Life Interrupted

by Kehoe, Kristen

  When Stacy sees me looking, she leans down and whispers something to Gracie, who turns her head and begins scanning the crowd immediately. When she finds me, she waves like a maniac, using both hands so the people around her turn to stare. A second later, she shouts “Hi, Mama!” and it’s just loud enough that the sound isn’t completely absorbed by the bodies around her. Kennedy falters a little in her speech as people laugh, and I see her eyes track to Gracie, who’s still waving even though Stacy—who is mortified—is trying to calm her. I wave back and then turn away in hopes of getting her to quiet down, my vision locking back on the stage where Kennedy is still standing, speechless as she stares at Gracie.

  When someone behind her says her name, she looks back down to the podium where her speech must be, and then back at the crowd of her peers in front of her. Taking a deep breath, she speaks again, but this time I know the words are real.

  “We’re leaving here, a place we’ve been for the past four years, and we’re leaving behind the person we’ve been, while trying to find the person we’ll become. I don’t have a lot of regret about that, but if there’s one thing I hope to remember, that I hope we all remember, it’s that no matter who we were when we were here, good or bad, that person must be respected and remembered, as should the decisions they made. Learn from who you are right now in this moment, and take those lessons with you to teach whoever you become.” Her eyes meet mine in the sea of people and I nod at her, understanding. “The future is exciting, but it’s also scary—you’re going to regret, you’re going to hurt, you’re going to want to stop and come home because life isn’t what you want it to be. Don’t quit—live, and if you don’t know how to do that, find someone who can help show you, even if you don’t like them.”

  The crowd is quiet, no doubt trying to figure out where Kennedy transitioned from quoting Dr. Seuss, to baring herself to all six hundred plus of her classmates. Crickets will begin chirping any second it’s so quiet in here. Her face is red as she turns from the podium and sits down at her place of honor, but before the Principal can stand and begin doling out diplomas, someone in the front few rows stands and begins cheering and, whether by default or decision, others join until I feel myself surge to my feet and begin clapping. Kennedy stays seated, her face red, and when I catch a glimpse of her wiping away her tears, I understand that she did it; she made her decision, and she just talked about it for the first time.

  While I wait for my name to be called, I understand that very few of us are leaving here without heartache, regret, and a few scary moments that have left some scars. But we’re leaving here nonetheless, looking forward and trying to make a plan for our lives, and that fucking counts.

  ~

  Lauren opens the door the day after our graduation and pauses when she sees me. I stand there, hands shoved into the pockets of my shorts, working to feel confident instead of awkward. She doesn’t come out, but she doesn’t invite me in and at once I’m grateful that I don’t have to walk inside of her house to do what I came to do. She crosses her arms over her chest and leans against the door jamb and somehow her unwelcoming pose makes my shoulders loosen.

  “Lauren.”

  “Flow.”

  I stepped back from the door after I knocked so we’re about four or five feet apart and for a second, I stare at her wondering if we would have ever had a chance at being friends if we hadn’t loved the same boy. Her gorgeous waterfall of golden-strawberry hair is pulled off of her face, her lips are slicked and shiny with some gloss, and she’s wearing seriously short pink shorts with a matching tank top. She has a silver scarf around her neck and cotton-candy pink UGGS on her feet.

  “Are you going somewhere?” She raises a brow and shakes her head no. “You’re pretty dressed up.”

  “Matching isn’t being dressed up, it’s basic fashion sense.” Her tone is just shy of bitchy and in that second I’m positive that with or without our affection for Tripp, we would never have been close. Why this makes me feel better I have zero idea.

  “Well, whatever. I just came by to say thank you, for what you did a couple of weeks ago, how you helped me. I don’t really know what took me this long to say it, but I wanted you to know I’m grateful. I might have been able to take care of myself, but I also might not have and things would have been a lot worse if you hadn’t gotten help.”

  She shrugs, but her face softens a fraction and I’m reminded of how strong she was standing there with me, holding me up, saying all of the right things to keep me from breaking down before Tripp got to me. “You’re welcome.” Then her eyes snap to mine. “This doesn’t make us BFFs.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.”

