Meg and Jo

by Virginia Kantra

John grabbed DJ, tucking him like a football under his other arm. Our son’s head and feet dangled two feet above the floor. “I’ll put the kids to bed. You can finish dinner.”

  I wavered, tempted. But taking care of the twins was my job. My only job, since our babies were born. John had left work twice in the past week to watch the twins while I dealt with Momma. It wasn’t fair to ask him to tackle bedtime, too. “I can do it.” I smiled to show him how much I appreciated his offer. “You’ll just get them all wound up. They’re used to things a certain way.”

  His mouth compressed. “No, Meg, you’re used to things a certain way. Your way.”

  I stared at him, stricken. That wasn’t it at all. Was it? Couldn’t he see I was trying to be considerate?

  “Sorry, honey.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s been a full day.”

  Hurt dissolved into guilt. “Then you should relax,” I said in my cheerful mommy voice. “Dinner’s almost done. I’ll be right back down.”

  “Whatever you want,” he said.

  He set the kids on their feet and kissed them good night. No kiss for me. But as I shepherded the twins toward the stairs, he asked, “Want me to open a bottle of wine?”

  I smiled back, relieved. Forgiven. “That would be wonderful.”

  * * *

  Two stories later, I closed the book and smoothed back Daisy’s toothbrush bangs. “Sleepy time, my babies.”

  Now that they were toddlers, John had suggested we move the kids into separate bedrooms. I knew how important it was for him to provide our children with their own space. Cheryl, John’s mom, told me that for the first year after her divorce, John and his brother had slept together on a pullout couch in their living room.

  But I loved this room, our babies’ room. I’d painted the walls myself a soft green (“best color for a learning environment,” I’d read) and made the white curtains with Momma’s help. Amy, the artistic one, had added murals of the Hundred Acre Wood, sweet, old-fashioned line drawings of Piglet and Pooh based on the original illustrations. Along the opposite wall she’d painted a quote from Christopher Robin in flowing script: “Promise me you’ll always remember: You’re braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.”

  I remembered how pleased I was, after years of sharing with Jo, to move into a room of my own. Filled with the dignity of my sixteen years, I’d picked out paint and grown-up curtains, pleased with my new status and closet space. But lying alone in bed at night, I’d listened to Beth and Amy in the other room, their whispers carrying through the wall at the head of my bed, and felt . . . Well. Wistful. Like I was missing out on something.

  I wasn’t ready for my babies to grow up and into separate rooms. Not yet. Maybe not for a long time. I’d read all those articles about twins’ special bond. Anyway, we might need that third bedroom. If, say, I got pregnant again . . .

  I clenched deep inside. I wasn’t ready for that, either.

  DJ was warm and damp against my side. Maybe too warm and damp? I checked. Yep.

  I smooched the top of his little blond head. “Let’s change that diaper, sweetie.”

  He lay quietly, rubbing the satiny edge of his blanket against his cheek as I took care of business. When I was done, he rewarded me with his slow, sweet smile. His big brown eyes were so much like John’s. I smiled and planted a kiss on the bottom of his foot, eliciting a giggle.

  “I pee, too, Mommy,” Daisy said jealously.

  I straightened. “Do you need to go potty again, sweetheart?”

  “Need diaper,” she insisted.

  “Don’t you want to wear your big-girl panties to bed?”

  Her lower lip stuck out. “No.”

  My baby girl. So precious. So precocious. Ever since her first cry, two minutes ahead of her brother’s, Daisy had taken the lead. Quicker to talk, to walk, to toilet train. The one who was expected to do everything first, to get everything right. Why should she have to put on her big-girl panties simply because she was the oldest? Let her sleep in a diaper for one night.

  I changed her out of her pretty flowered panties and dimmed the lights. “Good night, my sweeties.” I bent over their beds to kiss their foreheads. “Sleep tight.”

  When I got downstairs, John was in the family room watching SportsCenter. There was a beer in his hand, a bottle of wine and two empty glasses on the coffee table.

