They have got to be kidding.
But I wonder if he's nervous about the appointment. Because he asked which tie. This from Enzo, like he doesn't have every suit detailed in his head down to the cufflinks.
I wanted to go alone, find out my options. Not getting rid of the baby, that is not an option. I'm attached now and maybe always was, because like it or not, it's part Enzo.
Options like what to do if I need to get away, how to be a single mom. Do OB-GYNs do that stuff? Maybe I need a counselor.
And I don't even want to run. It's just... sometimes, I freak out, and after a life of being dependent on Dad, I need to know things. How to do things. Survival things. Just in case... just in case this doesn't work out.
Which makes me feel about an inch tall and rotten to the core.
Then again, I couldn't leave him out of this.
The light and eagerness in his eyes, the way he offered to let me go alone... I couldn't resist that light or deny him. And I don't want to see what he'd do if I took him up on the offer.
Lyndall's voice comes again. "The lavender blue one." A few seconds of silence, and she says, "That's the plum-colored tie, not the lavender one."
"This goes better. So..." He doesn't speak for a moment. "What do I need? What will the baby need? I think I'll do a search online, read some books. Talk to the doctor."
"Or, you know, Lola."
He snorts, and I frown. "I'm helping her, not putting pressure on her by asking."
"But, Enzo, haven't you learned your lesson? There's consulting and sharing, and then there's smothering and controlling."
"I'm not controlling. I just want to have the facts and lists. Okay, what else?"
"You need to think toys. Dolls?—"
"Toy trucks and dinosaurs, got it."
"Dolls, for girls and boys, this is a modern world, Enzo. Oh, and games," she says, getting excited. "Mobiles. Babies love those things. I'll be in charge of all music. Mozart is good for the brain. But Chopin, Beethoven, Strauss, Rachmaninoff, and?—"
"Focus," he says. "Music—Lyndall. Plus, some old-school Iggy Pop. And I think the baby would like some Nick Cave?—"
"And walking aids. Those things on wheels you stick kids in," Lyndall says.
I sort of slide down the door to the perfect temperature of the floor.
She is not done yet. "Oh, and everyone's into helmets and knee and elbow pads for when the baby's learning to walk."
"Slow down, Lyndall. I'm making notes..."
She rattles off an ever-growing list of things, some of which I have never heard of. Then she moves on to things I know, like white noise machines, air purifiers, and even bottlesterilizers. She goes on about wallpaper and a mom-and-baby chair. Changing tables, and even I am drowning, so who knows what Enzo is feeling.
"This is going to be great. I can't wait for her to be born," an excited Lyndall says.
"It's a boy."
"Girl. I can tell."
"We'll bet on it. A boy."
"Girl. A thousand bucks."
"No way."
"See?"
