Zoë

I have big news, and I debating on how to share it with my mother. It’s good news, and normally I’d just rush to call her, just to hear her warm enthusiasm, but while it’s exciting, the aftermath of it is going to be a little harder on the both of us. One more sign that I’m growing up, and developing a life of my own, I guess.

I’ve gotten an internship with the Massachusetts Mental Health Center. I’m only one of a handful of students who were even considered for it, and I didn’t want to get my hopes up after I applied, so I didn’t tell mom, or dad. I mean, really, it was such a long shot. My grades were good, and the interview was wonderful, but there were other great contenders, so I just sort of filed it away while I plugged along this semester, trying to get statistics down. So when I got the acceptance letter two days ago I just sort of blinked and swallowed hard and ended up dancing around my dorm room. When my roommate Gisele came in, she caught me jumping on my bed, of all things, and cracked up.

She knows I only do that when I’m really REALLY hyped.

Anyway, it will mean moving out into my own apartment, which is really a big deal for me. The Harvard community is a cozy one, and because everybody knows somebody, there’s always an apartment you can get—but this will be my first one on my own. Mom will worry and fuss, and want to come out to look it over with me. Heck, Jim will probably want to come too—he’s twice as bad as she is about nagging me on safety issues—but it will be fun. I can see it now--Mom will help me decorate, and Jim will get me about four massive locks for the front door, and then run security checks on all my neighbors, snort.

Not that I’ll mind all that much. He’s grown on me, and we’ve come to a pretty comfortable place now. Both of us care about Mom, that’s clear, and Jim Brass is good for her. I can see the difference in the way she smiles, and acts. Secretly, while I miss it just being her and me, I also feel this relief too, that she’s not alone anymore. My mom’s strong, don’t get me wrong; she kicks ass every night, literally and metaphorically, but I feel better knowing she’s got someone to come home to who loves her. And Jim loves her, that’s for damn sure.

So Mom’s set, and now it’s my turn to make a few major changes in my life. When I move out, all that hard work she did in helping me establish credit, and organize bills and run my finances will really go to work. I’ll be living on my own for the first time. I reach for my cell phone and check my watch—just about eight in the morning her time, she’s probably still up, getting ready for bed . . .

The phone rings as I touch it, and I jump a little, spooked but grinning. Nerves. I pick it up, and I can tell by the static that it’s Mom, even before she says anything. That REALLY gives me the nervous giggles, and I start, even as she murmurs, “Zoë my darling, is that you?”

“Oh yeah, hi! You know this is SO amazing. I was just going to call you. I mean really RIGHT the second the phone rang I was about to pick it up.” I burble happily. I hear her laugh, soft and sweet, like a verbal hug. No matter how big I get, I’ll always feel little and safe hearing that laugh. I settle down on the sofa and cradle the phone to my ear.

“Well, my Zoë, I called because I have some important news,” she says. I tense up, even though her voice is still soft and relaxed. I can’t help it though—after living with her diabetes for so long, I’m always on the alert, and a phrase like ‘important news’ could go either way as far as I’m concerned. She could be going on an insulin pump, which would be good, or she could be getting a leg removed which would be bad—before I can even draw a breath, she adds, “Good news, I feel, but a bit . . . startling. Are you sitting down?”

“Mom!” I mutter, rolling my eyes and making sure she hears that in my tone. Again, she chuckles, and this time I can sense something like pride, and even embarrassment in her voice as she clears her throat and rolls out, “I’m going to have a baby, Zoë.”

I blink. I grip the phone a little more tightly as my mind goes into hyper drive. Like, Star Trek Warp Ten, practically. “A baby? You and Jim are adopting a baby? Mom, you guys aren’t even MARRIED! Don’t get me wrong, I’m not judging here, but to just out of the blue adopt—“

“—Zoë, no. I’m pregnant, my darling.”

Dead silence. I can feel my heartbeat; HEAR my breathing which is REALLY noisy right now. Boy my hands are cold.

