After the Rice
French, Wendy
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BOOK SYNOPSIS
Megan Ismore is perfectly happy with her little family: Megan, her husband, Matt, and their little dog Duncan. But Megan and Matts tidy life is about to be thrown into disarray. Not only do unwelcome family members insist on camping out in their increasingly cramped house, but Megan has a growing secret she cant bear to share. Megan and Matts happy home is in for a big change in Wendy Frenchs witty look at the unexpected turns life sometimes takes.
AUTHOR BIO
Wendy French was raised in Vancouver, Canada, where she was certain her parents unwittingly cursed her writing career with a happy and stable childhood. In an effort to overcome her unfortunate beginnings, she sought artistic torment at the University of Victoria, but despair eluded her. Hoping for worse luck south of the border, she moved to Oregon, but happiness continued to stalk her, day and night. Finally, she conceded defeat, abandoned her quest for misery, and began writing humorous womens fiction.
BOOK EXCERPTS
Chapter One
I was late, and not for the bus.
I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, afraid to look at myself, concentrating instead on the checkered shower curtain reflected just beyond my right shoulder. In an effort to slow my heartbeat, I focused on the shadow of mold at the top seam, which Matt had pointed out the night before, when he reminded me to open the window the next time I took a twenty-minute shower. Victoria may have boasted the mildest climate in Canada, but February was February, and the thought made me shiver.
Of course, the temperature wasnt the only thing giving me chills.
I blinked twice.
Just breathe.
I glanced at the vitamin box nestled between my husbands deodorant and his exfoliating cream. The Monday and Tuesday sections were empty, right on schedule, and each subsequent day contained the precise combination of colored capsules and tablets hed been taking daily since childhood.
If Matt thought that forgetting to crack the window was a capital offense, what would he think of my failure to pop a birth control pill on the morning of my Postmodern Canadian Fiction midterm exam three weeks earlier? Id taken one as soon as I returned home late that evening, confident that I was covered because, after all, what were a few measly hours?
Apparently, enough.
I was currently on my third placebo and hadnt even felt the familiar twinge of a cramp.
Of course, I knew the Pill wasnt an absolute guarantee, but could I have landed on the wrong side of the decimal point? The odds were in the realm of lotteries and lightning bolts, but was I the fraction of a percentage Id scoffed at when my gynecologist wrote the prescription?
Megs, have you seen my brown belt? Matt called through the door.
I think I hung it on the rack in our closet, I responded, trying to keep my voice even.
No, thats the black one.
So?
So, Im wearing brown shoes. He sighed. Never mind.
I let my gaze drift upward until I was looking into my own eyes. They were blue, just like theyd been yesterday and a hundred yesterdays before that. I exhaled slowly, noting with reassurance that I looked perfectly normal. Yes, there were bags under my eyes, but the silent arrival of two a.m. had been setting off my internal alarm clock for the past couple of weeks while I worried about school, and Id had a hell of a time hitting snooze. I didnt want a new topic to fret over, had no desire to trade Dr. Zhivago for Dr. Spock.
I turned on the tap and splashed cold water against my face before patting it dry with a toffee-colored towelpart of a set wed been given by my older sister as a shower gift almost a year earlier. I blinked hard and assessed my image again. My dirty-blond hair was looking less than spectacular, but that was nothing new. My skin lacked its usual rosy hue, but thanks to a brutal essay on Byron, I hadnt been outside in days. No, neither of these minor details added up to pregnant.
I glanced downward, surprised when my hand instinctively moved to my stomach and rested there, palm against the rough knit of my argyle sweater. Daring myself to do it, I poked my belly with an index finger and, ludicrously, felt relieved when nobody poked me back.
I bit my chapped bottom lip, gaze drifting from my nail-bitten fingers to the slightly frayed cuff of my sweater, past the clunky metallic mens watch Id swiped from Matt on our fourth date, to the mole where my Adams apple would be if I werent an Eve. I watched the round brown speck move with the rhythm of my breathing for a moment before looking at my face again.
I didnt look like a mother, for crying out loud. My wayward eyebrows showed no sign of behaving, my left nostril still looked bigger than my right, and there was no way a fetus was inside me.
No way.
I stared at my cheeks. My mother always said she could spot a pregnancy as early as the second week, when the skin was glowing and luminous. I was most definitely pasty and wan.
I couldnt be pregnant. It was impossible.
I had several more terms of school to finish.
Matt was implementing a new computer system at the library.
We were a party of two.
We were satisfied.
We didnt want kids.
