The Perils of Pauline Read online

  The door opens, Donald emerges, wrapped in a towel and muttering, “Never mind, I’m done anyway.”

  For the first time ever, I give thanks for his useless male can’t-find-things genes.

  I hurry into the bathroom, lock the door, crouch down and grope about for the test, which is still hidden from prying eyes in the dark recesses behind the sink plumbing at the back of the cabinet. Got it. I stand up and look at the result. The room spins. My heart flumps around in my chest. It’s blue. Oh no. My knees go weak. I sit on the edge of the bathtub with my head spinning while I attempt to line up my brain cells and make them walk in a straight line.

  Wait a minute. I seize the box to reread the instructions. Blue means negative. Phew.

  As I tuck the test kit back in the tampon box, I can’t help but think what it might be like to carry Michael’s child. I have a sudden vision of myself reclining in a meadow, wearing a floaty dress while Michael trails daisy chains reverently across my bump and looks into my eyes adoringly. Glow, glow, glow.

  Bernie has outdone himself this year for his birthday party. He shows us a homemade pinwheel consisting of a large bicycle wheel with rockets and sparklers wired to the spokes. It’s a pyro’s dream nailed through the axle to a tree in his backyard.

  “One fuse to rule them all,” Bernie says as he points out the way all the ignition wires are connected.

  “You even made your own mortar casings and gunpowder?” Donald fingers the wires, his eyes ringed with admiration. He’s acting like a big kid, begging to be the one to light the fuse.

  Bibienne pulls me aside to whisper, “Are you guys back together? You seem to be getting along.”

  “No. We’re still separated. Since Donald is leaving for Calgary soon, he took some vacation time. We’re trying to do stuff together, as a family, for the sake of the kids. And we both wanted to come over and wish Bernie a happy birthday.”

  Bibienne looks doubtful.

  “I know. It’s weird. We don’t talk much. We both seem to be waiting for the other to make the first move.”

  I can’t bring myself to tell her about making my move with Michael, the weirdest part of all.

  As soon as it gets dark enough, we all stand back to watch as the pinwheel, flinging green and gold sparks in a ten foot arc, reaches speeds of at least 80 miles an hour before it spins off the tree and goes careening into the bushes.

  “Stupidest hobby ever. It’s a wonder my children survive him,” Bibienne says, shaking her head and ushering the kids back into the house. The men remain in the yard sipping their beers, eyes glittering in the darkness, reminiscing about last year’s strobe rocket launch.

  Bibi wants to show me the set of tarot cards she’s been designing. They’re arranged in neat rows across her drafting table. “I started this project just for fun. Bernie threw up a website for me and I’m getting tons of hits. I’ve got dozens of orders already. The deck isn’t even completed yet,” she says. “I may even have to take a leave from the clinic to finish. I’m still working on the minor arcana of the coins, but the wands, swords, and cups are finished.”

  I pick up the Queen of Cups card with a small pang, remembering the reading from last spring when she turned up. The good woman card: she was supposed to be me. Bibi peers over my shoulder.

  “This card is one of my favorites,” she says. “You know, I kept thinking of you when I drew her. See? She even looks like you.”

  I stare at the image. The queen is smiling but her eyes look sad.

  “I drew her standing on a stone bridge to show her tendency to be caught between two opposing shores. Water means change. There’s a river flowing under her feet and she needs to get across safely. She has a cup in her hands and she has to carry her burden carefully so she won’t spill what’s inside.”

  I set the queen card back down beside the Knight of Cups. I remember now, I got that card too. The man of poetry, romance, and passion. Michael. Funny how accurate the card reading turned out to be. Or maybe the cards are whatever we think they are.

  I wake up at 3 a.m., my insides hollowing out with fear. Could it be I’m pregnant after all? Maybe I took the pregnancy test too early? In my head, I count the days again. To be sure of the results, I probably should wait a few more days before I test again.

