The Storm (Fairhope) Read online

  Was I seriously considering suing Covington?

  My obstetrician’s office smelled like baby formula. The Similac rep must have just left, because at least a dozen cases of ready-made Similac Advance formula cascaded along the back wall of the waiting room. I saw dripping outside one of the lower cases, alas the culprit of the smell. After the reminder of how much I hated the smell of baby formula, I decided that perhaps breastfeeding wouldn’t be such a chore after all.

  I know I looked awful; I had barely scrounged up the energy to slap on a thin coat of makeup and straighten my hair with the skill of a five-year-old. My hair had not been trimmed since I glimpsed the purple plus sign, and my unmistakably split ends were tattling on me. There was no time for haircuts. All extra time went to naps, bingeing sessions with Grace, and the occasional massage for Andrew—the kind without a happy ending.

  “Jana Marie Cook,” called the nurse, my thick chart in her manly hands. She peered at Andrew and me over her mousy eyeglasses, leaning on the door with one stubby foot jutted out in front of her. No smile. Must have been a long day so far for her, too.

  “You are one sexy momma. Pregnancy becomes you,” Andrew murmured softly as he helped me walk up the stairs. He pressed his body against mine, and I bristled at his warmth. Damn. The blow job resurrection would have to come sooner rather than later. I groaned silently. Jana the nymphomaniac had once again vanished roundabout week thirty, and a fat, mad pregnant woman took her place. My Kindle was loaded with titles like Surviving the Third Trimester instead of Fatal Seduction.

  Andrew deserved to be satisfied, and I could stomach a few minutes of oohs and ahhs, eyes seductively floating upward and pretending to like it to make sure he was well pleasured. My feelings for Andrew intensified every moment as he stood firmly by my side, helping me find beauty in the ashes of my downward career spiral. Nothing sexier than a man who worked hard to take care of his woman, and he treated me like the queen I never was.

  I groaned as said agitated nurse wrapped the thick blood pressure cuff around my arm.

  “I predict this will be ugly,” I moaned. Thump, thump, went the sound of my blood pulsating.

  She scowled darkly. “Very ugly. One fifty over ninety. And your pulse—one forty two. That’s not good, either.” She raised the thin eyebrows that crowned her beady eyes. “Are you still eating salty foods?”

  I nodded guilty and hung my head. “I’ve really cut back.”

  Andrew sighed, leaning back against the door. “What does that mean for her?”

  “It means,” the nurse replied matter-of-factly, “probably permanent bed rest this time. It’s up to Dr. Wilson to make that decision.”

  Bed rest it was. Dr. Wilson took one look at my chart after he walked in my patient room and shook his head. “Jana, this is not good. We need Baby Cook to ‘cook’ for two more weeks, at least.” His calloused, thick hand rested on my bony shoulder. “Bed rest it is, Jana.”

  What is Jeff going to say?

  “Is the baby okay?” I sputtered next, fighting back tears.

  I was already lying down on the examination table, and Dr. Wilson pulled out an instrument designed to find the baby’s heartbeat. Within seconds, a strong, fluttering beat burst through, and Andrew’s expression mirrored my audible sigh of relief.

  “She’s fine,” Dr. Wilson said reassuringly. “But resting is imperative. With blood pressure that high, Calla is likely to make an early entrance.” He paused. “Did you follow my instructions from our last visit?”

  I pictured having to call Kevin and sign up for short term disability and decided there was no way in hell that was happening. My pay would be cut in half for what was likely the last few weeks of it, and I refused to risk the financial loss.

  “Yes, I did follow them,” I lied, feeling like he could see straight through me. As hard as I tried to be still, my body ached to move.

  Andrew’s voice was loud, too loud. “Maybe she will get better if she’s away from those unrelenting assholes.”

  “Are things still not going well at work?” Dr. Wilson inquired, concerned.

  “No. I’m fairly certain my days are numbered.” Jeff did not even have me on his calendar for December.

  Dr. Wilson frowned, gazing at me with the tenderness of a father consoling a child after her first tumble off the training wheel-less bicycle. “There’s no doubt in my mind that your work issues are exacerbating your pregnancy complications. Hopefully, removing you from some of this stress will at least keep you from worsening.” He leaned forward, looking me squarely in the face. “No job is worth your health or the health of your child. Do your best to rest.”

