1...Slip a Sable Under the Tree

“Girlfriend.  Impy Incubator.  Mrs. Bun-in-the-oven Jovi,” Gavin sighed with as much patience as he possessed, which wasn’t a lot.  “How in the hell did you not know this was a shower for Baby Bon Bon?”

Petey narrowed pink-lensed eyes at the rail thin man whose hair was no longer spiked but long enough to be fashioned into a blond-streaked pompadour.  She’d come here today to give input on decorations for the holiday gathering that her hairdresser-turned-event-coordinator friend was organizing for the family and friends of she and her husband.

However, rather than finding the Angel Orensanz Foundation bedecked in tasteful holiday regalia, it was decorated far more similarly to the circus-themed bachelorette party that Gavin had thrown for her in this same location almost two years ago.  The biggest notable difference was that this color scheme purple and black instead of pink and black.

That, and there was no ‘big top’ made from streamers and ribbons. 

Black linen table cloths covered at least a dozen round tables with each having lavender toppers for a splash of color, along with silver tulle around the edges.  Black covered chairs whose backs alternately bore lavender bowties and lavender pearl necklaces surrounded those tables.

As for the centerpieces…  Well, they were the best part as far as Petey was concerned, but her mother was going to die over the purple and black Day of the Dead skulls.  The male skulls had top hats trimmed in black and purple feathers, while the female version was adorned with lavender flowers and sprays of rhinestones.   The purple topiaries with black lights in the corners were kind of cute, too, but again…  Her mother.

“It’s December eighteenth,” Petey cuttingly pointed out the date to her remorseless event coordinator.  “Why would I think that, with the biggest holiday season of the year at hand, you would take my Christmas party and turn it into a baby shower that looks a hell of a lot like somebody’s senior prom?  I’m not due until Valentine’s Day.”

His hand flipping in the air, Gavin expressively rolled his eyes with an huff while circling the tulle-draped tables like an anorexic vulture.  “Because you’re entirely too friggin’ logical.  I love ya Dollface, but Jesus.  Why would I choose to do another lame Christmas party when my Bee-Eff-Eff is preggeroo?”

“Because I asked you to,” she bit out crankily.  “And I don’t want a baby shower.  We can provide for the baby without asking the help of friends and family.”

Rubbing her very swollen stomach, Petey made a mental note to research whether anyone throughout history had actually exploded during the course of pregnancy.  At only seven months, her stomach was nearly the same size as the ball that would drop in Times Square for New Year’s Eve in a mere two weeks.

Being short wasn’t one of her favorite physical characteristics to begin with, but growing a baby in an undersized torso was equivalent to housing Shaquille O’Neal in a Volkswagen Beetle for nine months.  Freaking uncomfortable for everyone involved.

Her husband wasn’t any help, either.  Jon merely smiled at her gripes and patted himself on the back for producing such robust offspring.  David was even worse by tagging the newest Bongiovi with nicknames like Whale Sperm and Baby Beluga, making himself persona non-grata at the apartment after Petey’s fifth month.  He could call and text all he wanted, but she wasn’t providing him with any more visual ammunition.

“Sweet Pete-tato.  Honey,” her lanky friend crooned while swiping a hand up and down the substantial length of his black silk turtleneck.  “In this case, I don’t give a flying Wallenda what you want.  Your friends and family want to shower you with gifts, so zip it and show up tomorrow night with your dimples in overdrive.  Capisce?”

“No.” 

She was turning to make a belligerent and only-partially hormonally induced exit when the heel of her combat boot spun too easily under her and sent Petey reeling.  The hardwood floor came at her hard and fast, and she was barely able twist herself around in time to land on her back instead of the baby.  In the process, however, her knee wrenched the wrong way and something in her ankle popped.  Both hurt like a mother trucker.

“Owwwww!”

“Petey!”  Gavin must’ve dropped to the floor a good ten feet away and skidded the rest of the distance on his knees.  Bony hands immediately started groping her all over, including the black t-shirted belly that had “Touch the Belly, Lose your Hand” printed on it.  “Are you okay?  What the hell happened?”

“I fell!” she announced crossly, feeling that what happened should be blatantly evident.  She was lying on her back with one leg folded at what felt like an awfully odd angle, and since they weren’t at the YMCA, it should be easy enough to guess this wasn’t a yoga pose. 

“I see that Snarkerella!”  Her friend was just as rattled as she was.  “Can you move everything?  You didn’t pop the kid’s water balloon did you?  Does your stomach hurt?  Jesus, I hope not, ‘cuz I don’t know nothin’ about birthin’ no babies!”

“There will be no baby birthing today, Butterfly McQueen.  I just twisted my ankle.  And maybe my knee.  You’re going to have to help me up.”   This was one of those times where Gavin’s flair for the dramatic wasn’t amusing.  It was as big a pain as the one in her ankle. 

“Uh, no.”  He was already thumbing over his phone screen in search of something.  “I will not suffer the wrath of Jovi for not taking the proper precautions.  I’m calling an ambulance.”

