Christmas Bliss Page 6

  “Is it a boy or a girl?”

  “Don’t know,” I said breezily.

  “But which would you prefer?” somebody asked.

  “A healthy baby,” I responded.

  “Have you picked out names yet?”

  “Not really. We want to wait to see who the baby is before we commit to something as important—and permanent—as a name.”

  “I always think family names are the most suitable,” Aunt Bizzy opined. “And you know, none of the cousins has ever named a child after your grandparents. Wouldn’t that be a lovely tribute to them?” She gave me a meaningful wink.

  I adore my grandparents—whose names are Spencer and Lorena. Nice enough names, I suppose, but not ones I would ever choose for my own child. I was about to remind Aunt Bizzy that she hadn’t bothered to name any of her five children after her own parents, but thank God, Grandmama overheard.

  “Good heavens! I’ve always hated the name Lorena, and I’m not keen on Spencer either, which is why we didn’t foist them off on any of our own children.”

  She gave me a stern look. “BeBe, I absolutely forbid you to name a child after either of us.”

  “If you insist,” I said gratefully.

  “Don’t ask her about when she’s getting married,” Grandmama said when there was finally a temporary lull in the conversation. She was seated in a leather armchair in front of the fireplace, her silver-knobbed cane resting against her legs, which were clad in her customary dark orange surgical stockings.

  Five sets of eyes stared at me. I smiled sweetly. And said absolutely nothing.

  Fortunately, more waves of women soon landed in the room, another two dozen or so—and they barely made a dent in the Ruckers’ expansive living room, with its jewel-toned Oriental rugs, velvet sofas, and paisley armchairs and leather wing chairs.

  I circled the room and made polite conversation.

  “Do you have a birth plan yet?” asked Stephanie Gardner. Stephanie was a Georgia Tech–educated engineer, and she and her husband, Jeff, also an engineer, lived two doors down from my town house downtown. I liked Stephanie, but her brilliance and efficiency always made me feel inadequate. In fact, she was so efficient, she’d managed to have twins three years ago and six weeks later ran a marathon.

  “Do I need a birth plan? Nobody told me.”

  “Of course! When I had Addison and James, I had a whole spreadsheet printed out and packed in my hospital bag. Jeff had a copy, and my mom and mother-in-law had theirs, and I made sure to e-mail copies to my obstetrician and his partners.”

  “I don’t think I have one of those,” I admitted. “I sort of just thought when the time came I’d go to the hospital and, you know, have a baby.”

  “Oh, BeBe, you’re so cute and funny,” she said, rapping my arm playfully.

  I turned away slightly and bumped into Karen Turner, a former classmate from Savannah Country Day.

  “Oh, a Christmas baby,” she cooed, placing both hands on my belly. I backed away a little. Baby or no, I’ve never gotten used to people, even well-meaning semi-friends, randomly fondling my abdomen.

  “Uh, actually, no. I’m not due for another six weeks.”

  Her eyes widened. “Really? Ugh. Another six weeks? I remember when I was pregnant with Creighton, those last six weeks were torture. I couldn’t sleep, because he kicked nonstop, plus I had to get up every ten minutes to pee. The back pain was agony! And then I got gestational diabetes, which meant blood testing and insulin injections. Plus, I had this really heinous constant heartburn, and then my hands were so swollen Wendell had to take me to the emergency room and get my wedding ring sawed off.”

  She gazed meaningfully down at my ringless left hand.

  What do you say to something like that? I blanked, which Karen took as a signal to overshare with one last tidbit of her maternity miseries.

  She leaned in and lowered her voice. “I guess Merijoy probably told you about my episiotomy disaster, right?”

  Episiotomy disaster? If ever there were two words no pregnant woman ever wants to hear uttered together, it was those words. I looked around for Weezie, frantically searching the room, hoping she would rescue me. But she was clear across the room, laughing and chatting with our hostess, without a care in the world.

  “I’m still not right,” Karen was saying.

  I felt dizzy. I put both hands on the back of a nearby chair to steady myself, but the room seemed to suddenly go a little fuzzy around the edges. I took a couple of deep cleansing breaths, the kind I’d read about on somebody’s mommy blog.

