It's a ridiculous thing to drive yourself to the hospital with your drunk sister screaming in the passenger seat and declaring herself the voice of reason.
And it's even more ridiculous when the ER physician calls you just another hysterical mother from the other side of the exam room curtain. Because that's what you are—just another pregnant woman who worries over every kick, every murmur, every mishap.
Though blood running between your legs? Isn't that something worth panicking over?
Apparently not: the doctor assured me that it was just spotting, that it was normal. "If it continues tomorrow, well then, come back," he directed, scribbling something into my file. "It's too hard to tell what it is. It might be the precursor to a miscarriage. Or it's just spotting."
"That's not spotting," Dawn yelled. "It's a fucking gusher!"
"No, it's not," he sighed, clicking his pen and putting it back in his coat. She hasn't bled in the hour that she's been here. It looked like an isolated thing, so it's not worth losing our heads, understand? Stress only makes it worse. You have to be calm, for Mary Anne's sake," his eyes darting down to the chart to check my name.
Don't bother—just call me by my label. The Mother. Maybe if it's said enough, it might feel like it fits.
On our ride home, we stopped at the shady gas station that never checked ID, Dawn pushing her breasts together as she purchased two twenty-four packs of beer. She sat there, the beer bottles clanking as I shifted Logan's Jeep from first to second gear. I grabbed her wrist and begged, "Don't tell him, please. His family is coming today, I don't want him to worry about this, too."
"Mary Anne," she hissed, pulling her arm away and rubbing it like it burned. "Those are his babies, too. You can't keep this from him."
"Oh, yeah? Maybe I should tell Stace that you were making out with her professor, huh?" I challenged, following the fork in the road onto Franklin Avenue.
Dawn fell silent, staring straight ahead. The trees that thicked by the side of the road shadowed the car in a dark and mean way, fingering the car in the secrets that hide in the dark night. "Fine," she sighed, slumping against the seat. She let out a bemused snicker. "We're really sisters now, huh. Totally sharing shit."
"Maybe we should take a blood oath," I offered with a lame shrug of my shoulders.
My phone erupted with noise. Dawn reached down and glanced at the view screen. "It says 'Angel.' Must be Mr. He Can't Know, huh?"
"Tell him that we were buying beer and got, like, distracted," I stated as the road narrowed its way into the campus area. I turned right onto our street as Dawn flipped the cell open.
"Hey, Lee," she slurred, slowing her words. "Sorry, we went on a booze run and got, like, totally sidetracked…Well, what, she has to check in with you all the time? Shit, man, give my girl some space!...Whatever, don't make me tell your teammates to call you Lee, then, huh? Relax, get your ass on the dance floor with one of those freakishly tall basketball girls, and close your eyes and pretend you're with May, huh?...No, she's driving, and besides, we're pulling into the driveway right this fucking moment," she recited, glancing at the garage, illuminated by the headlights. "Hold your horses, she'll be right there to tongue you, okay?"
Dawn snapped the phone shut and smirked at me. "How was that?"
"Terrific—except for the tonguing part," I said, curling my lips. "We're not the PDA couple."
"Whatevs. Logan says that Keshawn wants to do a toast for the two of you, so you have to hustle." Dawn grabbed the beer as she climbed out of the car. She took my arm as I opened up the gate. "We're in this together now, understand? Your secret, my secret—no spilling the beans."
"Promise," I nodded, following her into the throng of the party. It seemed noisier, rowdier than it had before, more people crowded with dance. Stacey was lounging on the hammock between Logan and Veron now, J.D. spread over her legs.
"Thank Jesus, Erin said you two left for beer ages ago," she snorted, nudging the dog to the ground. "Did you get lost?"
"No, I wanted snacks, but nothing looked good at Kroger, then Mary Anne and I got kinda wrapped up in talking about how much Richard sucks, and then, like, we got carded so we had to try a couple other places, and it was just a disaster. Still! I have beer!" Dawn crowed, holding up the two cases.
"Way to persevere, May's sister," Danny, a sophomore guard, smiled, ripping into one of the boxes and fishing out a Miller Lite. "Very cool."
Logan opened up his arms, and I settled there in his lap. The doctors had thrown away my bloodied underpants, and I hoped that none of the guys sitting on the ground saw up my skirt as I crossed my legs between his. "I had to hear from Jeremy that you left," he said with a small pout. "I thought you had ditched me with the carnage."
