by Robin Wells
“So what’s the final verdict on the ER?” he asks.
“Let’s go,” she says.
“All right! Where are your shoes?”
I take that as a cue to scramble downstairs. I’m sitting on the sofa when Zack and Quinn come down a moment later. She’s wearing yoga pants, a loose gray T-shirt, and flip-flops. He’s wearing a grim, worried expression.
“Thank you so much for coming over and staying with Lily and Margaret,” Quinn tells me.
“No problem,” I say. My throat feels so tight it’s a little hard to get the words out.
“If Lily wakes up, just tell her I’m out with Zack and you’re babysitting, okay?” Quinn says. “There’s no point in worrying her.”
“Sure. What about Margaret?”
“If she wakes up, you can tell her everything.”
I nod. “Good luck.”
“Thanks, Jess.” Zack’s worried frown momentarily softens. It’s the kindest, most personal look he’s given me all evening.
Quinn hands him her car keys. Zack opens the kitchen door, puts his hand on the small of her back, and gently guides her out.
That’s the moment I know, truly know, that Zack and I are over. It wasn’t when he said our marriage wasn’t an issue; it wasn’t when he offered to help Quinn give Lily a sibling; it wasn’t even when he told her he wanted her to have his baby.
It was the moment he put his hand on the small of her back, as if she was treasured and cherished . . . and his.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Quinn
WE WAIT MORE than an hour in the ER before we’re called to an examination room. Once there, we wait most of another hour for a physician to see us, then another twenty minutes for an ultrasound machine to be wheeled in.
The doctor, a round-faced man about my age with dark, curly hair, squirts cold gel on my belly. “All right. Let’s take a look and see what’s going on.”
He moves the transducer over my stomach. Zack stands beside me. I’m terrified. I’ve been googling miscarriages on my phone the whole time we’ve been waiting. Now that I’m about to find out if that’s what’s happening, I’m shaking like Ruffles on the way to the vet. I reach out my hand, and Zack takes it. Both of us stare at the blurry gray screen. The room is silent except for the sound of our breathing. The silence goes on and on, and dread unfurls in my belly. It’s so very, very quiet.
Too quiet.
“Shouldn’t we at least hear my heartbeat?” I ask.
“Oh, right.” The doctor lifts the transducer from my stomach, turns, and adjusts the machine. He gives a sheepish laugh. “It sometimes helps to turn on the sound.”
I’m not in the mood for jokes, and he isn’t inspiring confidence in his abilities. He puts the transducer back on my belly, and the hard, fast drum of my pulse fills the room. “Calm down, there, Mom,” he says. “Stress isn’t good for your baby.”
There ought to be a law against a man my own age calling me Mom. I hadn’t realized I’d tightened my grip on Zack’s hand until he squeezes mine back.
The doctor moves the transducer, and then—Eureka! Hallelujah!—I hear the fast, galloping swish swish swish I’ve been praying for.
“Chamber music!” Zack says.
“That’s the baby’s heartbeat,” the doctor corrects, as if he believes Zack has actually mistaken the sound for a string quartet. “And there he is.” He points at a small blob in a dark area of the screen. “You can see him right there.”
I strain, but I can’t make sense of what I’m seeing.
“Is he okay?” Zack asks.
The doctor nods. “Looks great. There’s his head, and there are his arms and legs.” He then turns to the machine, adjusts a knob and zooms in, making the image larger. “He’s waving at you.”
Suddenly, I see the movement of a tiny limb. My heart turns over. “I see it!”
“Yep. You’ll be able to feel that in a few weeks.”
I stare at the screen, transfixed. It’s not a clear picture of an obvious baby, but I think I see the profile of a face. The doctor moves the transducer, and I lose perspective.
“Is it a ‘he’ for sure, or are you using the word as a catchall pronoun?” Zack ask.
“Sorry—I tend to call every fetus ‘he’ because I have a son,” he says apologetically. “I can’t determine the sex on this machine. It’s not very high resolution; it’s more for finding gallstones than making fetal videos. Your obstetrician can tell you that in a few weeks.”
“Any idea what’s causing the bleeding?” I ask.
He slowly moves the transducer and scans the screen. “There’s nothing visible. My guess is it’s a small subchorionic bleed or hematoma.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Sometimes a little blood will leak out of a blood vessel between the uterus and the placenta—the vessels are expanding and carrying a lot of blood during pregnancy. Most often it’s not a big deal and will self-correct.” He stops moving the transducer, puts some markers on the screen, and fiddles with some knobs. “Looks like you’re about eighteen weeks along.”
“That’s right,” I say. “What happens if the bleeding doesn’t stop?”
“Well, then, the pregnancy could be at risk, but there’s no indication that’s the case.”
I suddenly see the flailing of a limb. “He’s kicking!”
“Wow,” Zack murmurs.
The doctor grins. “Looks like he’s going for a field goal.”
We watch for moment, then he removes the transducer and turns off the machine. “Take it easy over the weekend. Stay in bed as much as possible, try not to worry, and see your obstetrician on Monday.” He hands me some tissues. “Everything looks really good.”
