The Baby Plan

by Kate Rorick

  “Maisey, that’s awesome! Congrats!” he said as his face split into a grin and he pulled her into a hug.

  This . . . was a little more shocking.

  “Come on, you can’t honestly be surprised, can you?” he said, as he let her go. His hand lingered on her wrist for a moment longer than she was used to.

  “I’m not surprised, I’m just . . .” And then, it all came pouring out. How she had been so devastated by Stanford’s rejection, she’d decided she wouldn’t even go to college. How her life was in so much crazy upheaval at home, it forced her hand. And how now, she had a choice to make, and a plan to follow for her future. And that she didn’t know how to handle it all.

  “It’s like I’m suddenly an adult, you know? And there’s a difference between being the responsible kid people marvel at and applaud for being so levelheaded, and being an adult, where you’re expected to just know how to handle things.”

  “I get it,” Foz replied, nodding. “It can be overwhelming. For what it’s worth though, not taking you is Stanford’s loss.”

  She rolled her eyes, but still could feel the pink starting up in her cheeks.

  “So, who’s it going to be?” he asked. “Pomona or Sacramento?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve got a couple more to hear from. UCLA, Berkeley.”

  “You’ll get into both. I have no doubt.”

  “You think?”

  “Maisey, you’re the best student in AP Lit class.”

  She blushed deeper at the matter of factness of his statement. As if he couldn’t believe this wasn’t common knowledge. “I thought you were the best student in AP Lit class?”

  “I’m not in AP Lit class anymore, remember?” He smiled at her.

  “Yeah, you’re just going to have to kick my ass academically from USC.”

  “By the time I get to USC you’ll be so far ahead of me I’ll be in the dust.”

  Her brow came down. “What do you mean? I thought you were going to USC in the fall?”

  Foz’s grin faltered. “I got accepted for the fall, yeah. But I’m going to have to defer it for a while.”

  “Why?” she asked. Then, when he shrugged, looking into the middle distance, she decided enough was enough with being enigmatic. “Why did you have to leave school? I know you said it’s because you wanted to be closer to your grandfather . . .”

  “I had to move in with him,” he said finally. “A relative or caretaker had to be willing to live with him, or else we would have had to move him into a facility. He’s . . . he’s not well.”

  “Oh,” Maisey replied. “I’m sorry.”

  “This is my dad’s dad. My father died in Afghanistan. My mom remarried, I’ve got two little brothers still in elementary school. She couldn’t uproot their lives and move to Whittier. I had already turned eighteen, so I decided I would do it.” He sighed deep, keeping his eyes firmly over Maisey’s shoulder, refusing to look at her. “I thought I’d be able to commute to USC in the fall, but . . . he’s gotten worse. I’m going to have to stick closer to him.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said again. Because there was nothing else to say.

  “Don’t be,” he said. “USC will still be there. This is what you do for family.”

  He looked at her then, searched her face. And damned if she didn’t feel like there was something pulling her by her belt buckle, tugging at her, urging her to lean into him.

  “I wanted to ask you something . . .” he said, his voice the only thing she could hear. His face was the only thing she could see. There were no flowers. No deliveries to make. No Lyndi moving down the steps from the office at a pace way too fast for a pregnant woman, and heading right for them.

  “Guys, come on, we have a lot to load up today!” Lyndi said. Whatever inches had disappeared between them came rushing back in as they stepped away from each other. To the far left, Judy hissed, “Sheesh! Lyndi, what are you doing!”

  Apparently, as much as the world felt as if it had fallen away, it hadn’t, and the teenaged couple was the morning entertainment at the Favorite Flower.

  “Sorry, but we are so behind today,” Lyndi said, oblivious to the ire of the arrangers who had been spying on them. “Foz, you might have to take two runs today—too many orders to fit in your car otherwise.”

  The Favorite Flower had become so successful most of the bike deliverers had transferred to cars if they had access to one. According to Lyndi delivery capacity was becoming a real issue.

