“Well, thank you for that,” Mom said, but she wasn’t giving in completely. The walls were back up. “You’re welcome.”
“And I’m sorry,” I said. “For judging you guys so harshly. You deserved better than that.”
She was quiet, and then her soft hand touched my arm. For my mother, any kind of physical touch was a powerful statement. “I love you, Daisy-Day, and I’ve never wanted anything other than your happiness. I’m very sorry you felt that I was in the way of that.”
I shook my head, words failing me. We both stood there in the dark hallway, facing one another and yet not looking each other in the eyes.
“I love you too, Mom,” I said, and wondered if I had ever said that to her before. We weren’t an affectionate family, and we didn’t say things like that often.
She gave my arm a squeeze before dropping her hand. “We’d best get some sleep,” she said. “I’m determined to get that desk into the hall before December gets home tomorrow.”
We said good night before retiring to our beds. I lay facing the window for what felt like a long time. I love you, Daisy-Day, kept repeating itself over and over in my mind, and for the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to believe that was true. I was forty-six years old and felt like I still had so much growing up to do.
Chapter 32
Paul picked me up at the airport, and the anxiety I’d been feeling all the way from Ohio dissipated long enough for me to fully enjoy the reunion hug and take solace and comfort in the look in his eyes as he smiled at me.
“I missed you,” he said, leaning in to kiss me on the mouth. I could feel how much he’d missed me with the intensity of his kiss and responded in kind. I so wanted to believe everything was going to be okay between us.
I could have stood there forever, just looking into the face of the man I loved. “I missed you too,” I said. What if I told him right now about the baby we’d created?
A car behind him at the curb honked. Paul had parked too close, and the guy couldn’t get out.
Paul gave my hand a squeeze and then opened my door before hurrying to put my bags in the trunk. We pulled into traffic outside LAX and made our way home. I had considered going into work for a few hours since I’d missed four whole days, but I was exhausted and intent on what lay ahead of me.
At home, Paul took my bags in, and I called Stormy—who had just gotten out of school—and updated her on her new nephew. I’d talked to her every day I’d been gone and appreciated how the situation had brought us together. She mentioned she was babysitting for Paige on Saturday night. I experienced a little shudder of memory at the mention of Paige’s name. I didn’t know what to do about that situation but took it as a good sign that she’d still called Stormy to watch her kids. I asked Stormy if she could stop by the house after she finished up.
“Maybe you could stay over that night,” I offered.
“It’ll be late, like eleven,” Stormy said. I took that as proof that Paige was going on a hot date, and it made me sad to think that our budding friendship had come to such a place that she likely would never tell me that type of thing again.
“It’s okay if you come in late. I’ll wait up for you. I need to talk to you about something.” My stomach tightened at saying that out loud. I had crossed the threshold between hoarding my secret and letting it spill out.
“What?” Stormy asked.
“I’d rather discuss it in person. So, can you come over on Friday after you’re done at Paige’s?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
We finished the phone call, and I let out a breath, hoping that I could make it through the rest of the week. I put my phone on the counter and headed toward the bedroom, where my suitcase and husband had disappeared to. I thought back to the time I’d spent with my mom in Ohio. It had been different from any other interaction I could remember having with her, and I felt a soft spot inside me grow a little at the new perspective. The words she’d said when I vented about Church and God still rang in my head.
Church can help us find God, and then help us stay close to Him. It’s a vehicle, Daisy, not a destination in and of itself.
I reflected on the things Athena had said about her mother and what she’d learned since the funeral. Maybe there was time for me to do better, to be a little more lovable.
The sound of running water broke into my thoughts. Paul came out of the master bathroom, a satisfied smile on his face. “I’m running you a bath,” he said, crossing the room to me. “And while you unwind, I’ll throw together some dinner. Sound good?”
I put my arms around his neck and nearly asked him to join me in the bath before I realized that would be pushing the inevitable conversation way up, and I wasn’t ready for that. I needed this evening—this reminder of all the good things we had together—to help prepare the foundation I would need to build on later tonight.
“You are adorable,” I said.
He smiled, kissed me again, and closed the bedroom door behind him as he headed for the kitchen.
The bath was wonderful. I gathered my hair on top of my head and clipped it in place before undressing. The smell of the lavender bubble bath Paul had thought to add wrapped around me as I slid into the water. It was hot. Too hot? Just in case, I adjusted the temperature of the water still streaming from the faucet—one of so many accommodations I was going to have to make in the coming months. I took a deep breath and looked down to see my belly poking up just above the water. I stared at the curve for a long time, trying to hold on to the realizations I’d had at the hospital, trying to remember the excitement I’d felt amid the fear.
When the water began to cool and my nerves began to tighten, I got out, dried off, and looked at myself full on in the mirror. I wasn’t going to be able to hide this much longer; it was time to stop trying. I pulled my silk robe off the hook and put it on. It was impossible to tie the thin fabric in a way that disguised my belly, so I didn’t even try, simply tying the sash above the mound which, again, made the truth inescapable. I fixed my hair so that it looked casually undone, but still flattering, and began adjusting my makeup before realizing I was stalling.