  The nurse exited the room, the fancy blood pressure monitor trailing behind her. I stared at the paperwork Dr. Wilson gave me, ordering bed rest.

  “Your company has made their decisions,” Andrew spoke tersely, steadying me as we trudged down the stairs to the car, seeming to read the bitter thoughts written in my mind. “All you can do now is rest and wait.”

  I used vacation days until “the” day. I did not care that it meant less paid days post-downsizing. With disdain, I pictured Jeff’s fake pretenses of concern if I were to actually claim bed rest, and imagined Brooke’s taunts that no one would be brave enough to repeat: Oh, please, bed rest? She’s milking the system. She needs to suck it up; there’s nothing wrong with her. Maybe she thinks that will save her from being laid off.

  My first “vacation” day ended with me gritting my teeth and showcasing my excellent acting skills throughout my first baby shower. Julianne, who stepped up to host the small invitation list of Covington employees, rented out a private room at an elegant restaurant in town and decorated it like a pro. She wanted to throw a gender reveal party, but I refused. Too busy to keep up with the latest “first baby” trends, Andrew and I had skipped the budding tradition of the gender reveal party. I remembered Katie Klein Carpenter’s, which I begrudgingly attended. Katie, my high school nemesis, barely showing and spry with energy since she’d quit her job, bought the largest sheet cake I’d ever seen. Unfortunately, the bakery screwed up and dyed the white cake a strawberry-toned pink instead of baby blue. I stifled a snicker when snobby Katie bawled pathetically in front of all her guests. Alas, the devastation of the mistaken gender and the resulting social ruin!

  Brooke, who had declined Julianne’s reluctant invitation initially, pranced in unannounced as I began opening gifts.

  “Jana!” she exclaimed, self-consciously messing with her un-tucked blouse. Her normally flawless mane looked like she’d stuck her hand in an electric socket. Hmmm. I wondered what Jeff looked like about right then. “I heard something was wrong with you.”

  I glared at Julianne. Did you tell her? I mouthed.

  “No, but I had to invite her,” Julianne apologized under her breath as Brooke took her seat. “The invitation list was all Covington colleagues. Your boss would have shit if I’d left her out.”

  Turning my focus from the rep who gave me an adorable monogrammed diaper rag, I faced Brooke without a smile. “I’m fine. My blood pressure’s high, that’s all.”

  “Are you still supposed to be resting?” Brooke added her fancy-wrapped gift to the pile.

  Her strong perfume polluted the small room, and I tried not to sneeze. The image of her running her professionally manicured fingernails up Jeff’s thigh under the table at a recent dinner twisted my face into a disgusted scowl.

  I nodded but offered no further details, quickly gushing over an adorable ballerina outfit and a much-wanted Diaper Genie. “This is perfect!” Holding up the outfit with a giggle, everyone oohed and ahhed.

  “I am so, so sorry that you’re going through this,” Brooke said with feigned sympathy, pulling up a chair between Julianne and me. The screech turned the heads of the patrons dining beside us. “What an awful time for you to have pregnancy complications, right before layoffs. So, what exactly is wrong with you?”

  She refused to let it go.

  The r
ed popped into Julianne’s cheeks in the blink of an eye. She cleared her throat loudly. “Jana, you haven’t even tasted your cake yet,” she interrupted. “It’s absolutely scrumptious.”

  I ignored Brooke and capsized a bite of the best cake I’d ever tasted, relishing its sweetness. “Wow!” I said with a mouth full of icing. “This is spectacular!”

  Brooke shot me a distasteful look, honing in on the stray icing polluting my right cheek. She wasn’t going to tell me, and I didn’t care that it was there.

  “Does Jeff know you’re not feeling well?” Brooke held an expression of innocence.

  I don’t know, does he? I wanted to snarl.

  Instead, I swiped the icing off my cheek and licked it off my fingers, my taste buds thanking me. “I’m fine, Brooke.”

  “Tomorrow’s the day, huh?” She sighed and tapped her watch. “To be kept or not to be kept…”

  Was she serious? This was my baby shower, and she wanted to throw it in my face that I might lose my job the next day.

