Meg and Jo

by Virginia Kantra

  “Unless you want to invite me,” Trey said.

  “Of course, you . . . That is, I . . .” I kneeled, hiding my confusion by helping DJ out of his coat.

  “Do I smell corn bread?” Trey asked.

  “Corn bread, yes. In the oven.” I busied myself with Daisy’s zipper. “Jo made it.”

  “Meg.” John was staring at the kitchen island, the open drugstore bag, the distinctive pink box with the top ripped off. “What’s this?”

  It was obvious. Even if he didn’t remember the box, the lettering was clearly visible on the side: First Response Early Result Pregnancy Test.

  “What?” Trey looked. “Are you . . . Oh, hey. Congratulations.”

  No. Oh no.

  I smiled weakly at John. “Everything’s fine. I’m fine. I’m not pregnant.”

  “Two lines.” Jo burst out of the bathroom, clutching a pee stick. “Look! Should I do the other one now or . . .” She stopped abruptly. “Shit.”

  Trey’s face went white. “Jo?”

  Jo’s face went red. “Trey!”

  “What’s going on?” John asked.

  “That’s what I’d like to know,” Trey said.

  I stood. “Trey, we love you, but Jo and I really need to talk. Why don’t you, uh . . .”

  “Let’s get that beer now,” John said, taking his arm.

  Trey shook him off. “Jo?” he repeated.

  Her throat moved as she swallowed. “I don’t . . . I can’t . . . Not now,” she said in a constricted voice. “I’m sorry.”

  Something flashed across Trey’s face and was gone. He looked at John. “Got anything stronger?”

  John nodded. “Right this way. Come on, kids.”

  He herded them all out of the kitchen, and Jo lurched forward into my arms.

  “Ssh. It’s all right. Everything’s going to be all right,” I murmured, as if she were no older than the twins. As if this was nothing more serious than a scraped knee or bruised feelings, something I could kiss and make better. Her breath shuddered, in and out. “Whatever happens, we have each other.” I petted her hair the way Momma used to do, her new, short curls springing back against my touch. “What are you going to do?” I asked after a while.

  “I don’t know.” She gulped. “I have to think.”

  John returned and stood awkwardly inside the doorway, hands in his pockets. “Everything okay in here?”

  Jo made a muffled noise against my shoulder. A laugh? A sob?

  “We’re fine,” I said, and prayed that it was true.

  “Good.” He grabbed the bottle of bourbon and two juice boxes. “We’re watching Frozen. You let me know if you want me to beat anybody up,” he said to Jo.

  She raised her head at that. “No.” Her eyes were wet, her face pale and surprisingly composed. Somehow she managed a smile. “Thank you, though.”

  He nodded, shifting the bottle under one arm to pat her shoulder. “Anytime. Whatever you need.”

  He was such a good guy. I loved him so much.

  “Jo,” I said after I’d set her down at the kitchen table and made us both a cup of tea. Decaffeinated, because . . . Pregnant. “Do you want me to make an appointment for you with my doctor?”

  She grimaced into her tea. “Isn’t it a little early for that?”

  “You need to start prenatal vitamins.” I bit my lip. “Unless you want to . . . Jo, do you want this baby?”

  She swallowed and set down her mug. “I don’t . . . I don’t know.” She pressed her hand to her middle, her fingers curving protectively around her still-flat stomach. “I don’t think I could . . .”

  Have the baby? I wondered. Terminate the pregnancy?

  “I just found out myself,” my sister said. “Can we just not tell anybody for a little while?”

  I thought of Trey in the next room, drinking bourbon and watching Frozen. “It’s a little late for that.”

  “You’re right.” She reached for her ponytail. Tugged on curls instead. “Oh God. How am I going to tell Mom?”

  “Forget Momma. What are you going to say to Eric?”

  She stared at me, her mouth slightly open. “I have to tell him.”

  “Er, yes.”