“Oh, thank heavens!” I feel like I can finally take a full breath. A heady sense of relief chases through my veins. “That’s great news.”
“The best,” Zack says. He’s still holding my hand, and he squeezes it.
My heart squeezes as well.
The doctor makes some notes on his computer. I wipe the gel off my belly, adjust my clothes, and sit up. The doctor shakes our hands and wishes us luck.
Zack helps me off the examination table. “Let’s get you home.”
Home—where his wife is waiting for us. The thought dampens my happiness, but I smile and nod.
The checkout procedure spares me from having to make small talk. I sit by the ER door as Zack pulls my car around. It’s raining outside. He parks under the portico, gets out, and opens the door for me.
“It was worth a three-hour wait to hear that everything looks good,” he says as he climbs in and fastens his seat belt.
“Yes.” I have less than complete confidence in the ER doctor’s obstetrics expertise, but it was reassuring to see the baby move and hear the heartbeat. I feel emotional and drained and on the verge of tears. As Miss Margaret would say, I’m on the Edge of Wetness.
I lean back against the headrest. The situation is truly soap opera material. Everyone at the hospital thought Zack and I were a couple, when in reality, his wife is at my house, babysitting the child he had with my best friend. “You should probably text Jessica that we’re on the way.”
“I already did.”
So he, too, was thinking of her. Fat raindrops hit the windshield.
He turns on the wipers as he drives out of the covered entrance. “She texted back that she hasn’t heard a peep from Lily or Margaret.”
“That’s a relief.”
“Yeah.” He turns onto Jefferson Highway. “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to sleep in your guest room tonight so I can hear if you need anything.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that. After all, Jess just got here, and you and she . . . you probably want . . .” Oh, God. What am I trying to say? My eyes fill and my face burns.
He glances over at me. “Jess is staying at the hotel. Nothing has changed about our divorce.”
My heart skips a beat, then pounds hard. Joy neurons fire in my brain. I tamp them down. You can’t keep doing this, I think. You need to level out all these ups and downs. It’s not healthy for your baby. “I—I thought you two might be getting back together.”
“No. Our marriage is over. The truth is, it’s been over for a long while, but neither of us wanted to admit it. It’ll be final in about a month and a half.”
“That fast?”
He nods. “Washington is a very efficient state for uncontested divorces.”
“I’m sorry.” I sit there for a moment, watching the wipers slash back and forth. Under a streetlamp up ahead, I see a food truck parked against a building. As we drive by, I read the name on it: Spill the Beans.
Goose bumps rise on my arms. It’s a sign; I’m sure of it. I angle toward Zack, and words start pouring out of my mouth. “Actually, I’m not. I’m not sorry about your divorce at all. I just said that because it seemed appropriate.”
He laughs. “I love that about you—how up-front and outspoken you are.”
“I’m not. At least, not always.”
“No?”
“No. I haven’t told you how terrified I am of you.”
“Of me?”
I nod. “I don’t want you to break Lily’s or the baby’s heart or . . .” What are you doing? I ignore my censoring brain, and words just spew straight from my heart. “Or mine.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I don’t want to get used to having you in my life, and talking to you all the time, and being around you and feeling . . . feeling . . .”
“What?”
I draw in a deep breath and shake my head. “I just think we should put some parameters on how much you’re around. It would be healthy if we had some distance. I don’t want any of us to get too used to you spending so much time with us.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to get hurt, and I don’t want you to hurt Lily, or the baby.” My voice cracks. “If . . . if the baby makes it.”
“Hey.” He reaches over and takes my hand. “Hey, the doctor said things looked good.”
“Yes, as far as he could tell. But he admitted he couldn’t tell much. He didn’t know for sure why I’m bleeding. Until I see Dr. Mercer on Monday, I’m worried.”
“I’m here for you.”
“Didn’t you just hear me? That worries me, too.”
“Quinn.” He glances over. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Maybe you should.”
He pulls the car into the empty parking lot of a closed strip mall and shifts the gear into park. He takes off his seat belt, angles toward me, and puts his arm over the back of my seat. His forehead furrows. “What the hell are you talking about?”
I throw up my hands. “I got close to you and I let Lily get close to you because we thought you were moving. I thought there was a limited amount of time to bond. But now you’re staying, and you’re all entangled in our lives, and I should have established solid guidelines to keep us all from getting overinvolved, but it was just so nice that I didn’t want to set any boundaries, and now I just feel . . .” I blow out a hard sigh and search for the word. “Vulnerable. Like I’m relying on you too much and getting too attached. And this whole thing tonight with Jessica made me realize how tenuous everything is. I have a history of getting involved in lopsided relationships with emotionally unavailable men, and . . . well, now the stakes are a lot higher because it’s just not me who stands to get hurt. So I think we should back things off.”
“I think that’s a terrible idea.”
“Easy for you to say!”