  I can’t get back to sleep for worrying. If pregnant, I will have to give birth once again. Serenity dragged her elbows along my spine during labor. Olympia’s head got stuck halfway down and the forceps halfway up. Jack tried to come out sideways. All three of them left me teetering on an inflatable ring for days afterwards. I lie awake, lemur-eyed in the dark. While waiting in vain for sleep, I have to get up to pee no less than three times. And so it begins.

  I head downstairs to make a pot of coffee and, while waiting for it to brew, I’m hit with another horrific realization: coffee contains caffeine, which is verboten to expectant mothers. Ditto for meds and liquor. I can’t even have an aspirin. Which I will likely need soon since I just spied my next-door neighbor Lewis coming up the walk. I open the door.

  “This is for you,” Lewis says as he hands me an envelope.

  Inside the envelope is a letter outlining a number of items regarding our property that are in need of our urgent attention. There’s also a newspaper clipping on lawn care.

  “Lewis, we cut the grass yesterday.”

  “Ah, yes, but you cut it too short. You’re encouraging the weeds that way.”

  Donald appears behind me and says, “Our lawn length is none of your business. What’s in that envelope?”

  I hand Donald the newspaper clipping. Lewis stabs his gnarly forefinger at it, “See? It says here that the blade should never be cut shorter than 3 inches. You took it down to less than 2 inches.”

  “You measured our grass again? Keep off my lawn.”

  While they start into bickering, I look at the list. Among the usual complaints about our peeling porch, too many dandelions, and George’s barking, a critical issue is the presence of a couple of bird’s nests in our back yard. Apparently the neighborhood is overrun with starlings and robins and this is a serious matter for the gardeners who want to guard their worm populations. Not to mention the outrage of early morning birdsong and a few incidents involving bird poop and unprotected heads on decks.

  There’s no way I’m scuppering any bird’s nests. And it’s too bad, but the peeling porch will have to wait. I’ve got other plans. Over breakfast, I share them with Donald: “I’ve been looking into starting a small business. My Mom is going to loan me the money.”

  He snaps his head up from his newspaper and bulges his eyes out at me: “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, maybe a flower shop. Or antiques.”

  “I thought you wanted to finish your degree?”

  “I do. But isn’t this better? I only have three more credits left to do; I can finish them at night school.”

  Donald lays his paper on the table as if his arms have been drained of all their blood. “But you don’t know a thing about retail. Maybe you should take a marketing course at Dingwall first.”

  “I can learn as I go. The small business center downtown has a lending library and free seminars. I’d like to head down there today, actually.”

  Whoa, were did that last bit come from? Evidently, my strategic fudging skills have advanced considerably since I met Michael. Last night Donald asked me to go to the zoo with him and the kids today. I’m desperate for a good excuse to get out of it. After all, I volunteered to go on Olympia’s school zoo trip just last June. Why should I have to go on another excursion to the zoo again, so soon? Donald’s the one who needs to spend quality time with the kids before he leaves town. Besides, it’s his turn to be run ragged through the Lion Pit and the Monkey House.

  An odd thing has happened. I woke up early this morning, and couldn’t get back to sleep due to my imagination producing the sensation of little kicks already. I slipped into the bathroom to do the retest.

  This time I was prepar
ed with a clean glass to collect my morning urine but the extra test has mysteriously vanished. I’ve racked my brains to think what I might have done with it. Maybe one of the kids has found it, played with it.

  I checked Jack and Olympia’s bedrooms, but no luck. What could’ve happened to it?

  After breakfast, on a sudden wild-blue-sky hunch, I confront Serenity re the missing test.

  Serenity presses her lips together in a scowl. “I found it in the tampon box.” She bites on her baby fingernail. “I missed my period.”

  “And?”

  I’m Pauline Peacock. In the conservatory. With a rope.

  It’s time for an emergency visit to the doctor for Serenity and me. Serenity has all the symptoms: sore, tender nipples, constant nausea, fatigue, and cravings. I have all the symptoms of a nervous breakdown: sore tender feelings, constant irritation, and a craving to pulverize my eldest daughter.