“Mom? Uhhhh . . . “

“I know, I know. We BOTH know. But within this last year one of my fallopian tubes managed to reconnect. Doctor Phal tells me that it only happens to an astronomically tiny percentage of women, but it does happen. And of course, once that occurred—“

God, I can HEAR her blush. Mom and I both have that fair Hungarian complexion that goes brick red, and even here, thousands of miles from her I can hear the bloom of scarlet on her face.

“—You and Jim got busier than you thought you would—“ I blurt. Not tactful, but I’m still sort of lost in the galaxy on this one. A baby. Oooooohhhhh man. Baby. Like in, another stepbrother or sister, in diapers. With spit-up. I can deal with the ones I have on Dad’s side—they’re all over the age of eight now, but a BABY

“That’s one way of putting, it, yes. Believe me Zoë dearest, this is NOT an easy thing for me. Never in my life did I expect to be . . . expecting again.” There’s a little bit of fear in her tone now, and I feel a rush of shame at my cavalier attitude as I suck in a breath.

“Oh, mom, yeah, but this is so—incredible.” Yeah. That fits. Incredible for sure. This blows MY news out of the water, but it’s only fair. I laugh a little. “I love you mom, this is GREAT news. Wonderful!”

“Thank you. It’s good that you feel that way, especially since this is so—surprising.”

I glance at the calendar on the wall. “So, when’s our Brass link due? Are you throwing up yet? Does Grandma know?”

“Zoë!” I hear her laugh and catch her breath. Man, I wish I was there to put my arms around her, because even though she’s the grown up, I know she has to be a little scared.

“I’m only a little over two months along, darling, and yes, I’ve had a bit of morning sickness. Nothing major thank goodness. And as for Mama—“ I hear her sigh, and grin like a lunatic. Man oh man is Jim in for a time there—my Grandmother is fierce. She actually made people at Social Security cry. All the clerks at her local supermarket are terrified of her, and always give her double discount on her coupons just to move her on through the line rather than argue with her. She’s little and withered, but she’s got game, my Grandma has. She takes no prisoners and no guff.

“He’ll charm her, mom. They DO have one thing in common besides you, you know.”

Ah, the old family secret. This one’s going to work in our favor.

I hear her quick intake of breath, and a soft purring sigh. “You’re right. I was sort of hoping to use that as a last resort, but given the circumstances, I may have to play that ace.”

“Man—a baby. Whoa. This is going to really shift your paradigms too mom—are you two going to co-habitate, or make this a legally recognized joint effort?” I’m curious now, because despite all my mother’s talk of being strong and independent, she’s got a serious romantic streak where Jim’s concerned. I know she adores him.

“As a matter of fact, he proposed, and I accepted.”

“Mom! You should have started with that and led INTO the baby thing!” I guffaw, feeling both elation and a pang of envy at her happy tone. I’m not jealous of her or Jim—just of what they have sometimes. I know I’ll find someone myself someday, but still, can’t help feeling a twinge every now and then. Her laugh bubbles up, warm and relaxed.

“I’ve had other proposals, Zoë, that’s not new. The baby however, seriously trumps the ring.”

“Yes, I can see that. So—what’s it look like?”

She describes the ring in such loving detail I’m giggling again. My mom has it BAD, and I don’t think she even realizes it.

A baby.

Wow. It’s only after we hang up, amid kisses and ‘I love yous’ that I realize I never got a chance to tell Mom MY news, darn it.





Jim

I’m hunting houses. One of the odd benefits of my job is learning the city and her suburbs—it doesn’t look good when cops get lost—so I know Las Vegas pretty well after these last few years. I know to avoid the north end of the Strip; that the better schools are on the east side, and that anything south of the airport is part of a flood plain. I’ve seen the mansions and the trailer parks, the vast tract housing and the ball fields. And in the back of my thoughts, I’ve kept a few places in mind.

