{"product_id":"nine-months-isbn-9781616951467","title":"Nine Months","description":"\u003cb\u003eA bold, unapologetic first novel about a pregnant mother and wife who abandons her family in search of an identity that is hers alone.  \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Deliciously, dangerously rogue.\" —\u003cb\u003eMarcy Dermansky\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eBad Marie\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eSonia, a young Brooklyn mother shaken by her unexpected (third) pregnancy, abandons her husband and kids and takes off on a cross-country odyssey in search of an identity separate from her family. She does everything a pregnant woman shouldn't do—engaging in casual sex and smoking weed—as she retraces her past and attempts to reclaim her sidelined career as an artist. \u003ci\u003eNine Months\u003c\/i\u003e is a fierce, daring page-turner of a novel—a lacerating response to the culture of mommy blogs, helicopter parents and \"parental correctness\" as well as an unflinching look at the choices women face when trying to balance art and family.\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eNine Months\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Dark, sharp, and hilarious . . . (many?) mother’s escape fantasy.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eNew York Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Deliciously, dangerously rogue.\" \u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eMarcy Dermansky, author of \u003ci\u003eBad Marie\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\"A raw, darkly funny, at times appalling page-turner . . . Mommy  lit lovers  will be horrified, but Bomer’s debut novel will resonate  with fans of  quirky, character-driven fiction in the vein of Richard  Russo, John  Updike, and Tiffany Baker.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Library Journal\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Phenomenal comedic pace.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—The Atlantic\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This novel may make you feel uncomfortable at times, but it will also make you laugh and think about the difficult task of parenting and the choices we make.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Pittsburgh Post-Gazette \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This  is a brave and provocative book about the insidious power of PC. That’s  Parental Correctness not Political Correctness . . . [Bomer’s] wounding  analysis of herself and the vicious new mummy tribes she introduces us  to make this book an instant classic.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—The Guardian \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This  is the road trip novel I’ve always wanted to read . . . Sonia’s  observations are priceless . . . After reading this powerful, entertaining  novel, and Bomer’s excellent collection of stories, I’m convinced.  Anything she writes, I want it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003ePANK\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Bomer’s feisty prose style and fluid storytelling are very, very good. They have the marks of truth: pith and passion.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Brooklyn Rail\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Paul Bomer’s \u003ci\u003eNine Months\u003c\/i\u003e is a daring look at motherhood, exploring the thoughts most women keep secret\u003cb\u003e . . .\u003c\/b\u003e A page-turner that will tie your stomach in knots and stir up one hell of a debate.\"\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eSusan Henderson, \u003ci\u003eUp From the Blue\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Realistic, darkly funny, and thoroughly engaging . . . a needed flipside to books and mommy blogs that depict motherhood as solely a state of bliss and whimsy.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eBUST Magazine\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003c\/i\u003eBomer could have titled this work \u003ci\u003eWhat to REALLY Expect When You’re Expecting\u003c\/i\u003e as there is more raw, honest truth in this novel than any parenting book I’ve ever read.