The Bright Side of Disaster by Katherine Center

Author:Katherine Center [Center, Katherine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780345502483
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2007-06-26T04:00:00+00:00

18

Dean did not call back that night, though I slept with my hand on the phone just in case. He did not call the next morning, either. Though it had been my plan to act like the call had meant no more to me than any chat with an old acquaintance, I called his cell phone three times the next day. No answer, any time.

Maxie and I walked up and down the block for most of the morning, then took a nap together on my bed, then scrounged around for some lunch for me. I was still doing the handfuls-only diet—only eating things I could grab with one hand while I held her.

I could not put her down. She was not fooled by the vibrating bouncy seat, or the swing, or the Mama Motion bassinet. All activities for me now were one-handed. My favorite meal of late was a handful of sunflower seeds, a piece of toast, a piece of string cheese, several strawberries or grapes, and any chocolate I could find. Though, to be fair, chocolate was not restricted to meals—if anything eaten standing at the kitchen counter could be called a “meal.”

Since Maxie, my relationship with chocolate had intensified into something of an addiction. Now I needed it, wanted it, had to have it. If I ran out, I returned obsessively to the cabinets, Maxie over my shoulder, using one hand to look for old Halloween candy or stray packets of hot cocoa. This was how Dean must have felt that night I happened upon him fishing a mostly smoked Marlboro out of the kitchen trash.

I read in a women’s magazine that chocolate had mild antidepressant qualities. But if I was depressed, I couldn’t feel it. I felt other things. An overwhelming, heartbreaking, euphoric love for Maxie. Gratitude toward my mother every time she let me have a shower. Numbness about Dean. And, every minute of every day, hollowed-to-the-bone exhaustion.

Which is why, when the Giraffe from childbirth class called to invite me over, I almost said no.

“We thought we’d all get together next week with our new babies,” she said.

“Kind of a show-and-tell,” I said.

“Exactly!” she said. “How did your birth go, by the way?”

“Torture. How was yours?”

“Wonderful. It was more spiritual and moving than I could have hoped for.”

I paused.

“You think you can make it?” she finally said. “We’re ordering a pizza.”

She sounded so perky. She did not sound at all like a capsized person in a stormy sea of sleep deprivation and lactation hormones. I wasn’t sure I could stand to be in a whole roomful of women whose lives were going just exactly as they had planned. But I had nothing else to do, and wasn’t in a position to be picky about company. At least it would kill an afternoon.

When the day finally came, I had nothing to wear. Every single thing I owned made me look frumpy. As I tried on my fourth T-shirt, I gave up and decided with an internal wince that the trouble probably wasn’t the clothes.

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