Like here. Serenity Lane. It’s a little side street that dead ends near a stand of Eucalyptus trees on the high side of a creek. There are three houses here, all two story numbers done in Spanish southwest style: tiled roofs, white stucco adobe design, little half-walled courtyards in the front. I’m looking at the endmost one, which is a little desolate at the moment. I’ve been here a few times; the For Sale sign’s been hanging here a while, and the yard needs some work, but I see a lot of plusses to this place. The stand of trees is to the north, so their shade is going to be nice blocking the summer sun most of the day. Since the lane is a dead end, traffic will be minimal.

The neighbors? I see an unhitched Peterbilt at the curb of one place, so at least one of them is probably a long distance trucker. In the driveway of the other house is a Volvo with a Desert Palms Staff parking permit dangling from the rearview mirror. So a trucker and a doctor or nurse close by—nice.

On impulse I pull out my cell phone and hit speed dial, getting a familiar voice on the other end.

“Did I wake you?”

“No darling—I was just heading out to pick up my dry cleaning.”

I give her the address, adding “if it’s not out of your way.”

That’s the kicker of course—Heather has a strong sense of curiosity, and she knows perfectly well that I wouldn’t call and mention a place unless it fit a lot of our criteria. A car pulls up; not the Miata, but a Taurus, and a lean woman in a pantsuit climbs out: Dottie West, realtor. She shakes my hand firmly and produces a ring of house keys, her words an ongoing stream of consciousness that I’m letting flow over me like water on a cascade.

“—Really a beauty, but you know how the market is sometimes. This place has several outstanding features I know you and the missus are going to love, and of course the asking price has dropped a bit because the bank is anxious to move it—“

“I’d like to wait for my fiancée to get here,” tell her, and my chest feels like it’s filled with helium. Fiancée, yeah. Soon to be my bride, then my wife and mother to our Tadpole . . . it’s STILL giving me that quiet inner charge. The realtor, bless her, doesn’t miss a beat, and smiles broadly, taking one of my hands in her two, shaking it hard.

“Oh congratulations! You couldn’t pick a nicer commitment than a house—unless you count the getting married part of course. And there are so many rooms to decorate together—I can show you the yard if you like—“

I like, so we walk in the little enclosed courtyard and I glance at the grass with a knowing eye—this lawn looks as if I might be able to keep it subdued. There’s a seat built into part of one of the brick half-walls, and a few flowerbeds. The side of the house is a walkway with a good gate, and the backyard . . . oh I have plans for that.

It’s big, sort of octagon shaped and fenced in by more half-wall half black Spanish fencing. Since this is the house that stands alone on Serenity Lane, we’ve got an empty lot on one side of us, and the stand of trees on the other. Lots of room for a swing set, and a brick barbeque, and should we decide to splurge, maybe a spa. There’s crabgrass back here, but that’s an old enemy I’m capable of dealing with when the time comes. Dottie is pointing out various features that I only half-hear about as I do my own inspection over the windows and doors.

Locks, definitely. And maybe a security system. The cop in me is looking for the security, and I like most of what I see. Double sash windows, screens . . . I’m so caught up in my musings that I don’t feel the hand on my shoulder at first, but when I turn, it’s Heather. She’s in a beige scoop neck top and denim skirt, with sandals that show off her rose toenail polish, and another warm pang hits my stomach as I see the ring on her hand, hanging a little, but there. She leans forward and kisses my cheek, gracefully and I slip an arm around her, feeling fine.

“And this must bet the lucky woman! Hi, I’m Dottie West of Saguaro Realty.” Dottie chirps up. Heather’s gracious and shakes hands, smiling in the face of the woman’s ongoing monolog. I clear my throat and Dottie nods, leading us back around to the front of the house. With that weird little ceremonial wave that I’ve seen almost every realtor do when showing a property, she unlocks the front door and herds us inside.