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Jessica Anya Blau\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eDrinking Closer to Home\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Paula Bomer has written a dark, honest and powerful novel in Nine Months,   one that constantly surprises the reader as the layers of emotion are   peeled off, one after another, revealing the depth and need of the  human  experience.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—The Nervous Breakdown\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eNine Months \u003c\/i\u003eis the best book I have read about the secret fears and sinister underbelly of becoming a parent, a satire which should be viewed not only as a stellar novel, but as a challenge to a literary scene mired in laziness, backslapping and lousy cliches.\"\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eTony O’Neill, author of \u003ci\u003eSick City\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e“Bomer  takes [Mommy Culture] head-on, in blunt, brave writing . . . articulate,  searing, and blastingly funny on pregnancy and childbirth . . . not for the  fainthearted, they would make excellent reading in high school sex  education courses.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003ePopMatters\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Confronting, seditious and original.\" \u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eBookd Out\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for Bomer's collection \u003ci\u003eBaby \u0026amp; Other Stories\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\"Reading \u003ci\u003eBaby \u0026amp; Other Stories\u003c\/i\u003e is like being attacked by a rabid dog—and feeling grateful for it. This is some of the rawest and most urgent writing I can remember encountering.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003e—\u003cb\u003eJonathan Franzen\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Corrections\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Dysfunctional doesn't begin to describe the marriages in this brilliant, brutally raw debut collection.\"\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eO Magazine\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"In 10 raw and angry stories, Bomer flays the idea of happy little families.... This lacerating take on marriage and motherhood is not one to share with the Mommy and Me group.\"\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003ePublishers Weekly (starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"If Bomer's harsh portrayal of modern parenting and marriage were water, it would be transparent, unflecked, jagged ice.... She lands firmly between Mary Gaitskill's articulate, unflinching anhedonia and Kathy Acker.... Amy Hempel with a twist of Grace Paley. \u003ci\u003eBaby\u003c\/i\u003e is punk rock for the roundly domesticated.\" \u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eBookforum\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Words like 'tough' and 'honest' don't quite do justice to the fiction of Paula Bomer. The real housewives of Bomerworld break themselves and break your heart and yet never completely lose their soulful dignity.\" \u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eSam Lipsyte\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Ask\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cb\u003ePaula  Bomer \u003c\/b\u003eis the author of the novels \u003ci\u003eTante Eva\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eNine  Months\u003c\/i\u003e and the story collections \u003ci\u003eInside Madeleine\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eBaby and Other Stories\u003c\/i\u003e, as well as  the essay collection \u003ci\u003eMystery and Mortality\u003c\/i\u003e. Her work has appeared in numerous journals and magazines, including \u003ci\u003eNew York Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eLA Review of Books\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eBOMB\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eFiction\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eThe Mississippi Review\u003c\/i\u003e.February 7\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e   I DID IT!” She screams, “I DID IT WITH MY OWN\u003cbr\u003e BODY!” Her voice is ungodly deep. The veins in her\u003cbr\u003e neck thick with blood. And it’s true. Her body, once more,\u003cbr\u003e did it. What’s left of it. Bleeding, bloated, bruised inside\u003cbr\u003e and out. Ripped and torn, the yellowish, green umbilical\u003cbr\u003e cord resembling some sort of proof that aliens do indeed\u003cbr\u003e exist, they exist inside of our very bodies. The slimy, luminescent\u003cbr\u003e cord is proof of universal mystery, this strange\u003cbr\u003edevice that attached her to her daughter—it’s from inside\u003cbr\u003e of her body, just like her daughter, too, the red-faced infant\u003cbr\u003e screaming in the doctor’s arms. Her insides came out. It’s\u003cbr\u003e the end of the world.