Mine Are Spectacular! by Janice Kaplan Page B

I’m yours.”
    I worry that Berni’s reaction to the time line will blow the roof off the place, but instead, she sighs and puts both hands into Aidan’s. “I’m glad you’re with me,” she concedes. “This could be a long night. How many years have we been married? Twelve? I hope you have a few stories left I haven’t heard.”
    He laughs. “It’s not going to be so bad. The whole thing’s like directing a movie. Long hours and a lot of junk food, but it doesn’t matter because you create something great.”
    I’m hoping Berni’s delivery doesn’t end up at the Loew’s Cineplex or in reruns on TNT. But Berni seems happy to think of herself as Orson Welles in a maternity gown. She looks into Aidan’s eyes and lies back peacefully. Given the way the contractions have been going, I’m figuring her bliss could last another four minutes and twenty-seven seconds.
    Before time runs out, I blow Berni a kiss and tell her I’m heading out. There’s not much more I can do around here unless the feng shui guy arrives and needs help hanging crystals and spreading his good chi.
    â€œYou’ve been great, Sara,” Berni says, giving me a feeble smile. “You’re a terrific friend. Thanks for getting me here.”
    â€œActually, I’m the one who got you here.” Aidan laughs, rubbing her belly. “But Sara, you really are great. Once the babies are born, you’ll be our first call.”
    â€œSecond call,” Berni says. “Right after the admissions office at Yale.”
    Outside in the fresh air, happy to be alive and not in labor, I turn my cell phone back on. The signs in the hospital had warned that making calls would interfere with vital equipment. Oh, please. Millions of dollars’ worth of monitors and EKG machines are going to be screwed up by my twenty-buck Nokia? Just how much faith can you have in a hi-tech ICU if it doesn’t know the difference between a call coming in and a patient on his way out?
    Three text messages are waiting for me, all from Kate. One insists I call immediately. The second gives an address where I should meet her. The third sounds an alarm. “Emergency! Get here right away!” and gives a few words of explanation. As a doctor, Kate is trained to recognize a traumatic situation—and she’s certainly in the midst of one right now. No woman should have to face buying a tankini on her own.
    I walk briskly over to meet her at Sunshine Beach, the famous bathing suit boutique where you can get less fabric for more money than anywhere else in New York. I push through the fingerprint-free glass door—somebody must be on Windex duty 24/7—and gingerly step inside. The store is so chic that I’ve heard Winona Ryder has given up Saks to shoplift here exclusively. The music is blaring, the lights are white-hot, and so many mirrors are scattered at different angles in the room you’d think someone was trying to solar-power a rocket to Mars. Preening in front of those mirrors is a gaggle of model-beautiful customers, all long-haired, long-legged, and short on flaws.
    I sigh and turn away. These are not my people. The whole scene is enough to convince me that the only reasonable place to try on a bathing suit is in a dark cave far, far away from the other villagers. Or to buy one online late at night while eating Mallomars. Sure, you can use the Internet for research, communication, and creating a global community. But it’s made an even bigger contribution to humanity. I can digitally try on a Lands’ End bikini without ever having to look at my thighs.
    Kate is nowhere to be seen, so I call her on my cell phone to tell her that I’m at the store.
    â€œYou are? Thank God. I’m just in the fitting room.” I catch a glimpse of her face peeking out briefly from behind one of the satin curtains. Then she disappears. “Owen’s