  The doctor immediately sends us to the lab for blood tests; she wants us both to come back tomorrow as she’ll have our results by then, our paps are overdue and she wants to go over birth control options with Serenity. The doctor’s raised eyebrows clearly suggested she thinks I ought to sit in on a little egg-meets-sperm lecture too. Serenity, with a look of fury, rolls her eyes around as if this kind of thing has nothing to do with her.

  On the way home in the car, I decide it’s time for a talk about the birds and the bees; in this case, I’m the one who is confused and naive:

  “How is this possible? I thought you were … uh …”

  “The word is ‘lesbian’ Mom. And, yes, I’m one of those.”

  “I know, I know, but explain to me the part about how … ?”

  “I was trying to get back at Shae I guess. She hates wishy-washy dykes.”

  “So you think getting pregnant is a punishment for Shae?”

  “I didn’t plan on the pregnant part. I just got slightly too high on the revenge trip with Jude.”

  “Jude?”

  “Don’t worry. He’s really nice. Gay, thank god.”

  I’m back in the doctor’s office with Serenity. The doctor says she’ll go over my results first.

  Thank you, thank you. The doctor says my test came back negative. My missed period was probably due to stress. Or perimenopause. The doctor explains, all cheerfully, that periods can become erratic as women approach real menopause, which is a gradual transitional period of four to fifteen years. During that time I may experience one or all of the following: vaginal itching and dryness, mood swings, hot and/or cold flashes, erratic cycles, heart palpitations, joint pain, weight gain, thinning of hair and bones. My spirits sag at the thought of turning into a hairless, bedridden old crone. Pregnancy is sounding better all the time.

  Still, I’m relieved that I’m not pregnant. My relief lasts about 13 seconds as the doctor clears her throat, turns to her keyboard and pulls up the lab results from Serenity’s file. Serenity’s definitely going to need a full physical examination and prenatal vitamins.

  On the way home Serenity wants to go shopping for maternity clothes.

  “Not today,” I say. My eyes are misting over so much I can barely drive, let alone navigate a shopping mall.

  “Why do you keep putting on the windshield wipers, Mom? It’s not raining.”

  Because I’m fighting back tears, that’s why. I’m so confused. I’m going to be a grandmother. A grandmother! I’m only 37. It’s going to take a lot more than a wiper blade to smooth away these tears.

  Whatever will Michael think? He’s doing a granny? Maybe we should go shopping. I may be much closer than I thought to incontinence pads.

  Serenity will have to make do with her wardrobe as it is, for now. It would be cruel to show her what’s in store for her anyway. Ugly smocks and huge bras. Stretchy pink tops with bouncing bunnies and arrows pointing at the bulge. I hate to tell her but the skater stores don’t carry anything in panel pants.

  We arrive home and, as I enter the house, my ears are assaulted by an awful screeching noise coming from the den. I poke my head in to see Donald, red-faced, blowing into a saxophone.

  “Look what I got,” he yells upon seeing me. “It’s a vintage Selmer. Check it out—it’s engraved and has mother-of-pearl touch points and the Zagar mouthpiece and everything.” He blasts off a loud honk and says, “It’s amazing how much I still remember.”

  Donald can’t sit still when he takes a vacation. He’s been shopping online all week, buying all kinds of toys. Last week he found a coffee bean roaster and yesterday he ordered a giant trampoline.

  At least he’s relaxing and enjoying himself. I can’t possibly prick his bubble by imparting Serenity’s news right now.

  Serenity’s been on the phone talking nonstop to her friends ever since the doctor’s visit, two days ago now. You’d think her positive result was a full scholarship to Harvard or the equivalent. Instead of being upset, she’s delighted. Her dyke friends are all thrilled too. Not many baby showers happen in that circle. They’ve all pledged pregnancy and labor support, free babysitting, one girl has already lined up a crib and high chair; this baby will be a group project like they did together in high school but “way better.” Jude is coming over tomorrow to meet us. He says he wants joint custody. I wonder if he’d like to take on a puppy or two as well?

