myself sick.
“Come on, Sarah, let’s you and me walk down and meet Mary Grace. Margaret, honey, you go ahead and get settled in. We’ll be right back.”
I start off down the driveway. The girl falls into step beside me.
“Who’s Mary Grace?”
“She’s your cousin. She’s about your age. What are you, ’bout thirteen?”
The girl nods.
As we approach, Mary Grace bounds down the bus steps. She stops in her tracks, scrunches up her face and looks at Sarah.
“Sugar pie, this is your cousin, Sarah. She and her mama are going to live with us for a while.” The bus doors close with a hiss and the vehicle chugs away.
Mary Grace smiles. “Is she going to live in my room?”
“No, angel, in the carriage house.”
My daughter’s brows knit, as if she’s considering the arrangement. “Does Sarah like to push people on the swing?”
“Well, I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her?”
From the window I watch Sarah push Mary Grace in the old board swing that hangs from the live oak. That swing’s been there since my oldest boy, Stephen, was tiny. Over the years I’ve replaced the ropes, of course, but it’s always been there, a constant friend that’s entertained all my babies. But my older kids had each other. Being so much younger than her brothers and sisters, poor Mary Grace has essentially been alone, save for me.
It’s an unexpected bonus that my sweet girl will have a friend in her cousin. The sight warms me from the inside of my overflowing heart down to my curled toes. Oh, yes, this does bode well.
But the warm fuzzies come to a screeching halt when I see Burt’s car meandering up the driveway. I glance at my watch. Dammit, what’s he doing home so early? What is this? He’s hardly ever home and the day I could use the extra time to prepare a good meal to soften him up, he comes crawling in before the end of the workday.
“The place is just perfect, Barbara.” Margaret comes in from the other room and stands beside me at the window as he gets out of the car.
“Is that Uncle Burt?”
“Umm-hmm.” I wonder if I should warn her about Burt not knowing. Oh, on second thought, why give her something else to worry about?
Margaret crosses her arms as if she senses something’s not right. “Should I go out and say hi?”
I smile and walk away from the window, circling around so that as Margaret follows me her back’s to the glass.
“Oh, honey, give him a few minutes to transition from work to being home. You know how men are.” I roll my eyes. “He’s always an old bear when he first gets home. The girls are playing outside. You just relax a little bit while I go take care of my man.”
Margaret gives me a strange look, but doesn’t protest.
From the window I see Burt circle Sarah like a suspicious dog. I wonder if he notices Sarah’s likeness to Leila.
How could he not?
I’m overcome by the urge to go outside and turn the garden hose on him the way I would to chase away an old scurvy stray.
“We’ll have dinner at six-thirty. Just come on up to the house.”
“Can I help you with anything?”
I wave her off and start toward the door. “Heavens no, just relax.”
With that, I try to follow my own advice and relax as I prepare to inform my husband we have houseguests—indefinitely.
CHAPTER 3
Elizabeth
What do you get if you take two consecutive months of missed menstrual periods multiplied by six miserable weeks of morning sickness?
Go on, you do the math.
Shit. What else could it be?
Still, I close my eyes and hold my breath before I look at the stick I peed on five minutes ago.
I know before I know, but still the two little blue lines on the stick come as shocking confirmation.
I’m pregnant.
Shit.
This cannot be happening. I am forty-three years old. I cannot be pregnant.
Andrew is going to flip.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I fling the aberrant plastic stick with its damn blue plus sign at the wall. It bounces off the gray marble with a ping and clatters on the floor as if it’s doing a little happy dance. Mocking me.
Then I throw up my dinner—half a package of saltines and one cup of weak English Breakfast tea—in the toilet right on top of the pee that turned the plus sign the offending blue.
Blue.
I turn on the faucet and rinse my mouth, splash water on my face.
Blue. As in baby boy?
Pressing my hand to my belly, it occurs to me for the first time that there is a little life growing inside of me.
Interloper. Gate crasher.
Poor unwanted little…baby?
My wet hands leave a big handprint on my beige slacks as if marking the spot. I press my palms over my eyes, grinding the heels of my hands into the sockets, so I won’t have to look at it, as if it will clear my vision so I’ll see another color on the stick.
Oops! Silly me. I’m not really pregnant.
But I am. I flush the toilet, collapse the pregnancy-test box, careful to stuff all the remnants of my clandestine science experiment back in the Walgreens bag. I hide the evidence inside my briefcase under the file for the new “Who wants to be a television commercial star” show I’m publicizing.
How in the hell did this happen?
Wait. Don’t answer that. I know how it happened.
Just tell me— How the hell did this happen? I punctuate the silent question by slamming my briefcase on the cold, hard floor.
Andrew and I met in college.
When we fell in love and knew we wanted to spend the rest of our lives together we devised a plan so that we could live the life we’d always wanted.
A simple ten-step plan that required some sacrifices along the way—such as not having a whole stable full of offspring.
One child was fine.
I