  “Are you all right?” Karen asked.

  “Could you excuse me?” I managed. “I have to go powder my nose.”

  I ran-walked to the powder room, making it just in the nick of time. Afterward, I ran cold water on one of Merijoy’s monogrammed linen hand towels and dabbed my face and neck with it. I leaned against the locked bathroom door and checked the time on my cell phone. Only twenty minutes had passed since I’d arrived. Twenty minutes!

  More deep breaths.

  Finally, after ten minutes of stalling, I sidled back into the living room and concentrated on making myself invisible—no easy task when you’re the size of a Winnebago and the party is in your honor.

  Thankfully, nobody else had the nerve to inquire about my plans—birth or marriage. And I managed to steer well away from Karen Turner for the rest of the afternoon.

  Finally, mercifully, Merijoy herded us all into the dining room, where we exclaimed over her snowman-themed Christmas tree and loaded our hand-painted luncheon plates with the obligatory Southern lady party food; tiny, delicious little crustless sandwiches made with shrimp paste or egg salad or pimento cheese, deviled eggs, a pecan-speckled cheese ball surrounded by strawberry preserves, and of course cheese straws. In Savannah, there’s a law that says you cannot get engaged, married, christened, or buried without a nicely polished silver tray of cheese straws.

  When I’d eaten my fill of cheese-related products, plus four or five Christmas cookies, I allowed myself to be steered back to the living room, where I sank gratefully into one of the armchairs by the sofa, hoping nobody would notice as I removed my shoes.

  “How’re you doing?” Weezie asked, grabbing the chair beside mine. “I saw Karen Turner bending your ear earlier. And then I noticed you mysteriously disappeared. For a minute there, I was afraid you’d left. And then I remembered I drove. So, is everything okay?”

  “Everything is just peachy. Stephanie Gardner pointed out that I don’t have a birth plan. And then Karen attempted to regale me with a hilarious account of her botched episiotomy, after which I had to race to the bathroom to barf. Good times!”

  Weezie winced. “Sorry. But cheer up. All you have to do now is open some presents and look gracious and grateful. Twenty, thirty more minutes tops, we’ll be out of here.”

  Unfortunately, our hostess hadn’t gotten the memo about Weezie’s timetable. Merijoy stood in front of the fireplace and clapped her hands to silence the chattering crowd.

  “Okay, y’all,” she announced. “You know what time it is, right?”

  “Game time?” squealed one of the Marys. “Ooh, I love silly shower games.”

  I didn’t dare look over at Weezie.

  * * *

  We scooted our chairs into a semicircle. Merijoy’s eyes gleamed with excitement as she brought out a large cardboard box. She reached in and brought out what looked suspiciously like a stack of disposable diapers.

  “Now, girls, everybody take a diaper, but don’t unfold it yet. No peeking!”

  I stared dumbly down at the diaper in my lap.

  “When I say ‘Go!’ everybody open your diaper. There’s a little surprise in there. You can touch it and smell it—but you can’t taste it. Write down what you think it is on your little notepad, and then pass it along to the next person. Keep it moving! When I say stop, the first person who has all the correct answers wins a prize. No cheating, now!”

  “Yay!”
chirped Mary Elizabeth, at twenty-three the youngest of the Marys. “I love the doody in the diaper game!”

  Seeing my expression, Weezie leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Don’t worry. It’s just some melted candy. You know, like a Butterfinger or a Tootsie Roll.”

  “That’s the sickest thing I’ve ever heard of,” I whispered back.

  “Go!” Merijoy ordered. Immediately the room erupted in a chorus of shrieks and giggles.

  I reluctantly unfastened the tapes of my diaper and gazed down at the contents, which appeared to be some kind of brown lump encrusted with peanuts.

  “Snicker,” Weezie whispered. I rolled my eyes but dutifully wrote it down. As soon as I’d finished, Weezie handed me a diaper that had been handed to her. I glanced, shrugged, and scribbled something illegible. Another diaper, then another and another were handed around. Each time I passed it along without looking. Fortunately, the other women were so immersed in the hilarity of the game nobody noticed my lack of participation.