\u003cbr\u003e   Because each time it happens, she swears, never again,\u003cbr\u003e never again, even as she holds the tiny infant that, unbelievably,\u003cbr\u003e unfuckingbelievably, grew inside of her. She’s in\u003cbr\u003e awe of her daughter, in awe and also, not so oddly, rather\u003cbr\u003e unmoved by her. She feels no love, just wonder. No love\u003cbr\u003e surges forth, like it did with Mike her youngest (but not\u003cbr\u003e with Tom, it’s like it was with Tom, the confusion, the\u003cbr\u003e mystery). Funny, bluish, screamy wormlike thing. She\u003cbr\u003e puts her on her left breast and prods at the little baby’s\u003cbr\u003e mouth to take the nipple. The baby’s mouth roots around\u003cbr\u003e like a baby bird, unable to grasp on. So Sonia squeezes\u003cbr\u003e her nipple and colostrum comes out and the infant’s lips\u003cbr\u003e touch the pre-milk milk and then, it works—the baby\u003cbr\u003e tries to suck. First slowly, and then, as if something in her\u003cbr\u003e wired-for-survival brain clicks, she ferociously latches on\u003cbr\u003e to Sonia’s nipple and sucks on her like that’s what she’s\u003cbr\u003e been put on this earth to do. Which is, in fact, true. Her\u003cbr\u003e daughter is here to suck the life out of her, and leave\u003cbr\u003e her for the spent, middle-aged woman she soon will be.\u003cbr\u003e   Nothing will be remotely the same again. No one has\u003cbr\u003e ever threatened Sonia as much as this unnamed infant.\u003cbr\u003e No one has ever made it clear how useless and spent she\u003cbr\u003e really is.\u003cbr\u003e   She grew her, like she grew Tom and Mike. Like a plant,\u003cbr\u003e but inside of her, and with a brain, too. Sonia stares at the\u003cbr\u003e doctor for a minute. How can someone do this for a living?\u003cbr\u003e How can they do this for a living, watch women turn\u003cbr\u003e themselves inside out, and not have nervous breakdowns?\u003cbr\u003e It’s not that different than being a gravedigger. It’s just not.\u003cbr\u003e And then, Sonia, still deflating like a balloon, as a large\u003cbr\u003e liver-like placenta hurtles out of her, starts shaking with\u003cbr\u003e pain. Her teeth chatter. Her vision blurs. Is this the part\u003cbr\u003e where she dies? That was supposed to be earlier, thinks\u003cbr\u003e Sonia. The nurse, Beatrice, who is once again a normal,\u003cbr\u003e nice nurse—this, after Sonia saw her with that hallucinatory\u003cbr\u003e vision, with rainbows surrounding her and light glowing\u003cbr\u003e around her head, she had a fucking halo, she \u003ci\u003edid\u003c\/i\u003e, Sonia\u003cbr\u003e was sure of it—now this nurse is just a nice, normal nurse\u003cbr\u003e and gives Sonia a shot of Demoral in her thigh to stop the\u003cbr\u003e shakes.\u003cbr\u003e   “Sometimes people shake real badly with the postbirth\u003cbr\u003e contractions,” Beatrice says. “The fluid leaving them so\u003cbr\u003e quickly sets the body off into convulsions. You’ll be fine.\u003cbr\u003e It’s nothing abnormal. Nothing to be worried about.”\u003cbr\u003e Sonia was in love with this woman only a few hours\u003cbr\u003e ago. And she still likes her, but now she \u003ci\u003ejust \u003c\/i\u003elikes her. The\u003cbr\u003e magic is gone. Nothing abnormal? Everything is abnormal.\u003cbr\u003e There is nothing normal about what Sonia just went\u003cbr\u003e through. There is no normal.\u003cbr\u003e   But that was later. First, there was more driving to be\u003cbr\u003e done. Sitting with her pregnant self in the black leather\u003cbr\u003e bucket seat of her Volkswagen Passat station wagon.