kelsey, thank God, is rambling about her own mother. I love Kelsey’s mother. She is a plump, cheerful woman who epitomizes one of my dream mothers.
I’ve had a lot of dream mothers. The sharp-tongued feminist, the happy homemaker, the driven career woman, the nurturing earth goddess. They’ve flitted in and out of my mind since I was a child. Now that I’m pregnant, they’ve appeared with new strength as I try to imagine what kind of mother I’m going to be.
Well, I know one thing about being a mother, at least. I know I don’t want to be the kind of mother my own mother was.
Kelsey goes on and on about her Christmas while we eat. Well, Kelsey and Dean eat. I’m feeling a little queasy, so I just pick at a slice of quiche.
“Not hungry?” Kelsey glances at my plate.
“Uh, not really. Hey, did Dean tell you about his IHR grant?”
“What?” Kelsey is properly awestruck by this news and peppers him with questions and congratulations.
“You going to campus tomorrow?” Kelsey asks Dean as we get ready to leave. “Up for a few games of racquetball?”
“Not tomorrow.” Dean fishes for his wallet. “Prepping for a seminar.”
“Did I tell you my department scheduled me for three seminars?” Kelsey drains the last of her tea. “And I have a new grad student starting this semester. You know what that means.”
Dean pushes back from the table so abruptly that the chair legs screech across the hardwood floor. He grabs my coat and holds it out for me. “Ready to go?”
“Sure.” I throw him an odd look as I shrug into the coat. “Don’t forget to use the gift certificate. What’s the hurry?”
“No hurry.” He heads off to take care of the bill as Kelsey and I gather our satchels.
“Hey, really.” Kelsey gets all serious for a second and reaches out to squeeze my arm. “You guys okay?”
I watch my husband as he makes his way to the front counter, his dark hair and black peacoat a striking contrast to the yellow chintz and lace décor.
“Yes,” I tell Kelsey. “We’ll be fine.”
A cloud cover has made the evening gloomier than usual, and Dean makes sure Kelsey gets back safely to her car before he and I head to Avalon Street. When we get home, he settles on the sofa to watch the news. I busy myself watering my houseplants and straightening the living room.
I stack a pile of Dean’s sports magazines on the coffee table and pick up the newspaper. I didn’t read it this morning, so I look over a few of the articles, then turn to the Help Wanted section.
I skim the ads. Energy consultant. Systems administrator. Early childhood educator.
Nothing I’m qualified for or have experience in, though I suppose it doesn’t matter now that we’re going to have a baby.
I sit at my narrow desk and take a notebook and a pen from the drawer. I stare out the window for a few minutes, watching reddish clouds sweep over the snow-frosted mountains.
Then I write:
I look at the list for a minute, then add:
I reread the list, then close the book and write on the cover: