I enter the doctor’s office on my own, again; obviously, Dean’s not coming, I’ve not heard a peep from him. Neither of the flashing messages on my answering machine were from Dean, a thought I’d been shamefully holding onto since my cell phone had been awfully quiet while I was away.
A nurse waves me into a room quickly upon my check-in, and I do the usual strip-down and paper gown suit-up, and then wait for Dr. Grasyn. I haven’t had any more headaches since Big Bear, and I actually feel more energized than I have in weeks. I know things will only get more difficult the closer I get to my due date, so I’m all for enjoying this little burst of energy.
“Hi, Holly,” Dr. Grasyn enters the room on a knock, cheery and also seeming energized. I greet her and we spend a few minutes talking about our holidays.
“Well, you ready to have another peek at this baby?”
“I am,” I tell her, more excited than I let on. She runs through the usual check-up routine, listening to my heart, feeling my belly; I tell her about the headaches and she tells me to rest as much as I can before I go back to work after New Year’s, then rolls her little stool over the ultrasound machine.
I send a silent message to my little eggplant to please cooperate.
When the whoosh and whomp whomp fill up the room, my feelings go into overdrive, causing my eyes to water and my heart to pitter-pat, and I look eagerly at the grainy picture on the machine’s screen. There he or she is, and she looks so much more like a baby than the last time we did this. I have this nagging thought about wishing Dean was here, but shoo that away and focus on my little veggie.
“Alright, Mom, it looks like we may actually get a peek today,” Dr. Grasyn tells me and I hold my breath. “Well, looks like you’re having…” her eyes narrow on the screen and, seriously?!, “a girl!”
She smiles at me, takes a couple measurements on the screen, and wraps things up, and the whole time, I’m lying on the table in a steaming pile of feelings. A girl. Thoughts ping through my mind, I can’t focus on one to even complete it, before another bounces through.
“Holly, you okay?” Dr. Grasyn asks, leaning in.
“I’m great,” I assure her.
“Alright, so we’ll be seeing each other every two weeks now,” she continues on and I nod and act like I’m listening, but…yeah, I’m really not. I make an appointment at the front desk, glad for the reminder card, and make my way out onto the street.
In three months, I’m going to have a daughter. Maybe she’ll have red hair like me, or maybe she’ll take more after her dad and have stormy eyes. I don’t want to gender stereotype, but all of a sudden, I want to buy all the bows and foofy pink things I can find. I decide it’s probably best to wait a few days until I’ve completely absorbed the news, rather than make a bunch of rash purchases that I’ll regret later. But I do stop at one place on the way home, and luckily neither Grace nor Red is working right now, and I buy a little pink onesie that has Red’s Surf Shop printed across the front.
I don’t call Grace or any of the Slade family members this time. I can’t quite decipher what I’m feeling, I just know I want to hold it all to myself for now. I hope I’m not punishing Dean’s family because, I’ll admit it, rational or not, I’m a bit upset with him. I think I just want to be alone with my thoughts for a while.
I am a daughter. And I had a mother. And she was not a good mother for the majority of my life. I think I just need to come to terms within my own mind that history is absolutely not going to repeat itself. My mind knows for a fact that I am not my mother, nor my father for that matter, but I just feel a little sad tonight while I sit and eat my plain noodles (I need to go grocery shopping)-not sad that I’m having a daughter, I’m thrilled about that. I’m just…sad.
I wake up feeling the opposite of sad. It’s like they say: don’t bottle up your feelings, let them out. And sometimes letting them out means eating ice cream on your sofa with your cat while binge-watching Game of Thrones. Today, I’m going shopping. I am gonna hit those post-holiday sales like a hurricane.
Now, I’d been to Target a million times before, but never had a need to visit the baby section. Well, let me tell you, for a pregnant woman, this department is like an uncharted utopia and I never wanted to leave. I just wanted to move in and live in the aisles of soft blankets and bouncy seats. They have tiny chairs, tents, and bedding, oh my! I couldn’t make a decision on anything. I should probably hit the IKEA because there’s another section I’d skipped right over on all my previous visits.