"Hey, I always come back," I grinned, kissing his cheek, and trying not to shame down in a shiver as he smiled at me from a deep place under his heart, murmuring his hands through my hair.
"Shawn wants to say that you're pregnant, but I told him no freakin' way," he mumbled into my ear. "He's the only one who knows—I figured we should keep it that way until we decide what to do."
Unless it's decided for us, I thought, rubbing my stomach. I pulled his hand there, too, and we sighed, trying to pull the other under skin, into bone and blood.
"Is it time for bed yet?" I whispered.
He grinned at me and poked Stacey. "I think you and Dawnie might become the Hostesses with the Mostesses in about ten minutes 'cause Mary Anne wants to turn in."
"And you want to shag her silly, whatever," Stacey muttered, staring up at the sky. "Why didn't Dr. Collins come?"
"He did," I blurted out. Dawn's eyes widened, and I tightened my lips at her. "He took one look at the kegs and skipped out."
"Fuck," Stacey sighed. "I really wanted to talk to him about today's discussion. I don't think I really nailed my position on Nicaragua's free market integration." She put her hands over her eyes and said something so soft, it came out in the sound of rain.
I put my hand on her arm. "Stace?"
"I wish…no, nevermind," she said, shaking her head. "I'm fine. I just need to keep dancing. Keep moving. Sitting here is making me maudlin."
I frowned as I watched her bounced up from her place and charge into the dance floor. "Davis," Logan mumbled into my ear, and I raised an eyebrow. Stacey's old boyfriend from high school? What did he have to do with anything?
An urge to whisper to Logan about Dawn and Dr. Collins biled up in my throat, and I forced it down. No. I promised my sister, and she promised me. I had to be true to her about that, I had to.
It's not what sister do—it's what friends do.
The music snapped off, and the herds of people groaned. A cup of beer went flying over the crowd and landed in a splatter at the foot of the stereo. "Who unplugged the tunes, bitch!" a deep voice bellowed, and people laughed and booed.
"I did, shut the hell up," Keshawn snapped, jumping up on a chair next to the door. I noticed Erin and Jeremy there, both of them sloppy in their stances. They'd be passing out on the pull-out couch, I could tell.
Clapping his hand together, Keshawn scanned the crowed until he found Logan and me. "First off, I'd like to say, Thank you all for christening Karl's old place. Karl kept bitching that we couldn't have any parties here because of the baby, but he's gone, and it's a new regime now. 208 is now Ground Zero for team parties!" he crowed to a loud roll of applause and cheers.
"It's the what now?" Logan snapped, squinting at his friend.
"Second off, I planned this two weeks ago, like, a little thing to kick off the summer but fucking good. But then somebody had to go and get married. And yes," he said, waving his hands to quiet the rise of noise, the whistles and the taunts, "a lot of you got ditched on an invite. Not me. Because I kick ass. But some of you were not cool enough. Don't worry, Coach made that somebody stuff recruiting envelopes for an hour in punishment. So, we cool now. Besides, we were promised a huge ass wedding really soon—and I'm assuming with an open bar."
"I was thinking more, like, after graduation," I frowned, shaking my head. "Since when did he become the Cruise Director of our life?"
"Since somebody said that he could throw a party here," Logan needled, pressing his fingers into my ribs. "Nice job, there, genius."
Keshawn thrust his beer into the air. "See, we can't get too pissed at May and Bruno, though. Mary Anne's sick, right, and that means that things get a little weird, right, and you gotta do things that you gotta do. So," he sighed, picking at the label on the bottle, shifting from foot to foot. He rocked like a skyscraper in the wind as he turned his eyes to the sky. "So, yeah. I guess—if May's sick, then Logan's sick. And if Lo's sick, then all of us are sick, too. Does that make sense? What I mean is, all of us are in this together with you two. You hurt, we hurt. You celebrate, we celebrate. We're family, us twelve, and that extends to our women, so yeah. We're in this together. So, good luck as you two begin this life as husband and wife, and, um, I'd wish you good luck on everything else, but you don't need it. You don't," he insisted, staring over everything between us and right into my heart.
No: right into my belly, to what was swimming there, the two beans of beings.
He didn't tell, but he said it, just for us. I touched my lips and blew over my fingers at him; he blushed, and hollered out, "I am so the best man at the real wedding, too! Fuck that bastard from Milwaukee, I'm the best man!"