\u003cbr\u003e It just crept up on her. She was never so lucky, with any\u003cbr\u003e of her kids, as to have the drama of her water breaking. No,\u003cbr\u003e for about two weeks really, her lower body ached, and then\u003cbr\u003e hurt, really hurt, increasingly so. For two weeks, she felt\u003cbr\u003e so tired, so exhausted, with intermittent sharp headaches,\u003cbr\u003e that whenever she walked, even the littlest bit—from the\u003cbr\u003e hotel room to the car, from the front seat of the car to the\u003cbr\u003e McDonald’s, from the parking lot to the mall—she felt as\u003cbr\u003e if she couldn’t go on. Just physically moving her big body\u003cbr\u003e drained her utterly. She wanted to lie down. But then, as\u003cbr\u003e soon as she lay down, she wanted to move again. She was\u003cbr\u003e never comfortable.\u003cbr\u003e   Exhausted restlessness. Bothness. It was time. It was\u003cbr\u003e going to happen soon.\u003cbr\u003e   She’s been driving east for some time. She missed\u003cbr\u003e Christmas, which was the guiltiest pleasure of all, but the\u003cbr\u003e guilt almost ruined the pleasure. No wrapping presents.\u003cbr\u003e No buying presents for anyone. No in-laws. No decorating\u003cbr\u003e a tree. No goddamn cards to mail out. No having to\u003cbr\u003e do a million things at preschool. No singing. No special\u003cbr\u003e meals to prepare for her ungrateful family. No pretending\u003cbr\u003e that she lives for trying to make everyone happy, when\u003cbr\u003e no one noticed that she wasn’t happy herself, that she\u003cbr\u003e really didn’t give a fuck. She didn’t believe in Jesus Christ\u003cbr\u003e anyway. She didn’t believe that the son of God came and\u003cbr\u003e saved everyone’s souls, or just those who prayed to Him.\u003cbr\u003e Although, she did pray, just in case, because even though\u003cbr\u003e she didn’t believe in Jesus Christ, she didn’t believe there\u003cbr\u003e wasn’t anything out there. She prayed desperately to the\u003cbr\u003e random molecules to be kind to her. But Jesus? No. And\u003cbr\u003e yet, they were Christians in some vague, historical way,\u003cbr\u003e Dick and she, and they played the whole game. Told themselves\u003cbr\u003e it was about the kids. Every Christmas, they gave\u003cbr\u003e five hundred dollars to City Meals on Wheels and bought\u003cbr\u003e a ton of cheap plastic toys that made the boys freak out for\u003cbr\u003e about two days. It depressed her. It made her feel oddly\u003cbr\u003e guilty, an empty sort of false joy and yet the boys were\u003cbr\u003e genuinely happy, wasn’t that enough?\u003cbr\u003e   This Christmas she spent laying her fat butt down at a\u003cbr\u003e Ramada Inn in Nebraska, watching TV and eating bags of\u003cbr\u003e chips and boxes of créme-filled oatmeal cookies. She fell\u003cbr\u003e asleep with the TV on. For some reason, she didn’t feel\u003cbr\u003e depressed and guilty about that. She felt guilty because she\u003cbr\u003e did nothing that she was supposed to do anymore. Missing\u003cbr\u003e Christmas was like having her very own Christmas for the\u003cbr\u003e first time since Tom was born five years ago. But the guilt\u003cbr\u003e was a wicked tongue telling her that she really was the devil.\u003cbr\u003e   Jesus held no sway with Sonia, but evil was a scary force one\u003cbr\u003e saw on a regular basis. And who’s to say it wasn’t inside of\u003cbr\u003e her? For weeks and weeks now, the guilt ate at her as she ate\u003cbr\u003e her way around America. Her conscience spoke to her, and\u003cbr\u003e it told her horrible stuff about herself. She’d listen, and then\u003cbr\u003e move on. She wasn’t a monster as long as her conscience\u003cbr\u003e spoke, she reasoned. As long as she had a conscience, she\u003cbr\u003e wasn’t actually the worst person on earth, she was just rebelling.\u003cbr\u003e Or so she told herself. But everyone knows a mother\u003cbr\u003e who leaves her children is the worst thing on earth; a sinner,\u003cbr\u003e a loser, a person whose life isn’t worth living.\u003cbr\u003e   She missed New Years. Happy New Year! On New\u003cbr\u003e Year’s Eve, she fell asleep at 10 p.m. in a Motel 6 in Illinois.\u003cbr\u003e But now, in the gloom of February, now she heads back.\u003cbr\u003e Because the baby is coming. And, guilt or no guilt, she has\u003cbr\u003e no control over what she has to do now. It was a relief,\u003cbr\u003e actually, the lack of responsibility. She has no choice in the\u003cbr\u003e matter. She has to push this baby out.