by Lili Valente
“Asshole,” I say, making her curved lip become a full-blown smile. “You’re just uppity enough. And you’re crazy smart.”
She snorts. “No, I’m not. I’m average. Maybe slightly above average when I get a good night’s sleep.”
“No way. You’re very smart, and you should apply for medical school. There’s no reason you can’t be a doctor if you want to be.”
“I can think of a few reasons…” She glances down, running a hand over her belly. “The most important being that I want to be there for him as much as possible. Especially when he’s small. I loved having my mom home with me when I was little. It made me feel safe to know she was always there.”
“Then you should stay home with him,” I say. “If that’s what you want, there’s no reason we can’t make that happen.”
She puts a hand on my chest, right over my heart. “Let’s talk about this later, okay? Right now, I just want to go home, turn on the television, and watch something stupid and silly that will keep me from thinking about anything serious for at least four or five hours.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do.” I kiss her forehead, letting my lips linger as I whisper, “It’s going to be okay.”
“It is,” she agrees, the faith in her voice tempting me to believe her. Hope is dangerous, but so is fear, and I know which one I would rather cling to right now.
With a final squeeze of her hand, I circle around to the driver’s seat, ready to get home where we can be alone.
Chapter 21
Amanda
*
In addition to being a gambler, an alcoholic, and generally a not-great human being, my father was a crier. Early on in his marriage to my mother, he realized that a few tears were all it took to get him out of just about any tough spot. Hell, he and Mom never would have made it to the altar if it weren’t for my father breaking down in front of the chapel, sobbing as he begged Mom not to call off the wedding, even though he’d shown up wasted and reeking of alcohol with lipstick staining the zipper of his pants.
I spent my formative years watching my dad sob it up and my mom melt in the face of those crocodile tears, taken in by this man for whom “sadness” was simply another tool in his manipulative arsenal.
By the time I was twelve, man tears meant nothing to me. When our history teacher broke down in class after learning his son had been in a car accident, I couldn’t understand why everyone was so horrified. Diana had to explain to me that men don’t cry.
Or at least, most men don’t. So that when they do, it’s a Big Deal.
That hadn’t been my experience—and I didn’t think it was fair to expect men to act like they were made of stone when we all experience sadness and grief—but I eventually realized she was right. Aside from my father and my history teacher, I’ve only seen two men cry. One was my high school boyfriend, the day he found out he didn’t get into the university of his choice. The other was Arnold, the night I confronted him with his lies.
Neither of those instances made me uncomfortable, however. My high school boyfriend was being a big baby—there are far worse things than only getting into your safety school—and Arnold reminded me far too much of Dad. He’d been caught in one hell of a whopper and was trying to cry his way out of trouble, not realizing that I was wise to that trick before I was old enough to date.
Until today, I’d foolishly assumed I was immune to the horror some people experience when seeing the male of the species break down.
And then Alexi started to cry—this strong, intense, always-in-control man crumbling to pieces in my arms—and my heart was suddenly stabbed through with a thousand needles. I would have done anything to make it stop, because I knew how much pain he must be in to lose control like that. I could feel it soaking through my skin as I rubbed his back, despair so intense it took my breath away.
As I pulled myself together, locking down my own grief so I could comfort him as best I could, I realized all over again just how much I love this man. I love him more than anything in the world, love him to the moon and back and then out for another trip around the farthest star.
And he loves me, too. He finally said it, and said it in a way that left no doubt in my soul that he meant it.
Finding love like this is a miracle I wasn’t sure would ever happen for me. And even though a dark, frightening emotional storm is swirling inside me, there is still a quiet place filled with light at the center of the chaos. A place where a man who loves me is spreading out a blanket in the living room for an indoor picnic and laying down plates piled with eggs, homemade hash browns, and French toast he whipped up just for me.
“I don’t know if this is what you had in mind,” he says as we settle down onto pillows on the floor in front of the TV. “But I called Justin, and he said this was the funniest, most ridiculous thing he’d watched lately, and he’s usually a good judge of ridiculous so…”
Alexi hits a button on the remote, starting a show he queued up while I was showering the stickiness from my stomach and changing into pajamas. It’s an over-the-top comedy about an upbeat redhead who has recently escaped from a doomsday cult, and it is unexpectedly hilarious. By the time I finish my breakfast for dinner, I’m hooked.
We watch five episodes back to back, laughing as we cuddle on the couch under our biggest, fuzziest blanket. And it doesn’t feel like a sacrilege. It feels necessary and important to be close to him and laugh with him and show the misery demons lurking outside the door, waiting to lap up our pain, that they are going to have to wait. That we refuse to give in or give up that easily.
As we drift off to sleep on the couch in the middle of episode six, I’m filled with an overwhelming sense of peace. Of rightness. Of being exactly where I’m supposed to be, with the ally I’ve been searching for my entire life curled around me, his body solid and strong against mine.
I can do this. With him, I can make it through this nightmare and come out on the other side, even if the worst comes to pass.
