by Beck, Jamie
Her silent tantrum shouldn’t have shocked me. She’d pulled it on Dad when he’d supported Erin’s decision not to go to college. She’d used it on Kevin when she caught him and his ninth-grade girlfriend going to third base in our basement. She’d done it to Erin too many times to count. But this one—my first—had lasted for days, and I was sick of it.
Clumsily, I settled my weight on the sofa arm, dropping my shoes to the floor. My stomach cramped again, as it had, on and off, all afternoon.
“Oh, you are home.” I stared at her until she spared me a glance.
“Where the hell else could I go now? I’ll be entombed here in perpetuity once Lyle’s arrest hits the local paper.”
Whenever Mom whipped out her more colorful vocabulary, a lecture would follow. “I can’t keep apologizing, Mom. You’re angry with me. I get that. Sorry, not sorry, for trying to get your money back in a way that didn’t land us both behind bars. In case you’re interested, the FBI agreed to deputize me for the OIA once they finish verifying what we told them. It looks like we’ll coordinate with the Puerto Rican field office, given Lyle’s present course.”
“How exciting for you.” She kept her eyes on her book. The icy sarcasm made me shiver even though I was still sweating.
“You do know you’re not the only one affected by all of this, right? Whatever you and I suffer, at least we are partly to blame for our mistakes. What about my innocent baby? She’s likely to suffer her entire life because of her father’s crimes. So maybe think about that while you sit there trying to make me feel worse than I already do. Involving the authorities was the smart choice. Why can’t you admit that if we’d done it your way, we probably would’ve failed?”
She set her book on her thighs. “We don’t know that.”
“Our chances are much better with coaching and backup.” Another cramp grabbed hold. I winced and blew a few short breaths.
“What’s the matter?” Her sharp gaze softened as it dropped to my stomach.
After the cramp passed, I slid from the arm to the cushion. “It’s been a rough day. Lots of cramping.”
Her anger gave way to concern, but her pinched expression made me uneasy. “Are you sure those aren’t contractions?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “I’ve never done this before—I thought contractions were painful. These feel more like a ball of pressure collecting and releasing. It’s probably from stress.”
“But it could be more serious, especially if it’s been happening all day. You’re barely seven months pregnant. If you’re having preterm labor contractions, we need to go to the doctor.” She set her book aside and came over to lay her hand on my stomach. “Have you eaten today?”
Nothing since the banana and cup of yogurt this morning. “Not much.” Everything I ate came back up on me when I was nervous, and I’d puked enough during my first trimester to last a lifetime.
“Amanda! Have you been keeping hydrated?”
To be honest, the past few days had been a blur of terse conversations here, phone calls with Kevin and Stan, and donning a brave face in public despite telling a few people about the divorce. The last thing on my mind had been making sure to drink enough water or juice.
I flinched when another cramp tightened my abdomen.
“That’s it. We’re going to the doctor. I’ll drive.” My mother stood and then helped me off the sofa.
She had me alarmed now. Though, admittedly, having her back on my side helped me cooperate.
“Where’s Erin?” A month ago I wouldn’t have wanted her with me during a crisis. Amazingly, Lyle and the end of our marriage had brought about something I’d craved my whole life.
“She left a while ago.” Mom found her purse by the television. “I think she went over to visit that man Nancy helped.”
I doubted Eli thought Nancy had helped him. “Oh, she didn’t mention those plans to me.”
The other morning we’d lain in our beds while she repeated, word for word, her conversation with him at the Lamplight and Dream Cream, but she hadn’t said anything about a date.
“Who says there were ‘plans’? You know her and her last-minute decisions. Now come on, I’ll drive.” My mother took my elbow as if I couldn’t walk for myself, but I allowed her to feel useful and needed. As a retired widow with grown children, she probably didn’t feel that way often. “We can’t let this FBI business affect little Willa’s health, or yours.”
Despite weeks of Mom’s befuddled behavior, her laser focus returned. I’d meant to change out of my sweaty clothes, but my doctor had surely seen and smelled worse. Mom hustled me into the car so quickly I forgot my phone, so I borrowed hers.