So instead of filling my cart with all the things like I wanted, I take lots of pictures of potential purchases. Now, that’s not to say I left empty-handed. I got another pair of stretchy-waisted maternity pants (in a cute Houndstooth pattern) and two cardigans (buy one, get one fifty percent off, therefore, one must purchase two). I was also leaving with the smallest tutu you’ll ever see and a pair of red, glittery baby ballerina flats.
I am standing in IKEA holding two different sheet sets (pastel polka dots or retro starburst pattern, hmm), trying to make a decision, and my phone keeps ringing. I’d driven an extra thirty minutes out of my way to visit this store, I need to focus, not be distracted by a ringing cell phone. I drop both sheet sets into my cart and dig through my purse until I find my phone. My intention is to switch it to silent, but ‘Baby Daddy’ is flashing across my screen. Well, that’s embarrassing, I think, looking around to see if anyone noticed. I really needed to change that.
The ringing stops before I decide to go ahead and answer it, and a few seconds later there’s a buzz indicating I have a voicemail. Hmmm. To listen or not to listen (in the middle of IKEA’s children’s department), that is the question.
I decide to listen.
Hollie, it’s Dean. I’m back in town and was hoping to see you some time this weekend. I have to report in to Camp Pendleton next week and would like to see you before I have to go.
The voicemail feels like a debriefing. Ugh.
Therefore I ignore it and go ahead and purchase both sheet sets. On my way home, I stop back by Target and get a set of hedgehog swaddling blankets, a round, shag, pink rug (not everything had to be gender neutral, sheesh), and a small, metal, mint green chair (I know the baby won’t be sitting in it for, like, a year, but, whatever). On my way to the register, I grab a few super-cute onesies with coordinating leggings (all polka dots and stripes, I can’t resist), and finally, finally find my way home. I was going to have to accept at least two new book editing requests a week if things kept going like this.
I look around before getting out of my car, seeing as how the Slade family had a knack for just showing up unannounced, and when I see that the coast is clear, I schlepp all my things into the second bedroom (where, yes, the crib was still in pieces), and close the door on all of it. I give Mr. Bubberchop a snuggle, warm up some Hot Pockets and proceed to do more damage to my bank account online. A highly-rated high chair and car seat would be here in less than a week. My fancy and adorable stroller was going to take a little longer.
Chapter 18
Dean
Holly didn’t return my call and I wasn’t surprised.
I expected her to be upset with me.
“Hey, Mom,” I call out, walking through my parent’s back door and finding her in the kitchen.
She doesn’t answer back, just stops what she’s doing and folds herself into me for a tight hug. I have no idea what it’s like for her to watch me come and go over the years, the worry she must feel all of the time. And I suddenly feel very selfish.
I felt her breathe deeply before letting go and getting back to chopping celery at the counter.
“I’m making soup,” she tells me. “Maybe later, you can take some over to Holly, Grace said she wasn’t feeling so great the other day.”
My head popped up. “Is she sick?”
“Maybe you should go find out for yourself,” she pops back, hand on hip, mom face in full effect. Shit.
“Mom-”
�
�Nope,” she cuts me off. “I get it, Dean. Honey, I get it. Your life is…” she stops chopping again, but keeps her eyes to the counter. “Your life is not your own and hasn’t been for a very long time. You made a commitment to serve this country and you have gone so far above and beyond, we are so proud of you; but, sweetheart,” she pauses and I can tell she’s struggling with her words, “sometimes I can’t help but wonder, at what cost? Very soon, there’s going to be a little baby who is going to need you, and a very sweet woman who, even though I get the feeling doesn’t agree, is also going to need you. And it breaks my heart to watch you struggle the way you do,” I swear, if my mom starts crying…, “I just would love to see you be able to stop fighting and find some peace. What you do over there, that is not real life, that is extreme life-“
“It’s real life for a lot of people, Mom,” I toss in quietly. She sets her knife down, grabbing up a towel and turning to face me full-on.