  Checking my cell phone, Layla’s text flashed across the screen: Where were you Friday? I had to suffer through Collin for HOURS.

  Me: It’s not common knowledge, but I am on bed rest. :o(

  Layla: Jana!!! I’m so sorry. Take care of yourself. We will see you when you get back.

  The pang of sadness I felt clung in the air when I realized that I may never “get back.”

  I lay awake all night, rehearsing my worst fear coming true. The anxiety was unbearable, a reflection of the nerve-wracking delay of the inevitable. Andrew rubbed my shoulders, brought me green tea, and even baked me brownies at 11 PM; God bless him. The last time I glanced at the clock was around 4 AM, and I’d just devoured my fourth brownie drowned in chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream.

  I rose restlessly as the brilliant morning sun shimmied to its place in the misty sky. I quietly slipped out of bed, not wanting to wake Andrew, and tied my robe loosely around my waist. I scrutinized my reflection in my full-length mirror, wondering if my slender frame would survive the pregnancy. My hips were so narrow that one of those pudgy postpartum bellies would make me look deformed, and I made a deal with God that if he would let me escape the post-pregnancy battle scars, aka stretch marks, I would entertain my mother-in-law’s insisting that we attend those Catholic classes.

  Minutes later, I sipped freshly made coffee, overflowing with a little sugar and a lot of cream, twiddling my thumbs nervously as I viewed the sunrise from my window. I found myself soaking in a warm bath brimming with sweet lavender-scented bubbles, hoping the steam and aroma would calm me. I bravely whispered to myself that today was a beginning … not an ending.

  My cell phone rang an hour earlier than expected. The shrill ring shocked me from a light nap. I glanced at the screen. Kevin from Human Resources. “You’re early.”

  “Hello, Jana.” He sounded desperately uncomfortable. I imagined him wringing his hands together with that sour expression on his handsome face.

  I knew.

  His discomfort spoke every word I didn’t want to hear. My knees sunk to the cold bathroom floor, shaking.

  “This isn’t an easy phone call to make. You have been displaced.”

  I sat there, my knees burning under the weight of my ominous pregnant belly, the icy tiles chilling me to the bone. “I figured.”

  “After a sixty-day warning period, you will officially be terminated. You will receive severance information via FedEx…”

  I listened in silence, staring at my Covington Company name tag that lay on my dresser. Lots of people got laid off. But not like this…

  “I believe the best is ahead for you, whether with Covington or with another company.” The rehearsed lines sputtered from his lying mouth, and my face furled in contempt. I rolled my eyes furiously.

  I wished I could pull Grace out of my pocket to royally tell him off for me. Of course it has nothing to do with my performance. It’s freaking discrimination, that’s what it is. And that’s the bottom line.

  I pulled myself off the floor, dragging myself to my unmade bed a few steps away. “What am I supposed to do? I can’t exactly interview. Who’s going to want to hire me right now?” Whether Kevin felt guilty or not, he would have to listen to my ranting, although Jeff deserved to suffer through it more.

  Conflicted tears of angry relief skipped down my cheeks. Andrew poked his head in our bedroom, and his face fell at my brokenness. He checked his watch and frowned knowingly. Quietly, he slipped in the dining area, and I heard him sigh and set his briefcase down.

  I hung up on Kevin, resisting the urge to slam the phone against the wall.

  “Andrew.” Devastated, I flew to him, burrowing my disheveled face into his solid chest. “It really happened.” No matter how much I’d anticipated being let go, the pain of rejection still shot its daggers through my heart.

  He gathered me in his strong arms. “I love you. Everything will be okay.” His gentle confidence lowered my panic down a few notches. “I won’t ever let you down, Jana.”

  “I know, Andrew. But … but … it’s so wrong,” I lashed out angrily. “Jeff’s probably shagging Brooke in some five-star resort, celebrating their job retention over top-of-the-line liquor, while I suffer. How does this happen?”

  “I don’t know … but we are in this together.”

  “What are we going to do about health insurance? And no one is going to want to hire me now!”

  “We will find individual policies for you and Calla, and with your track record, you will be choosing between jobs.”