“Look, Quinn—it’s too early and I’m in no position to make any big proclamations, but let me repeat what I just said: I’m not going anywhere. I care for you and Lily and the baby. I care deeply. And I never, ever want to hurt any of you.” He draws a breath. His hand moves down from the back of my seat and rests on the back of my head. It stays there for a moment, and then he moves it away. “It’s too early to be telling you this, but I have feelings for you that go way beyond what’s currently appropriate.”
I find it hard to breathe. My heart flutters as if it’s sprouted wings, but I’m afraid they’re penguin wings—useless little flaps that will never let me fly.
“It’s more than just Lily and the baby,” he says. “I think about you all the time. I think about your smile, your laugh, your crazy, psychic goose bumps—which I’m now getting, too, by the way. Apparently they’re contagious.”
My lip gives a funny twitch when I grin. Oh, God—can it be? Does he really mean . . .
“For the next few months, I’d like us to continue as friends,” he says. “I’d like to see you and Lily every day or every other day—whatever you think is best. I’d like to spend time with you and get to know you better, and let you get to know me. And then, after the divorce is final, I’d like to date you. I want to take you to dinner and the movies and out to listen to music. We can take things as slow as you’d like. I’m not in a rush. I’ve got all the time in the world. Because what I really want, what I’ve always really wanted, is to have the kind of relationship that my parents had—where trust was as easy as breathing and they were equally crazy about each other and love not only flowed between them, but spilled out to everyone else around them. I think you and I can have that together. In fact, I think we’re both further along the road to that than either of us is ready to admit.”
I can scarcely see him—partly because it’s dark and partly because there’s a neon light blinking behind him, but mainly because my eyes are filled with tears. The wing stubs on my heart are growing now, growing and sprouting feathers.
“I’m willing to wait as long as it takes,” he says. “Does that sound like something you could consider?”
It strikes me that this is one of life’s brightest moments—like the sun at high noon on a cloudless day. It’s a waterfall moment, a moment too full to be contained, a moment that can’t help but spill over from now into the future. It’s a moment that doesn’t need a corroborating sign; it’s a life-marking moment that will forever separate my life into “before” and “after.”
It’s one of those moments when words are inadequate, but a response is required all the same.
“Yeah,” I say. “I think that’s something I could consider.”
He grins at me. “Well, then—let’s go home.”
EPILOGUE
Margaret
Two Years Later
“LILY HAS A little something planned for you, Miss Margaret,” Quinn says as she pulls her car into the drive. It’s my eighty-second birthday, and Quinn just treated me to a manicure and pedicure at a lovely salon on Magazine. “I thought I’d better tell you so you won’t be too startled when the door opens.”
“Lily’s planned a little something, huh?” I smile. “All by her little lonesome?”
Quinn gives a sheepish smile. It’s another surprise party, of course—and if the cars lining the street are any indication, it’s a big one. I swear, these people throw so many surprise parties it would be a surprise if they didn’t. Every time, though, Quinn tips me off.
I remember a time when Quinn didn’t like surprises. She said she’d had enough in her childhood to last a whole lifetime.
Brooke, however, always loved the unexpected. She thought the element of surprise added to the fun. I suppose Quinn picked that up from Brooke. I know Lily certainly did.
Isn’t it funny, how the ways of those we love rub off on us? Why, we’re always influencing each other, whether we know it or not.
A lot has happened in the past two years. My hip has healed, and I’m getting around nearly as well as I could before. I’m still living with Quinn—well, with Quinn and Z
ack and Lily and baby Violet Brooke and that little dog Ruffles. Quinn has scaled back her work schedule—her assistant Terri has become a partner in her company and they’ve hired two new assistants—but she still needs a hand with Lily and Violet, especially now that Violet’s walking and starting to talk. As for Lily . . . I can’t believe how quickly she’s grown! She starts kindergarten in the fall, but she’s been reading for over a year. She loves to read simple picture books to little Violet. She’s amazingly smart, just like her mother.
It seems impossible that Brooke has been gone for two years, yet I know she has, because the thought of her now brings more gratitude than grief. I feel blessed to have had her as a granddaughter, and I’m so grateful that she brought Lily and Quinn and baby Violet into my life.
After that scare in her second trimester, Quinn had a normalpregnancy, and beautiful little Violet arrived right on schedule. Quinn and Zack were married six months later. It seems like they’ve been married longer, because he’s spent all his free time at Quinn’s house ever since I’ve been around to witness it. I’ve never seen a couple more in love with each other and their children.
They had a lovely wedding, simple but elegant, at their church. There were no bridesmaids or groomsmen—just Lily as the flower girl, adorable in a cream-colored dress with a wide satin bow. Quinn was breathtaking in a beaded organza gown. The way Zack looked at her made me tear up; it was the same heart-in-the-eyes look that my dear Henry used give me. Zack still looks at her that way, across the kitchen or at the dining table—and I catch her gazing at him with the same adoration. Why, the other night, I saw them dancing together in the kitchen, with the lights out and no music I could hear.
Their wedding reception was a fun-filled affair on the Creole Queen riverboat, paddling up and down the Mississippi River. Zack’s sister and her husband were there, along with all of Zack and Quinn’s friends and, of course, the single parent group.