  She slumped in her chair. “Crap. Oh crap!” She jumped up. “The corn bread!” She pulled the skillet from the oven and set it on the stove top, tapping, testing the surface with her fingertips. “Only a little burnt.”

  “It looks wonderful. Do you want to dish up now?”

  “I’m not very hungry,” my sister confessed.

  “You should try to eat something.”

  Jo lifted an eyebrow at me. “For the baby?”

  “For luck,” I said, and got up to set the table.

  * * *

  Idon’t like to think of her all on her own,” I said to John as we got ready for bed that night.

  Jo had turned down my offer to spend another night on our couch, declaring she would be more comfortable in her own bed. Anyway, she had to go back to the farm to feed the animals.

  “She’s not alone,” John said. “She has us.”

  My heart turned to mush.

  “Relax,” my husband advised. “Things will look better in the morning.”

  “I’m pretty sure she’ll still be pregnant when she wakes up,” I said. “Although I did tell her to take the second pregnancy test. Just to be sure.”

  John grunted.

  I sat on the closed lid of the toilet, watching him brush his teeth, my quiet, solid, reliable husband. “Sorry about the scare earlier. When you saw the box? I wanted to tell you it wasn’t for me. But I couldn’t. Not with Trey standing there.”

  “It would be okay if it was. Yours, I mean.” John met my eyes briefly in the mirror. “If you were pregnant again.”

  My heart wobbled. “John . . . Do you want more children?”

  It made sense. He was so good with the twins, such a conscientious provider, such a caring coach.

  “I want what you want. You always said you wanted a big family. Four kids. Like your parents.”

  “I do. Well. I did.” I cleared my throat. “I actually kind of like our family now. I like our life.”

  “Good.” He leaned over and spat in the sink. I waited for him to say something more. He didn’t.

  “What about you?” I asked.

  “I like our life, too.”

  “I thought maybe you wanted to make a change. Start coaching again.”

  He filled a glass at the tap. “I am coaching.”

  I sighed. “You know what I mean. Go back to teaching.”

  He rinsed the sink carefully. “I make more money doing what I do now. Maybe when the time is right . . .”

  “Maybe the time is now,” I suggested.

  He didn’t say anything.

  “When I went back to work, you said it wasn’t about the money,” I reminded him.

  “It’s not. As long as you’re happy, that’s what matters to me.”

  “Exactly.” I watched his reflection. “John, are you happy at the dealership?”

  A muscle bunched in his jaw. We could say so much without words. Neither one of us found it easy to talk about our feelings. I’d been proud of our unspoken understanding, pleased that we didn’t fight. But sometimes words were necessary. I tried again. “If it weren’t for the money, would you go back to teaching?”

  His shrug belied the tension in his shoulders. “I guess I’d consider it.”

  My own muscles relaxed. I felt like he’d given me another present—his trust, his dreams. “I could run the numbers,” I offered. “Look at the budget with both our incomes.”

  He smiled slightly. “Taking this partners thing seriously, aren’t you?”

  A little glow started in my chest. “Yes.”

  He nodded
. “I’ll think about it.”

  Of course he needed time to mull it over. He did everything carefully, deliberately, my John. Except for falling in love with me.

  “I love you,” I announced suddenly.

  He held my gaze in the mirror. “I love you, too.”

  I closed the distance between us, sliding my arms around his waist, resting my cheek against his broad, smooth back. “I mean, I really love you.”

  “Good to know. Because you’re everything to me.” His voice was husky. His hands covered mine, clasped together over his stomach. “I get that we’re not trying for another baby right now. But you want to fool around?”

  The glow spread. I smiled against his back. “I’d love to.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Jo

  Iwas still pregnant in the morning. First I threw up, and then (since I was in the bathroom anyway) I peed on the second stick. Two lines. So after I downed tea and toast and fed the goats, I drove to the rehab center. I had never in my entire life sought my mother’s advice or approval. I had always been Daddy’s girl. But I needed her now.