  “Stop!” Merijoy called, and she was greeted with groans and more giggles. When the notes were tallied, it was no surprise that Mary Elizabeth was the big winner—correctly guessing twelve different kinds of mashed-up or melted candies.

  Merijoy’s next game was just as sick and twisted as her first. She quickly produced another large cardboard box—full of baby bottles.

  “Y’all are gonna love this one,” she exclaimed. “Everybody gets a bottle, okay? They’re all filled with something different.” She nodded in my direction. “Don’t worry, BeBe, I’ll make sure yours doesn’t have anything alcoholic in it.”

  “Yippee,” I said weakly.

  “When I holler go, everybody has to suck their bottle down. All of it! Whoever finishes first, wins. Isn’t that hilarious?”

  “I don’t think I’ll participate in this one, dear,” Grandmama said when Merijoy handed her one of the bottles.

  “I’m going to opt out too,” I whispered. “I’m just the slightest bit queasy right now. In fact, I’m just going to run along to the bathroom.”

  “Oh, pooh! You’re no fun,” Merijoy said, but she went all around the circle, passing out bottles.

  Weezie sniffed hers. “Cranberry juice. And vodka, I think.”

  “Make sure you don’t drink all that,” I said, getting to my feet. “You’re driving us home—and I’ve got a baby on board, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “As if,” she said.

  * * *

  “Go, Bizzy, go,” the women were chanting as I waddled out of the powder room and into the living room. My aunt Bizzy, the same serene former president of the Charleston Junior League, was leaned backwards in her chair, sucking so hard on her baby bottle that it looked like she’d turn her cheeks inside out.

  “Go, go, go,” my cousins chanted, their own bottles forgotten. The other women in the circle were still delicately sipping and sucking on their own concoctions.

  Finally Bizzy held her empty bottle up for inspection. “Done,” she called breathlessly.

  “What was it?” Jeanne Marie asked. “Mine was apple juice.”

  “Not sure,” Bizzy said, her voice thick and a little woozy. “Something chocolatey.”

  “Ooh, you got the Baileys Irish Cream,” Merijoy exclaimed. “You win!”

  * * *

  Next, Merijoy went around the circle handing out balls of string and pairs of children’s blunt-tipped scissors.

  I glanced uneasily at Weezie, who seemed to be a font of knowledge when it came to disturbing trends in baby shower games. “I’m afraid to ask,” I whispered.

  “Uh-oh,” she said, shaking her head and laughing. “You’re for sure not gonna like this one.”

  Merijoy stopped when she got to me. “Come on, BeBe, I need you to stand up,” she ordered. I just barely managed to squeeze my feet back into my shoes before she gave me her hand, and with effort, managed to haul me out of the armchair.

  “Stand here in front of the fireplace,” she instructed. I did as I was told. Merijoy Rucker somehow has that effect on people. Even me. She rarely raises her voice, but she always gets her way.

  “Turn around. Slowly.”

  I did a slow spin, my cheeks burning.

  “Good. You can sit down now.”

  “Now, girls. You’ve all got your string and your scissors. I want you to figure out the distance around BeBe’s waist, and cut your string to that length.” She waggled her finger at my cousins. “And no fair measuring your own waist or anybody else’s. You’re just supposed to eyeball BeBe. Got it?”

  I smiled brightly. This was fun, right? Fun, fun, fun. So why was I so miserable?

  I turned to Weezie, but she wasn’t there. She was walking rapidly in the direction of the dining room, her cell phone pressed to her ear.

  I felt a hand on my elbow and turned to see that Grandmama had taken Weezie’s vacated chair.

  “It’s just a game, sugar,” she said, her voice low and soothing. “I know you don’t like the way you look right now, but no woman really feels attractive when she’s as far along as you are. Why, when I was pregnant with your daddy, the last month, I refused to leave the house.”

  She took my hand in hers and squeezed it. Her skin was cool and dry to the touch, and I could feel the ropy outline of her veins under my own fingertips, and it made me miss my own mother so keenly it nearly took my breath away.