When I entered the kitchen, the smell of salmon was heavy in the air, and I remembered the last time Paul had cooked it—and I hadn’t been able to eat it. Now I knew why. Soon he would too. I was glad the nausea had passed so I could enjoy the food this time.
He turned from the stove, and I caught the look that went from my face to my body, then back to my face. He wouldn’t know what to think of it—he didn’t have enough information to draw the right conclusion—but it had caught his attention.
I drew a shaky breath, but I couldn’t say the words yet. I slid into a kitchen chair. A moment later, he set down a plate with a large piece of blackened salmon and some steamed squash.
I smiled up at him. “This is wonderful,” I said as he sat down across from me.
“You haven’t even tried it yet,” he said, picking up his fork, but his manner was reserved. Were the pieces coming together for him?
I cut myself a bite and tried to calm my nerves. It tasted as good as I knew it would, and we ate in silence for a few minutes. I focused intently on the flavors and textures, truly putting myself into every detail of this moment as I prepared for the moments that would follow.
The fact that he didn’t ask me about the trip, or start any kind of conversation made me even more anxious. Finally, I put down my fork. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
He raised his eyebrows and placed a bite of fish in his mouth.
“Um, it’s . . . not a conversation we ever expected to have.”
Flashes of memory spun through my mind. Me sitting on the hood of Scott’s truck, almost thirty years ago, crying about how my parents were going to kill me, begging him to marry me and make this all better.
Ten years later, knocking on the door of Jared’s apartment while December waited in the car. As soon as he opened it, I blurted the whole thing o
ut. I didn’t cry that time, just stared at him with a “What are you going to do about it?” expression.
Calling Jared on the phone at work to tell him that, surprise, the very thing that had brought us together was happening again and we had to give our marriage another chance. Two weeks later I put a note on his car that said never mind, I wasn’t pregnant anymore. Go ahead and move forward with your attorney.
“Sounds serious,” Paul said, bringing me back to this moment I felt I had lived too many times already. But Paul wasn’t Scott or Jared. He was Paul, and I loved him. We were good together.
“It’s serious,” I said. “But in a good way, I hope.”
He put down his fork and braced his elbows on the table, resting his chin on his knuckles and looking at me with those intent blue eyes of his.
“Remember when we were first together and talking about our children?”
He nodded.
“And I asked you if you wanted any more, and you said not really?”
He nodded again, but his eyebrows pulled together. Apparently my belly hadn’t given me away, and the idea that I could be pregnant was so far off his radar it wasn’t even a possible direction of this conversation. I took a breath and pushed forward, needing to get through this.
“And I said that was good, because I had taken steps to ensure I wouldn’t have any more.”
He nodded a third time, still trying to anticipate.
“Something went wrong.”
Silence hung as heavy as the smell of salmon in the air.
“What do you mean, something went wrong?”
“I’ve always thought getting my tubes tied was a for-sure, no-way, never-gonna-happen procedure that guaranteed I would never get pregnant again.”
He said nothing, did nothing. He just stared at me.
“Something went wrong,” I said again. I took a deep breath and felt the emotion rise in my chest. The rest of the words tumbled out in an ungainly heap. “I’m pregnant, Paul. I didn’t mean for it to happen, I didn’t think it could happen, but it did, and I tried to ignore the signs for a long time, but I finally took a test—well, three tests—and they were all positive. I think I’m sixteen or seventeen weeks into this and . . . yeah.”
He blinked at me, then sat up straight in his chair. “You’re pregnant,” he repeated. His tone was completely even and dangerously calm.
I nodded and picked up my napkin to wipe at my eyes. I willed him to take my hand, or come around the table and lay his head on my belly. I needed him to tell me that everything was okay, that we were okay, that we were in this together, and that, above all, he loved me. He just sat there. I looked into my lap and continued wiping at my eyes, waiting, silently pleading that he would save me from this awful feeling of the unknown. I heard the legs of his chair scrape against the tile, and I looked up to see him standing. He didn’t meet my eye as he left the table. He didn’t come to my side.
“Paul?”
He didn’t answer me. Instead he disappeared into the master bedroom. I was on my feet and heading in his direction when he came back out, keys in hand. The panic set in.
“You’re leaving?”
He didn’t say anything, just looked at my belly, then walked past me toward the garage.
I followed him, and the first sob broke. “You’re leaving me!”
“I’m going out,” he said.
“Now?” I cried, tears coursing down my cheeks. “We need to talk about this. We need to—”
He pulled open the door, stepped into the garage, gave me a cold look, and slammed it in my face.
Chapter 33
He didn’t come home.
I didn’t sleep well. In the morning, I clicked back into that autopilot mode I’d become so good at. The house was eerily silent as I got dressed—it was getting harder to find clothes that fit—fixed my hair, tried to disguise the puffiness around my eyes, and made myself some scrambled eggs. December’s pregnancy book had talked about how important protein was for the baby. I took some small comfort in doing this one thing right.
