“Oh, Scott. I can’t!”
“Yes, you can.” He steered her toward the bedroom and she tried to dig her boot heels into the carpet, but he was stronger and Mimi was always one to give in. “Put on a loose blouse. Where is that damn bun-in-the-oven thing? Get it out and put it on.”
“It’s in the bottom drawer,” she said dispiritedly. She stared at the blue chest of drawers with the white knobs. Mimi’d had it since they were kids and was fond of it, had planned to use it for the baby, whereas Scott had thrown all measure of their earlier life with their single mom away. Depressing stuff.
He yanked open the drawer and dug through some T-shirts before he found the baby bump. It wasn’t that large. He’d bought it for her as soon as she’d miscarried, already thinking ahead. She should be showing a lot more by now, he thought. Still, it would probably do the trick. He handed it to Mimi, who reluctantly took off her T-shirt and fastened it around her middle. She put the T-shirt back on and Scott was happy with how it looked. She could be the kind of woman who didn’t show a lot. “You’re wearing this to work, aren’t you? We talked about this, Meems.”
“I wear it,” she said, her lower lip thrust out in protest.
“Good. Don’t let Greg’s wife get too near,” he warned.
“I can’t do this.”
“Yeah. You can. You have to. Now listen . . . you need to let her know that you really want this child, even if abortion would be the better choice. You got that?”
“I would never have an abortion!”
“Mimi, we’re playacting here. Use your fucking head for once. Jesus. This is important.”
“I know we need money!”
“That’s right. That’s exactly right. We need money. And you don’t like Greg’s wife. She’s a rich bitch. You know that’s true.”
“They met at college. She has an MBJ.”
“MBA,” he corrected.
“Oh yeah. Masters of business and . . .”
“Administration. Meems, please . . .” He despaired of her. “Come on.” He grabbed her hand and led her toward the kitchen table. “After you let her in, go back and sit in this chair. Keep the table as a barrier, you understand? You don’t want her to look too closely at you, and you definitely don’t want her to touch you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Make some coffee. Oh, shit, you’d probably be drinking decaf. . . .” He looked around the kitchen.
“I drink decaf tea,” she said, slipping from his grasp. Opening a cupboard, she collected two mugs and set them on the counter. Then she lifted the lid on the cookie jar that sat next to the toaster and pulled out two tea bags. “I just fill the mugs with water and zap them in the microwave.”
“Good enough. Make sure she doesn’t stay long.”
“What does she want? Why is she coming?” She started chewing on her thumb again.
“Stop that. It has to be about the baby.”
She dropped her hand. “What if she wants to touch my stomach? People do that, y’know. I like to do it. It’s good luck.”
“Just sit at the table. Got that? Just sit at the table and keep her away from you.”
“After I give her a cup of tea.”
“Yes.”
“I wish she wasn’t coming.”
You and me both, he thought, but he said, “Yeah, well, maybe this is a good thing. They’ve all ignored you for months. Maybe this’ll get the ball rolling.”
Mimi swiped at another round of tears. “I wish I still had the baby for real.”
“You fixed that for all of us. But get over it. We have work to do.”
Chapter Thirteen