On the way to my OB’s office, conveniently located in a professional wing of the hospital, I called my doctor but got the answering service, who told me to go directly to the emergency room. I also tried Erin, but she didn’t answer, so I left a message before slipping Mom’s phone back into her purse as she parked in the shadow of the hospital.
It didn’t matter how new the furniture, how big the fish tank, or how sunny the large windows were in any emergency room; they still made me nervous. The elderly man and his oxygen tank. The mom with a coughing child at her side and another on her lap. The clunking electric locks of the doors whenever health care workers strolled in and out of the patient waiting room. The sirens of the ambulance and then the hustle of nurses racing someone on a gurney back into the bowels of the hospital.
It took some time to fill out the paperwork and have my vitals taken. Finally, they put me in a small room, hooked me up to an IV saline drip, and strapped some equipment across my belly to measure my contractions and monitor Willa’s heart rate.
My mother paced the tight space while we waited for my doctor.
“Mom, please sit. You’re making me more nervous.” I nibbled at my cuticles.
She sat in a plastic prefab chair. “Sorry.”
“Did Erin call back?”
“Not yet.” She dug through her purse and pulled out a pack of gum. “I swear, lately everything is hanging by a thread. We’re good people. Why are these bad things happening?”
Having already exhausted my own supply of self-pity, I didn’t answer right away. The two of us had spent most of our lives determined to avoid walking in the kinds of shoes now shoved on our feet. For a long time, I’d believed my way of navigating life had made me smarter than others, and that that would protect me from this kind of fate. Now I knew better.
I wasn’t smarter than anyone, and no one gets through life unscathed.
I glanced at my mother, who still clung to childlike notions of fairness. “Most people are good people, yet bad things happen every day. You and I? We aren’t unique victims. Erin’s right—we need to learn to roll with life’s punches. We didn’t deserve what’s happened, but if we’d been less prideful, we might’ve seen it coming. Being gossiped about won’t be fun, but worse things could happen, like Willa coming two months too soon.”
“Don’t even say that, Amanda.” My mom shot both hands out. “Please lie there and relax while you hydrate. From now on, you have to pay more attention to your health.”
If I’d hoped my perspective affected her, I’d be disappointed. My mother was who she was—a flawed woman who’d nonetheless been devoted to doing her best as a wife, mother, and librarian. I couldn’t recall her ever trying to view herself or her behavior in a different light. Maybe at a certain age you don’t want to make changes, or maybe becoming a widow had been all the change she could handle. I didn’t know, but it didn’t matter. I could control only my own way of handling life, which meant I had to let go of my need for perceived perfection.
The monitor tracking Willa’s heartbeat—strong and steady—suggested that she’d be a fighter, like Erin. “I thought reading all the parenting books would make me a good mother. But look at me. Floundering on my own and not even managing to get the pregnancy right. I know parents make mistakes, but what if I screw everything up?�
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My mother got out of her chair and stroked my hair. “You won’t screw it up. And you’re not alone. Erin and I will help you in every way we can.”
A firm hug signaled a détente, and I almost wept from relief. This situation had brought out the worst in my mother, but throughout most of my life, she’d given me a secure home and solid family, a sense of right and wrong, and much praise. On the whole, she’d been a loving mother, and I loved her despite her shortcomings, exactly as I hoped my daughter would see past mine.
Then Dr. Wyler walked into the room with my chart. “Amanda, how are you feeling now?”
My mother stayed at my bedside, holding my hand.
“I don’t know. Am I in preterm labor?” I asked.
Dr. Wyler read the monitor. “I’m pretty sure you’re experiencing Braxton-Hicks—or false labor—contractions, but let’s do a quick pelvic exam to confirm. How long have they been happening?” She disappeared from view while doing the exam.
“On and off all day.” I stared at the ceiling.
My mom patted my hand reassuringly.
“Have they gotten stronger or come closer together since they started?” Dr. Wyler asked.