“Absolutely not!” 

She and Jon had a standing rule – if either of them was conscious enough to dispute it, there would be no ambulances.  Ever.  They both hated medical drama, and Petey reached up to pull the plug on this episode by snatching Gavin’s phone and jabbing the red icon that would disconnect the call. 

Pale gray eyes narrowed and fixed on her with the ferocity of an avian predator spotting a rodent lunch on the run.  “Give me that damn phone, Demon of Darkness.  If something happens to you or Jovi Junior on my watch, Mr. Ass-tastic will never let me hear the end of it.”

Gavin wasn’t wrong.  He and Petey’s husband had come a long way in the last two years, but there was still an uneasy prickliness between the two of them at times.  Considering Jon’s current state of hyper-protectiveness of Petey, and subsequently, their unborn child…  It wouldn’t go over well. 

“Here.”  She pushed Gavin’s phone at him and crammed a black-nailed hand into the pocket of her matching leather jacket to plunder for her own.  Huffing out a breath and then wincing at subsequent stabbing pain in her back, she briefly hesitated over the contact icon that bore Jon’s name before going through with it.  The fact that she didn’t want to tell him what happened didn’t change the fact that it had.  If he found out later, and through the grapevine no less, he would kill her and be justified in doing so.

“Hey, Sugar.”

“Hey,” she responded casually to his distracted greeting after the third ring.  Today was a studio day with some of the guys in the city, meaning there was a very good chance she had interrupted something important, but there was nothing she could do to help that.  “So, funny thing happened over here at the Orensanz Foundation.  I was checking out Gavin’s decorations and, as I was leaving, I kind of slipped and probably sprained my ankle.  Gavin’s freaking out and trying to get an ambulance so you don’t yell at him for negligence.  Please tell him that’s not how it works.”

“Give him the phone.”

Despite the terseness of his words, Petey knew he was going to call off the dogs – or at least one very hyper Italian greyhound.  Because if Jon insisted that she needed an ambulance for slipping on the floor when he’d flatly refused one after he was electrocuted…  Well, she would be exchanging words with her husband.  Loud ones.

“Listen up Mr. Petey, I know you will find this hard to believe, but I am not unnecessarily turning this into a scene.  Mrs. Thang didn’t just politely twist her ankle and hobble on her way.  She hit the floor flat on her back and is still lying there like a bloated turtle.”

“Because you won’t help me up!”

In a move that Bruce Lee would be proud of, he whipped his hand around and flashed Petey the slender palm so that he could listen to whatever Jon was saying.  “Ya think?  I don’t know about that…..  Fine….  If you say so, Daddy Dearest, but I’m gonna let you relay that tidbit of info.  She’s within clawing distance of my eyes.”

The referenced eyes were exaggeratedly wide and his mouth was twisted into a disfigured smirk when he passed the phone back into Petey’s possession.

“What is it that you’re telling me?’ she sniped at her husband while eyeing the man who wouldn’t quite meet her gaze.

“Sugar, you need to go get the baby checked out,” Jon broached quietly but firmly.  “No ambulance, but let Gavin help you out to the car.  I’m leaving the studio now and will meet you in the ER.”

“Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall;”

“Petey, stop.  This is an inconvenience, not a reason to freak out.”

Her panic episodes were more infrequent now than they’d ever been in her life, and Petey attributed it to the security Jon gave her in their marriage.    Since the day they’d said “I do”, he’d been hers and was every bit as faithful as he’d promised to be, even during her current state of blimpiness.

They were as close as any married couple could be, yet they maintained their individual identities.  He wrote music, recorded and had his favorite philanthropic endeavors while Petey continued her bio-electronic research when not tinkering with Bon Jovi productions and tours.  She’d even picked up a part-time teaching position at Columbia.

It was the perfect arrangement, because she supported him and he supported her – in everything.  Petey’s life, in fact, had been quite idyllic until her ass hit the floor a few minutes ago.

Now, because of one stupid wet spot on the floor, Jon seemed to think that their child was at risk.   He wasn’t the type to panic over nothing, and that’s exactly why Petey was panicked. 

They’d spent more than a year trying to conceive this baby – amidst a plethora of fertility schedules, predicted ovulation and basal temperature charts.  It wasn’t until her husband put his foot down and insisted that their sex life was going to bring them happiness first and a baby second that her body had finally relaxed enough become impregnated. 

“I should’ve let them tell me if it was a boy or a girl,” she muttered absently.  “What if I don’t find out until it’s… too late?”

“Petey!”  The sharp exclamation was only meant to draw her attention, and his tone immediately gentled afterward.  “Stop fucking recalling mortality rates and all that other shit.  Just go to the hospital.  I’ll meet you there.”

“Okay.”  The worst part about pregnancy was the hormones.  They made her emotionally unpredictable, and she hated it.  Like now, for instance.  With her ankle, knee and back throbbing with the rhythm of a Latin rumba, tears were pooling at the corners of her eyes.  “I love you.”

“Love you too, Sugar.  Now go.”