  When I got there, my mother was down the hall in physical therapy. I sat in the room’s one chair to wait for her.

  “Honey?”

  I jerked awake. My mother was standing—standing!—in front of me, the aide at her side. The hated port was still in Mom’s arm, but she was no longer trailing an IV bag and a pole. I blinked. “You’re up!”

  My mother nodded. “Up and walking.”

  “Thirty minutes today,” the aide, Keisha, said.

  I watched as she helped my mother maneuver to the bed, raising the head so she could sit upright.

  “I saw the caseworker yesterday,” my mother said. “I’m being discharged in a week.”

  I looked at Keisha. “So soon?”

  Keisha tucked the bed control where Mom could reach it. “She’s doing great.”

  “I can’t stick around here forever,” my mother said. “There’s too much to do at home.”

  So much. I had memories of Momma rubbing VapoRub on my feet for a cough, holding my hair when I puked. But I didn’t know anything about nursing. How was I supposed to take care of her at home?

  Some of my panic must have shown in my face, because my mother said, “Don’t fuss. I’ll be fine on my own.”

  Keisha adjusted her tray table. “As long as you don’t—”

  “Bend, twist, or lift anything heavier than a gallon of milk,” my mother finished for her. They smiled at each other with obvious affection before Mom turned her attention back to me. “Anyway, I’ve got it all figured out. Beth can come home on the weekends, and Meg and Hannah are close by if I need them.”

  “But the farm . . .” I objected. She couldn’t afford to hire help for the farm, Meg said.

  “Your father knows a veteran who’s willing to help out for food and a place to stay. So you don’t need to worry about me.”

  “When did you talk to Dad?”

  “I called him after I spoke with the case manager. He’s decided to stay another night in D.C.”

  And hadn’t bothered to notify any of us.

  “That’s enough about me.” My mother settled back against her pillow. “What are you doing here?”

  I could hardly tell her in front of the aide. “I brought you lunch,” I said, gesturing to the knotted shopping bag. “Black-eyed peas and corn bread.”

  My mother smiled. “For luck in the New Year.”

  “I can put that in the fridge for you, if you want,” Keisha said.

  “That would be wonderful,” my mother said.

  I waited until Keisha left the room before I said, “Momma. I was thinking I should move back home for a while.”

  “Not on my account. You should go back to New York. Get on with your own life.” She studied me. “Unless . . . Is there a reason you want to stay?”

  I opened my mouth, but my voice had dried up.

  My mother sighed. “You never wanted my advice. You’d ask your father sometimes about school stuff. But not me. Even when you got your period, you took care of it yourself.” She smiled a little wistfully. “I didn’t hear about it until Meg complained you’d used up all her supplies.”

  “I was embarrassed,” I muttered. But that wasn’t the whole truth. Before puberty hit, I was happy with my body and my life. I didn’t want to change.

  “You didn’t want to grow up,” my mother said. “I worried maybe I’d failed you somehow, that you wouldn’t come to me. I thought maybe when you got older . . . Anyway, I’m here now. If you want to talk.”

  “I’m pregnant,” I announced baldly.

  She took my hand. “How far along?” Pragmatic as always.

  “Five weeks, I think. I didn’t plan it.” Obviously.

  “Well.” She patted my hand. “Life is what happens while we’re making other plans.”

  “What should I do?”

  Her gaze sharpened. “Do you want my opinion? Or my sympathy?”

  “I want . . .” All my feelings rushed in. Burst out. “I want my mommy.”

  My mother’s expression melted. Transformed. “Oh, Jo.” She tightened her grip, and I tumbled from my chair, doing my best to hug her despite the brace and the hospital bed. Even with all the hard edges in the way, it was a good hug. When I finally drew back, my eyes were wet. So were hers.

  “My little girl.” She kissed my forehead. Wiped my tears with her thumbs. “You’ll figure it out.”