Contrary to popular belief, we didnt need children, although the world not only thought otherwise, but constantly strove to convert us to the Church of Parental Bliss.
Can you imagine a combination of our genes? Id asked Matt once. Your knobby knees, paired with my thighs?
What about my ears? hed asked. It would be cruel to pass them on.
Or my pointy nose, Id said, shaking my head. Child abuse.
We could happily live without learning the gibbering language of the infatuated parent, speaking in tongues about woobies, wee-wees, binkys, or nigh-nighs. We didnt want to lose more sleep than we could afford, change more diapers than we cared to imagine, or deal with time-outs, groundings, allergies, sleepovers, report cards, soccer games, cookie sales, camp outs, chicken pox, smoking, drinking, driving, dating, sex, and the task of teaching some poor little soul everything they needed to know about how to survive in a world that was changing every day, and not necessarily for the better.
We were responsible people, and the last thing we wanted was more responsibility.
Hey, Megs. Dont worry about the belt, Matt called.
Im not, I muttered, pinching my cheeks for color.
I found the black one and changed my shoes.
Good thinking, I said, shaking my head and reaching for my toothbrush.
It wasnt that we didnt like children, but we didnt feel they were missing from our lives. My uterus flatly refused to ache at the sight of a toddler cramming a handful of cottage cheese into its mouth.
Its mouth? Their mouth? Whatever.
Friends, family, and complete strangers loved to tell us that we couldnt comprehend what it was like to have children, or fathom all that we were missing out on.
In high school, they called that peer pressure.
You should be glad that our nonexistent kids cant edge yours out of college, or bully them during recess, Id say.
Our families badgered us to contribute new wrinkles to the family fold, but we werent about to create a life so Matts mum could buy tiny grandma loves me T-shirts, or my dad could go by Pappy.
If there was one thing we knew for sure, it was that we didnt want kids.
Shit.
Do you want me to wrap the gift? Matt asked, tapping his knuckles against the door.
Ill just shove it in one of those bag things with some tissue paper, I said, squinting at myself.
Wouldnt I instinctively know if my body had achieved double occupancy?
Nah, Ill just wrap it. I heard his footsteps recede toward the kitchen.
I ran my fingers through my hair and set to work with a hint of eyeliner and some shadow in an effort to mask the fatigue. I was definitely stressed and worn out over school, and my mean-spirited body was probably holding my egg hostage as payback. When my period arrived, Id be giggling over the scare. Hell, I was practically laughing hysterically already. In the meantime, Id just keep it to myself. Matt was a natural athlete when it came to worrying, and the last thing he needed was a trip to the Olympics.
His footsteps approached the door again.
Megs, I cant find the tape, he said.
I think its on my desk.
I already checked.
Of course he had. I rolled my eyes and reached for the mascara. Maybe its in the drawer beneath the cutlery.
Why would it be there? His tone was incredulous.
It seems like a logical spot. I shrugged, despite the fact that he couldnt see me. I heard him walk back to the kitchen, then rifle through the drawer.
Whats the checkbook doing in here? he called out to me, clearly agitated. His footsteps brought him back to the door.
I dont know, I murmured absently.
Maybe the manufacturer of my pills had a Web site. Surely I wasnt the only client who half-missed a dose. There was probably an FAQ section, patiently waiting for me under a handy purple tab. A few keystrokes, and Id be all set.
I thought we agreed to keep it in the office, Matt said.
What? I asked, attempting to tousle my hair. Instead of voluminous, it just looked messy.
The checkbook. Didnt we agree to keep it in the office? he asked.
I guess so. I tried to push the concept of pregnancy to the back of my mind, behind the grocery list I never wrote down and the reminder to buy a new thesaurus. If I could just relax, my period would arrive and I could carry on with life as I knew it. My situation was purely psychosomatic, and all my psyche had to do was take a deep breath and roll out the menstrual welcome mat.
Easy!
I inhaled slowly, soothingly. Just forget about the possibility, because thats all it is. A slim chance. I exhaled. Slim to none. Inhale. A late pill is a minor, minor indiscretion. People try for months and even years to get pregnant before they succeed. Exhale. What makes you think youre in the accelerated program?
I took another breath, feeling better already, my shoulders relaxing. The scare would be over in a matter of hours. Or days, maximum.
No big deal.
Hey, Matt interrupted the thought, did you note that forty dollars you got from the bank machine the other night? I dont see it in the register.
No, I muttered, taking one last hopeful look at myself before opening the door.
