So she’d asked Dr. Owens if she could see her, and Dr. Owens said that it was only with the understanding that there might be occasions when Lillie would be the care provider, and so only if it was all right with both Lillie and Melissa. It was fine as far as Melissa was concerned. As for giving birth, Dr. Owens assured her that the hospital had many fine labor and delivery nurses, so if Wanda was handling another patient, Melissa would still be in experienced hands.
But aside from being assured that the plum-baby was perfectly fine, things weren’t going as planned. First, there was that wretched video. She’d decided to post it anyway, since there was no escaping it: #hormonal #PassingOnOysters #SomeoneHelpUs #LOL #PregnancyAnnouncementTookASwerve. She’d gotten a lot more followers, so go figure. But she didn’t want to be known as the Barfing Madonna, as someone had tagged her. She wanted to be known as a tastemaker, someone celebrated for beauty and style and . . . well, beauty and style.
And then there was her body.
It was not cooperating. Thanksgiving had been a complete disaster . . . Chef Paul had made a fantastic meal for the three of them, “with plenty for leftovers,” he’d said as he left. All Melissa had to do was keep things warm.
But the smells had haunted her, and she’d surreptitiously sneaked a few scoops of mashed potatoes just after he left at nine on Thanksgiving morning. An asparagus spear wrapped in prosciutto. Then another. The smell of turkey was incredible. She tried to stave off the hunger until dinner at two o’clock by making a grilled cheese sandwich. By the time she’d set the table, she was ravenous. She had thirds of everything. Thirds! While she cleaned up, she kept popping turkey and stuffing into her mouth, shooing Brad out of the kitchen so she could be alone with the food.
And then late that night, when Bradley and Ophelia were asleep, she crept down to the fridge to survey the leftovers, neatly wrapped by herself, since she’d given the housekeeper the day off. She made a turkey sandwich the likes of which she hadn’t had since she was a kid at Mee-Maw’s. Thick white bread, gobs of mayonnaise, stuffing, slabs of turkey breast and some dark meat, cranberry sauce (Mee-Maw’s had come out of a can, and Melissa missed that . . . she and Kaitlyn had loved the slurping sound it made when Mee-Maw expelled it into the bowl).
The sandwich was so good. Nothing else mattered in that moment except the tastes exploding in her mouth. She heard a moaning sound similar to the one she made during sex, and yes, that was about equal. This turkey sandwich was as good as an orgasm.
And that was another thing. She couldn’t get enough sex. Normal, according to the literature. Bradley was certainly happy, but as soon as the orgasm faded, Melissa found herself increasingly irritable with her husband. He’d cut back on his hours at the practice so he could “share these months” with her.
“You can share them, of course,” she’d said the first time he’d come home early. “But I know how important your patients are to you.” The fact that he came home at five fifteen every day was bad enough. At least Dennis had had long hours and emergencies.
The second time he’d done it, she said, “I really love my time here alone, sweetheart, but it’s so sweet of you to check in. Text me next time, okay?” Then she’d gone upstairs and taken a nap, and he was grumpy because she hadn’t jumped him. Which she did later, and not to appease his mood but because he was closer than her vibrator.
The third time, when he appeared at 3:00 p.m., she said, “For the love of God, Bradley, get back to the office! You’re driving me crazy!” She’d been just about to take some pictures for Instagram, and she didn’t want him watching. He’d left, chuckling over his pregnant wife’s mood swings, which made her want to stab him in the back of the neck.
He’d left, but he’d ruined her good energy for the photos, and she anger-ate some ice cream.
Today, a professional photographer was coming for some of those “me and my bump” shots. A few tasteful nudes, like Beyoncé or all those Victoria’s Secret models. Before the photographer arrived, though, she wanted to take a good look at herself. She needed to know which angles were best for the bump reveal.
Honestly, after seeing how . . . fat . . . she looked in the video , Melissa was a little scared to take a hard look at her body. Lately, her breasts ached and were mapped by blue veins. Also, the headlights were on, as the boys in her high school used to say. All the time, rubbing against her lacy bras. She’d taken to wearing her Lululemon yoga bras, but even those were getting too small.
She said a silent prayer to the universe that a lifetime of fitness would pay off as she got ready to strip in her closet. Best light, best mirror. Of course, she was getting a little rounder. She accepted that. She walked for an hour every day, on the elliptical if it was cold. She did prenatal yoga with two other women at the studio in town. She ate well (with those few cheats, which were to be expected). Of course she’d be beautiful in pregnancy. The universe wouldn’t fail her like that, would it?
Well, the moment was here. She stood in front of the huge antique mirror, slipped off her robe, took a deep breath and opened her eyes.
The universe had turned on her.
Melissa’s breath left her in a rush. That couldn’t be her, could it? She moved her hand just in case. It was her. She burst into tears. No! No! She was huge! She was hideous and huge and wide, like Jabba the Hutt! Her body was a slobby triangle with her head as its tiny point. Yes, she’d known her breasts had grown, but these things were massive, the size of hefty watermelons! She looked like . . . like . . . like one of those women on Botched (one of her favorite TV shows) who’d gone way too far with implants. And what had happened to her . . . areolas? They were bright red and huge. Huge! The size of a saucer or something.
Her baby bump was lost in what looked like . . . like . . . like fat. It didn’t jut out, tight and round. In fact . . . did she even look pregnant? Or did she look . . . like pudding?
She looked like pudding. A wobbly, white pile of tapioca. Wait, what was this? Splotchy stripes of pink on her stomach. A rash? Stretch marks? No, not yet!
Now that she was full-on sobbing, she felt a liquid heat between her legs. Oh, no! Was she bleeding? She raced to the bathroom.
No blood.
It was pee. She’d just peed herself.
Something must be wrong. She was not supposed to look like this. She called Dr. Owens’s office and said it was an emergency.
Twenty minutes later, she sat in the exam room. Dr. Owens came in. “Hi, Melissa. What’s going on?” she asked.
“Something’s wrong. Look at me!”
“Any pain? Bleeding? Cramping?”
“No. But . . . this can’t be right.” She gestured to herself.
“What can’t be right?” Dr. Owens asked.
“How I look! I’m huge!”
Dr. Owens took a step back and tilted her head. “You said this was an emergency, Melissa. That usually means miscarriage, preterm labor, bleeding, pain, severe headache . . . Are you experiencing anything like that?”
“No. But I do feel like something’s wrong with me. The size of me. Could I be closer to full term than Lillie said?”
Dr. Owens sighed. “I doubt it. First, let’s get you on the scale.”
Melissa froze. The old woman, Caroline or something, had tried to get her weighed, but Melissa had refused.
“Now, please,” the doctor said.
Melissa slid off the table and got on, closing her eyes.
“One hundred and fifty-two.”
“No! That can’t be right!” She started crying yet again.
“Our scale is calibrated every week.” The doctor typed into the computer. “What was your pre-pregnancy weight?”
“A hundred and twenty-three,” she said. “I haven’t gained or lost a pound in ten years, Dr. Owens, I swear.”
“Mm-hmm. Well, you’re pregnant now. You’re supposed to gain weight. Not this much this fast, but we’ll get to that. Sit back down, please, and lie back.”