I glanced at Logan as everyone turned towards us. My ears blurred out all of their sound as I looked at him. "It's gonna be Hunter," I giggled.
"You bet your ass it's gonna be him. If I had to choose between Shawn and Dave, it would be, like, Battle Royale in the middle of the church," he laughed, pressing his forehead to mine. "Which might be cool to watch."
Dawn reached over and slapped my shoulder. "Dude! Everyone wants you two to kiss!" she scolded.
And so we did, a long, lush thing between mouths that said everything.
Or at least, they used to.
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"Okay—khakis send a very, like, responsible message, but I think, if you're gonna wear a button down, it may be too much," Stacey muttered, tossing a pair of pants on the bed.
"Too much what?" Logan frowned staring at the heaps of clothes scattered around the room. On the bed, on the dresser, on the television, on the armchair in the corner. She had turned all of his closet and his drawers inside out, and I was pretty sure she was no closer to a decision.
Oh, well. He asked her for help. I had learned years ago, getting fashion advice from Stacey wasn't a quick thing. It was a process.
I climbed back to the part of the bed that was still safe from the McGilling, up by the pillows. I rested my head in his lap, wiping my mouth again. Just to be sure. "You okay?" he asked, rubbing my stomach.
"Yeah. I guess this is morning sickness," I shrugged. "I'm thrilled. I'll puke for a month from this, and then I'll puke from the chemo. Me and the toilet are going to be best friends by the start of school."
Stacey blanched. "Hello? I'm right here?" she said, snapping her fingers. "Don't like barfing, thank you? Anyway, I think that you don't want to send the message that you're trying too hard to be, like, 'mature.' Understand? I think either we go with khakis and a more casual shirt combination or a button down with jeans. Yes," she muttered, turning around and staring at the collection of shirts spread out on the chair.
"We?" he mumbled, reaching over for his glasses. "You're plannin' on wearing my clothes with me?"
"It's the royal we," Stacey sniffed, touching a green shirt. "This thing is disgusting." She marched over to the window, lifted up the screen, and then tossed it outside. It hovered there in the breeze for a moment before plummeting out of sight.
"Stacey!" we yelled.
"That? Was a favor to you both. That shade of green is gross. Forest green is good on Christmas trees, not on people," she declared with a shudder. "Or only if you have, like, winter coloring. Which you do not. You're totally a summer shade. I told you this back in high school, weren't you listening?"
"No," he snorted, recoiling a bit. "I just sat there nodding and thinking about, like, Pittsburgh's chances against the Seahawks."
"You were not," she laughed, grabbing a long sleeved white t-shirt. "You were thinking about Mary Anne. You two were back together. And it was sooo fabulous," she sang, placing her hand over her heart. "Gross. Love is for chumps, kids."
"It is not," I protested, twisting my head to plant a kiss on my husband's bare stomach. He smelled like his shower, the stripping clean of the ginger wash, though his hands had that rubber cast on them. He had gone out for drills outside, I guessed, while I had been out with J.D. for a walk. I took J.D. out and watched Dawn drive away for a breakfast with Dr. Collins.
"I'm off to see Duncan," she had hissed as she walked to my car. "Right?"
"Right," I sighed back. And no one knew the truth. Not even Stacey, glaring at the clothes that she had picked.
"I need to take you both to the mall," she stated. "May's gonna need clothes for that tummy of hers."
Was I?
"Are you?" Logan asked, touching my hip. "Have you decided?"
"I don't know yet, Stacey," I admitted. "I wanted to wait until after we talked to Logan's parents. See what they said."
Stacey paused, sliding her eyes over at us. "That's a great idea. Let's ask the Catholics who had their entire life ripped right open when Momma Bruno had an abortion. I'm sure they'll be a great help."
"Stacey," I warned, feeling Logan go to stone against me. "That's not funny."
"Sorry," she said, her face slumping. "I'm really sorry, honestly. But…it's true, right?"
"It's true, but don't ever be flippant like that again," he said, those words pressed too flat, coming out too cold. I snuck an arm around his waist and squeezed him to me.
Stacey ducked her head, sheepish, and reached to the bed. "Alright. These," she said, tossing him a pair of deep navy jeans. "So, okay. Shirt." She kept turning in a circle to look at her choices, winding herself like the hands of a clock.
"So, um, what's going on with you and Davis?" I asked, clearing my throat.
