Matchmaking for Beginners
Page 21
“How is it that you have an appointment for teeth cleaning now? What if you were in labor? What if you’d already had the baby?”
“I know,” she says. “My appointment was actually for three weeks ago, but the dentist went on vacation, and they needed to reschedule.”
Natalie does not look so good as she gets into the car, tipping herself way back so that she can maneuver her huge stomach without banging it into the dashboard.
“How’s it going?” I say.
“Shut up.”
I start the car and fasten my seat belt. “Oh, Ameeeeelia? Did you hear what your mother just said to me? Don’t be scared to come out, baby. She’s really a very nice lady. It’s just that you’re pressing on some of her vital organs, sweetheart.”
Natalie bares her teeth.
I turn the car around to head out to Roosevelt Boulevard, and I’m surprised when she yells at me that I’m going too fast and that there are dips in the road I’m not feeling, but they’re there and they are KILLING HER. I slow down obediently.
And then she says, “OW!”
“Nat. Are you about to have this baby?”
“No,” she says. “These are Braxton Hicks contractions. Fake.” She takes a deep, ragged breath.
“Because I’m just saying, since we’re already in the car and all, maybe we should go to the hospital.”
She doesn’t even answer that, just lies back with her hands on her massive belly and looks like she’s in the most amount of pain a human has ever endured, doing little puffing things with her mouth.
“Does it hurt . . . a lot?” I say. We pass a lumberyard and a row of shops. “I could pull in here, if you want.”
“Please. I’m concentrating. This is not pain. We don’t use the word pain. There is some . . .”
“Some what?”
“Marnie. Please. Be. Quiet.”
We finally get to the medical building—a low-slung little stucco building with banana trees and azalea bushes planted out front—and I pull up to the door and get out and come around to help her. But she waves me off and then—just like that—she loses her footing and she falls down on the pavement with a loud smack.
“Oh, no, no, no! Oh my goodness!” I cry, and I bend down to help her. “Don’t move. Let’s see . . . oh crap . . . did you land on your stomach? Did you hit your head?”
“No, I didn’t hit my head. Calm down, will you? That was my purse making that noise.”
She’s lying on her side in the flower bed, her head resting on a big old palm frond, looking up at me through her same old calm-as-anything Natalie eyes. She’s not frothing at the mouth or bleeding or giving birth. She’s just Natalie, lying there as if she meant to. Then she starts trying to pull herself up and can’t.
“Here, maybe you shouldn’t move. Really, Nat. It could be you broke something.”
“Stop yelling,” she hisses at me, which is weird because I’m almost positive I’m not yelling. “I’m fine,” she says. “Just help . . . just help me up, would you? And don’t attract attention.”
“Okay, here, hold on to me. Can you hold on?” I go around to the other side of her and get down on my knees, but I can’t figure out where to grab on to her, and she’s so big, but just then a man’s large hands show up in my field of vision, and somebody in a white coat is gently grasping my sister under the arms and gradually easing her upright until she’s on her feet, and then supporting her gigantic body against his until she can steady herself. I’m still on the ground, scrambling around to get the contents of her purse, which have spilled everywhere, and I can’t see his face, only that he has dark hair, and she seems to be leaning against him as he walks her inside.
“There,” I hear him say. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she says, which is so untrue it’s not even funny. But leave it to my sister.
I finish picking up all her lipsticks and quarters and a wad of tissues, and then I run to catch up with them. A blast of cold air-conditioning hits my face when I open the door, and I can hear Natalie saying, “Oooh! It’s freezing in here!”
“Ridiculously cold,” he agrees, and that’s when I look up at his face, and it’s Jeremy Sanders holding on to my sister.
Jeremy Sanders! Of course it is! I almost laugh. At first I think this is all an elaborate ploy by my mother to get us together. She is a busybody with mysterious ways. The color seems to leave his face as he lowers my sister onto a bench next to the elevators. Once he gets her situated, he straightens up and looks at me with wide, round eyes.
I must look as shocked as he does.
I hear myself saying, “Hi, how are you?”
“Marnie.” He looks stunned. But then he manages to recover and says, “And oh my goodness, this is Natalie? Hi! Wow. Are you okay? That was quite a spill you took. Here, take my coat. You’re shivering.”
He starts removing his white coat, which I notice says JEREMY SANDERS, DPT embroidered over the pocket. Whatever that means. Something official, from the looks of him.
“No,” Natalie says. She’s back to being her brisk and competent self now, waving him away, thanking him for taking care of her, but saying she’s got to get to the dentist’s office, and she’s fine, really she’s just fine—it was just a little slip is all. Nothing to worry about. She’s just going to rest here for a second, catch her breath, and then she’ll be off.