But it won’t, I promise, resting my hand on my belly, where the little guy has been flipping and flopping all evening as if to assure me that he’s still here, still fighting for the chance to become a part of this family.
We’re going to be a family, I feel it in my bones, a soft, sure whisper that allows me to slip into a deep sleep where I dream of a little boy with my eyes and Alexi’s stubborn chin and a smile as lovely as his father’s.
Chapter 22
From the texts of Amanda Esposito
and Sofia Petrov
*
Sofia: Call me when you have a moment, darling girl.
I have something I need to discuss with you.
*
Amanda: Hi Sofia. So good to hear from you, but could we please text instead?
I’m bad on the phone, especially when I’m anxious.
*
Sofia: Oh no! What’s wrong, lovely? Nothing with the baby I hope…
*
Amanda: Unfortunately, yes…
Alexi didn’t tell you? He said he was going to call you two days ago…
*
Sofia: No, he didn’t. But I can call him now. I don’t want to bother you.
*
Amanda: It’s okay. You’re not bothering me. And Alexi’s at practice right now, so I can fill you in. Basically, the developmental ultrasound didn’t go as well as we hoped. Everything was great at first—Baby was squirming all over the place and beautiful and perfect—but then the tech found fluid on his brain. It could be something that will resolve itself—the doctor said they’re still learning about harmless anomalies that occur during this stage of development—but it could also be something serious. And bad.
So we had the amnio and are waiting to hear more.
We should get the test results tomorrow.
*
Sofia: Oh, dear one, I’m so sorry. My heart is breaking with yours.
Is there anything I can do to help? Come make you some soup? Or honey cake?
> *
Amanda: No, thank you. That’s a sweet offer, but I’m okay. Anxious, but I’m staying busy organizing Alexi’s already insanely organized kitchen, and he’s going to swing by the craft store after practice and grab fabric so I can sew new curtains for the baby’s room as soon as I get back from self-defense class.
Like I said, we should know one way or the other tomorrow.
Until then, I’m doing my best not to think too much. If I think, I start to worry about what we’re going to do if the news is bad, and I just…don’t want to go there.
*
Sofia: I know, sweet girl. I know. Since the moment I heard you were expecting, I’ve been begging the fates not to put our family through this hell again, but you’re right. No need to imagine the worst. There’s still hope. And the baby was moving! That’s excellent news. The first time, the poor thing was so tiny and still…
*
Amanda: I’m sorry. I don’t understand…
*
Sofia: I don’t know how much you’ve talked to Alexi—I understand wanting to wait until you know for sure—but the syndrome isn’t always fatal in the womb. Only one variant affects infants so severely. Some people born with Marfan syndrome lead perfectly normal lives. Yes, they might look a little different and need special care as they age, but life expectancy has risen drastically since the 70s. I have a folder full of research, packed with reasons to believe, if you need it. I understand if you aren’t ready right now, but if—or when—you are, I’ll bring it right over.
*
Amanda: I’m sorry, Sofia.
I need to go.
I have to go.
Now.
*
Sofia: I’ve pushed too hard, haven’t I? I’m so sorry love.
I didn’t mean to hurt. I meant to help.
I’ll leave you be, of course, but please reach out if you need anything. I want to be there for you, the way family should be.
*
From the texts of
Amanda Esposito and Diana Daniels-Nowicki
*
Amanda: Diana, I can’t make the self-defense class I bullied you into taking with me today. Something’s happened, and I need to stay here and talk to Alexi as soon as he gets home. Okay?
Please text me back and let me know you received this message.
I don’t want to go into too much detail, but I’m in a bad place emotionally, and I need to know that you’re not going to be waiting at the gym, getting upset, worried, and/or angry when I don’t show up. I need not to upset anyone or have anyone else upset me for at least ten minutes.
*
Five minutes later…
*
Amanda: Please text me back, Dee. Scroll up to see the long message I just left if you didn’t hear the ding the first time.
*
Six minutes later…
*
Amanda: Why aren’t you texting back this time? Why?!
I haven’t seen you more than six inches from your phone since 2011!!
Why is this the year you decide to stop being ridiculously available?!
I really need you to text me back. Please. I’m dripping snot and tears all over the phone. I’m a disgusting wreck, Dee. Everything is bad.
Everything is bad and everyone is bad and I should never have jumped into this relationship just because I was pregnant. He doesn’t care about me the way I care about him. He really doesn’t.
I know that for sure now and I’m just…
I’m so sad… So, so sad…
Broken sad.
*
Three minutes later…
*
Amanda: All right. I’m on my way to class.
But when I get there and I’m a nightmarish wreck of a person, I’m going to tell you to look at these texts. After you read them, please help me hide my swollen, ugly face and take me somewhere where we can be alone and Alexi will never find me. I’ve decided I don’t want to talk to him, after all. I just want to crawl into a hole and go to sleep and not wake up until tomorrow afternoon. I don’t have the heart space left to worry about anything but the baby until then.
So yeah, the ultrasound went badly on Monday. That’s why I didn’t return your call last night. But don’t try to talk about it when you see me.
