Page 2 of The Night Nanny

“What can I get you?” she asks, trying to sound cheery.

Always the same. A small decaf iced mocha Frappuccino with almond milk—no whipped cream. As I pay for it with my credit card, another knife-like stab of pain jolts my hips. I almost double over.

The barista’s face grows alarmed while a voice from behind me drifts into my ears. “Are you okay?”

Truthfully, I want to curl up on the floor and die, but instead swivel my head to see a stunning young woman about my height, clad in chic yoga wear, sunglasses, and a baseball cap that holds back her long, platinum-blonde ponytail.

“I’m fine,” I manage, the pain subsiding. My coffee comes and I fumble for the cup, the crutches making it awkward, next to impossible, to walk.

“Here…please, let me help you,” the blonde woman says.

“Th-thanks,” I stammer, grateful that there are still Good Samaritans in this self-absorbed world.

She grabs the plastic cup off the counter as I adjust the crutches under my armpits. My stupid backpack keeps sliding off my shoulders and getting in the way. Frustrated, I mutter an expletive under my breath.

With her free hand, the woman deftly secures the bag on my shoulders.

“Thanks,” I say again, my voice smaller, more contrite.

“You shouldn’t be carrying such a heavy bag,” she gently admonishes. “It’s really bad for your condition, and it could lead to rotator cuff issues.”

Just what I need…another debilitating physical ailment. Hasn’t this pregnancy been punishing enough? I’m convinced I’m paying for my sin… the terrible secret I will take to my grave.

Nodding, I shove my secret to the back of my mind and survey the coffee shop. My shoulders sag. Virtually every table and seat is taken by those entitled, I-can-sit-here-all-day-if-I-want college students, who think of Starbucks as an extension of their shoebox dorm rooms.

“Hey, I’ve got an extra chair at my table,” the woman tells me. “You can sit with me.”

“You don’t mind?”

“No, not at all. If you don’t mind, I’m going to hurry over to it before one of these college kids steals it.”

Holding my coffee, she speeds ahead, leading the way with her long, graceful strides. She moves like a supermodel and I wonder, with her tall, lean athletic build and patrician features, if she is or was one. Or maybe she’s a yoga or Pilates instructor. Trailing behind her, I waddle on my crutches, not remembering the last time I had a spring to my step like hers. When I reach the table, she sets down my Frappuccino and pulls out the unoccupied chair far enough from the table to accommodate my monstrous baby bump. Given how difficult this pregnancy has been, I’ve sometimes thought there’s a monster, not a baby, growing inside me. In one of my nightmares, I dreamt I gave birth to a baby that resembled She-Hulk, whose size and strength almost tore me apart.

Slowly, I lower myself onto the hard, wooden chair, setting the crutches against the table beside me, while the young woman gracefully sits down across from me.

I take a sip of my iced drink through the straw. “Thanks so much for letting me sit here. I really appreciate it. I’m Ava, by the way.”

“Marley…and my pleasure.” She sips her beverage—a healthy-looking spinach-colored smoothie—that’s already sitting on the table. “So, when are you due?”

I let out a light laugh. “Not soon enough.”

Tilting her head, she looks at me for more information.

“In three months. June sixth. I’m having a C-section.”

“That’s common among women with your condition…PGP,” she says knowingly.

PGP is short for pelvic girdle pain. It’s a condition mostly associated with pregnancy where the joints in the pelvic area become stiff and inflamed. Most women have manageable symptoms, but mine are extreme, affecting my entire lower torso as well as my legs. In addition to barely being able to walk, it’s painful for me to sit, climb stairs, sleep, and get dressed. I dread having to use the toilet, and sex has been out of the question. On a very bad day, I feel the pain everywhere at once. It’s sometimes so excruciating I want to die.

“How did you know that? Have you suffered from PGP too?”

She fiddles with a silver locket that grazes her clavicles. The beaded chain reminds me of a rosary, and I wonder if at some time a cross hung from it.

“No, I’ve never been pregnant.”

“Believe me, I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. It’s been so debilitating I’ve had to use crutches to help me walk, and my doctor just told me I have to go on bed rest until the baby is born.”

Another major setback. I cried when he told me the news.

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