I keep sneaking looks at him. He seems older, of course—but in a good, mature-guy way. My mind is filled immediately with the memory of his slouchiness, his nonconformitude, his sloppy snarkiness. None of that is left. He’s obviously become a fully invested member of society. Who would have guessed?
“Hey, dude, it’s great to see you!” I say. “So you’re a DPT now! Yay, you!”
“Yes,” he says and smiles at me with even, white teeth. I never noticed how really white and even his teeth were.
“And forgive me,” I say, “but what is a DPT?”
“Physical therapist,” he and Natalie both say at the same time, and then she grabs on to her huge stomach and lets out a yell.
“Um, I’d say your sister seems to be in labor. I think we should call an ambulance. That fall did not look good,” he says in a low voice.
“NO!” roars Natalie, holding up one hand while she clutches her abdomen with the other. We watch her in fascination, and after a moment she straightens up and says, “I’m fine. I’m prepared for this.”
“She’s a warrior,” I tell him. “So you’re still living here? Or did you move back?”
He tears his eyes away from Natalie and looks at me. “Came back about six months ago. My mom’s getting up there in years and needed some extra help . . . and so you’re back here, too? Or just visiting for—?” He gestures toward Natalie.
“The baby? No! I’ve moved back. This is home. Now. Newly.” I shrug and do a ridiculous little dance to show how carefree I am. I am beginning to regret that I’m wearing paint-splattered jeans and that my hair is shoved up into a big messy knot, although he’s certainly seen me looking worse.
“No, totally,” he says, which doesn’t really make any sense, but who cares. He looks back over at Natalie, who is shivering on the bench and breathing hard, and his eyes are round with alarm. “Really. We should call an ambulance.”
“No! This . . . is . . . false labor,” Natalie manages. “If the contractions were real, then . . . my Lamaze teacher . . . said . . .” Suddenly she can’t talk anymore and her face has turned pale and she slumps against the wall, panting.
Jeremy looks at me. “I don’t know what the Lamaze teacher said, but whatever. She’s not here, and we are. I think we’ve got to do something. So . . . I’m thinking hospital?”
“Definitely.”
“Definitely not,” says Natalie, resurfacing from her breathing debacle. “That’s not the way this works. You have early labor for a long time before you have active labor . . . and I did not have early labor. So these can’t be—”
“I know,” she says. “My appointment was actually for three weeks ago, but the dentist went on vacation, and they needed to reschedule.”
Natalie does not look so good as she gets into the car, tipping herself way back so that she can maneuver her huge stomach without banging it into the dashboard.
“How’s it going?” I say.
“Shut up.”
I start the car and fasten my seat belt. “Oh, Ameeeeelia? Did you hear what your mother just said to me? Don’t be scared to come out, baby. She’s really a very nice lady. It’s just that you’re pressing on some of her vital organs, sweetheart.”
Natalie bares her teeth.
I turn the car around to head out to Roosevelt Boulevard, and I’m surprised when she yells at me that I’m going too fast and that there are dips in the road I’m not feeling, but they’re there and they are KILLING HER. I slow down obediently.
And then she says, “OW!”
“Nat. Are you about to have this baby?”
“No,” she says. “These are Braxton Hicks contractions. Fake.” She takes a deep, ragged breath.
“Because I’m just saying, since we’re already in the car and all, maybe we should go to the hospital.”
She doesn’t even answer that, just lies back with her hands on her massive belly and looks like she’s in the most amount of pain a human has ever endured, doing little puffing things with her mouth.
“Does it hurt . . . a lot?” I say. We pass a lumberyard and a row of shops. “I could pull in here, if you want.”
“Please. I’m concentrating. This is not pain. We don’t use the word pain. There is some . . .”
“Some what?”
“Marnie. Please. Be. Quiet.”
We finally get to the medical building—a low-slung little stucco building with banana trees and azalea bushes planted out front—and I pull up to the door and get out and come around to help her. But she waves me off and then—just like that—she loses her footing and she falls down on the pavement with a loud smack.
“Oh, no, no, no! Oh my goodness!” I cry, and I bend down to help her. “Don’t move. Let’s see . . . oh crap . . . did you land on your stomach? Did you hit your head?”
“No, I didn’t hit my head. Calm down, will you? That was my purse making that noise.”
She’s lying on her side in the flower bed, her head resting on a big old palm frond, looking up at me through her same old calm-as-anything Natalie eyes. She’s not frothing at the mouth or bleeding or giving birth. She’s just Natalie, lying there as if she meant to. Then she starts trying to pull herself up and can’t.