Nice. The front foyer faces the stairs. Off to the left, the living room. To the right, a dining room. I walk along the side of the stairs and see a sort of family room and the kitchen’s just beyond it. One downstairs bathroom, but both Heather and I are drawn to the kitchen. Seems only natural for the two of us, right? It’s big and airy, and the first thing that catches my eye is an oven built into the brick wall. A baker’s oven; the real deal with temperature gauge and glass door. Heather gives a little gasp and I shoot her a smile. Behind us comes the ongoing commentary.

“ . . . and he used to be the head baker for the Sands, and later for La Scala Malibu in the Forum, so naturally the kitchen’s pretty upscale. Freestanding island with double sinks, a gas range, a baker’s oven, a built-in knife rack, dishwasher, ex-TEN-sive cupboards . . .” Dottie warbles. From the look on Heather’s face, the place is as good as sold, but I take her hand warningly and arch an eyebrow. She returns the look of perfect understanding and wanders over to the window that overlooks the back yard. It’s a minature bay window with space for plants.

“Do you cook, Ms Marazek?” Dottie winds down a little, finally realizing how quiet we both are. Heather shoots her a quick smile, nodding, and I notice her hands sliding hungrily on the stone countertop. Oh she’s got it bad for this kitchen, and frankly I can’t blame her because it’s starting to work its magic on me too. It’s big, airy, but with enough room for two people to move around it comfortably.

Reluctantly we leave the kitchen and finish exploring the downstairs rooms. They’re nice. It’s always hard to tell how a place will look with your own furniture in it, but all in all it’s . . . nice. We tramp upstairs, Dottie going on now about closet space, and once we hit the landing up there, I feel Heather’s hand slip into mine and squeeze. I squeeze back.





Heather

The house is—beautiful. Oh there are things I’ll have to change but minor ones and as I’m making plans it dawns on me that I had no idea, none, that I was so ready for this. It’s frightening me at the same time I’m delighting in it, this nesting syndrome running through my system. Jim is so quiet it’s a little unnerving, but maybe that’s only because Ms West is quite the chatterbox by comparison She means well, and I can see that this sale is important to her, so I just keep nodding.

The kitchen! Ohh what fun I could have—WE could have there! Room and light and all those cooking perks set up to warm a chef’s heart. I could sense Jim’s sympathetic vibe, and it took all I had not to giggle at his poker face. Clearly he’s not going to wax enthusiastic with the realtor around and I understand the ploy. At the top of the stairs, I take his hand and squeeze; his soft smile makes me happy.

Three medium bedrooms and one Master—ooh be still my beating heart! I inspect the walk-in closets in all of them, easily seeing the one closest to the master as a nursery, with its big windows and airy charm. There are things to change, of course—I’m not excited about the colors of this room, and one of the other bedrooms has some truly hideous wallpaper. I’m sure Jim will have something to say about the security, or lack of, but all in all, I have the feeling that deep down this house will more than do for our combined lives.

When I step into the Master bedroom, Jim is looking out the window that faces the road. I slip my arms around him from behind and nuzzle his shoulder; he half-turns and his whisper is just between us.

“So?”

“So I’m very impressed with your choice, my darling. There are a few things that need some changes, but nothing we couldn’t do ourselves,” I offer back. He gives that little two-shouldered shrug I know so well. I follow his glance out the window; the street is quiet and I can hear the sound of the creek through the faint rustle of the Eucalyptus trees at the side of the house.

“So this is the one, just like that? You don’t need to see a bunch of others? I know there are some developments over by the university, probably have better elementary schools—“ Jim teases. I turn to look at his profile, seeing the little smirk on it.

“The things I will do to you, James Thomas Brass, once we have a bed in this room“ I purr. The smirk widens for a moment.

“Tell me more,” he lightly insists, gaze shooting my way, but at that moment Dottie comes bustling in, bright-eyed and eager.

“So, what are your feelings here, folks? Because if this one’s not right, I have a lovely little ranchhouse number out near Henderson that might—“

He gives me a quick glance, clears his throat softly, and the negotiations begin in earnest.