  I sat back, keeping tight hold of her hand. “That’s it? After twenty-eight years, that’s your big maternal advice?”

  My mother sniffed. “You’ve never in your whole life listened to what other people had to say. Even your father. I trust you to make the right choice for you. Besides . . . It seems a little late for us to have the birth control talk.”

  “We used birth control. Every time.”

  “Nothing’s one hundred percent effective.” Her smile took a wry twist. “Your sister Meg proved that.”

  I nodded. “When she got pregnant with the twins.”

  “When I got pregnant with her.”

  I goggled. “You didn’t . . . I never . . . I didn’t know.”

  My mother folded her hands. “No one knew, except my mother. Well, Phee guessed when we moved the wedding date up. But she wouldn’t say a word that would reflect poorly on your father.”

  I couldn’t wrap my brain around it. “You and Dad had to get married?”

  “We didn’t have to get married. We wanted to. I would have liked to finish college first, but I loved Ash so much. And we’d talked about starting a family together.” Another wry smile. “Just not so soon.”

  “I’m not ready for marriage.”

  “Mm.” My mother made a sound that might have been agreement. “Where is your baby’s father in all this?”

  “In New York. It’s Eric. Eric Bhaer.”

  She nodded. “From your blog.”

  “I thought you didn’t read my blog.”

  My mother sent me another of those new, sharp looks. “You’ve always been so independent. I didn’t want you to think I was stalking you online. But of course I read it. I’m your mother. So, have you told him yet?”

  Him. Eric. I shook my head, humbled by her perception.

  “Do you love him?”

  Not a question my father would have asked.

  “I didn’t mean to. I never expected . . . Ma, he’s such a good man. I wish you could meet him. I think you’d approve. He gets me. He accepts me.” At least, I thought he did. “But I don’t know how he fits into my life. Or if I could fit into his. He has two sons already. Teenagers.”

  “Tell him,” my mother said. “If he’s as good a man as you say, he’ll support you whatever you decide. Just don’t let this stop you from doing what you want.
Or rush you into something you’re not ready for.”

  “Thanks, Momma.”

  “Just remember, I’m here for you. You can stay at the farm as long as you want.”

  “You could always come home,” my mother had said when I graduated from college. And again, when I lost my job. Her offers of support used to make me feel like she was waiting for me to fail. But now I heard them differently—not as an invitation to fall, but as a soft place to land.

  “Just until I’m back on my feet,” I said.

  My mother patted my hand again. “Guess we’ll be learning to walk together, you and me.”

  * * *

  Her words carried me through the week. For the first time, I could see where I came from leading clearly to the place I wanted to go. I wasn’t on my parents’ path, or my sisters’. I wasn’t following the map I’d made for myself in college.

  But I was finally moving forward.

  I was writing. Stories of the farm for the blog, usually with a food tie-in. Stories from our childhood that sometimes made it into the blog (#sistersfarm) and sometimes into a folder labeled simply “Chapters.”

  I wrote on my mother’s laptop or in notebooks the way I used to do, sitting up in my attic room at night, filling the silence of the empty house with words. Not clever words. Words as plain as my mother’s blue glass bottle on the windowsill or useful as the pump in the yard. The ambient noise of the city was very far away. The sounds of the countryside were different, distinct and staccato—the creak of the stairs, the crack of a branch, a dog barking at an owl or a fox or at nothing at all. I was learning to be still and listen.

  When the page got dark, I pulled on my hoodie and went out for a last barn check. The security lights flickered on, throwing deep shadows in the corners, turning dust motes into fireflies.

  The goats jostled against their enclosure, crying for attention. I rubbed heads and shaggy coats, refilled their water trough, pulled down hay.

  My mother had called this farm our heritage. I did not have her connection to the land. I’d been so eager to get away to make something of myself, to forge a new, grown-up identity far from home. But being back stirred so many memories. I felt my roots digging deep, drawing stories from the earth. The farm was not my heritage, but the stories were. I wanted to pass them on.