\u003cbr\u003e   When she walks around the malls that she haunts, she\u003cbr\u003e walks so slowly, like the baby’s head is right there, right\u003cbr\u003e above her vagina, like there is a bowling ball between her\u003cbr\u003e legs. She positively waddles. And it feels like a bowling ball\u003cbr\u003e is leaning on her crotch. It fucking hurts. How much does\u003cbr\u003e a bowling ball weigh? How much does this baby, the placenta,\u003cbr\u003e the extra pints and pints of blood and fluid weigh?\u003cbr\u003e The same as a bowling ball? Probably more. Sometimes,\u003cbr\u003e a sharp stabbing pain. Other times, just a dull throbbing\u003cbr\u003e that becomes like some horrible white noise; at first she\u003cbr\u003e ignores the pain and then it’s the only thing she can think\u003cbr\u003e of. So she sits down on a bench across from the indoor\u003cbr\u003e fountains at the mall—throb, throb, throb.\u003cbr\u003e   She’s due. And, like the other two times, she’s in denial.\u003cbr\u003e Because, who after all wants to deal with that pain? Who\u003cbr\u003e wants to welcome the horror that is birth? Who joyfully\u003cbr\u003e embraces the thought of their body cleaving in two?\u003cbr\u003e Vague, nightmarish memories of the other births startle\u003cbr\u003e her, flash at her, as she does her thing, the driving, the\u003cbr\u003e walking around malls, the walking from her car to a gas\u003cbr\u003e station and then back again, the lying around hotel rooms.\u003cbr\u003e   Meanwhile, she pretends this isn’t her labor very slowly\u003cbr\u003e starting. But it is. At a mall in Michigan, after eating an\u003cbr\u003e enormous steak and a baked potato for dinner—she never\u003cbr\u003e eats the potato, why now?—she waddles out to her station\u003cbr\u003e wagon and gets in the car and heads toward New York.\u003cbr\u003e Not vaguely east. No, now she drives straight for New\u003cbr\u003e York City, straight for Brooklyn. She drives eighty miles\u003cbr\u003e an hour most of the time. She’s anxious. She wants to get\u003cbr\u003e there. She’s heading back to her boys. To her man. The\u003cbr\u003e father of this baby.\u003cbr\u003e   But she doesn’t quite make it. She’s not a confident\u003cbr\u003e driver to begin with. When her stomach hardens up, it\u003cbr\u003e becomes hard to focus on the road. She can still see the\u003cbr\u003e road. In fact, morning’s pushing through, hazy and dark, a\u003cbr\u003e dark February morning, and she knows she’s been sitting\u003cbr\u003e in this car for that long now—and she’s been in Pennsylvania\u003cbr\u003e for a long time. God, she’s close, but the hardening\u003cbr\u003e of her stomach, the \u003ci\u003econtraction\u003c\/i\u003e—the word actually presents\u003cbr\u003e itself to her—is telling her to pull over and ask where the\u003cbr\u003e nearest hospital is.\u003cbr\u003e   “Twenty minutes to downtown Philadelphia,” the man\u003cbr\u003e at the gas station tells her. Twenty minutes. She can do\u003cbr\u003e it. They are coming faster now, the contractions, regularly,\u003cbr\u003e too. Her first labor was eleven hours, not bad. Her\u003cbr\u003e second was eight hours long. How long would this one\u003cbr\u003e be? She has more than twenty minutes before the baby\u003cbr\u003e forces herself out, she must. She says to herself, “I’ve got\u003cbr\u003e at least a few hours. I’ve got time. Drive slow, breathe,”\u003cbr\u003e and she talks to herself like this until she enters Philly, a\u003cbr\u003e city she’s only been to once or twice with her family, long\u003cbr\u003e ago. Once, they stayed in a hotel and went swimming in\u003cbr\u003e the indoor pool and then walked around, sightseeing.\u003cbr\u003e What was the second time? She can’t remember now,\u003cbr\u003e the pain during her contractions distracting her memory\u003cbr\u003e for the most part. She does remember where the man\u003cbr\u003e told her to go and she makes the turns and there’s the\u003cbr\u003e hospital.\u003cbr\u003e   She is the only white person in the waiting area. After\u003cbr\u003e talking to the triage nurse, she’s sent out to give her insurance\u003cbr\u003e card to the person at the desk and then she’s ushered\u003cbr\u003e out of the emergency waiting room into another room\u003cbr\u003e right away. Ahead of all the dark-skinned people. She\u003cbr\u003e wishes this was because she’s about to have a baby, but she\u003cbr\u003e knows it’s because she has a good insurance card. Once,\u003cbr\u003e when Mike had a horrible ear infection, she took him to\u003cbr\u003e the emergency room in a downtown Brooklyn hospital\u003cbr\u003e and the look on their faces when she produced her insurance\u003cbr\u003e card! It was as if she were holding out a bar of gold\u003cbr\u003e for payment.