  She raises her eyebrow, but there’s amusement behind it. “I still think you’re a bitch.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re probably not wrong about that.” A smile twitches at her lips. “Don’t worry, Lauren, I’m not looking for a hug and a heart-to-heart. In fact, I’ll probably deck the next person who asks me how I am.”

  “I wasn’t going to.”

  This time it’s me who can’t keep in the smile. “Glad to hear it. And in case you’re wondering, I don’t like you any more than I used to, either. I’m still kind of hoping you join a sorority at Oregon and they shave your head as some initiation ritual.”

  She grimaces. “Why that specifically?”

  “Please, with hair like that? It’s every girl’s dream. You dated my boyfriend first, I need to see you ugly to assure myself he won’t go running back to you when he realizes I have bed head and no fashion sense.”

  “Don’t worry, that was obvious before he decided to break up with me.”

  “Look at you, comforting me. Are you sure you don’t want to be BFFs?”

  She just shakes her head. “As long as we’re sharing, I threw a party when I found out you were pregnant.”

  I smile and rock back on my heels. “Ah, it was you. I always wondered where the term ‘Fat Flow’ was coined.”

  “Pure genius, if you ask me. I was sure that once you were fat and ugly and unable to play volleyball and do everything else that made you you, Tripp would take you down from the pedestal he held you on.”

  “Well, I did get fat for a while.”

  “And he still chose you. Like I said, you can relax about the bed head.”

  “I’m not going to say I’m sorry about that.”

  “I don’t want you to. I’m over it. I’m going to Oregon, I’ll meet someone there, someone who doesn’t look at another girl like she’s everything I want to be to him, and when I do, we’ll move somewhere that’s not Corvallis and I’ll never see you again.”

  My eyebrow zings up. “That’s quite the plan, so I’ll let you get to it. Thanks again for helping me.”

  “Let’s hope it’s the last time a crazy man tries to beat you up.”

  “I can second that.”

  She turns and closes the door as I walk down the steps, and though it wasn’t the world’s sweetest conversation, I feel like I just shut another door on my past. The girl I hated because he loved her hated me for the same reason. That type of quid pro quo puts my unsteady ego back on its feet and by the time I get to my car, I’m smiling.

  Thirty-One

  Tripp and I were barely asleep for an hour when the call came in, which is why we’re walking into the hospital looking more ragged than the drunk with the split open head who’s bumbling in ahead of us. I’m wearing the same team sweats I peeled off and left on the floor when I got back from my three day road trip down in California, along with a t-shirt of Tripp’s I wore to bed and my black North Face shell and slippers. Tripp is wearing almost the exact same outfit, but his sweats are generic black OSU sweats sold at the bookstore and his feet are encased in running shoes he forgot to lace up. Gracie’s still in her PJs, her rain boots shoved over cupcake footies that she now has in triplicate because she likes the idea of wearing cake to bed (so does Katie, but I think it’s for different reasons entirely), her head resting on Tripp�
��s shoulder as he carries her.

  Katie and Tanner are parking the car, which means they may or may not be here by the time my niece or nephew is born, since I’m pretty sure everything they do is code for fooling around. The fact that they think they’re hiding their relationship from all of us is hilarious, but we let them have their secret because it’s honestly hard to imagine how much worse their PDA would be if they weren’t trying to hide it.

  We head up to the maternity floor and step up to the desk to get our badges when the elevator doors open. “Reynolds-Myers,” I tell the security guard and he smiles, writing her room number on our name-tags.

  He points us to the waiting area, and we trudge off, waving when we spot my mom already there. “Your father’s on his way and Nick’s parents are heading down from Portland and should be here in an hour.”

  I nod, sitting and rubbing my hands over my eyes. Gracie says Nona and Tripp hands her to my mom when she reaches out. She snuggles against my mom, her head on her shoulder, her Lovey in one arm, her blanky in the other. My mom rests her chin on Gracie’s head and smiles. Tripp’s fingers find mine and he laces them together. “Any update on Stacy’s progress?” I ask and my mom shakes her head.

