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CHAPTER1
Magdalena
My stomach growls and my gag reflex responds with a very rude, “you shoulda listened the first six times.”
I’ve waited too long to eat. Now the trek to the only restaurant that will sate my craving is going to cost me an Uber ride on top of the price of the clam juice smoothie the Diabolic Duo is demanding.
No time for make-up. Fortunately, my hair is so short it looks funky and intentional when it hasn’t been brushed. At least, that’s what I tell myself. And anyway, nobody is looking above my neck anymore; it’s all eyes on the pumpkin I have stuffed under my dress.
The very thought of the little bounce the elevator does when it stops on the ground floor triggers another mild gag, so I take the stairs down three flights. Not ideal, but then nothing is these days.
The latest test of my patience is the bedrest my gynecologist insisted I start, as of yesterday. Where are the services for women who decide to have a baby without the hassle of a partner, forgoing his morning halitosis for the smell of the expensive lavender linen spray she’s purchased for herself and liberally doused onto all fifteen of the pillows strewn across her bed?
Seriously, what year is this? Even my mom, who had me on her own in 1982, didn’t have to worry about all the pregnancy hullaballoo that I do. Then again, she had me at 17, so her doctor didn’t keep her pregnancy progress paperwork in a one-inch thick, danger-red file folder labeled, “Advanced Maternal Age.”
That’s the new, politically correct way to say what the ob/gyns are all actually calling my situation in their heads: a geriatric pregnancy.
And geriatric equals danger. Apparently, once a woman’s eggs are 35-years-old—or in my case, 39-years-old—it’s like the doctors are worried they’ve developed some kind of hand grenade qualities. That the two fertilized eggs implanted in my womb might not just grow arms, but take up arms and attempt an early escape from the cozy confines of their single room condo.
And maybe they will. I mean, nobody expected for both ‘Baby Maybes’ to find purchase and hold on for literal dear life in my ancient—at least in uterus years—womb. But these fava beans are fighters. And ever since they hit the thirty-two-week milestone, giving them a ninety-nine percent chance of being strong enough to twin-fight in public, they seem to have taken up mixed martial arts training in their private gym.
I exit the stairwell and reach the front door of my building, winded. And nauseous. An amazing combination when it’s almost ninety degrees out.
I lean against the cool brick with as much of my bare skin as possible without looking like I’m dry humping my building. Though even if I do give off that vibe, I’m beyond caring. I have nobody to impress or worry about. By the time these two are old enough to be rolling their eyes, worried about the way their mom is acting in public, I figure I’ll have them acting even goofier. That is my goal: to be the one rolling her eyes at her kids’ crazy antics.
The honk of a car startles me and I look up to see a black Subaru Impreza with a small Uber sticker on the windshield. The windows are up, which brings me so much joy: five minutes of glorious air conditioning to offset the car sickness.
CHAPTER2
Stirling
Isit in the far corner of my old restaurant,near the alcove where staff would whisper warnings to each other about guests. It’s six months to the day since I was taken out on a stretcher, after suffering a massive heart attack while I flambéed a flan.
Doctors told me I was lucky to survive.
I sure as shit didn’t feel lucky when my family voted to sell the business that my dad had built into the first—and only—Michelin star rated restaurant in Canada while I convalesced after the triple bypass. My mom and sisters negotiated away my life and livelihood. My purpose.
But they saw it differently. And with their four votes to my one, Dad’s legacy now belongs to a numbered corporation that dropped eight figures for the right to take over and franchise Dad’s name. Which also happens to be my name.
During the transition, I was restricted from even setting foot in what had been my home away from home for twenty years. Who am I lying to? The restaurant was my home. I had no life outside of this place, which meant, when they took it away, I had no life. I’d survived the heart attack, but living for what?
Another part of the agreement that was made without my blessing was a non-compete clause—legally forbidding me from even working in another restaurant in North America for five full years. The only thing I know—the only thing I love—taken from me. I might as well have died. An eternity in Hell could not be worse.
“Linguini and clams.” My server, a young woman who hadn’t worked for me, places the plate on the table. My signature dish. My dad’s signature dish. My grandfather’s signature dish when the restaurant was nothing more than a high-end diner. And now some faceless corporation’s signature dish.
“Thank you.” I smile. At least, I try to smile but my face is as frozen as an Italian ice.
“Fresh ground pepper?” she asks, pulling the grinder from her apron pocket.
I close my eyes and inhale deeply to smell the food. “No, thank you. It doesn’t need it.”
I curse under my breath. I’d hoped they’d adjusted our recipe and ruined it. But it’s perfect.
Several bites into my early dinner, the server tending to the front tables pulls the manager, Cecilia, into the alcove beside me.
“She’s asking if we can put her order in a To Go container. I told her we can’t. But she’s begging for an exception. Something about bedrest?” the young man says.
Cecilia peers over his shoulder and I follow her gaze. A woman who looks ready to give birth last week stands with prayer hands held up just below a smile and pleading eyes that make me think the poor bastard who’d knocked her up doesn’t stand a chance when she decides she wants something. She’s perfected that expression my sisters used to use to get their way with Dad.