My husband stood directly in front of me, his dark hair carefully parted, the khaki stripe in his collared shirt perfectly matching his pants. His soft brown eyes were fixed upon me, his full lips in frown formation. While I may not have looked like a mother, if I added a wallet, thick with souvenir foreign currency, and a pair of black kneesocks to his lanky frame, hed be my dad.
The man in front of me could be a father.
I could practically see an imaginary six-year-old tying Matts shoelaces together while he waxed poetic on the topic of checkbooks.
Then how am I supposed to balance it? he asked, eyebrows furrowed with annoyance, as though there were nothing on earth more important than the damn register.
Im sorry, I forgot, I snapped. Sometimes I forget things, okay?
Things like little pink pills.
I mentally shoved the thought between the lyrics to Cheap Tricks I Want You to Want Me, and the image of my mothers bunions, knowing that combination could block out just about anything. Im not a bloody computer, Matt.
His tight-lipped expression softened into the smile of a shared joke. Dont I know it, he said, reaching to adjust my necklace, his fingertips brushing against my skin as he pulled the clasp away from the cloisonné pendant hed given me for my twenty-ninth birthday. He settled it at the nape of my neck, where it belonged. There we go. He rested his lips gently against mine. Now lets find the tape.
The tension seeped out of me. Sometimes all it took was a soft tone or a quick squeeze. You dont need tape, buddy, I whispered, as our breath mingled. You need meds.
He chuckled, eyes crinkling. And you need a Palm Pilot.
Never. I laughed at the all-too-familiar threat.
A BlackBerry? he asked.
Not on your life. I swatted at him.
Id spent most of Valentines Day terrified of unwrapping one, but hed erred on the side of bonbons, thank God.
Do you know how much I love you? he whispered, wrapping his arms around me.
I pretended to consider the question for a moment, as though wed never played the game before. Uh . . . Im betting your love could almost fill a margarine container.
Nope. He smiled. Think bigger.
Could it fit inside one of those self-storage units with the obnoxious orange doors?
Bigger, he murmured, nuzzling my neck.
Is your love as big as a B.C. ferry? I asked. And I dont mean one of those puny ones that goes to the Gulf Islands. Im talking the Queen of Surrey or a superferry, like the Spirit of British Columbia.
Bigger.
They fit hundreds of cars, Matt.
Keep trying.
Could your love cover every inch of this island?
Yup, and more.
Okay, how much do you love me? This was the part I never tired of.
He let go of me and pressed the tips of his thumb and index finger together, tightly enough that the skin changed from pink to white. My love for you encompasses every molecule of the universe that isnt squeezed between these two fingers.
Technically, only one of them is a finger, I told him.
Well, you get the drift. He smiled.
I pulled his hand toward my face and squinted at it. Not much room left, I murmured.
Not much at all. He kissed me softly.
Well, my love for you extends beyond the limits of the known universe . . . plus one.
One what?
I dont know. One of whatever that unit of measurement is.
Its a good thing youre in the arts program, you mathmagician. He chuckled and led me down the hall.
Our Jack Russell, Duncan, eternally optimistic that the only reason wed ever enter the kitchen was to dispense rawhide bones, followed on our heels, his collar jangling like his own personal theme song.
While the dog balanced on his hind legs, a difficult task on the heavily waxed linoleum, Matt stood in the center of the room, hands on his hips as he turned in a slow circle, surveying the counters, the top of the microwave, and the cookbook shelf, searching for the Scotch tape.
Ladies and gentlemen, I whispered, Matthew Ismore prepares for the triple axel . . .
Very funny, he said, dropping his hands and peering at our bright yellow wall. He stopped in his tracks, scowled, and pulled a Wet-Nap from the dispenser on top of the fridge. Quickly crossing the room, he eliminated a dark smudge Id never noticed above the toaster.
I think you need a cape or something, Captain OCD, I told him, shaking my head. Or maybe a holster for your Lysol.
As he opened his mouth to respond, he spotted the tape on the windowsill and that was enough to still his lips.
We set to work as a team, wrapping tiny striped tights and an embroidered denim dress in shiny pastel paper covered with cartoon daisies. Id been so good at banishing thoughts of pregnancy for a stretch of several minutes that I almost forgot to envision wrestling our own little girl into striped tights.
Almost.
Matt and I signed the blank note card I found in a stationery box under the stack of Christmas gifts I hadnt managed to put away in two months. I attached a bow, and I watched as he pointedly dropped the roll of tape into the drawer where he kept the address book.
From now on, its kept here, Megs.
Gotcha, I told him, eyeing the digital clock on the microwave. Crap, were late. I winced as soon as the words left my mouth. For dinner, I mean.
He glanced at me quizzically as he slipped into his carport jacket, but I left it at that.
