Stork Raving Mad(6)

I shuffled to the windowsill with the mug and held my breath as I opened the top and poured the contents into the dirt around one of the potted plants. The Boston fern this time. The spider plant and the English ivy were looking distinctly unhealthy. Difficult to say whether this was due to some toxic effect from their daily doses of herbal teas, or whether they merely resented having their roots repeatedly scalded with hot liquid. The Boston fern, on the other hand, was thriving. Was this because it liked the herbal brews, or had I not been giving it as much as the others?

“Sorry,” I said to the Boston fern. “But better you than me.”

I allowed myself a moment of guilt about pouring out yet another well-intended offering from my cousin. I would be the first to admit that she had been immensely helpful throughout my pregnancy. And especially during the last two months, when she had waited on me hand and foot and enabled me to get the all-important rest my doctor recommended. I knew that the closer I could get to full term, the better it would be for Kirk and Spock, and whenever people congratulated me on how long I’d lasted, I gave full credit to Rose Noire. And it probably was just a coincidence that my morning sickness had finally ended the week I’d stopped trying to drink all her herbal offerings. She meant well.

I just sometimes wished she had an off switch.

I checked the clock. I’d been asleep less than an hour. Par for the course. These days I could nod off sitting up, but Boris and Natasha never let me sleep for long. They weren’t even born yet, and already I was stumbling around in a constant state of sleep deprivation.

Time to see what was going on downstairs. Apologize to my houseguest—my latest houseguest—for my abrupt disappearance.

After a brief detour to the bathroom, I opened the bedroom door and almost keeled over at the strong, nauseating smell that permeated the hall outside.

Most people would have found the smell delectable, I suspected. As I leaned against the wall, patting P and non-P with one hand, I tried to untangle the components. Garlic, of course. Along with hypersensitivity to smell, my stomach’s sudden hostility to garlic had been one of the first clues that I might be pregnant. I hoped neither was permanent. Along with the garlic I detected a rich potpourri of unfamiliar spices—unfamiliar and, at least for the moment, unappetizing. And, of course, an almost tangible reek of seafood.

Normally I merely found the smell of seafood distasteful. Now I wondered what would happen if my allergy worsened so the mere smell triggered a reaction. I’d ask Dad. Get him to give me an EpiPen, or if they weren’t allowed during pregnancy, get him to enforce a total ban on seafood cooking for the rest of Señor Mendoza’s visit. I sighed. That certainly wouldn’t make me popular.

Along with the smells, sounds were drifting upstairs. I could hear the rise and fall of conversations, accompanied by flamenco music played on a guitar—no, make that several guitars—and a rhythmic staccato rattle that could only be someone dancing to the music.

I felt a wave of nostalgia mingled with resentment. Back in the B.P. days—before pregnancy—I’d have been down in the kitchen. I might not have eaten the seafood, but it wouldn’t have bothered me so much. And I could have enjoyed the music, the conversation, the dancing, and the wine.

And I would again, I told myself, as I carefully descended the stairs. Just not for a while. And there was no reason for everyone else to do without just because I wasn’t in the mood at the moment.

But at least they could turn on the kitchen exhaust fan to keep the odors from drifting upstairs with such intensity.

Just then the doorbell rang.

I paused on the second step from the bottom. I really didn’t feel like opening the door and having to deal with more visitors, not to mention the cold air.

“Can someone answer that?”

The flamenco music continued unabated. They probably hadn’t even heard me.

“Hello, anyone?” I called.

The doorbell rang again, twice, in quick succession. Our would-be guests were getting impatient.

“Hold your damned horses,” I muttered as I waddled to the door.

While unlocking the deadbolt, I tried to assume a polite, welcoming face. Or at least a neutral face. I’d save the scowl in case the impatient doorbell ringer was someone who really deserved it.

I swung the door open to find a man and a woman standing outside. Both wore frowns that matched my mood. And instead of saying anything, they both gawked at my protruding belly as if they’d never seen a pregnant woman before. They both had that hunched-against-the-cold look that so many people around campus wore these days, probably because they were only wearing light coats.