looked so haggard. Making matters worse, persistent night terrors—including a recurring one about Santa Claus slicing off her toes with a scalpel—prevented her from getting any rest. A mild sedative was prescribed, but she lost the bottle and was too embarrassed to ask for a refill. The truth was, Ray had snuck a couple of the pills and accidentally spilled the rest down the sink.
At nineteen weeks, Miranda briefly considered terminating the pregnancy and telling people she’d miscarried. It was an appalling idea for someone so staunchly pro-life as Miranda, who in high school once had to disinvite an exchange student to a church lock-in after rumors surfaced that the girl had had an abortion back in Russia.
“It’s just so awful,” Miranda eventually confessed to the anonymous voice at the other end of the pregnancy hotline. “I believe every life is precious, but I totally understand why some people choose to kill their babies.”
In the delivery room, her new son made up for nine months of agony by sliding out without so much as a push. The doctor, a young Indian fellow whose name Miranda never learned to pronounce—Prajapati or something—was a last-minute replacement for her regular OB-GYN, who ironically was a patient in the same hospital undergoing surgery for what turned out to be inoperable prostate cancer. Dr. P, as Ray called him, snatched the newborn’s leg just millimeters before hitting the floor. The young doctor laughed and said something in Hindi, or maybe it was heavily accented English, Miranda couldn’t tell. Either way, it seemed rude. But Miranda didn’t dwell on it. The important thing was that Junior was finally, mercifully out of her body. It was still the thing she liked most about her youngest son.
Just before dawn, Miranda had given up on sleep and moved to a chair by the window. She’d hoped to watch the sunrise, but her eyes felt fat and heavy like overfull water balloons. The stillness was suffocating. Hotel room silence was different from regular silence. Five A.M. anywhere is abnormally quiet, but five A.M. in a hotel room is outer space.
After everything she’d accomplished, the idea that Bailey wasn’t worthy of being on a reality show was painful and insulting. Yes, Starr was thinner and had won more titles, but so what? Bailey was a better person. Shouldn’t that count for something?
When her last fingernail had been chewed to the quick, Miranda started devising a plan to get Bailey noticed by the reality show producers. Relinquishing her Little Miss crown guaranteed some attention, but giving up a title wasn’t as sexy as winning one. She had a real shot in the Princess category provided no one discovered she’d cheated; but even that wasn’t going to be enough. The producers needed to see that Bailey was a superstar, and that meant she had to steal the focus from Starr Kennedy. Superior Miss was their best and only chance. If Bailey beat Starr in the best overall category, essentially being named the prettiest, most talented girl in the whole pageant, it would be the greatest upset in the history of regional children’s pageanting and worthy of TV attention. It was a long shot, but not impossible.
“Maybe the other mothers could even help us out,” she whispered to Brixton.
Rumors spread like viruses at pageants, and Miranda was going to start the Ebola of rumors. At breakfast she would tell Joanna Lawson “in strictest confidence” that Bailey’s weight gain was the result of precocious puberty and early menstruation, not frivolous overeating. Miranda figured if she told Joanna by eight o’clock, the judges would know by eleven. At the very least it would be worth a few sympathy points from each of them, and that could make all the difference. Then she remembered another ace up her sleeve: Bailey’s sexy new photographs. Miranda had expected the pics to be controversial, but now if some uptight prig grumbled about inappropriateness, she could simply
At nineteen weeks, Miranda briefly considered terminating the pregnancy and telling people she’d miscarried. It was an appalling idea for someone so staunchly pro-life as Miranda, who in high school once had to disinvite an exchange student to a church lock-in after rumors surfaced that the girl had had an abortion back in Russia.
“It’s just so awful,” Miranda eventually confessed to the anonymous voice at the other end of the pregnancy hotline. “I believe every life is precious, but I totally understand why some people choose to kill their babies.”
In the delivery room, her new son made up for nine months of agony by sliding out without so much as a push. The doctor, a young Indian fellow whose name Miranda never learned to pronounce—Prajapati or something—was a last-minute replacement for her regular OB-GYN, who ironically was a patient in the same hospital undergoing surgery for what turned out to be inoperable prostate cancer. Dr. P, as Ray called him, snatched the newborn’s leg just millimeters before hitting the floor. The young doctor laughed and said something in Hindi, or maybe it was heavily accented English, Miranda couldn’t tell. Either way, it seemed rude. But Miranda didn’t dwell on it. The important thing was that Junior was finally, mercifully out of her body. It was still the thing she liked most about her youngest son.
Just before dawn, Miranda had given up on sleep and moved to a chair by the window. She’d hoped to watch the sunrise, but her eyes felt fat and heavy like overfull water balloons. The stillness was suffocating. Hotel room silence was different from regular silence. Five A.M. anywhere is abnormally quiet, but five A.M. in a hotel room is outer space.
After everything she’d accomplished, the idea that Bailey wasn’t worthy of being on a reality show was painful and insulting. Yes, Starr was thinner and had won more titles, but so what? Bailey was a better person. Shouldn’t that count for something?
When her last fingernail had been chewed to the quick, Miranda started devising a plan to get Bailey noticed by the reality show producers. Relinquishing her Little Miss crown guaranteed some attention, but giving up a title wasn’t as sexy as winning one. She had a real shot in the Princess category provided no one discovered she’d cheated; but even that wasn’t going to be enough. The producers needed to see that Bailey was a superstar, and that meant she had to steal the focus from Starr Kennedy. Superior Miss was their best and only chance. If Bailey beat Starr in the best overall category, essentially being named the prettiest, most talented girl in the whole pageant, it would be the greatest upset in the history of regional children’s pageanting and worthy of TV attention. It was a long shot, but not impossible.
“Maybe the other mothers could even help us out,” she whispered to Brixton.
Rumors spread like viruses at pageants, and Miranda was going to start the Ebola of rumors. At breakfast she would tell Joanna Lawson “in strictest confidence” that Bailey’s weight gain was the result of precocious puberty and early menstruation, not frivolous overeating. Miranda figured if she told Joanna by eight o’clock, the judges would know by eleven. At the very least it would be worth a few sympathy points from each of them, and that could make all the difference. Then she remembered another ace up her sleeve: Bailey’s sexy new photographs. Miranda had expected the pics to be controversial, but now if some uptight prig grumbled about inappropriateness, she could simply
Similar Books