After tossing a handful of dog biscuits into Duncans bowl, we were off and running, hoping to make up some time on the drive, but halfway down the front steps of our 1938 bungalow, we heard a loud creak.
This stairs ready to go at any moment, Matt murmured, pausing to hop on it a couple of times. I saw the dull shine of a coin tucked into the designated slot of his penny loafer, then checked his facial expression. His brow was furrowed yet again. He had to have the strongest forehead on the island with all the working out it got.
Well get Jess to fix it, I told him, in an effort to hurry him along. Big brothers love doing that stuff.
Matt frowned. Hes not my big brother.
Hes mine, Lambchop. I checked my watch.
Later, still.
We cant just
Hes been spending too much time pining over the divorce, anyway. I continued down the stairs, hoping hed follow my lead. Im sure hed appreciate the distraction.
I trailed my fingertips against the leafless branches of our clematis, wishing it were spring already. February felt like the longest month of the year, despite its claim of being a mere twenty-eight days long. It was Mother Natures best bait-and-switch trick.
We should just hire someone, Matt sighed.
Well pay him with pizza and beer, I called over my shoulder.
I dont like feeling indebted to people, Megan. Especially family.
Speaking of debt, I said, pausing at the landing to turn and face him, maybe the Bank of Montreal will come and fix it. After all, they own eighty percent of the house. I put my hands on my hips and leaned over to scrutinize the step. Yup, Im pretty sure thats one of theirs. Ill call them tomorrow.
Very funny. Matt smirked, finally descending the stairs and following me across the lawn. Before we made it to the car, I heard him mumble, I need to mow.
We can do yard work on Saturday morning, I said, though I had no intention of doing so. Granted, part of me wanted to help him with the lawn and garden, but it was a negligible part, like a knuckle or my left armpit. The rest of me would prefer sleeping in, followed by a nice batch of chin-wagging and a side of wheat toast.
He caught up with me and tilted his head toward the pristine landscaping next door, whispering, Mr. Abrahms offered to lend me his lawn mower.
We have one, I said with a shrug.
He knows that, Matt sighed. He was making a point.
Well, its a good thing hes got all day to make points and mow lawns. Does he understand that we arent retired? That we dont have time to trim each blade of grass with nail clippers and a level?
He understands that when summer hits, the lightest breeze will ensure that our dandelions become his dandelions.
Good grief. I rolled my eyes. Were just being neighborly, sharing the wealth.
Matt climbed into the drivers seat of the Toyota and I buckled in next to him, gazing lovingly through the windshield at our home. Ragged lawn or not, it was adorable.
I admired the crisp white shutters wed painted together the month wed moved in, and the first hint of crocus sprouts in the flower bed by the front door. I remembered struggling with the power washer, as we removed the grit and mold from the exterior of the house, amazed as the bricks brightened from rust brown to a cheery red. I gazed at the crab apple tree Matts cousin gave us as a wedding gift and recalled the afternoon we spent moving it from one spot to another, trying to find the perfect location. The spindly branches were already reaching for the windowsill. The windowsill of the office; the room Matts mother had designated for a baby, as though the addition were inevitable.
Dont think about it.
Matt swept his arm across the dash, gathering a paper trail in one cupped hand.
Why are you keeping this stuff? he asked, digging under his seat until he retrieved a crumpled Safeway bag to stow it in. Parking validation? Movie stubs?
I know, I know. I kicked some old People magazines to one side of the foot well. I told you Id clear it out. I just havent had a chance.
Convenience store receipts? He held one up for me to see, as though I needed proof.
My shoulders tensed, but I tried to make light of it. Those treats we snuck into the Odeon. That movie with Clive Owen. Remember? I pulled a slip of paper free from his grip. And this is the Butchart Gardens ticket from when your aunt was visiting. The dashboard is practically a scrapbook.
He started the car and backed out of the driveway. More like a scrap yard, Megan. He glanced at the backseat, where half-empty Coke bottles and granola bar wrappers lay in wait. And you drive people around in here?
Point taken, I grumbled, growing irritated.
Is that the electric bill by your feet?
No . . . I picked up the crumpled wad of paper, saw the BC Hydro logo and groaned inwardly. Yes.
Megan. He rubbed his forehead and looked at me like I was an errant three-year-old.
I was going to pay at their office.
And? he asked, tapping one finger against the steering wheel as he drove.
And I forgot, obviously.
So you saved the cost of a stamp in favor of a late fee? Excellent strategy, Megan.
Look, I said, dropping the bill into my purse, you knew what I was like before you married me.