  “Oh, I think you’ll be surprised by my car’s capabilities,” Foz said, winking at Maisey as he moved toward Lyndi, those keys flipping around his hand again. “Let’s see what we can do.”

  Nothing more was said between Maisey and Foz for the rest of the morning. Instead they loaded his car—packed it to the gills with all of his deliveries. Luckily his car did have hidden talents, and all of his deliveries could fit. The downside was that it took so long he had to hop in his car immediately and drive off. No wink to her, no smile, not even a wave goodbye.

  And certainly no finding out what he was going to ask her.

  “You ready? We have to get you loaded up, too. If you miss class my sister will kill me.”

  Yes, finding out that Ms. Kneller and Lyndi were sisters was an interesting side effect of having her teacher have a random sleepover with her mom last week. Inevitably, Ms. Kneller had talked about her sister, who was also pregnant, and Maisey had managed to put the pieces together. The upshot of which was that Lyndi now felt personally responsible for making sure Maisey’s job did not get in the way of her school obligations.

  Maybe she didn’t feel personally responsible . . . maybe she was just as scared of Ms. Kneller as the rest of her class was.

  They began putting the boxes filled with bouquets into the trunk and backseat of Maisey’s car, Lyndi doing so one-handed, as her right hand was in a wrist splint.

  “Let me do that,” Maisey said, taking one of the boxes from her.

  “Thanks,” Lyndi said, her face twisting into a grimace. “I hate asking for help, but—”

  “Come on, you’re rocking a cast right now. It’s no problem.”

  “You know I was just thinking I don’t know how your mom does it, but now I know,” Lyndi said, smiling. “She’s got you looking out for her.”

  “What do you mean?” Maisey asked. “Does what?”

  “Life,” Lyndi said, waving her hand. “When I met her at my baby shower, she ended up doing half a dozen people’s makeup, was on her feet the entire time, and never once complained.”

  “She loves doing that, though,” she replied, confused. “Why would she complain?”

  “Right, and I love doing this. But even the stuff you love gets hard sometimes. This,” she indicated her belly, “can be difficult. Just trying to do normal stuff. Job, home, all of it changing around you. Anything small can compound the crazy. I just broke my wrist. Your mom’s got preeclampsia hanging over her head—that’s seriously scary.”

  “I never thought . . .” Maisey said, and then stopped. She really hadn’t thought. She hadn’t really been thinking about her mom’s stress level lately—she’d been a bit more focused on her own. “Stuff like that doesn’t faze my mom.”

  “Trust me,” Lyndi said. “She’s human. She’s fazed. I’m just saying, having a good kid like you around, it probably really helps.”

  Maisey thought about Lyndi’s words throughout all of her deliveries. She thought about them all day at school, too, when she should have been freaking out about the AP exams next week, or prom the weekend after. And she thought about it when she got home . . . right up until the moment she checked the mail.

  And there was an enormous packet inside, addressed to her.

  Berkeley, it seemed, liked to do things old-school.

  Her heart was pounding so hard, the words on the first page of the packet barely registered. The usual congratulations and class of 2022 floated across her eyes, but then she came across three little words.

&nbs
p; Three little words that seduced, and made dreams come true: financial aid package.

  Her mom had always said she could apply to any school she wanted. And she knew her mom had some savings, and her dad had some savings. But she also knew that their savings were nowhere near enough to cover four years of tuition without some help.

  That was one of the many reasons as a California resident she was focusing solely on California schools. Going to a school in-state was usually much cheaper . . . but probably not cheap enough.

  Suddenly, with a financial aid package, Berkeley—one of the best schools in the country, not just in California—seemed like a real possibility.

  The flutters in her stomach wouldn’t subside, no matter how much she told herself to calm down. She wanted to jump around. She wanted to yell it from the rooftops, from Facebook, from everywhere.

  She wanted to tell her mom.

  She nearly texted with the news that she had gotten into three (!) schools that day. But something told her to wait. To do it in person. Because . . . because they hadn’t talked in a while.