“Well, don’t you think maybe it’s time you let someone else fight that fight?”
I figure my mom has been holding this in for a long time, so I keep my mouth shut to let her say her piece.
“Things don’t just randomly happen, Dean. Holly and this blessing of a baby came into your life, right at this time, for a reason. I guess I’m just asking that you don’t just set them aside without giving it some real thought.”
“Believe me, Mom, all I do is think,” I tell her, leaning in to kiss her forehead before heading out to the backyard to find my dad.
“Hey, Dad.” I take a seat in the chair next to him.
“Son.” My dad has this way of staring you down until you talk, and when he looks you in the eye, it’s like he sees all and knows all. It used to freak me out when I was a kid and doing all sorts of stupid shit. Now, I think I’d rather have him read my mind so I didn’t have to say aloud all the things I should.
My mom just added a whole lot of fuel to the fire in my brain.
“Good to have you back.” He places his book on the table between us, a sure sign he wants to have a talk. My dad’s never shied away from a conversation with us, that’s for sure and over the years, we’d had many, though usually these talks came with a side of sand and waves.
“You know, with you, your mother has always subscribed to the ‘if you love something, set it free’ philosophy, and I’ve gone along with it, but I gotta admit, we’re still waiting for the part where you come back.”
“Dad, you know some children move away and never return to the same town they were raised.”
He’s never really appreciated my idea of humor and, based on the side-eye he’s shooting my way, he still doesn’t.
“Yes, but you belong here.”
How does he know? Sometimes I feel like my family has no clue who I even am anymore, there is so much I don’t and can’t tell them.
“I know,” he insists, resting his hand on my arm reassuringly, like he didn’t just read my mind.
I want to tell him about my time with Dixon, about the view from the highest point we hiked to, with everything covered in white, the air so cold and crisp, it felt like my lungs were turning to ice inside of me; I wanted to tell him about the phone call I had with Ramirez while he held a gun to his head, how I feel responsible every time one of my brothers falls down; but I don’t. I’m not ready, even though I think it would feel so fucking good to just talk to someone. And I’m not talking about a military shrink, I’m talking about someone who’s not trying to assess my mental health, but just listen. I feel like an asshole for closing myself off from the people who love me and support me, but that’s what living in the world I’ve lived in does to you. It shuts you off from everything good, everything familiar, and it narrows your focus down to the job. And my job is rarely, if ever, pleasant.
“So, what are you gonna do?” My dad asks and I notice my mom hovering in the doorway beside us.
“I’m gonna talk to Holly,” I state. “And I’m gonna surf.”
Chapter 19
Holly
“Holly, please call me back,” his voice sounds a tad frustrated. Good. “I’m trying to be respectful of your space, but I think you know that, if I don’t hear from you soon, I’m just going to come over and barge my way into your house and not leave until you talk to me.”
Respectful? Ha! I’ve listened to that voicemail three times and each time, find something new to get pissed off about. I want him to feel cut off from me and frustrated, like I have with him for months and months. But I also want to have a conversation because I don’t like this unsettled feeling that follows me around every day. It’s making me feel like crap and I nearly vomited again this morning.
I’d spent New Year’s Eve with Mr. BubberChop, watching the ball drop on East Coast time before going to bed. Last night I had Tuesday Tacos with Red (who is seriously the coolest and nicest man alive), but I could barely stomach a whole taco and I think he might have cottoned on to me not being in tip-shop shape.
So, regardless of the fact that I wanted Dean to suffer my silence a smidge longer, I knew it would be best to just meet and get it over with. But I was not going to call him.
Tomorrow, Yellow Subs-Marine, 12:00.
There. I lay my phone facedown to rest on my belly and press play on the television remote, not waiting for a response. Mere seconds later, however, it vibrates.