  “Not for a while, but I’m sure if you wait a few minutes you’ll hear her yourself.”

  I raise a brow. “She’s screaming?”

  “More like raging. She doesn’t want drugs, but she doesn’t want pain. Nick’s paying the price of the balance.”

  I smile and stand. “I’ll go see if he needs a break.”

  Twenty minutes later I’m sanitized and holding Stacy’s hand as she puffs her way through another contraction. She’s one hundred percent effaced and completely dilated, so now she’s playing the push game to get the little one started for the grand finale. I breathe with her, though I don’t puff in and out. She looks and sounds ridiculous and even when I was in labor I didn’t puff—I may have, however, dropped several f-bombs. Whatever works.

  When the contraction eases up, Stacy flops back on the bed and I hand her the small glass of ice chips. She chomps one down, glaring at the nurses who are checking her vitals, glaring at the med student who’s doing rounds with the doctor.

  When the doctor raises his head and grins at her from between her legs, I swear her heart rate spikes. “Looking good, Stacy, we’re almost there.” Then he smiles at me and asks how I am. I nod, mumble something and turn back to Stacy, grateful when he leaves. Yep, the last time we saw each other I was in the exact same position as Stacy. Is it weird that my sister and I have now had the same man stare at our hoo-hoo and tell us we looked good?

  When I ask Stacy this, she finally stops scowling enough to smile. “Jesus, that’s terrifying. He was on call the night you delivered, too?”

  I nod. “So don’t worry, you can’t say anything offensive that I didn’t already drop on him.”

  She smiles again, but it’s weak as the fatigue starts to set in. I know that she’ll be in pain again soon and need her strength, so I start talking, telling her stories of my road trip, the way I blocked the number one seed when we played USC, even though she annihilated me three plays later. I was a badass for a minute and it felt good. She laughs distractedly and pretends to be impressed. When she grips my hand hard, I grip back and distract her some more. “You picked out any names yet? You didn’t want to know the sex, but do you have to have an idea of what you’re calling the little one when he or she comes out?”

  She nods and breathes through the contraction. “John Samuel if it’s a boy,” she says and I raise my brow. She shrugs. “We wanted to pick names from the family. John is Nick’s grandfather, Samuel for Dad.” I pray for a girl right there, just so the little one isn’t tasked with living up—or down—to someone else’s name.

  “And if it’s a girl?”

  “Layla Grace.”

  I freeze and our eyes meet. Hers are heavy with pain, but there’s something else there, too, an understanding, a gift. “Stacy,” I say and she smiles.

  “I can’t name her Rachel,” she says with a smile. “And I can’t name her after just one of our mothers. So I blended the first two and gave her Gracie’s name, because Gracie showed me exactly how strong I want her to be. Like her mama showed me.”

  For a second I wish I had more words to tell her how honored I am, but then another contraction hits her and instead I find myself panting, too, puffing breath in and out with her and holding her hand, ignoring the feeling of bone rubbing bone as she squeezes mine painfully. “What do you think?” she asks a few minutes later and I shrug.

  “It’s a bit Twilight,” I say and laugh when she narrows her eyes. “But I love it.”

  The doctor comes in and checks her progress and I keep my eyes glued to her face. There are some things even sisters don’t need to share. “You’re getting close, honey, you might want to call your husband back in.”

  I nod at Stacy as she rests back and pants, squeezing her hand one last time. “I’ll go get him. You’ve got this, Stace,” I tell her and she squeezes back. When her eyes fill with too many things to name, I lean down and rest my cheek against hers for a minute. “You’ve got this, big sister, you’re going to be okay.”

  I feel her head nodding up and down and I smile. Pulling away, I give her one last smile before turning to go find Nick. Halfway to the door I hear the nurse ask her, “Does that hemorrhoid hurt, hon?” and I know that the strangled cry that follows has nothing to do with a contraction pain. Laughing, I walk out the door.

  ~

  Layla Grace Reynolds-Myers was born at six-oh-six a.m., weighing in at a healthy six and a half pounds and measuring eighteen inches. She was two pounds and three inches smaller than Gracie, but then, Stacy weighs significantly less than I do.