  He looked up. “Kids down?”

  “Yes.” Should I apologize it took so long? “Dinner will be ready in a minute.”

  “No rush. Let me know if I can help.”

  Come keep me company, I almost said. But he’d already turned his attention back to the TV. Well. My father never helped my mother in the kitchen, either.

  I cleared the fast-food boxes from the island, checking to make sure the toys weren’t a choking hazard. I worried too much, John said. And obviously, the twins were fine. Everything was fine.

  There was an extra Big Mac wrapper in DJ’s box.

  I balled it up and threw it away. John was a grown man, not a child. If he spoiled his appetite, that was his choice.

  “Time to eat!” I called ten minutes later.

  John strolled in, carrying his beer in one hand, the wine bottle in the other. I could still hear SportsCenter. I dashed into the family room to shut off the TV, came back to find he’d poured my glass of wine.

  I sat and smiled at him. “Isn’t this nice.”

  “Yeah.” He sipped his beer.

  We said grace. I stabbed at my salad. John sawed at his steak.

  “I’m sorry it’s overcooked,” I said.

  “It’s fine. It’s good. You didn’t need to go to all this trouble for me.”

  “Maybe you’re not hungry,” I said.

  He looked sheepish. “I picked up a burger earlier when I was out with the kids.”

  “I know. It’s okay.” I offered him a tiny smile. “I had a candy bar at the hospital.”

  I chewed and chewed, the steak like gristle in my mouth. “John.” I swallowed. “Do you remember Carl Stewart?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “His family owns a farm on the other side of town. Organic produce?”

  “There was a Dwayne Stewart came in last month looking for a new truck. To haul a camper, he said.”

  I nodded eagerly. “That would be Carl’s father. His parents are retiring, and Carl is looking for someone to take over the books for the farm.” I peeked across the table, searching for his reaction. “I was thinking maybe I could do it. Help them out.”

  John lowered his fork. “You want to go back to work?”

  “Not full-time,” I said. “Less than twenty hours a week, Carl said.”

  “I thought you were busy.”

  “I am. But this would be something different.” Something I was good at. My heart pounded. “And the money would be nice, with Christmas coming.”

  His face froze, his jaw hardening in a way I knew well.

  “Not that we need the money,” I added hastily.

  John frowned at his plate. “Who would watch the kids?”

  “I’d work from home.”

  He looked up. His deep-brown eyes held mine. “Whatever you want,” he said quietly.

  Making it my decision. My responsibility. Part of me was grateful for his support. And another, smaller part wondered if this was a test.

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  John shook his head. “What I want doesn’t matter.”

  I sucked in my breath. “That’s a terrible thing to say.” Even if it was true. Maybe especially if it was true.

  He saw my face, and his own expression changed. “Christ, Meg, don’t look like that. I just meant . . . I took this job so you would have a choice. I’m not going to tell you what to do.”

  My stomach clenched. He
worked so hard. Especially in the beginning, when he still worked on the sales floor, on commission. I didn’t regret those sleep-deprived days, when we were both bleary-eyed and exhausted, when John put in sixty-hour weeks to prove himself at the dealership, and I stumbled out of bed every hour to breastfeed the twins. But I wondered sometimes if he regretted leaving teaching, if he missed the autonomy of his classroom, his authority as a coach, the adulation of his team. It didn’t help that his boss, Trey, was the owner’s grandson and three years younger than John.

  He’d taken the job at the dealership for us. For me. So that I could stay home full-time. So that we could give our babies the childhood he’d never had, with no financial worries and their mother’s full-time attention.

  The last thing I wanted was for him to think I didn’t appreciate his sacrifice.

  We finished dinner in silence.

  * * *

  Five years ago, I knew exactly what I wanted.

  It was a Friday night, and everybody in town was at the high school to see the Caswell Cougars play the Cape Fear Falcons. I went with Sallie, which seemed like a healthier option than staying home watching Say Yes to the Dress and eating Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough out of the carton.