\u003cbr\u003e   They have a room in their maternity ward. The nurse\u003cbr\u003e Beatrice comes in, a West Indian woman by her accent. She\u003cbr\u003e checks her pulse. She listens to the baby’s heartbeat with a\u003cbr\u003e long corded thing. She times her contractions. “They’re\u003cbr\u003e three minutes apart, but they’re not lasting very long. They\u003cbr\u003e don’t feel that powerful, do they?”\u003cbr\u003e   “No, not really.”\u003cbr\u003e   “The doctor will be here soon to see how dilated you\u003cbr\u003e are.”\u003cbr\u003e   A handsome, middle-aged white woman appears. She\u003cbr\u003e looks tired, but she smiles. She introduces herself as Dr.\u003cbr\u003e Lumiere and then says, “Let’s take a look at you then.”\u003cbr\u003e She puts her hand deep inside of Sonia’s crotch. This\u003cbr\u003e hurts. She moves her hand around and Sonia can feel the\u003cbr\u003e hand twisting inside of her and she can see the doctor’s\u003cbr\u003e arm from the elbow up, moving this way and that. The\u003cbr\u003e doctor’s face held in concentration. Seeing with her fingers.\u003cbr\u003e   “Where are you from?”\u003cbr\u003e   “Brooklyn.”\u003cbr\u003e   “Your husband’s not here?”\u003cbr\u003e   “He’s in Brooklyn.”\u003cbr\u003e   “You’ve had two other deliveries, I noticed from your\u003cbr\u003e chart.”\u003cbr\u003e   “I have two kids, yes.”\u003cbr\u003e   “And where are they?”\u003cbr\u003e   “They’re in Brooklyn. With their father.”\u003cbr\u003e   Suddenly, the hospital gown held loosely over her breasts\u003cbr\u003e and enormous stomach feels incredibly inadequate. Sonia\u003cbr\u003e feels ashamed. “I was heading back to Brooklyn from a\u003cbr\u003e business trip and didn’t quite make it.” She smiles. She’s a\u003cbr\u003e horrible liar. She fruitlessly tries to pull the crinkly gown\u003cbr\u003e over her body to hide her shame, but it doesn’t work.\u003cbr\u003e “Have you called them? They could make it here on\u003cbr\u003e time.” The doctor finally pulls her hand out of Sonia.\u003cbr\u003e “How dilated am I?”\u003cbr\u003e   “You’re only three centimeters dilated, but you’re completely\u003cbr\u003e effaced. This being your third birth, it shouldn’t be\u003cbr\u003e that long. I’ll get the anesthesiologist on call.”\u003cbr\u003e   “I don’t want an epidural. I didn’t get one with my other\u003cbr\u003e kids.”\u003cbr\u003e   The doctor looks at her critically.\u003cbr\u003e   “If the nurse can give me a shot of Demoral, I’ll be fine.\u003cbr\u003e Really. I prefer Demoral. I like drugs that mess with my\u003cbr\u003e head better than the ones that just numb you.”\u003cbr\u003e   “Would you get a tooth pulled without the numbing\u003cbr\u003e pain reliever?”\u003cbr\u003e   “No. But I’m not getting a tooth pulled. I’m having a\u003cbr\u003e baby.” And if I were getting my tooth pulled, thinks Sonia,\u003cbr\u003e I’d ask for the gas, too. It’s like doing whippets.\u003cbr\u003e   “But getting a tooth pulled isn’t nearly as painful as giving\u003cbr\u003e birth. And it doesn’t make sense that you’d get numbing\u003cbr\u003e pain reliever for pulling a tooth but not for having a\u003cbr\u003e baby. There’s no reason to feel all that pain.”\u003cbr\u003e   “I’m one of those weird people who kind of gets off on\u003cbr\u003e pain, OK?”\u003cbr\u003e   “You really should have someone here with you. A sister\u003cbr\u003e or your mother, if you’re not going to call your husband.\u003cbr\u003e We can’t really let you leave unless you have someone here\u003cbr\u003e to take you home.”\u003cbr\u003e   “Well, I just got here so let’s not think about me leaving\u003cbr\u003e yet. I just got here.”\u003cbr\u003e   Dr. Lumiere frowns at her. Sonia feels high. The endorphins,\u003cbr\u003e in reaction to the contractions, must have just kicked\u003cbr\u003e in. She gets a rush to her head. She says, “You’re beautiful\u003cbr\u003e when you frown.”\u003cbr\u003e   “Are you on any medication? Lithium? Prozac?”\u003cbr\u003e   “No,” she says.\u003cbr\u003e   “No high blood pressure, no diabetes . . .”\u003cbr\u003e   “Oh, no, nothing like that. I’m healthy.”\u003cbr\u003e   “When was your last prenatal checkup?”\u003cbr\u003e   “I’m not sure.”