She raised an eyebrow at me. "Nothing, Mary Anne. Nothing is. He's off in Africa doing aid work with his church. I told him to go meet some hot Baptist do-gooder while he was there, you know, let go of me? And he finally said okay." Her fingers drifted over the buttons of a polo shirt the color of brushed gold, of the rings on my hand. "He's finally moving on."
"Are you okay with that?" I replied, sitting up so I could look at her square in the face.
Shrugging, she answered, "Well, sure. I told him, right? It was time. He's going to be a senior, he should start thinking about finding a girl, getting married, and stuff. That's not gonna happen with me, not for a long time. No offense," she said, linking her hands together in front of her chest, "but I'm not ready to get married, not at all. I'm still getting used to just being Stacey again. And I slip sometimes, still," she mumbled, her eyes flickering on Logan.
"Stace, you're doing great—really, I think you've really grown up. Don't beat yourself up, you know?" he said, mouth crooked in a small smile. "And don't think that he needs a wife or whatever. He'd take this as a trial, like the trials of Abraham or whatever. God is making him wait for his dream woman. And you know that guy loves a good Biblical allusion."
"Right," she rolled her eyes. "I'm his dream woman. I'm not Baptist, I'm not that religious, I'm white, and I'm more than a pinch superficial. We're a match made in heaven."
I shook my finger at her. "You're brilliant, you're loving, you're amazingly loyal, you're very strong and courageous, and you're a friggin' babe on top of it all. I dunno, Stace, that's pretty perfect if you ask me."
"Yeah, well, I didn't," she grinned. She picked up a lawn-shaded shirt and held it up in the air, narrowing her eyes between it and Logan. "Seriously, I just don't think it's fair for him to hang on for me when I'm not sure when or if I'll ever be ready. Besides, in a year, he'll be in grad school God knows where and then he'll graduate and go God knows where. I mean, what a freak show—foreign affairs and Arabic? It's like he's majoring in I Have a Death Wish with a minor in Fuck Terrorism."
"It's actually a double major in I Have a Death Wish," Logan teased.
"I'd Love to Die in the Middle East major," Stacey laughed. She slapped her hands over her mouth and whirled her eyes at me in a panic. "Oh, my God, I did it again. Mary Anne, I wasn't thinking, I didn't even think about—"
"Why would you?" I murmured, giving her a fluttering smile before looking down at my hands. "Stace, don't sweat. Though," I added, "be sure to not do that in front of Randa. You know her."
"What, Queen of the Empty Threats?" Stacey snickered, but her eyes were still large, obsequious things. "May—"
I held up my hand. "It's okay. Really. I'm not lying."
Not about this.
Stacey handed Logan the green shirt as well as a white tee. "Layering," she said with a curt nod. "Don't tuck it in, unbutton to about here," she instructed, rubbing her sternum, "and for God's sake, don't wear your glasses. They age you by ten years. I want your parents to look at you and think, 'This is our little boy,' which will reduce the likelihood of, like, screaming and violence. Do you agree, Psych Girl?"
"I do concur, though Lyman and my dad could probably get a beer and discuss their irrational reactions to situations," I said with a soft snort. "Alrighty, Stace, find me something that doesn't scream out 'knocked up.'"
"Classy," Logan grumbled.
"Actually? That's what Sharon told me yesterday. 'Don't look knocked up,'" I laughed. I reached over and scratched J.D. on her hips. "Has Kerry softened the ground at all?"
"I don't know. Kerry's gonna have a shit fit when she realizes that babies equal premarital sex. I'm hoping she remembers that she's my ally, and that she can scream at me later," he sighed, seizing my hand in his. His hand was so cold, it pressed through my skin and send a glacier into my blood, a thing that iced me over in his fear. I wanted to take him under the blankets, put my body against his and force him to be warm, to be wanted and beloved and full.
But the sounds of Stacey flipping through my dresses sobered my hands, my mouth. I just sat against him, waiting until she left, hoping that he wouldn't be a frozen, terrified thing by then.
"Here, this dress is perfect," she gasped, holding out dress that Erin had found for me at a vintage store, a faded floral print of orange, blue, and green bubbled poppies. "It hits you in all the right places and unless they have x-ray vision, they won't see a damned thing. Which, honestly, I can't tell unless you're wearing your jeans because the waistband looks just a pinch too tight. But that's it, May, I swear. Besides. The dress shows off your legs—that's your best asset."