I’m calling my mother. This is a difficult call at any time, but it’s not being helped by the fact that Jim is playing with my bare feet. I have them resting in his lap, and he’s pretending to read over some of the paperwork Dottie foisted on us. Things are complicated I suppose, since Jim and I each want to sell our houses, but after much discussion it boils down to a timeline. Jim will move in here and we’ll sell his house first, then we’ll buy the one on Serenity Lane and move in there, and eventually sell this one. It sounds easy, but I’m aware that the logistics will be tricky at times, and of course, somewhere in that timeline will be our wedding.

Wedding . . . it still startles me a little, how that thought sends a happy wriggle through my spine. I’m determined to keep things low-key; after all, we’ve both been married before, and had the fancier affairs with all the trimmings. Somewhere in my attic I have my album still, with pictures that make me laugh even as I feel a pang or two looking at them. I was so pale and stilted; Glen looked overly jolly, showing lots of teeth in every shot.

I dial my mother’s number from memory, hearing the distant rings that are echoing somewhere near Lake Tahoe. By the third one she answers.

“Servusz?” comes her voice. I clear my throat.

“Servusz, Mama, it’s me.”

“Of course it’s you, sillybird. Who else on the planet calls me Mama, eh?” she’s chuckling, so it must be a good day. No bad arthritis, she probably won at Mah Jong. I feel Jim’s fingers stroking the top of my feet, and it tickles, so I shoot him a stern look that does no good at all; he shoots me a bland look back and keeps stroking.

“Mama, I have someone I want you to meet,” I say into the phone. She pauses on the other end, and in the background I can hear the drone of CNN. Then she draws in a breath.

“Oh Hajana, I hear it in your voice. This is the one Zoe has been hinting about isn’t it? The bear man.”

I blink, as bizarrely, I thought I heard my mother say BARE man, and fight a giggle. Knowing her she probably she meant both meanings, so I take the easier distraction. “What else did Zoe say?”

“A lot,” my mother smugly announces, which means my daughter has told her as little as possible. This is difficult because my mother has interrogation down to a fine art. The CIA could take lessons, and poor Jim will have to use all his charm and wit against her. I sigh.

“Like what, Mama?”

“Like you are happy and very close to him and it’s been going on a while. I don’t want to spoil your happiness, so why don’t you tell me all the other things I already know, eh?” she coaxes. Jim is now cupping the soles of my feet in his big hands, warm and soft; the pleasure is shooting up my legs and he KNOWS it, the fiend. I squirm a little.

“His name is Jim Brass and he’s a police captain here in Las Vegas.”

“Police! Hajana my goosey, does he know what you do for a living? God forbid, did he ARREST you?” my mother scolds, her voice getting a little growly at the thought. If she thinks Jim is a bear, she should look in the mirror. I give my foot caresser a long-suffering glance and he brings one up to his lips and kisses it—oh good lord my spine is melting at the touch of his warm mouth. I struggle very hard to keep from moaning with the pleasure of it all.

“He—he knows, Mama. It’s not a secret.”

“It’s not a proper living for a girl like you either. Men at your feet, Pah!”

Ohh my mother’s inadvertent timing . . . Jim is softly kissing the ticklish joints each of my rose-painted toenails and I’m feeling the coil of erotic tension right where he wants me to. I bite my lips for a moment and clear my throat.

“Mama, let’s not argue about this again, please. He’s very, VERY important to me and I’d like you to meet him. When can we come see you?”

“Oh anytime, anytime. They changed my schedule at the hospital to mornings now, so I’m home from the nursery by noon. This weekend would be fine. Does he like goulash?”

“Uhhh . . . “ This isn’t because I don’t know the answer, although I don’t—it’s because Jim is now nibbling on my ankle and my brain is mushing down under his tender onslaught. If he moves any higher up the inside of my leg I may strangle him with the cord of the phone. Ineffectively I swat at him, but he shoots me another one of his mild yet ruthless looks and shifts closer.