  Not really. Not about the things that mattered.

  Of course they talked about their schedules, and what they wanted at the grocery store, Maisey’s homework, and what to watch on TV that night. But they didn’t talk about how they felt about the TV show. Maisey hadn’t told her mom anything about which schools she chose to apply to. How stressed she was about the AP tests. About how much she was enjoying work, and how much Foz might have to do with that.

  And Maisey knew that was her doing. She’d needed the space. To figure out how to be the person who came next. And for it to not hurt so much when her mom moved on to her new life. But at that moment, with all of the hard work she had done to get into college, she wanted to share the moment with her mom.

  So she waited. The clock ticking on her desk. Pins and needles, all that stuff. And finally, finally, her mother walked through the door.

  And Maisey had paused.

  “I thought you said you’d be back by the end of the week,” her mom was saying, the sadness in her voice apparent. “No, I can handle another couple days, but . . . I don’t mean to unload on you, sweetie . . . yes, I know you’re busy . . . Work is just so stressful right now . . .”

  Maisey froze. She didn’t know what could be making her mom’s life so hard at work—she loved her job, usually. But if the show was getting to be too much, there was no way it was good for the baby.

  I don’t know how she does it. Lyndi’s voice rang in her head. Trust me, she’s fazed.

  Maisey peeked out the door. Her mom was putting her bag down on the kitchen table as she collapsed into a chair. Her posture spoke of her exhaustion. Her voice spoke of her sadness.

  But it was sadness Sebastian apparently wasn’t able to hear. Because after another few seconds she asked, “Is there someone there with you? I thought I heard . . . oh, the television. Right, that makes sense.”

  Having a good kid like you around, it probably really helps.

  “Well, I’ll let you go. I know you’ve got a show in a little bit. Break a leg. I love—” Her mom pulled the phone away from her ear, the line obviously dead. “You,” she finished ruefully. Then, she turned, and gave a small smile. “Hey, honey.”

  “Hey, Mom.” Maisey suddenly felt very young, and very unsure of herself. “Sorry you’re having a hard time at work.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Maize.” Her mom shook her head. “It’ll be over soon enough.”

  “Can I . . . can I get you anything?”

  “You know what? I’d really like to not do anything. To just veg out with you and a bowl of popcorn and not have to worry about anything serious . . . or even anything not serious for a little bit.”

  Maisey nodded. “Okay. We can do that.”

  “We can?” she asked. “You don’t have homework?”

  “Did it already.” Maisey shrugged. “What’s on tonight? There’s that British cooking show you like for some unexplained reason.”

  “It’s a baking show, and it’s very soothing,” her mom replied, laughter coming back into her voice. “And I know I must be hard up if you’re willing to watch that with me.”

  “It’s not so bad. Soothing, like you said. If nothing else, I’ll get a nap out of it.”

  “Great. I’ll start the popcorn,” her mom said. “What’s that?” Her eyes had fallen to Maisey’s hand, holding the Berkeley packet. Her future.

  “Nothing,” she said, flipping the packet back into her room. “It can wait.”

  Chapter 21

  “NAT! ARE YOU SITTING DOWN?”

  “I’m thirty-four weeks pregnant, I’m always sitting down,” Nathalie snorted into the phone, as her tired eyes glazed over another student essay. It was a beautiful day at the end of April, spring was in full flower in Los Angeles and Nathalie couldn’t get off the couch.

  It had only happened recently, this need to ABC—Always Be Couching. One day she was completely fine, practically trotting down the halls at school, around the house as she cleaned, and in IKEA as she finally picked out the crib and the furniture she wanted after the previous aborted trip. Then, all of a sudden, her body was just done. It said, “Nope! No putting up wall decals or assembling that combination dresser and changing table for you! Have a seat. Rewatching last season of Fargone is a much better use of your time.”

  She should have known it was coming. Dr. Duque had warned her after all.