"Mary Anne does have great legs," he agreed, tracing the line of my left calf.
"So, that's what you are. A legs guy," Stacey laughed, grabbing an armful of shirts and walking them back the closet. "I always wondered."
"No," he protested. "I noticed her smile first, I notice her smile always."
She gave him an exasperated look. "Oh, sure."
"No, really," Logan insisted. "Ask her yourself."
I grinned. "It's true—though, I mean, that first time you saw me, you did notice that I was wearing knee socks. Even back then, you had a thing for legs," I laughed, twisting my knee over his thigh.
Stacey spun around from the closet and put her hands in her hips, jutting out her shoulders like a supermodel at the end of the runway. She preened her face into a beaming smile and asked, "What do you notice about me?"
"I don't know—it's like looking directly at the sun," Logan said, tilting his head at her. "It's too, like, overwhelming to take in at once. Like, the perfect hair and the perfect clothes and just everything? It's too intimidating. You're scary beautiful, Stace," he shrugged.
"Scary beautiful," Stacey mused, running her hands over her hair. "Is that good or bad?"
"Good," he stated. "But not exactly for me, you know? But, hello, it seems like half of the men on earth get totally turned on by you, so I don't think you have to worry at all."
"Oh, trust me, I don't," she declared, folding up a pair of jeans. "I just get flummoxed by the guys who turn me down. It's obviously not with me—it's with you. You're either damaged or gay."
"I'm not gay!" he shouted. He rubbed my belly. "Hi, have you met out dilemma? That comes from not being gay?"
"Could be a cover story—I mean, you read Jodi Picoult, and you have very nice fngernails. Gayer than the Castro District in Frisco, that's what that says," she sang, snapping the pants in the air. Her eyes lit up as she added, "And you love Mandy Moore a little too much. Maybe she's this generation's Barbara Streisand."
"Out! Get out of my room!" he bellowed, pointing at the door.
Stacey winked at me and scooted out, shutting the door behind her. I smothered my laugh as best as I could, but the way he looked at me, all wounded and bewildered, just ripped the top off of my tongue. He put his fingers in all of my ticklish spots, and I began to scream out, the ribbon of my laughter blooming big and wild. He put his mouth on the side of my neck, right where he could make me smile and giggle, and blew a current of air there, vibrating his lips and making my skin honk. I clawed at his shoulders, lost for the words to make him stop but knowing that if I said it, he'd pull back. I'd rather be paralyzed by this, seizing up in the fury of my laughter, than have him slip away. I put my hands on his face and forced it to mine. If I kissed him, now that was better than words.
When his face left mine and slid down my body, I almost forgot. I almost did, and then I froze, digging my nails into his shoulder as he crossed the horizon of my hips. "Angel, no," I said. "We need to get ready for your folks, we don't have time."
He stretched his hands up my chest. "You really are going to make me stop?"
No. But I had a vision of blood, of werewolves, teeth slick with red, and I shuddered. "Come on, husband, we've got so much to do. And they'll be here in less than an hour. And you know how this goes—you do that for however long it takes, then I'll want to be good to you, and then it'll be ten, and Hunter and Kerry will walk right in on us." I forced my voice into something light and fun and said, "Who wants to scar them for life with the sight of their naked brother and their new sister?"
"Good call," he winced, pressing his lips against the top of the hard cup of my pelvis. "Hey," he beamed. "You're their sister now."
"I am," I said, and this time, I didn't have to pretend when I smiled. "I'm really a member of your family."
When he crawled back up to me, he took my face in his hands. "My mom won't be so dumb to say it, but my dad or one of the birds might. That you should call Dad 'Dad' and…call Mom 'Mom.' Let me say that I'm sorry in advance, and I hope it doesn't hurt you," he sighed.
"It won't—it'll sting a bit, I bet, but it won't hurt. Cripes, wow, I have a new mother. I'm her daughter," I blinked, touching my heart. I waited for a sign from my mother mother, something that would stir in the air, but everything was still. Had I hurt her? Did she feel like I was letting her go?
Never, Mom, never. I'm just moving forward. There's a difference.
Logan climbed out of bed and slid off his shorts, rooting around in the dresser for a pair of boxers. "Put the movie back on—Mandy Moore is about to say the best freaking line in the movie."
"What, 'You're not born a gay, you're born again?'" I teased, reaching for the remote and hitting play.