  We stand at the glass to admire baby Layla as the nurse swaddles her, and then to wave to Nick as he holds her up. Her face is a little red, mushed together in the traditional Yoda look of every newborn. Yet, like with Gracie, I see the beauty in her that I didn’t used to recognize in newborns, the features that are her mother, those that are her father, and the perfect blending of both parents. I glance at Gracie, now wide awake and pressing her face against the glass as she stands with G, who arrived a few minutes after we did. She still looks a lot like Marcus, but the more she grows, the less of him I see. I see me, and her aunt Stacy, and her Grandmother and great Grandmother. I see Katie in her attitude sometimes, and Tripp in her head tilt and curious eyes that can be surprisingly patient for an almost two-year-old.

  It’s not just genes that make us who we are I realize, it’s the people who love you, who raise you, which is why when my father comes in I’m able to hug him and embrace Lucy, who’s only days away from her own delivery. My mother does the same and I smile at her, admiring as always her poise and grace. She isn’t bitter or scared or hurt, she’s strong and beautiful and everything I want to be.

  “You look asleep on your feet,” she says and I smile. “Why don’t you go home and sleep. I’ll keep Gracie and you can come over for dinner and get her later.”

  Gratitude swamps me and I nod, leaning in to kiss her. “Thanks, Mom.”

  “Always. Go, get some sleep. You can tell me about your matches when you come over later.”

  We say goodbye to Stacy and baby Layla and promise to visit her when she gets home tomorrow. After kissing Gracie and the rest of the family, we head home.

  “What are you thinking about over there?” Tripp asks as he maneuvers down ninth back toward campus.

  I turn to him, my head resting back on the seat. He has a small five o’clock shadow going on and his lids seem heavy over those dark eyes when he glances my way. He’s been so steady these past few months, so able to deal with everything from my crazy workout and travel schedule, to Gracie’s joyful teething stage in July where no one slept, to the trial with Marcus that ended with a settlement before it began, whose outcome was as predicted, with mandatory counseling, probation, and signed papers releas
ing any rights to Gracie. Through it all Tripp was there, holding onto me, holding onto Gracie, making sure that we stayed steady and standing, that we didn’t just survive, but that we lived.

  “I’m thinking that you’re pretty great,” I say and he smiles like he knows this. “And I’m really lucky to have you, to be with you. And so’s Gracie.”

  He reaches over and links our fingers, bringing my hand to his lips for a brief kiss that never fails to make my stomach flop. “When I was standing there watching Nick today as he held Layla and kissed Stacy, I remembered that day you got me out of class and told me you were pregnant. I was so scared,” he admits and I nod. “I was jealous and hurt and everything in me wanted to ask you to be mine right then—to let me have you and the baby, and that scared me because I wasn’t even seventeen and here I was asking for a family, one that I had no claim on.”

  “It’s always been you, Tripp,” I tell him and he nods.

  “But I fucked up, and looking at you that day and the next one all those months later when you came out of the ultrasound with the picture of your perfect girl, I was even more scared because it hit me that I might always be on the sidelines. I’d had you and lost you all in one night and now your life was so much bigger than that, so much more and I didn’t know if I’d ever get to be a part of it.”

  He pulls into the driveway and parks and we both get out. My heart is beating fast in my chest, pounding from his words and what they make me feel and as we walk inside and straight upstairs to our room, I try to find the something that shows him I feel the same way.

  “I was watching Gracie in the hospital,” I tell him as I strip off my jacket and slippers and slide into bed, “and it hit me that she doesn’t look as much like Marcus to me anymore. Her coloring, yes, but everything else, her mannerisms, how she speaks and laughs, they’re all reflections of who is she as a little person, and of the people who love her. She looks like you sometimes,” I say, and we roll so we’re on our sides, our faces inches apart. “I’ll say something to her and she’ll tilt her head just so and look at me as if she’s thinking about what I’ve said and every time I think, there he is, there’s her true daddy.”