“They’ve been sporadic, but I had a busy day, so I wasn’t paying close attention.”
Dr. Wyler pushed back and removed her gloves, smiling. “You aren’t dilating, and the data collected since you arrived confirms your account.”
“Thank God.” The wave of relief slackened my muscles. “So what’s happening, exactly, and how do I make it stop?”
“Braxton-Hicks are commonly brought on by too much activity or by dehydration, so make sure that you’re drinking enough water and getting lots of rest.”
I had been screwing it up. Better hydration would be easy, but rest might be tricky given my plans to help the FBI. “When you say rest, do you mean bed rest? I have travel plans this month.”
“Where to?”
“The Caribbean . . . Puerto Rico.”
Dr. Wyler frowned. “You’re not on bed rest, but we discourage international travel around this point in the pregnancy, especially to countries with a high risk of Zika. Puerto Rico’s slow recovery from Hurricane Maria means you could face additional risks with its water and such. I strongly advise you to reschedule those plans for next year.”
Zika!
“I hadn’t thought of that!” I wouldn’t put Willa at risk, but now my mom’s chance of a full recovery of her money dropped to nil. We couldn’t catch a break.
“The good news is you should be fine if you keep hydrated and take it easy. Don’t push yourself too hard.” Dr. Wyler smiled at my mother and me. “I’ll see you at your next appointment. When the IV is empty, the nurses will have you sign some paperwork before you can go home.”
“Thank you,” I said. After the doctor left the room, my mother’s pleasant expression vanished. Uh-oh. “What are you thinking?”
“Nothing.” She smoothed her skirt, averting her eyes.
“Mom.” I stared at her to force a conversation, refusing to simply appease her.
She sighed, still looking at some distant spot. “I knew counting on the sting operation would be a mistake, and now we have nothing.”
“I’m sorry.” It figured that the one time I’d ever defied my mother had come back to bite us both. “I promise I won’t rest until you’re paid back everything Lyle took.”
She waved me off. “Let’s both focus on the baby.”
I laid my head back and closed my eyes as my enmity toward my husband spread through me like the saline solution pumping into my veins.
A future in which I hated Willa’s father as much as I loved her sounded grim and impossible. I’d never have peace of mind unless we got the title to that yacht before Lyle was apprehended.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ERIN
“Hey there, buddy.” Eli crouched to pet Mo, who’d jumped up to excitedly hump his leg. Couldn’t blame Mo for that urge. Eli glanced up at me, smiling, before he stood. “Good to see you again.”
Sadly, he didn’t scratch behind my ears or offer any other physical affection. Our slow friendship-to-maybe-more track would test my newfound maturity. His “casual cookout” invitation had been a huge first step, but my expectations remained in check.
He stepped back to let Mo and me into his house. Once again, its fresh scent gave me all the homey feels. There were a million things to investigate—the photographs, the knickknacks strewn about, and what appeared to be a collection of awards—but snooping so soon would be rude.
I handed him a box of cupcakes from Hannah’s. “Full disclosure—the only things I cook come in a can or other container, so I bought these for after dinner.”
“Sugar Momma’s?” His inquisitive tone suggested he hadn’t heard of it.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never been?”
He shook his head. Using his thumbnail to cut through the yellow-and-turquoise sticker that sealed the carton, he then lifted the lid to take a gander at the double-chocolate cupcakes with sprinkles.
“Obviously you don’t get out enough. Lucky for you, I can add Potomac Point tour guide to my list of odd jobs. Sugar Momma’s is on the west side of town, across the street from Give Me Strength—the fitness center where I also teach. Hannah makes this bay’s best chai and some awesome pastries, too.” I smiled, then remembered another facet he’d enjoy. “Actually, she plays great tunes in there, too. Eclectic stuff.”
“Guess I’d better book a tour. Maybe you can pencil me in one day next week.” He set the cupcakes on the dining room table, then crooked his finger so I’d follow him to the kitchen, where he opened the refrigerator. “Can I get you a drink—tea, beer, wine?”
