3
Cleo
Whatever mook in Hollywood keeps venerating pregnancy as a glowy, ethereal thing can kiss my fat ass.
When I'd first gotten pregnant with Damian's baby, I'd been terrified of what it meant for me, but a tiny part of me had been excited, lost in that idyllic idea of motherhood that the shows like to bandy about. I'd been hoping for a girl, ogling the frilly dresses and shoes as I passed them in department stores. When the ultrasound showed I was having a boy, I had a small pang of disappointment and a huge surge of fear. He's my baby, my little man, but part of me wonders if he'll be just like his father.
No. No, Damian was gone and with him, any influence he could have on Bryan's life. It was nurture, not nature. No baby was born evil. I just had to make sure I did right by this kid.
I brace an arm on the partition that separates Pearl's consignment from the mall proper. The pain that clenches my belly tight steals my breath and makes me go weak in the knees. I've been to the hospital twice before with Braxton-Hicks contractions. I'm not wandering in again just to get the same condescending smirk and shake of the head from the maternity nurses who think I'm jumping the gun at the first sign of pain.
I hate the saleswoman on sight, because she's blonde, waifish, and thin. I didn't use to be hateful, but I feel like I'm the approximate size of the Goodyear blimp, and the way her eyes zero in on my bump doesn't help matters. She offers me a hand and a shaky smile before asking;
"Can I help you? You don't look very steady."
“I'm fine,” I pant. “I will be fine. They're just false labor pains. The doctor warned me this might happen.”
"And how far along are you?"
I stare at her for a second, wondering if she's serious. I long since surpassed the point where I was the cute amount of pregnant. I've graduated to full on roly-poly.
"Thirty-eight weeks," I grumble. "And the big day cannot come soon enough."
I squeeze my way through the narrow walkway between the racks and scowl when I topple some clearance items onto the floor. My stomach has become a battering ram. I breathe a sigh of relief when I find the bin of baby clothes near the back. The store has discounted them again, to prepare for shifting seasons. Out with the shorts and in with the tiny baby sweaters. Though, considering this is South Hollens, rain slickers and booties should always be in style.
Plucking a slightly faded T-shirt from the bin, I smooth it over the side and read the slogan.Handsome, like daddy.
Unease slithers through me as I toss it back onto the pile. I wonder once again how Iwill do this all alone. Taking the six weeks for maternity leave will be killer, and who will I trust to watch little man with Trent on the prowl? Anyone can be bought, and the thought of any harm coming to my baby freezes me in place with dread. And even if things die down, how am I going to explain why there's no male figure in his life?
I could get a boyfriend, I suppose. But would that make things better or worse? Surely it would be better for him to have one constant, rather than playing a shuffleboard game of "who's my daddy?"
I stand staring at the bin for so long without moving that the saleswoman feels the need to come by to check on me.
"Is everything all right here?" she asks with a forced smile.
"Everything is fine, I just--Oh!"
Another wave of pain slams into me and this time it's accompanied by a burst of warm sensation, sliding down both legs and trickling into my shoes. When I look down the front of my dress is stained a light pinkish-red.
Oh fuck. My water just broke. Not fake contractions.
"Oh my God," the saleswoman blurts, staring with equal fascination at my stained dress. "Did you just--"
"I think I did," I gasp, placing one hand beneath the curve of my belly.
The saleswoman seems at sea for a moment, staring at me. With all the milling mothers that come in and out of this place, I'm shocked something like this hasn't happened before. Or maybe it has, and this girl is just brand spanking new. If so, poor girl. She should have her salary hiked for having to deal with this shit.
"I... uh...privacy. You need privacy, right? And we should call for an ambulance. Right, that's what we should do?"
It's almost as if she's reading the thoughts from a script, and unsure. She looks to me for confirmation, as if I know what the hell I'm doing. I lean my weight against the bin, crying out as another contraction ripples through me. Oh fuck. This was so much worse than I ever imagined. In all my wildest nightmares I hadn't thought it would feel like this. It's as if someone is sawing me in two, starting at my pelvis. My purse drops from my arm and lands on the floor with a soft plop and I'm far past caring if anyone steals it. I'd trade every meager cent in my bank account to escape suffering this.
The cry the pain draws from me cuts through her panic and spurs the saleswoman into action. She seizes me by the shoulders and half-carries me toward the waiting rooms. She pushes the door open with her foot and guides me inside. I crumple to the floor in a boneless pile, panting, tears streaking down my face. Oh God, oh God, oh God, this can't be happening to me.
"My phone is in the back," the saleswoman gasps. "My manager took her break and it's locked in there until she gets back. Do you have a phone?"
Yes, I did, but it was charging in my car. I curse myself for not having the foresight to bring it in. But then again, how the hell was I supposed to know this would happen? I shake my head and she spits a curse. I second the sentiment and my lips twitch in the weak echo of a grin. It disappears when the pain rears its ugly head again.
I pull myself into an upright position and lean my back against the shallow bench seat that runs the length of the dressing room. I don't look in the mirror. I'm sure that I look like shit. More water leaks from me, perhaps as a delayed reaction, and I hike my dress up to keep it from further staining. Spreading my legs just so seems to ease at least some of the pain, so I keep them there, feet planted as the pain comes in waves.