  Sallie, a former cheerleader, was critiquing this year’s squad. “That girl in the back faked her handspring. And her nail polish is too dark. Ooh, is that the new coach?”

  I looked and there he was, big-framed, good-looking, his fair hair gleaming under the Friday-night lights. It was like the marching band burst into the love theme from Titanic. “Wrestling coach. His name is John.” My heart was pounding, my voice carefully casual. “John Brooke. I think he helps out in the weight room.”

  “You know him?”

  “He comes into the bank sometimes.”

  Three times, to be exact. Each time, my heart gave a little bounce of happiness and excitement.

  “He’s cute. Dibs,” Sallie called, even though she and Ned were already an item.

  But I didn’t care what Sallie thought. I saw him first. And after the game, he came over to talk to me, leaning in to listen, fixing me with those warm, brown eyes. We went out for ice cream—along with Sallie and the football team and half the year-round population of Bunyan.

  “Can I take you home?” he asked me in the parking lot afterward.

  I could have pointed out I had my own car, a practical Prius with side airbags and great gas mileage. I could have given him my address, a sensible one-bedroom in a recently built complex close to work.

  I stood there, struck dumb with happiness.

  “Or . . .” He watched me. “We can drive to the beach. Spend the night. Watch the sun come up.”

  I was the sensible sister. The responsible firstborn. “Never any trouble,” as Aunt Phee liked to say. Not the type of girl to hook up on the first date. To hop into the car of a near-stranger and drive an hour to the beach for tear-your-clothes-off sex.

  Of course I said yes.

  We checked into a room in Carolina Beach. We made love against the wall. And on the bathroom counter in front of the giant mirror. I couldn’t look at my reflection for days afterward without blushing. Even now, the memory made me tingle.

  I never told anybody. Not Sallie, who would have cheered me on, or Amy, who was way too young. Not even Jo. I had to set a good example.

  I told Momma we met at the bank. Well, it was true.

  “I can’t believe I got lucky,” John confessed to me later, after we’d been dating a few months.

  But I knew I was the lucky one.

  I moved in a year later; we married the following June, with Daddy officiating and my sisters as my bridesmaids. Momma rented a tent for the reception in the upper pasture, and Amy decorated the long tables with lace runners and mason jars of peonies and cornflowers.

  “Cheap,” Aunt Phee had sniffed. Referring to the flower arrangements, I hoped, and not my future husband.

  It was true John didn’t make a lot of money, even with his coaching stipend. But he was steady and hardworking, patient and firm with his students, encouraging with his team. He would make an excellent father. Everybody liked him. Even my father, who rarely showed any interest in my life—Jo was his prize student and Amy his pet—expressed approval. Well, what he actually said was, “He seems like a stand-up guy. Just tell me one thing that he stands for.”

  “Ashton, hush,” Momma said.

  For once I didn’t care what my parents thought. John made me feel needed. Desired. Loved.

  * * *

  Even now, the smell of him, warm and familiar, sent pleasure signals to my brain. I stretched between the sheets, relishing the unfamiliar luxury of lying in bed beside John while the dawn edged the shutters with gray light. What day was it?

  He nuzzled my ear, his early-morning stubble scraping my nerve endings to life. “You feel great.”

  The familiar line made me smile. I tilted my head to give him better access. Encouraged, he slid a hand to my breast.

  “The kids will be up soon,” I murmured.

  John kissed the side of my neck. “I’m up now.”

  My smile spread, my eyes still closed. “I noticed.” He felt so good wrapped around me, a blanket of muscle. “Don’t you have to leave for work?”

  “It’s Thanksgiving.”

  Thanksgiving. The word bolted into my brain. I jerked away. “I should call Momma.”

  “It’s too early.” John’s lips brushed my temple. “Let her sleep.”

  “Are you kidding? She’s probably making stuffing right now.” Cleaning stalls. Canning applesauce. Splitting firewood.