  “I wouldn’t even sleep in the same room with your granddaddy, because I didn’t want him to see me in my nightgown,” she continued.

  “Really?” My voice was wobbly. Damned hormones.

  “Really. And for what it’s worth, I think you look lovely. You might not think so, but pregnancy suits you. Your skin and hair are so soft and shiny, you’re just beautiful.”

  “That’s what Harry keeps telling me,” I whispered.

  “I like that Harry,” she said, smiling. “I do wish you would marry him, but I promised your granddaddy I wasn’t going to pester you about this today. So I won’t. I’ll just say we’re very, very happy to see you so happy these days.”

  I leaned over and kissed her papery cheek, then took my finger and rubbed at the lipstick smudge I’d left.

  * * *

  Somehow I managed to get through the rest of the fun and games. I opened what seemed like an endless array of gifts, smiling and exclaiming at the usefulness of everything.

  “It’s all so sweet,” I said when Merijoy’s rug was covered in what seemed like a foot of crumpled paper and ribbon. Weezie was busily loading my gifts into a gleaming European stroller, and Merijoy was bundling the rest of them into an antique wicker cradle that had been her gift to me.

  “Thank you, everybody,” I said, gazing around at the circle of women. These were my people—friends and near friends, relatives and neighbors. An imperfect circle, but mine nonetheless. And it struck me that Weezie was right. These women were here because they were happy for me and wanted to celebrate the birth of my baby. Maybe it was the hormones, or maybe it was the shadow of Richard looming large in my subconscious, but suddenly I was feeling all weepy and grateful, maybe even just a tad gracious.

  Chapter 8

  After we’d finally managed to wedge all my loot into the backseat and trunk of my car, I was only too happy to accept Weezie’s offer to drive me home. My lower back was aching and I was exhausted. I laid my head back and closed my eyes for what seemed like a matter of seconds, but before I knew it, we were parked in front of the Breeze Inn, and Weezie was gently shaking me awake.

  “Home sweet home,” she said, pointing at the blinking neon “No Vacancy” sign. I yawned widely.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, peering over to check my face in the fading light. “You look kind of pale.”

  “Just tired,” I said, stifling another yawn. I glanced around the parking lot, hoping to see Harry’s truck, but it wasn’t there.

  “Is Harry coming back from his fishing trip tonight?” Weezie asked, realizing what I was looking for
.

  “Don’t know. He took one of his rich snowbird clients early this morning, and he wasn’t sure how far south they’d go before they started catching fish. He usually calls around six to touch base with me.”

  She got out of the car and hurried around to open the trunk and start unloading my gifts. It took us three trips to get it all into the apartment, where Jeeves immediately busied himself circling the packages, sniffing expectantly.

  “Sorry, pal, no dog biscuits or bones in there,” Weezie said, scooping the dog up into her arms and allowing him to lick her face.

  “Sit down,” she said, pointing at the armchair Jeeves had only recently vacated. “I’m going to fix you some hot tea. What about dinner? Are you hungry?”

  “Tea would be nice, but no dinner. I think I ate my weight in those damn Christmas cookies.”

  “It was a really lovely party, I thought,” Weezie called from the kitchen. “Except for those stupid, horrible games.”

  “Who even thinks that stuff up?” I demanded. “Making people chug from baby bottles? And did you see how long my cousin Mary Elizabeth’s string was? She obviously thinks I’m the size of a cruise ship. Or maybe an aircraft carrier. I swear, that string was at least three yards long.”

  “Mary Elizabeth might want to take a peek in her own mirror before she goes thinking about how big you are,” Weezie said tartly. “Cuz there’s enough room on that back porch of hers to hang a swing and a glider!”

  “I noticed you were on the phone for a pretty long time right about then,” I said. “Or was that just a ruse so you didn’t have to participate in the fun and games?”

  She came into the living room and sat down on the chair across from mine. “I was talking to Daniel. He sounded so unhappy. So lonely. He’s got an awful cold, and he finally admitted he’s not sleeping, and there’s no real food in the apartment they’re putting him up in. I’m thinking … I’m really sorta wondering if maybe I should go up there and take care of him.”