  Serenity’s condition has given me an evil blinding headache. Wish it were a deafening headache as I just spied Donald walking by, heading for the den again with his saxophone. Despite all the clear evidence—for starters, Serenity has been lying around on the living room couch for days on end with two sets of headphones, one for her head and one clamped around her belly—Donald still hasn’t caught on. He never will. I realized that the day I went into labor with Jack, and Donald actually thought we could use the short term parking at the hospital.

  I poke my head into the living room first where Serenity is painting her toenails a bright blue.

  “Do you want to tell Donald or shall I share your news with him myself?”

  “I already told Dad so it’s cool with me if you tell Donald,” she says.

  “What did your father say?”

  “He was being a real jerk. I think he was drunk. He kept laughing and saying that kids are a self-inflicted wound. He asked how you are. He was laughing so much I couldn’t hear what he was saying after that so I hung up on him.”

  Now I can’t wait to phone up my ex and tell him he’s going to be a grandfather. Bet that detail hasn’t occurred to him yet. One last laugh coming right up.

  But first I have to tell Donald that he’s going to be a step-grandfather. Too late. I hear the first blaring sounds coming from the den. Maybe I’ll wait and shout it out when he’s practicing somersaults on his trampoline.

  Enter Jude. Stage left. Jude just clinched an audition with Queer Park Productions.

  Jude has long silky hair and huge brown eyes fringed with gorgeous lashes. I can totally see why Serenity made a gay pride exception in his case. He’s a darling. I wanted to sit him on my lap and play butterfly lashes with him. I couldn’t though because I was too busy shoveling pizzas out onto the patio table. Of course Serenity neglected to mention that she was throwing a party so all her friends could meet all of Jude’s friends.

  Bibienne came over with a six-pack of vodka coolers and we stood in the kitchen sipping and looking through the window at Jude sitting out on the deck, his long legs propped up on the deck rail. After a few minutes, she looked at me as if she wanted to say something but was thinking better of it.

  “He’s 20 so we’re allowed to be cougars,” I said.

  All she could say was, “Mmmm, lanky.”

  We’ve never had so much fun at a party: Jude & Company have solved all our troubles including problem skin and hair style while the girls climbed up on the roof with flashlights and fixed the leak.

  Bibienne cracked open her third cooler and, after tossing half of it down her throat, finally said, “See? These kids are yet another reminder of just how use
less our husbands are.”

  After I went to bed, the kids stayed on to run around the neighborhood playing tag until 3 a.m. Meanwhile Donald missed the whole thing because he went fishing with Bernie.

  The best part is that all the pups are taken, adopted by Serenity’s friends.

  Shae is back. She heard the news and rushed back from Maine to see Serenity. She’s been up north fighting forest fires since the big breakup. Serenity was transported with delight to see her. Now Shae the Lumberjack is bonding with Donald over the Red Sox while drinking beer on the living room couch with her steeltoed boots hiked up on my coffee table. How do you like that, sports fans?

  The blinds are closed and the television screen is so dusty I don’t know how Donald and Shae can watch the ballgame. Chip bags and soda cans litter the floor around them.

  Maybe I’m not pregnant after all but my disgusting house cries out for a woman with a serious nesting urge. I call everyone into the kitchen to make an announcement: “I’m delighted to see you’re all enjoying a relaxing weekend. However, I regret to inform you that there’s no maid service at this resort. Everyone has to do their share. Therefore, I want one hour of solid effort from each of you. Jack can vacuum, Olympia dust, Serenity and Shae wash windows, I’ll do the bathrooms and, Donald, you could start with changing the burnt out bulbs in the ceiling fixture in the kitchen.”

  Olympia needs to know how to dust. I can explain:

  “First, take everything off the top of the piano, wipe off all the dust, and then put everything back.”

  Olympia looks puzzled. I have to show her how. I spend twenty minutes demonstrating the procedure to Olympia and then I tell her to go dust the TV. I look around: there are no vacuuming sounds, and Serenity and Shae have disappeared. Donald is teetering on a kitchen chair grimacing at a broken bulb stuck in the light fixture, a box of light bulbs tucked under his arm.

  “Stupid thing broke when I tried to twist it out,” he grumbles.