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HOLIDAY
by
Christina Ross
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CHAPTER ONE
New York City
December
EIGHT MONTHS INTO MY pregnancy, I awoke with a swift kick to the gut followed by what had to be one of the loudest farts ever heard in human history.
It was one for the record books. It tooted out of me in a way that sounded oddly cheerful and triumphant—as if I’d just crossed a finish line after winning a grueling 5K run and some helpful individual had sounded a horn three enthusiastic times to announce my victory.
It couldn’t have been more humiliating.
Not daring to move because I was hoping that Alex had managed to sleep through it, I laid there in bed staring up at the sunlit ceiling, fearing and dreading what was about to come—the odor itself.
It’s going to escape the sheets, I thought in horror as I looked over the dome of my belly, which strained against the bedspread in ways that seemed almost cruel to the fabric. It’s only a matter of time. And what if this one smells as bad as the rest of them have been smelling lately? What then? If I’m not careful, there’s the very real possibility that I might fart Alex into oblivion...
He stirred next to me, which was just enough motion to unleash the toxins from beneath the sheets and let them loose like a plume of rancid darkness into the air. The odor was alarming—like rotten eggs sweating it out with a pile of refried beans at the bottom of a sewer—and it gave me pause as it rolled over my face and assaulted my senses.
What’s become of me? I thought. I’ve literally become the poster child for flatulence. This is supposed to be a time of celebration, and yet it feels as if I’m being tested at every turn and at every fart. How can Alex possibly want to be anywhere near me at this point? And I still have another month to go! What’s going to become of me then? I don’t even want to think about it.
“I can hear you thinking,” Alex said. He was on his side, his bare back facing me, and his deep voice sounded weirdly muffled, as if he was talking into his pillow. “Stop fretting. It’s not as bad as you think it is.”
“The hell it isn’t,” I said. “You don’t have your face buried into your pillow for no reason—not that I can blame you. Actually, I can’t blame you. I’m sorry, Alex—I really am. I can’t help it. I’m so full of gas, I’ve officially become a human whoopee cushion.”
And with that, Alex turned and faced me with a smile. It was morning, sun slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the foot of the bed, and after he leaned forward and gave me kisses on the neck and mouth, he propped himself up on one arm and placed the palm of his hand on my stomach.
“What you’ve become is more beautiful than you’ve ever been, Jennifer.”
“Then allow me to make an eye appointment for you when we get to work.”
“I’m serious. It’s true.”
I could tell by his genuine smile that he was being serious, and I loved him for it. Throughout all of this, he’d been a terrific, patient, loving, and supportive husband. But as for me? As hard as I tried to rein in my emotions, my hormones were increasingly getting the best of me, and I hated myself for it. Being overly emotional just wasn’t who I was—but it nevertheless was whom I’d become.
“Beyond a strongly scented candle, do you know what I’d kill for right now?” I asked him.
“Are we talking food here?”
“How did you guess?”
“Doesn’t matter. What would you like?”
“You tell me.”
“Well, recently you’ve certainly been appreciating pickles dipped in mayonnaise, so is that it?”
“Oddly delicious, but no.”
“Doritos slathered with mustard and peanut butter?”
“A perfectly sound option for breakfast, but wrong again. What I had in mind was a real cup of coffee. A pure shot of caffeine. Something that would give me the energy I’ve sorely been missing lately.”
“I don’t think you’ve had a cup of coffee since you learned you were pregnant...”
“No, I haven’t. No coffee. No martinis. You have no idea how much I miss them both.”
“When the baby arrives, I’ll make you that first cup of coffee myself.”
“And I look forward to it. Since I’ll be nursing, I can only have caffeine in moderation, but I’ll take it anyway.”
At that moment, the baby kicked—and naturally with the kick came another blast of gas that rumbled deep beneath the sheets.
“Jesus,” Alex said, his hand still on my stomach. “That was a whopper.”
All I could do was close my eyes in shame. “The kick or the fart?”
“The kick—don’t worry about the fart.”
“Trust me—both of us will be worrying about it in about ten seconds. I’ve officially become a grotesque.”
“You have not.”
“A heifer who should be put out to pasture.”
“Come on...”
“An overblown whale who can’t see her own feet.”
“How about if I rub them for you?”
“No! If you go down there now, you might pass out from the fumes, and in my condition, I’d never be able to resuscitate you.” I shot him a look. “Alex, if our child turns out to be a boy? We are so calling him ‘Bruiser.’ Because when this kid kicks, it kicks hard.”
“Bruiser Wenn,” Alex said. “That should make for some interesting headlines.”
“We’ve made our share of them in our day,” I reminded him.
“And so we have.”
I glanced over at the clock on the bedside table. Now that I was sitting on Wenn’s board, my duties had only increased since the board voted me in six months ago along with another woman, Sherry Wasserman. Pregnant or not, there was work to be done, and I needed to get a move on.
“We should get ready,” I said. “I know it’s early, but lately, it’s taking me forever to make myself presentable.”
“How about if you shower and I’ll make you breakfast? You’ve got to eat, Jennifer.”
“That’s the problem,” I said. “When aren’t I eating? I always seem to be eating. Hell, I even eat in my dreams. A couple of nights ago, I dreamt that I was sitting alone at Per Se, I had the entire restaurant to myself, and a whole host of attentive, nonjudgmental waiters just kept bringing me dish after delicious dish, which I pretty much inhaled. And do you want to know what’s even worse than that? One of servers was either asked by me or by the management to stand at my side and wipe my mouth with a linen napkin, because apparently I was eating so quickly, I had no time to do so by myself.” I shook my head at Alex and sighed. “I’m a wreck.”
“What you are is pregnant.”
I reached for his hand, which was still resting on my belly, and interlocked my fingers with his. “And I wouldn’t change it for the world,” I said. “Not for anything.”
“Just one more month to go,” he said with a grin.
“I know—and I can’t wait. I seriously can’t. I can’t believe that the big day is almost here.”
“A little Wenn,” he said as he helped me out of bed and took me into his arms. “So, let me ask you this for the hundredth time. What do you think it will be—a boy or a girl?”
“I don’t care. I just want it to be healthy—and to have your dimples.”
“My dimples?”
“Oh, yes,” I said. “Your dimples. The ones that took my breath away when we first met. And there’s one other thing I hope our baby has.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Isn’t it obvious?” I said as I placed my palm against his chest. “Your heart.”