"Funny, Stacey, very funny," he glared. "No." And we watched her character hurl a Bible at another girl and shriek, "'I am filled with Christ's love!'"
"Oh, I'm good now," he sighed, grabbing the clothes that Stacey picked. He scratched the top of his head, and I stared at him.
"You can grow out your hair, you know. Personally, I love you with this buzz cut deal, I think it makes your face look really strong and all, but just so that you know, you can grow it out. It's okay," I told him, resting my chin on my knee.
He looked at me as he hopped while pulling up his jeans. "I like my hair like this, pretty girl. It's low maintenance, nobody can 'accidentally' pull it during a game, and I agree. I think it suits me better," he shrugged.
"It brings out your cheekbones," I said in my most Stacey voice.
"Oh, thank God, that's what I was aiming for," he said, flinging his hand over his heart. "So where did Dawn go?"
"Breakfast," I shrugged. "I'm not my sister's keeper." I'm her secret keeper. I crossed my fingers and hoped that Dawn was right, that Stacey would buy the lie that Logan would freak over her hooking up with "Duncan" and keep it quiet, too. We just had to get through ten weeks. We could do that, right?
Maybe we could arrange a vacation, buy us a week or two…
We cleaned our room, we cleaned the bathroom, I harped on Stacey to control the hurricane that had become her bedroom with Dawn, the king-sized bed that they shared a disaster of sheets and clothing. "Hey, our room, our sanctuary. Keep it Bruno free," she retorted, slamming the door shut behind her.
She left for the library, Dawn didn't come home.
Logan and I went through with dusters and nervous eyes, and Dawn didn't come home. How long would she be with Dr. Collins? How long could this last? She said she would be here, where was she?
A car pulled into the driveway, and I raced to the windows, the heat of my husband swooshing in behind me. Dawn?
"It's them," he breathed. He ran his hands over his shirt and whipped off his glasses, setting them on the end table. "Do I look okay?"
"You look sexy as hell," I grinned. "And very nice. Don't be scared, okay? Let's not underestimate your family." I took his hands and kissed each knuckle, the figures of his brother and his sister passing by the corner of my eye as they raced to the front door. "I love you, angel, and I'm right here, just like you were with me and Dad."
"I shoudda punched him," Logan muttered, kissing the top of my head. "I can't believe I let him touch you like that."
"It's okay," I shrugged as the doorbell chimed, booming in the stairway and then echoing into all of the rooms. "They're hee-eere."
"Oh, Christ," he muttered, and I could feel the swing of his hands over his forehead and his chest, touching four times. "I love you, tesorina, and just again—I'm sorry in advance."
I laughed as I skipped on over the door. Kerry flew at me, her arms tight around my shoulders. "I didn't tell anyone!" she whispered into my ear. "But Mary Anne, I am so happy—we're sisters now!"
"I know!" I giggled, kissing her cheek. "It's way cool. I love sisters."
Logan was swinging Hunter like a pendulum, ticking his body back and forth in the living room. "Huh? You think you can get bigger on me without telling me?" Logan shouted, twisting his brother upside down and shaking him. "That's unacceptable!"
"Stop it, he'll totally puke," Kerry snapped, unwrapping herself from me. "Stop it!"
"Relax, Alladola," he grinned, flipping Hunter back to his feet. "I can make you puke, though." He grabbed her and flopped her body into his arms, the way that he carries me all the time, and then he dropped his arms from under her shoulders, her knees clutching hard to the trunk of his arm.
Kerry put her hands on the ground and kicked her legs up, holding a tree of a handstand for almost a minute before settling herself back down on the ground. "So there," she smarmed, sticking out her tongue. She tossed her arms around her brother's neck and held him, the two of them murmuring into each other's ears and smiling. She was three inches taller than me, that height changing the places where he could hold a girl. We looked so odd together, short me and tall him. Her height matched better.
Maybe, if I died, he should—No. Stop. Maybe he was a legs guy and a short guy. That made my face flash over in a smile. I hit all of his things, maybe. I was a perfect storm of his needs.
Hunter was taller than me, too, but only by an inch. I hadn't known Logan at twelve, but I knew him at thirteen, and his brother was almost as tall as he had been back then. Tall and dark where Logan was tall and light. I ruffled the wavy mass of his sandy hair and gave him a kiss on the cheek. He didn't pull back—I wondered if he had a girlfriend, I wondered if he was still too young for those kinds of things.
