Читать книгу Family Be Mine - Tracy Kelleher, Tracy Kelleher - Страница 11

“IT WAS HUMILIATING,” Sarah blurted out. She wandered around the reception area of the salon in the nearby little town of Craggy Hill, looking at the wide array of OPI nail polishes on display. The salon was located on the first floor of an old frame house, with the cozy, cream-colored carpeted living room serving as the reception. Small back bedrooms worked perfectly as private spa facilities for pedicures, manicures, facials and massages.

Katarina and Julie were treating Sarah and themselves to pedicures as a prelude to the official baby shower that evening at Katarina and Ben’s house.

“I’m sure you’re exaggerating,” Julie said. She was inspecting the line of France-themed colors, turning each bottle to read the label. “Ooh La La Lavender?” she asked to no one in particular. “A must for the fashion-conscious obstetrician on the go-go.”

Katarina checked out the bottles lined up on the mantel. “I never knew there were so many types of clear polish. All right, I’ll take the plunge and go for Shell Pink Shimmy.” She clutched the bottle and turned to Sarah who was wriggling around in a club chair, trying to find a comfortable position. “And what about you, Woman of the Hour?” She leaned her head in the direction of Sarah. “What color will allow you to recover from the humiliation of water aerobics?”

“As if it matters? I’m so big I can barely see my feet.” As if to prove her point, Sarah raised one leg just to get a good look at her sneaker. “So that’s my right foot. Somehow I remember it being smaller.”

“Well, what color is the bathing suit they got you for your class? You could go for that complete ensemble look,” Katarina suggested with what seemed to be sincerity.

“Are you trying to be cruel? It was more like incomplete ensemble. Do you know how little the top part of a bikini covers a pregnant woman’s boobs?”

“I’d give anything to have boobs like yours. Why am I the only Italian-American woman I know who is flat as a pancake?” Julie asked.

“Please, let’s not get into body issues. You, after all, have not entered the world of elastic-waist pants.” Sarah glanced over at the selection of the new Spanish-themed nail polishes grouped atop a gateleg table. “What about that one?” She pointed to a deep pinkish-red one on the right.

“Wow!” Katarina walked over and picked up the bottle Sarah had indicated. “Conquistadorable. You have someone in mind to conquer?”

Sarah waved off the suggestion. “It’s more like I think it matches the cherry pie I baked.”

Julie shook her head. “That’s our Sarah. Bakes a pie for her own baby shower.”

“Well, I just wanted to help out. You guys have done so much on top of working and all. Besides, it’s my way of relaxing,” Sarah said.

And her way of connecting to her roots. Only she didn’t say that.

Sarah might have run away from rural Minnesota as soon as she turned eighteen, but it didn’t mean it was out of her system. True, when she’d followed Earl and become a rock band groupie, she’d gone completely “gonzo”—inky-black nails and purple-dyed hair, plus the requisite tongue piercing and studded neck collar. She’d lost her farm girl glow by staying up all night and bartending at clubs catering to local bands that sporadically favored Earl’s erratic bass playing. But no amount of cheering improved Earl’s musical ability, and it never kept him from straying.

Eager to redeem herself in her parents’ eyes, she became a determined student/working girl. She’d enrolled at Hunter College’s School of Health Professions, commuting to Manhattan from her dumpy apartment in Queens. This time she strove for upward mobility. She switched to bartending at Upper East Side haunts frequented by investment bankers and female interns at Sotheby’s. Sarah had let her hair go back to her natural blond. She learned about button-down collars from the men and artists like Cy Twombly and Helen Frankenthaler from the women. At the same time she racked up a sizable debt for tuition bills, which dismayed her parents yet again when they realized the financial straits she had landed herself in.

So she tried again. Armed with a degree in physical therapy, she gravitated to Grantham for its college town atmosphere and close proximity to New York. And in an area populated by families with sports-happy kids, weekend warriors and aging retirees, the physical therapy business was booming. After first working at a large rehab facility, she landed her current job with a practice affiliated with the hospital. She liked the variety, and liked the feeling that she could follow the progress of a stroke victim from the hospital to at-home care through outpatient appointments at the office.

But still Penny regularly asked, “Is it true that most people in New Jersey are Italian? Not that I have anything against Italians. After all, your father and I enjoy eating pizza at the firehouse fundraisers.”

Zach’s most favorable qualities in her mother’s eyes had been that he wasn’t Earl, and that he’d proposed to their only daughter, just when they’d given up hope.