  “No, I won’t,” I argued furiously. “No one in this industry wants to hire someone with a baby at home. C’mon, you know it’s true. They assume her focus is elsewhere. What choice do I have, Andrew?”

  “Look at me, Jana.” Firmly, he tilted my chin and forced my eyes to meet his brilliant blues. “It happened. It’s done. Now, we pick up the pieces and move on. Your only choice is to believe that I will never let you fall. Do you believe me? You’ve always relied on yourself, and I love you for that strength. But it’s time to let me take care of you.”

  I gave up the struggle to accept my new reality, succumbing to Andrew’s sensual touch and heartfelt words. I stared into his eyes, blue as the ocean and glowing at me with such power. Offering him a tiny smile, I curled up into his lap, my fingers clutching his broad shoulders. “Yes,” I whispered. “I believe you.”

  “We start another chapter now.” Strand after strand, he feathered my hair, and I closed my eyes, relishing his affection. He kissed both sides of my face, his luscious lips leading to my exposed neck, where he lightly nibbled, kindling shocks of electricity throughout my body.

  “What now?” My weeping ceased, replaced by submission to the only man I ever truly loved. He raised his mouth back to mine, sweeping me in a delicious kiss brimming with true love, a kiss that promised he would live up to every word he had spoken.

  “Now, we live off my income, which is doable with careful planning and self-control. You will be thankful you married a finance freak.” He paused, resting his head sweetly on top of mine. “And we wait for Ashton to tell us who to call.”

  “JANA! JANA!” Someone was shrieking frantically. I heard the familiar tones of a cell phone. Three beeps. “Hello? Please help me! My friend is expecting, and I found her outside. She is soaking wet, and I don’t think she is conscious.”

  “Julianne,” I thought I said, but the words were trapped inside. Lying there on the pavement, unable to speak, I floated in a dreamlike state of consciousness that felt Xanax-laced.

  What was that smell? Was it chocolate donuts?

  I laughed in my head at the tiny sprinkles of rain that were falling on my face. It felt so good, like catching the last spray of a wilting wave on the crystalline beach that was the Cooks’ backyard.

  Julianne was crying so hard. Why was she so upset? It wasn’t storming.

  I moved my right index finger. Why was I clasping a piece of soggy paper? I tr
ied to open my eyes, but they were so happy to be closed. They wanted to stay locked in my daydream.

  I was outside. Why?

  Wait. The piece of paper in my hand … it was my mortgage statement.

  And then I remembered what happened.

  A BLOOD PRESSURE monitor, no sodium, and small meals every two hours were my prescription for survival after a day in the hospital. Twenty-four hours of poking, prodding, ultrasounds, blood work, and flurried visits from worried family and friends left me exhausted. Dr. Wilson was concerned about Calla’s lungs, and since there was miraculously no protein in my urine, decided an induction could wait a few more days.

  Julianne, armed with chocolate donuts and my favorite Coke, the kind with the crushed ice from Sonic, discovered me semi-conscious in my driveway after making the trip from Biloxi. Her spontaneous visit was meant to take away the sting of losing my job at what might have been the worst possible time in my life, and instead, she found herself panicked and dialed 911. I had gone all day without eating, again, too distressed over the morning’s finality of losing my job to think about food.

  I tried feverishly to obey Dr. Wilson’s bed rest demands, but my desperate need for distraction sidetracked me. Nesting is a tame word for the act I performed in my home. I could have served dinner off the toilet, licked the patio floors, or had sex against the sink in the utility room. When I ran out of Clorox, I propped myself up to paint, but sadly realized I was out of most of the primary colors.

  Swelling rapidly, I reluctantly wobbled to our spotless bedroom and popped my cell phone off the charger, scrolling carefully through the dozens of missed calls to decide who to face first. I prepared myself for sympathy (job loss) and worry (after third hypoglycemia scare).

  Sympathy was not the primary reaction of most of my friends. All they heard was the word “severance,” and even my sister-in-law reeked of jealousy.

  “You’ve won the lottery,” doll-faced Jessica said. “How wonderful, Jana! You get to be a stay-at-home mom! What a gift.” Jessica and Daniel had been trying to conceive for at least a year.