Help me hide, first, please.
I need to hide.
Disappearing would be good, too.
It all feels so hopelessly big, Dee. Like there’s a war being fought right in front of me, but my hands are tied. All I can do is sit here and watch people die and wish I wasn’t so fucking helpless.
Please don’t worry if I don’t show up at class after all….
I may decide to go hide on the way to the gym….
I just put both candy bars from the fridge in my purse.
Remember in high school, when we used to buy tickets to the earliest matinee and then sneak from movie to movie with our purses full of candy, getting lost in stories and high on sugar until we stumbled out into the dark ten hours later?
I never said anything before, but I think those days saved my life. I know your friendship did. There were times when things with my dad were so bad I just wanted to disappear.
Run away. Go away. Forever, whatever form that took, if you understand…
And of course you do. You always understand.
In some ways, Dee, you’re the love of my life. Not romantically, obviously, but romance is overrated. Fact is, you’re the only person who accepts me for who I am, loves me anyway, and has never broken my heart or let me down.
Not in the ways that count, anyway.
I wish I could make a joke about all those times you made me go hiking and camping and other outdoor things I hate. I would love to make a joke right now. I need a joke so bad, but nothing is close to funny.
Just delete all of this. Stop reading and delete right now.
No, never mind, it’s too late for deleting. I’ll take your phone from you as soon as I see you and delete all of this myself. I’ll be at the gym in ten minutes.
If you’ve already read this please forget that I sounded crazy sad. I’m not crazy, just sad. I’m not going to do anything to put myself or the baby in danger. I promise.
Chapter 23
Amanda
*
I’m not fit to drive.
I drive anyway.
But I drive as slowly and carefully as I can with tears streaming down my face and my breath coming in ragged hiccups, because deep down in my stupid, stubborn, hopeful heart I believe that my baby boy is going to be fine. He’s going to be better than fine. He’s going to be strong and healthy and grow up to be the kind of brave, honorable man his father pretends to be.
Alexi lied…
He lied…
He fucking lied to me after I made it so clear that lies were the one thing that I can’t take any more of. Not one ounce. Not one gram. Not one tiny twig laid upon the bonfire my last lying boyfriend set blazing in my heart.
I’m not sure what he lied about, exactly, but Sofia spilled enough in her texts for me to know that he’s been keeping secrets. Big, heartbreaking secrets that left me unprepared, undefended, so soft and pliant that this sucker-punch shoved deep enough to crack my spine, bruise my lungs.
It feels like I’ll never draw a full breath again. My chest is clenched and aching. My throat is whip-tight and my intestines are churning ropes of fire twisting in my guts, assuring me that the spicy sausage I had for lunch was as bad an idea as all my other ideas.
I never should have trusted a man I barely knew. I should have sensed that he was hiding something from me. But just like Arnold, Alexi proved himself a gold-medal-award-winning liar.
Maybe lying is something men with names that start with A are good at.
Or maybe it’s me…
Me, who can’t tell the difference between a lie and the truth, between love and deception, between a reason to believe and another disappointment dressed up in its Sunda
y best, putting on a good show before it goes home, drinks a fifth of bourbon, and pops me in the nose for forgetting to fold the clothes I left in the drier.
Dad only hit me that once. But once was enough to break the sunglasses I’d saved all summer to buy and shatter something even more vital. My belief that I was precious to him.
That I was precious to anyone, really.
If my own father, one of the two people who were supposed to find me miraculous and lovable, thought I deserved to be punched in the face for being such a shitty example of womanhood and daughterhood—why hadn’t anyone taught me how to properly care for my laundry or for a drunk when he’s a shot away from passing out—then how could anyone ever truly love me?
I was punchable, not lovable.
For years, I’ve talked a good game and played the part of the happy, helpful nurse who always has a joke ready to help ease her patients’ pain, suffering, and shitty-insurance-related stress. I’m the one who seems to have it all together, unlike my mom’s friends’ kids, who are constantly giving them fresh ulcers and bills for rehab, and I’m the friend who gives calm, sensible advice.
But deep down I’m still that girl who knew she was never going to be loved. Not unconditionally, not absolutely, not the way other people get to be loved.
That’s why I stayed with Arnold for so long, no matter how many times he tipped his hand, showing me the cards he was holding and the sad, confused man behind them. For all his faults—and there were many—Arnold truly did love me. His was a selfish, passive-aggressive, prickly sort of love at times, but he loved me when I was dressed to the nines for date night and when I came home rumpled and smelling of doctor’s office, industrial cleaning products, and toddler vomit from the last patient of the day, a poor little girl who’d eaten her first cookie and had an allergic reaction, learning the hard way that even the sweetest things in life can be dangerous.
Maybe the most dangerous of all…
Losing Alexi is going to be so much worse than losing Arnold. In just a few short months, Alexi has become the center of my world—the shining, warm, life-giving sun I trusted to rise every morning. Even in those moments when I worried that he didn’t feel the way I felt, and that our romantic relationship might not last, I believed him when he said he would always be there for our baby.