“Not much of a gourmet then, eh? Too bad. You need a man who appreciates good cooking, Hajana. THAT’S the secret to a happy home. Ah well—so next weekend is good, yes? And I’ll make my goulash and hideg zamocaleves if you think so highly of this Captain of yours. What is Brass anyway, English?”

“He’s American like you— like US, mama, by way of Irelaaaaaand!” I yelp as the sneaky weasel I adore lifts my leg higher and licks the back of my knee. I’m completely torn between clanging James Thomas Brass over the head with the receiver in my hand or just hanging up on my mother and tackling him. He arches an eyebrow, daring me in that wordless little taunt. I growl a little.

“Irelaaaaaaaand? Is this some new, mythical place, my dove?” My mother asks slowly, clearly questioning my sanity. I’m doing that myself as I reach my free hand down to Jim’s cloth-covered thigh and slid my fingers around the muscled curve of it, finding heat and hardness. Jim tries to look nonchalant, but he swallows a little at my stroke.

“Ha. The goose says ‘Take THAT, Gander!” I mouth at him before turning my attention back to my mother. “Sorry, no, Mama, I just ran into something hard. Next weekend should be fine for us—we’ll drive.”

Four hours up should be sufficient time to fully prep my darling, and the four hours back can be spent helping him recover. In the meantime—I lean forward and shift my palm until it even with splayed fingers, it barely covers the bulging masculine enthusiasm of Jim Brass. The look on his face is priceless at this moment; half playful lust, half perplexed hesitation. I let a smoldering smile drift across my face and listen to my mother agree to the dinner, then hang up after kisses and goodbyes. Jim watches me hang up the phone with my free hand.

“So, I finally get to meet your mom,” he tries act as if it’s no big deal. I let my hand shift and unzip his fly as I slide myself over onto his lap. The mortgage papers flutter everywhere as I finally make the move I’ve been holding back on for the last eight minutes. Jim seems as anxious as I am—so much for drawing out the foreplay tonight.
Surely, slowly he peels my top off and manages to unhook my bra while I nibble on his neck, savoring the warm scent of his clean skin. Jim tastes very good. Maybe my senses are heightened by his teasing, or the pregnancy, but whatever it is, I’m definitely in the mood, so I shift up on my knees and slip out of my damp panties, earning a slightly surprised yet approving look from my darling.

“Need you,” I explain, lifting my denim skirt so that Jim has a nice view of my naked hips and thighs. He swallows a little again, gaze both hot and tender. Carefully he lifts his own hips to work his way free of his pants and I laugh against his slightly scratchy cheek, pulling him over onto me in a happy tangle of half-dressed urgency while he tries desperately not to put his weight on me.

“Heather, hon—I don’t want to flatten you—“

“Pffft! You couldn’t if you tried. I happen to be very well upholstered, “ I tell him while licking his ear. My hands are very busy stroking, and I part my thighs as I guide him. Jim grips the sofa arm above my head and looks down into my eyes as he thrusts. Ohhh the glorious surge of that first push! I groan, hearing a lower version coming from Jim’s throat as he pulls back and rocks forward again, settling into a deeply satisfying rhythm into me. I hike my denim skirt higher, sliding my legs around him, clinging to him joyfully.

It’s lovely. Jim knows just how to bury himself in me, how to kiss me while we’re making love so that my desire for him flares out of control and I’m half out of my mind with the pleasure. I can feel myself building quickly now, the hot tension just on the edge of exploding when he drops his mouth onto mine, his low possessive growl pushing my lips open, our tongues sliding over each other in a wild shameless kiss. I moan helplessly as I clench tight around his shaft, feeling it pulse within me heavily.

This is us. The most basic level of our lives is this beautiful primitive connection of Jim the man and Heather the woman, and I bask in the warm sweaty afterglow, stroking his back, whispering my appreciation and love as he lays on me, replete and happy. Knowing that deep within my womb I carry his child thrills me, and I close my eyes, perfectly willing to sleep now.

So we do.