  “The baby shifted. She’s head down and you’re starting to carry her lower,” she had said at their latest appointment—she was seeing Dr. Duque weekly at this point. Nathalie felt like she should ask if they were going steady. “It’s starting to get exciting.”

  For someone who still had six weeks to go, exciting was not something you wanted.

  But her ABC motto wasn’t the only thing that had her stuck on the couch at the moment. No, what had her placed in the center of the microsuede not paying attention to her papers was the terrible trip she had just returned from, and the weight it left her with.

  Nathalie hadn’t spoken to Kathy since the baby shower. She had no illusions as to why. But it was incredibly jarring to have no contact from her stepmom—the woman was not prone to giving the silent treatment. In fact, this was the longest Nathalie had gone without hearing from Kathy in the entire history of their relationship. So, when her dad called and invited her up to see them, she was a little relieved. She burned one of her sick days (when she called her department head and told her she had a cold coming on, she was treated to a list of symptoms she’d had just previous to going into labor with her own kid ten years ago—seems like Dr. Duque wasn’t the only one who thought things were getting exciting) and drove the two hours up to Santa Barbara.

  Only to be met by her dad—and just her dad—at the door.

  “Where’s Kathy?” she asked, as her dad took her jacket, and led her into his den. She was expecting Kathy to be fussing in the kitchen as per usual, but there was no one there.

  “She’s visiting her friends in San Luis Obispo,” her dad replied.

  “So . . . she doesn’t know I’m here?”

  Her dad looked at his shoes. “She told me she’d already arranged to see friends when I invited you.”

  “Oh,” Nathalie replied, feeling the blow like a punch to the chest.

  “Yeah . . .” her father said, sighing. “You know I don’t like to get in between you and Kathy. You two have always had to find your own balance. But she worked really hard putting that baby shower together for you girls. And she was hurt by what you said.”

  “I know,” Nathalie said.

  “I think you have to fix this one, kiddo.”

  “Don’t you think I’ve tried? I’ve called to apologize a dozen times. I’m so, so sorry I insulted the shower.”

  “She doesn’t want an apology.” Her dad shook her head. “Not for that.”

  “Then for what?”

  “You . . . you’ve never been able to t
hink of Kathy as a parent. And that really hurts. She made you lunches. She explained your first period. She attended band concerts. She put in the work.”

  “What does she want then?” Nathalie asked, her voice cracking. “Does she want me to forget my mother?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Good, because I’m holding on to the few memories I have for dear life! I don’t need somebody to make my lunch right now. Or attend a concert.” Nathalie’s eyes fell to the one picture of her mom on the mantel, as tears began to fall. “My entire pregnancy, the only person I wanted to talk to, I can’t. I want to ask her what it was like when she held me for the first time. I want to know what I’m going to feel when I have my daughter. And I’m sorry, but Kathy can’t help me with that.”

  Her dad’s voice was choked with emotion when he finally spoke. “I’m sorry I can’t help you. I . . . Your mother would be so proud of you. Kathy and I are proud of you. I think Kathy just wants you to recognize her.”

  “And I wish she would have recognized me!” Nathalie cried. “And you, too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not Lyndi. And Lyndi’s not me. You—both of you—have been treating us like the same person with the same pregnancy. And we’re not. It was really hard for me to get pregnant. I know every baby is special, but this one is special to me. I just think my mom . . . my mom wouldn’t have done that.”

  By now, her dad was openly crying. She hadn’t seen her father cry in nearly twenty-five years.

  “I’m sorry, Dad.” She sniffed. “Tell Kathy I’m sorry, too.”

  “You’re leaving?” her dad asked, surprised. “You don’t have to go, kiddo. We can hang out. Talk.”

  “Thanks, but . . . if Kathy doesn’t want to see me, I don’t want to risk being here when she gets back.”

  She came over, squeezed her father’s arm, and gave him a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. He didn’t move. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

  And she’d cried the entire two-hour drive back.

  By the time she arrived home, her emotional exhaustion matched her physical exhaustion, and she collapsed on the couch.

  Which was not uncommon.