“Here, maybe you shouldn’t move. Really, Nat. It could be you broke something.”
“Stop yelling,” she hisses at me, which is weird because I’m almost positive I’m not yelling. “I’m fine,” she says. “Just help . . . just help me up, would you? And don’t attract attention.”
“Okay, here, hold on to me. Can you hold on?” I go around to the other side of her and get down on my knees, but I can’t figure out where to grab on to her, and she’s so big, but just then a man’s large hands show up in my field of vision, and somebody in a white coat is gently grasping my sister under the arms and gradually easing her upright until she’s on her feet, and then supporting her gigantic body against his until she can steady herself. I’m still on the ground, scrambling around to get the contents of her purse, which have spilled everywhere, and I can’t see his face, only that he has dark hair, and she seems to be leaning against him as he walks her inside.
“There,” I hear him say. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she says, which is so untrue it’s not even funny. But leave it to my sister.
I finish picking up all her lipsticks and quarters and a wad of tissues, and then I run to catch up with them. A blast of cold air-conditioning hits my face when I open the door, and I can hear Natalie saying, “Oooh! It’s freezing in here!”
“Ridiculously cold,” he agrees, and that’s when I look up at his face, and it’s Jeremy Sanders holding on to my sister.
Jeremy Sanders! Of course it is! I almost laugh. At first I think this is all an elaborate ploy by my mother to get us together. She is a busybody with mysterious ways. The color seems to leave his face as he lowers my sister onto a bench next to the elevators. Once he gets her situated, he straightens up and looks at me with wide, round eyes.
I must look as shocked as he does.
I hear myself saying, “Hi, how are you?”
“Marnie.” He looks stunned. But then he manages to recover and says, “And oh my goodness, this is Natalie? Hi! Wow. Are you okay? That was quite a spill you took. Here, take my coat. You’re shivering.”
He starts removing his white coat, which I notice says JEREMY SANDERS, DPT embroidered over the pocket. Whatever that means. Something official, from the looks of him.
“No,” Natalie says. She’s back to being her brisk and competent self now, waving him away, thanking him for taking care of her, but saying she’s got to get to the dentist’s office, and she’s fine, really she’s just fine—it was just a little slip is all. Nothing to worry about. She’s just going to rest here for a second, catch her breath, and then she’ll be off.
I keep sneaking looks at him. He seems older, of course—but in a good, mature-guy way. My mind is filled immediately with the memory of his slouchiness, his nonconformitude, his sloppy snarkiness. None of that is left. He’s obviously become a fully invested member of society. Who would have guessed?
“Hey, dude, it’s great to see you!” I say. “So you’re a DPT now! Yay, you!”
“Yes,” he says and smiles at me with even, white teeth. I never noticed how really white and even his teeth were.
“And forgive me,” I say, “but what is a DPT?”
“Physical therapist,” he and Natalie both say at the same time, and then she grabs on to her huge stomach and lets out a yell.
“Um, I’d say your sister seems to be in labor. I think we should call an ambulance. That fall did not look good,” he says in a low voice.
“NO!” roars Natalie, holding up one hand while she clutches her abdomen with the other. We watch her in fascination, and after a moment she straightens up and says, “I’m fine. I’m prepared for this.”
“She’s a warrior,” I tell him. “So you’re still living here? Or did you move back?”
He tears his eyes away from Natalie and looks at me. “Came back about six months ago. My mom’s getting up there in years and needed some extra help . . . and so you’re back here, too? Or just visiting for—?” He gestures toward Natalie.
“The baby? No! I’ve moved back. This is home. Now. Newly.” I shrug and do a ridiculous little dance to show how carefree I am. I am beginning to regret that I’m wearing paint-splattered jeans and that my hair is shoved up into a big messy knot, although he’s certainly seen me looking worse.
“No, totally,” he says, which doesn’t really make any sense, but who cares. He looks back over at Natalie, who is shivering on the bench and breathing hard, and his eyes are round with alarm. “Really. We should call an ambulance.”
“No! This . . . is . . . false labor,” Natalie manages. “If the contractions were real, then . . . my Lamaze teacher . . . said . . .” Suddenly she can’t talk anymore and her face has turned pale and she slumps against the wall, panting.
Jeremy looks at me. “I don’t know what the Lamaze teacher said, but whatever. She’s not here, and we are. I think we’ve got to do something. So . . . I’m thinking hospital?”
“Definitely.”
“Definitely not,” says Natalie, resurfacing from her breathing debacle. “That’s not the way this works. You have early labor for a long time before you have active labor . . . and I did not have early labor. So these can’t be—”