Now, though, Sarah knew she was truly disappointing them. It was one thing to be an unmarried mother-to-be, but it was another to have left your gay fiancé at the altar. She wondered how Penny explained that one at the firehouse fundraisers.

So here she was, soon to be a hardworking single mother. And while she told everybody that this is what she wanted to do with her life, there were many moments when she wondered, “Is this who I really want to be?”

At least she had baking to keep her company. Besides the cherry pies, there were the peach cobblers, the pineapple upside-down cakes and the snickerdoodles. The trick was to find other people to eat the baked goods so that her ever-expanding waistline was at least somewhat manageable.

Rather than rehash her inability to plot a straight and self-fulfilling course for her life, she decided to give herself a break. To enjoy the sensation of sitting down and knowing that nothing more strenuous awaited her than letting someone else pamper her for a while. Feeling a bit light-headed, she closed her eyes and rested her head on the back of the chair.

“You know, guys, this was a great idea to get pedicures. But I feel guilty.”

Julie looked up from checking the messages on her iPhone. “When have we heard that before?”

Sarah opened her eyes. “Please tell me you’ll let me help pay.”

“Absolutely not!” Katarina protested.

“I know. You can bake the pedicurist some brownies,” Julie said.

“What a good idea,” agreed Sarah.

Julie dropped her head in her hand. “Tell me she’s not serious.”

“Sarah, don’t even think of it. It’s our treat. You see, I was reading online that the third trimester is the time to indulge in girly things,” Katarina said, and grabbed a chair next to Sarah. “Besides, this gives Ben a chance to clean up the empty Cheetos bags and dirty socks and running shoes before the ‘Big Event.’” She made little quotation marks with her fingers.

Sarah swallowed. Just the thought of Cheetos and smelly socks was enough to make her nauseated.

“What I wouldn’t give for a bag of Cheetos now,” Julie said. She scrounged around in her hobo purse on the floor and came up with a packet of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.

“Can I tempt anyone?” she offered. Katarina and Sarah shook their heads, and Julie wasted no time consuming the candy. How the woman managed to live off junk food and still remain rail-thin was a mystery to Sarah.

The owner, Erika, approached them. “Well, ladies, we have one room ready now, and the next two will be free in a few minutes. Who wants to go first?” Her voice had that melodious lilt of some unidentifiable Eastern European language. Her skin was flawless, as well. Clearly, there was something about sour cream, cabbage and potatoes.

Katarina held out a hand toward her friend. “Sarah, I don’t want to hear any objections. This is your evening after all.”

“It may be her evening, but she still hasn’t given us the gory details about yesterday’s water aerobics partner.” Julie stopped munching and texting long enough to speak. “Though considering the pool of candidates who would have signed up—yes, I meant that terrible pun—it can’t have been anyone all that interesting.”

“Oh, he was all right,” she said with a shrug.

All right?! her inner voice objected. Tell them about Hunt Phox’s steady stream of irreverent banter, how it had helped to pass the ninety minutes of class with surprising ease, it demanded impatiently.

Because then I’d have to tell them that not only was he trying to allay our mutual awkwardness, but that fifteen minutes into the workout of stretching and bouncing with Styrofoam noodles and floats, the guy was exhausted.

So what?

Because it was clear from his determined look that he didn’t want to be babied, didn’t want to admit his limitations.

So?

So I respect his pride and his privacy.

Respect nothing. You call the tingling sensation you felt when he gripped your forearms during isometric exercises “respect”?

“Earth to Sarah,” Julie called, interrupting her internal debate. “Are you still with us?”

Sarah shook her head. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to flake out there. My thoughts just kind of got away from me. Chalk it up to general tiredness and pregnancy muddleheadedness, I guess.” She blinked a few times, warding off the light-headedness she was feeling. It was a little hot in the shop.

Then she gripped the arms of the chair. “I really have been looking forward to this all day. It’s just the logistics of getting up that seem a bit daunting.” She pressed down to hoist herself up.

Which is when a weird thing happened.

Because instead of heaving herself into an upright position, Sarah became strangely conscious, almost out-of-body conscious, of pitching forward. And her nose—it really was her nose and not someone else’s she kept thinking—seemed to be getting closer and closer to the rug. This isn’t part of the playbook, she told herself.

And that thought came right before her left temple made contact with the cream-colored rug.