The Coronitas and limes on the top shelf called to me. “I’ll take a beer.”
I set my cinch sack on the peninsula and scanned the kitchen while he opened my bottle and sliced a lime. Soapstone counters, walnut cabinetry, oil-rubbed bronze fixtures, all of which looked relatively new. The cozy, warm space suited him and the house. After he handed me the bottle, I said, “If I’d ever had a kitchen this nice, I might’ve learned to cook. Did you design the renovations?”
If he wrote, sang, and designed, my ovaries would explode on the spot.
“Nah.” He sipped from his own bottle. “The previous owners had just finished renovating the house when the guy got transferred to the West Coast.”
“Great timing for you.”
“Very.”
Maybe one day I’d get a full tour. The audible tip-tap of Mo’s nails could be heard from the other room, where he was likely sniffing out all of Eli’s secrets. Lucky dog. “Do you mind Mo’s nosy nature?”
“No, but let me make sure my guitars are set up where he can’t get at them.” He hustled back to the front of the house to check on his instruments. Only one, which Mo had not yet discovered, lay abandoned on the sofa.
“Were you playing before I arrived?”
He lifted it off the cushions. “Fiddling around.”
“Writing a song?” Fraught territory, but hope bubbled inside like uncorked champagne. If I could get him to write again, it might help him move forward with his life.
“Not quite . . .”
Something—an inkling—made me give Eli a little push. “Can I ask something? Because I’m curious about the process. If I wanted to write a song, how should I begin?”
“Do you play an instrument?” His eyes lit up.
Well, shoot. “One, if you count the tambourine.”
His chuckle encouraged me to keep up the schtick.
“I can also hum off-key and do a really appalling beatbox.” I proceeded to show off my musical nontalent with a few “boom-pah-chew, boom-boom-pah-chews.”
I suspected Eli hadn’t laughed aloud much these past two years, so his guffaw was better than a gold medal around my neck.
He rubbed his chin. “Not to be a dream killer, but maybe songwriting isn’t in your future.”
&nbs
p; Eli didn’t know me well enough to predict my response to that challenge. “Oh? So you’re a lame teacher?”
“Hell no.”
Settling my hands on my hips, I said, “Then come on . . . I want to write a love song for my favorite male—Mo.”
“A love song for your dog?” Another little smile cropped up. “That won’t sell.”
“Well, then clearly you’re no Cat Stevens.” I affected a heavy sigh. “How disappointing.”
The last time I’d heard that old “I Love My Dog” song had to have been 1998 or thereabouts. My dad had delighted in introducing me to obscure music that would make me giggle.
“Those are fightin’ words.” A glint of heat flickered in his eyes, changing the nature of his grin.
He seemed to enjoy this game, so I feigned nonchalance, teasing, “Well, I don’t want to tax you or anything. It’s okay if you can’t write a love song about a dog. I’m still impressed with your past accomplishments.”
Eli set his bottle on a coaster, went to the hutch to get a legal pad, then picked up his guitar again. “Have a seat and tell me what, exactly, you love about Mo.”
I nearly bounced on my toes because—even though we were joking around—I was on the verge of getting him to write something for the first time in years. This could be a turning point for him. My whole body warmed like it did when I helped my students make that mind-body connection. Guess this wasn’t all that different, except that I didn’t usually have the urge to jump over the coffee table and kiss my yoga students.
“Wait, don’t we start with a melody?” I asked.
“I don’t, but if you want to, hum what you hear in your head when you think about Mo.” He sat on the arm of the sofa—one foot on the coffee table—with his guitar across his thigh.
I closed my eyes, curious about what might come to me when thinking about the most awesome little dog. Unsurprisingly, a happy tune spun through my thoughts. “Something with a snappy beat, and maybe like ‘Ba da baah, la-la-la-lee da, doodley doo-di-ley, ba da ba daah.’”
“Sing it again.” He played a quick scale, and by the time I got to the la-la-la section, he chimed in with a chord or two.