See you then.
I ignore the nerves suddenly fluttering in my stomach, lay my phone back down and resume my show. I’d never watched this much TV in my life. There were so many things I could and should be doing. I could run by the library and get a few things done before school started up again next week, I could be tackling the mountain of baby stuff, including a still-in-pieces baby crib, in the other room, I could start that new book project I’d accepted yesterday after finishing my last one two days earlier. But, no. Instead of being productive, I was going to sit my ever-expanding backside here on this couch for the rest of the day. I mean, I was growing a human life inside of me, wasn’t that enough for today?
But the next morning was no better. Was a television hangover a real thing? My head is pounding, my stomach hurts, even my eyes are rebelling against opening. But I had to get up, I had to shower and get ready to meet Dean for lunch. I could power through one lunch, then come home and go back to bed.
Winter in southern California was finally happening and it was actually chilly outside, which was nice, but even the elastic-waist jeans felt scratchy and abrasive, so I slide my legs into some black leggings and pull an oversized cream, cable-knit sweater over my head, my tan Ugg boots onto my feet. Mr. Bubberchop pokes his head out from under my bed with a disbelieving meow (yes, he has different meows and I know what they mean).
“I know, kitty boy, I know. I just don’t have the energy to be me today,” I explain to him. My hair hangs down my back in a long braid, no makeup on my face, and leggings. I never went anywhere but to the mailbox this dressed down. Ah, well, if ever there was a time for me to get away with the au natural look, it would be while pregnant. Mr. Bubberchop shows me his tail and goes back to hiding.
Dean is already at the deli when I arrive, seated in a booth at the back of the long, narrow café and looking really good. I try my hardest to ignore the hiccup in my heart rate at seeing him there. His hair has grown out in the month he’d been home and the scruffy beard is back; I loved it, all of it. This is how he looked the night we met, only that night he seemed pissed off about something and had this Dirty Harry vibe about him that I, for whatever reason, found super attractive. I mean, he’s always a bit…rough? harsh? uncompromising? Even now, the way he surveyed every person in the place; damn, even feeling like garbage, my body can’t help but react to him, he is just too handsome. And doesn’t that just piss me off.
“Holly,” he greets me, standing once I arrive at the table.
“Dean,” I return, mimicking his formal greeting and hefting my bag and my body into the booth across from him. Sheesh, another month and I wa
sn’t sure I’d even fit at this table.
A menu slides across the table towards me and I open it up, mindlessly.
“How have you been?”
“Meh,” I respond, pretending to focus on the menu.
I couldn’t sift out my emotional feelings form my physical ones; physically, I was totally into him, but emotionally, I wasn’t sure. Was I mad at him? Hurt? Forgiving? Indifferent? I didn’t know, but I supposed that figuring it out was part of the reason I’d come today.
“Hi, Dean.” Our server arrives, a pretty blonde with her hair all piled up in one of those effortless-looking top knots, her long, tan limbs on display (I mean, come on, it was, like sixty-three degrees outside today!), her eyes flicking between Dean and me. They obviously know each other.
“Could I please have some water?” I ask, closing my menu.
“Sure, do you guys know what you want?” Her pen is poised and ready.
“Holly?” Dean refers to me.
“Um, I’m not really hungry, I’ll just have the water.”
I catch his eyes long enough to watch them narrow in evaluation of me.
“Maybe give us just a minute, please, Ky?”
Ky?. Correction: they obviously knew each other well enough for him to have a nickname for her.
“You’re not hungry?”
“No.” I meet his eyes and give him the best smile I could manage.
He shifts in his seat and rubs his hands up and down his legs, then scrapes a hand across the stubble on his cheek.
“Are you mad at me?”
“Mad?” I repeat, stretching out the word. “No, I’m not mad.”
And it truly feels like the right answer; I wasn’t mad at him. I knew that we were in a difficult situation and the road to balance would be hard, so mad wasn’t the right word.
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