We were more Oscar and Felix than Romeo and Juliet at times, but usually it worked for us.
Meaning? he asked.
Your toothbrush, I muttered, citing the first example that popped into my head.
What?
You replace it every three months.
Those are the instructions on the package.
I use mine for a year. At least.
Your teeth are fine, Megs.
Thats not the point. You handle all the detail stuff, like oil changes.
So? You do your fair share.
No, Matt. I specialize in late fines at Pic-A-Flic. I paused for a moment. Im the expert at belated birthday cards.
Megan . . .
He scrubbed the bathtub weekly, while I was more inclined to wait for a rust-colored ring to appear as my own personal orange alert.
He should have known I couldnt be trusted to keep the car clean, pay the bills, or handle birth control!
Megan? he asked, glancing from the road, to me, then back again, ever conscientous.
You knew all of this ahead of time, though.
What are you getting at?
Look, its not like I tricked you by being tidy and organized when we were dating, then uncovered my true identity as a sloppy loser after the wedding, I snapped.
If I was pregnant, it was entirely my fault, and Id never hear the end of it.
Whoa, slow down! He kept his eyes on the van in front of us while he reached for my hand. Im just teasing you.
Well, cut it out, I growled through gritted teeth. I could feel the sharp sting of tears forming in the corners of my eyes, and I willed them to dry up before he noticed.
Whats wrong?
Nothing. Im just not in the mood for criticism right now. I stared out the window, relieved as the threat of tears passed.
Megan, Im serious. Whats wrong?
Nothing.
Something has to be. His fingers traced a slow circle in my palm.
I pulled my hand away and scratched the skin, more tickled than soothed. Its nothing, okay? Im just tired and cranky.
He glanced at me. We dont have to go to this dinner, Megs.
If only that was all I was worried about.
Yes we do. Shes six months old today, and its our job . . . no, our duty to give a rats ass.
He frowned and gripped the steering wheel tightly, his wedding band gleaming in the glow of the streetlights as we passed. Why? Who on earth throws their kid a birthday party at six months?
Karen does. And we all had to bow to Karens will.
Your sisters a nut job, and you know it.
Look, the fallout from not going will be far worse than just biting the bullet and celebrating, I assured him, from the clear vantage point of past experience.
As far as Im concerned, if Hallmark doesnt make a card for it, it isnt a legitimate event.
If we dont go, well never hear the end of it.
Matt sighed and didnt speak again until we were several miles from the house, gliding along Cadboro Bay Road. When he did, it was with forced cheer, standard practice following any tension between us.
Mmm, sweet and sour spareribs. He licked his lips as we passed the Golden Palace. Its not too late to get takeout and go home.
Yes it is, I told him, wishing we could do just that. Maybe spicy chicken could help clear out my uterus. General Tso to the rescue!
We could always Matt began hopefully.
No we cant.
Come on, Megan, he urged, glancing from the road toward me. Are you going to liven up anytime soon?
I dont know, I sighed, staring out the window at the recycling bins and garbage cans lined up at the end of each driveway.
The truth was, I couldnt be angry with Matt for failing to recognize that, thanks to my ineptitude, our happiness was dangling from the minute hand on my biological clock.
Could I really be pregnant?
I took a sidelong peek at my perfect husband, his close shave, neatly trimmed fingernails, and the damn shoes that matched his belt. He was a man who never made mistakes, never had to clumsily defend himself and hope for understanding or forgiveness.
No, I couldnt be angry, but I couldnt tell him, either.
Copyright © 2006 by Wendy French
BOOK REVIEWS
What makes After the Rice both entertaining and thought-provoking is Frenchs great comic ear for dialogue, her snappy prose, and her knack for turning a comedy of errors into something really poignant. Seattle Post-Intelligencer
The humor of family life is well balanced with the pain that always accompanies it. Megans problem is believable, and the heavy issues of unplanned pregnancy addressed with wit and sharp, true observations.Romantic Times BOOKreviews on After the Rice
Fun, witty, and utterly charming.Sarah Mlynowski on Going Coastal
French manages to make bizarre situations seem plausible, and her strong suit lies in the characters. Although Jody is discouraged, she remains sympathetic, and readers will be delighted when she turns her life around.Booklist on Going Coastal
Submit a book reviewFOR RELATED BOOKS
Fiction Books :: General Books
Fiction Books :: Family Life Books
MORE BOOK INFO
ISBN: 0765352508
ISBN(13-digit): 9780765352507
Dewey Decimal: 813
Book Publisher: Tor Books
Language: ENG
No. of Pages: 267
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