At work, I was grateful for the backlog of files that kept me sufficiently overwhelmed so I wouldn’t think about the phone call I hadn’t received from my husband. I had been sure he would want to talk once the idea settled. My phone was silent except for a text message from Amy, who had been looking at me strangely across the conference table at our morning meeting.
Are you okay?
My reply was brief.
It’s been a long week.
I hadn’t run out of work to do, but my back started to hurt around seven o’clock. I couldn’t remember the last time I was the last person at the office. I shut down my computer, organized the piles of work I needed to take care of tomorrow, and headed home. The windows were dark when I pulled up. The house was empty.
I turned on the kitchen light, then sat on the living room couch. Should I call him? Should I keep waiting? I was tempted to be angry—I was sure the anger was in there somewhere—but then I thought about the process I had to go through to come to terms with this myself. He was doing the same thing, right? I was desperate not to judge him too harshly.
He didn’t come home again.
The next morning, Friday, I was beginning to feel some anxiety about running out of work when Amy entered my office. She shut the door behind her and sat down in the chair on the other side of my desk. She’d lost even more weight and looked beautiful in a pair of black slacks and a cranberry-colored blouse. She leaned forward and looked me squarely in the face.
Panic swirled around me like a hurricane.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, her wide eyes staring me down while the sincere concern in her voice demanded an honest answer.
I couldn’t tell her. But I couldn’t not tell her either. She’d find out eventually—everyone would. I sat there for several seconds, trying to find a way to be honest and still preserve her feelings.
“What’s wrong?” she asked again.
I felt the tears rise and shook my head. “I don’t want to tell you.”
She said nothing, and when I looked up at her, she had leaned back in the chair, looking as though she were trying to interpret what I meant. “You don’t want to tell me?”
I’d already run off my husband. I’d run off Paige, too; my tantrum still embarrassed me. I didn’t want to lose Amy, but I was tired of playing games with people. I could not save her from this. I was powerless against the truth that would soon be very apparent. So I told her.
“I’m pregnant.”
It landed like a brick on the desk between us. Amy’s eyes went wide, a flash of envy sparked behind them, and then, in the next moment, her expression went blank. “You are?” There was no recrimination in her tone. Instead, she reached across the desk and took my hand. “Really? I thought you were . . . done.”
“So did I,” I said, waiting for her expression to harden as her true feelings came to the surface. But her face stayed soft, her expression confused, perhaps, but open.
She started asking questions, and I answered them, still waiting for her to cry or get angry or something. Instead, she was supportive and excited, even when she realized that this wasn’t necessarily a good surprise for me. She asked how Paul felt about it, and I completely fell apart and told her I hadn’t heard from my husband in thirty-six hours. When I recovered, she asked if I’d been to a doctor yet.
“No,” I said, embarrassed. “I’ve only known for a few weeks, and then I was in Ohio with December, and then I told Paul and . . .”
“Do you have a good OB?”
“I’ve just gone to a clinic for my yearly stuff,” I said. “I couldn’t even tell you the name of the last doctor I saw.”
“Hold on,” she said. She left the office, and I focused on taking deep breaths and trying to digest the fact that the one person who seemed to have the most reason to not be happy for me, was. She came back a minute later and handed me a piece of paper. “Dr. Christiansen is the doctor Mick and I
have been working with. He specializes in pregnancies that aren’t necessarily standard—like in vitro, or high risk, or, I’m sure, failed sterilization. He’s really wonderful.”
I stared at the paper and then looked up at Amy. “Thank you,” I said, and I meant every word. She came around the desk, and I stood up so we could hug. I held on tight, needing her strength, needing her support. She stepped back after several seconds and smiled.
“You’re going to be okay,” she said. “This is a good thing.”
I couldn’t help but feel a sting in my heart. Even though her tone and her expression were sincere, those words couldn’t have been easy to say. But she’d said them anyway. That was remarkable.
After she left, I sat back down and stared at the name and phone number on the paper she’d given me. I was already into my second trimester, and he was a specialist, which meant that getting an appointment was probably impossible, but I sure didn’t want to ask anyone else for a recommendation. I called the number, explaining to the receptionist that I was a new patient. When I told her my age and how far along I was, she put me on hold. Thirty seconds later, she was back on the phone. “How about Monday morning?”
“This coming Monday?” I said, looking at the calendar. “You can see me that soon?”
“We keep a few slots open for situations like this, and Amy Shawton called a few minutes ago to refer you—we always try to work with referrals from other patients. It’s important that you’re under a doctor’s care as soon as possible.”
“Okay,” I said, seeing this as a good sign. “I’ll take it.”
I wrote the appointment into my planner and allowed myself to feel a little better. I was eating right, I had a friend to support me, and I had an appointment with the doctor. Those things didn’t completely tip the scales against everything else, but they were a start.
I was on the couch at home around eight o’clock, flipping between channels and crying my eyes out when I heard the garage door open. He’s home, I thought as my heart leapt in my chest. I jumped up from the couch—well, kinda jumped since my body didn’t respond as quickly as my adrenaline did.
The Newport Ladies Book Club: Daisy Page 15