  “Jo’s home. Let Jo help her.” He kissed my shoulder. “Relax.”

  He didn’t understand. The only way to stop Momma from doing something was to get to it first.

  But his hands, roaming under my nightshirt, were sneaky and persuasive. His body was warm and solid. Despite the drumbeat pulse of things to do, my breathing hitched. I shifted to my side to face him. He kissed me, soft, married kisses, coaxing. Tender.

  I raised my head. “Do you hear the kids?”

  “Nope. Don’t worry.” Another kiss. “I locked the door.”

  “John.” I drew my head back on the pillow. “You have no idea what those children can do if you leave them alone for ten minutes.”

  He waggled his eyebrows. “I know what I can do.”

  A bubble of laughter rose in my chest, warm and expansive. “In ten minutes.” I was skeptical but oh-so-willing to be cajoled.

  He grinned. “If that’s all I’ve got.”

  He was so dear. So close. It had been so long since we’d had sex. “Show me,” I said.

  He did, and it was good. Not Carolina Beach good, but warm and easy. He touched me, inciting, teasing, before he rolled me to my back. We fit. We always had. I clung to his shoulders in gratitude, stroking his back as he finished.

  Just in time.

  A door creaked down the hall.

  John raised his weight on his elbows, pressing warm lips to my forehead. “Get some rest.”

  “Can’t.” Little feet running in the hall. “That’s Daisy.” A thump. “And DJ.”

  “I’ll get up with them.”

  John’s idea of getting up with the twins was plopping them in front of the TV while he scrolled on his phone. Well. Watching cartoons had never stunted his brain development, he said.

  “I’ll do it.” I tossed back the covers. “I won’t go back to sleep anyway.”

  I stooped for my nightgown, self-conscious even after sex. My boobs were okay, even after all those months of breastfeeding. But there was a little pudge above my so-called bikini scar that guaranteed I’d never wear a bikini again. And my butt . . . I straightened hastily, pulling my nightgown over my head.

  John lay naked in our bed, on full display. He’
d developed a bit of a dad bod in the last three years—my cooking—but the extra weight looked good on him.

  “You know, you don’t have to do everything yourself,” he said unexpectedly.

  “I don’t have to,” I said. “I want to.”

  He worked so hard. He deserved a day off. He had told me how it was for him growing up, how their house was always dirty and the fridge empty sometimes. How, when his momma slept in after working the night shift, he used to go to the neighbors’ to borrow eggs so he could fix his brother breakfast before they went to school.

  “You want sausage or bacon this morning?” I asked.

  “I thought you had to make pie.”

  “Just the fillings,” I said. “I have plenty of time to cook you breakfast.”

  “Then . . . Bacon would be great.” John smiled. “Thanks, honey.”

  Plenty of time, I told myself as I cleaned up after breakfast and mixed pie filling. Time to make icing, to wipe down the kitchen counter and the twins. Time to grab a shower while they napped. Time to take them potty and change their clothes.

  The twins slept late. But we were still only a little behind schedule, I thought as I hunted for Daisy’s shoes. “DJ? Daisy, where’s your brother?”

  I found him standing behind the sofa, grunting in concentration. Ah. The pediatrician said little boys trained later than girls. Nothing to worry about.

  “Everybody poops!” Daisy sang as I led her brother back to the bathroom.

  I stripped DJ of his stinky diaper, conscious of time, ticking. Of my mother, waiting. How had she managed with four of us?

  John, after one look at my face, offered to get Daisy ready.

  “That’s okay,” I said cheerfully, kneeling on the tile floor, trying to avoid smearing poop on my sweater. “We’ll be done in a minute.”

  Ten minutes. Fifteen. We were definitely going to be late.

  Daisy came running into the bathroom. “Look, Mommy! I haz shoes. Daddy put on my shoes!”

  John had, indeed, put on her shoes. And mismatched socks, I saw, but his effort warmed my heart.