\u003cbr\u003e   “Were you having weekly checkups?”\u003cbr\u003e   “It was a while ago, my last checkup. It was a couple\u003cbr\u003e months ago.”\u003cbr\u003e   Dr. Lumiere frowns again. “Well, everything looks\u003cbr\u003e fine.”\u003cbr\u003e   The room is smaller than the one she had both her boys\u003cbr\u003e in. Both of her boys were delivered in the same room at\u003cbr\u003e the same beautiful maternity ward in Manhattan. But\u003cbr\u003e although the room is small, it has a nice view and it’s clean.\u003cbr\u003e Sonia is happy. The nurse comes and checks her contractions\u003cbr\u003e again. They’ve slowed down, they’re now five minutes\u003cbr\u003e apart, but they’re getting deeper. She can really feel\u003cbr\u003e them, they pull at her, and she stops thinking about other\u003cbr\u003e things—about her boys, about her husband, about Phil\u003cbr\u003e Rush, the man, her old professor, she’s just come from\u003cbr\u003e visting—and just feels the pain.\u003cbr\u003e   The nurse says, “Your contractions have slowed down.\u003cbr\u003e Probably because you’re more relaxed now. You’ve been\u003cbr\u003e lying down for a while. It’s OK. Don’t worry. This baby’s\u003cbr\u003e coming today.”\u003cbr\u003e   Today? \u003ci\u003eToday? \u003c\/i\u003eGod, she’s going to have a baby, she’s\u003cbr\u003e going to give birth, a fucking baby is going to come out\u003cbr\u003e of her, a person. Another goddamn person. She shudders.\u003cbr\u003e The nice nurse may know the baby is coming, and may\u003cbr\u003e tell this to Sonia, but Sonia doesn’t believe it, exactly. She\u003cbr\u003e is suddenly struck with the enormity of it all. The panic it\u003cbr\u003e causes her to think of it! So she just stops thinking about\u003cbr\u003e it. That pain that she’s feeling? She’d rather be in her pain,\u003cbr\u003e right now—\u003ci\u003elive for the moment!\u003c\/i\u003e—than think about what’s\u003cbr\u003e ahead.\u003cbr\u003e   Sonia gets up from her bed. She puts on a robe from\u003cbr\u003e a bag of mall clothing she’s acquired on this trip. A huge,\u003cbr\u003e gray maternity robe. She shoves her feet into the hospital\u003cbr\u003e slippers, flimsy, paper things, and decides to walk around\u003cbr\u003e the building a bit, to fend off her thoughts. In the hallway,\u003cbr\u003e at the nurse’s station, she asks Beatrice if they sell good\u003cbr\u003e slippers, fluffy slippers, at the gift shop.\u003cbr\u003e   “I’m not sure. You could take a look, though.”\u003cbr\u003e   Sonia walks toward the elevator. A contraction comes\u003cbr\u003e and she stops for a moment, puts her hand on her belly.\u003cbr\u003e Her stomach gets hard as a rock, it’s like a smooth, rounded\u003cbr\u003e stone, and Sonia stands there and feels it. It hurts nicely,\u003cbr\u003e purposefully, rightly. And then it’s gone. And she’s in the\u003cbr\u003e elevator.\u003cbr\u003e   The gift shop isn’t so bad. Really. Some T-shirts, some\u003cbr\u003e cheap jewelry. Coffee mugs. No slippers though. Sonia\u003cbr\u003e thinks of talking to the woman behind the desk about how\u003cbr\u003e slippers would be a good thing to carry in the hospital seeing\u003cbr\u003e as how the slippers the hospital gives you aren’t very\u003cbr\u003e nice. They barely stay on your feet. But as she smilingly\u003cbr\u003e walks toward the saleswoman the woman glares at her and\u003cbr\u003e Sonia decides against giving her any advice. She decides\u003cbr\u003e against striking up a conversation with this woman. This\u003cbr\u003e woman doesn’t want to talk to her.\u003cbr\u003e   And who does, really? Is that why she keeps having kids,\u003cbr\u003e so someone will want to talk to her? Someone had said to\u003cbr\u003e her once, people have kids so they don’t have to deal with\u003cbr\u003e making friends. You have kids and they have to be your\u003cbr\u003e friends, or, at the very least, your company, your human\u003cbr\u003e interaction, as they live with you and off of you for years\u003cbr\u003e and years. God, how she misses her boys. And Dick. Yes,\u003cbr\u003e and Dick.","brand":"Soho Press","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46305091059941,"sku":"NP9781616951467","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781616951467.jpg?v=1767733760","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/nine-months-isbn-9781616951467","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}