"Hi, Barry Add," he sneezed. "Oh, I'b sorry."
"Oh, Hunt, we have a dog," I moaned. "She's locked upstairs, though, but tell me if it's totally making you miserable."
He shrugged. "I'll go take by bedicine. Bob said dere was a dog. I wish I could play wid her." Poor Hunter, I thought, hugging him again. "I'd so eccided to be here, dough!"
"I'm excited to have you here," I grinned. "Come on, let's go into the kitchen. We cleaned that extra hard, it should be better for your allergies."
I led Hunter into the other room, and he pulled out a small plastic case from his pocket. When he opened it, I saw that it was full of pills with a space for an inhalator on one side. He took a deep breath from that, and then he popped a few pills into his mouth and swallowed them dry. "Better," he said, giving me a thumbs up.
I heard the roll of his parents' voices in the living room, but I stayed with Hunter, chatting with him about his lacrosse team, how he enjoyed his first year at SMS. The other voices moved throughout the house, going into the study, up the stairs, back down and here into the kitchen with us.
"The house is so cute!" his mother gushed, as the four of them walked through he dining room to join us. When Rose saw me, she tossed down her large shoulder bag and rushed over to me. "It's so cute, Mary Anne, it's perfect. It's so nice to see you!"
"I know! I mean, to see you!" I giggled, resting my forehead against her shoulder and feeling so much like a child as her hand stroked down my back. Like I was her child. She seemed stronger, fleshed out over the frailness of her bones. Or maybe they were frail because there was nothing to protect them. Still, she seemed well again, almost the lanky, solid woman that I remembered from middle school, not the shelled out woman, dead inside from lost babies.
My stomach knocked against her hip, and I felt the need to be sick again.
Logan's dad reached over. "Come on, don't hog Mary Anne," he laughed, "How are you, sweetheart?" Lyman kissed my cheek and gave me a hug, bearing me in his large arms.
"I'm fine, how was your trip?" I asked, my voice lost in his chest.
"Oh, fine. The Stamford airport is always an adventure in mediocrity," he smiled. "But we got here, we got the car just fine, so that's all that matters."
"Indeed," Rose nodded. "We're starved, though—I was hoping for something in the breakfast snack variety on the plane, but no. Do you need me to go to the store?"
I was about to say no, but Lyman looked outside with a horrified look on his face. What? Did we miss something in the clean up? "Where is your grill?" he yelped.
"We couldn't afford one," Logan shrugged, his arm around his sister's shoulders.
"Oh, that's unacceptable," Lyman announced. "Your mother and I were planning on making a famous Bruno barbeque, and what are we going to use, a George Foreman? Come on, right now, we're going to Lowe's. Let's go."
"And we can stop at the store," Rose added, staring at the fridge. "We need so many things, it's incomprehensible."
"Let's go," Lyman declared. "Mary Anne?"
I waved my hands. "Why don't all y'all go, and I'll stay here with poor J.D. She's gotta be so bummed to be up there alone, not with all of the fun."
They were gone for a long time; I curled around my dog on the soft fleece blanket that Logan had spread over our bed. My dog huddled against my slowly billowing stomach, a book perched in my hands—an old Megan Rinehart book that had been made into a Cam Geary movie years ago. I had grown out of that actor back in my freshman year—maybe it was his bust for heroin possession, or maybe I just got older, changed, viewed things through different eyes.
Once I thought my still-boyfriend-then-not-boyfriend looked just like Cam Geary. Then he changed shape, and I lost that idea. Lost it, got something new. I got him again.
I listened to the quiet of the house. Stacey said she would come home to change for her dinner; she promised that she would be here. But Dawn—where was Dawn? I forced myself to erase my head of all of those thoughts, of what she could be doing. Because kissing Dr. Collins, sleeping with Dr. Collins—all of it evaporated and left one thing in my mind: Stacey, hurt. Stacey, furious.
But maybe we were underestimating Stacey, just like Logan and I might be underestimating his parents. The truth, it set us free, right?
I let my hand drift down to the place where I had bled. But it could also make us hurt. I couldn't do that to Logan, not now. Not yet.
We could wait, right?
The house exploded with sound, all five of the Brunos storming in through the back sliding door. "Mary Anne!" so many voices yelled. I kissed J.D. on her nose and quickly made my way downstairs, to the living room where they were all waiting for me.
Hunter crashed into my body. "You're by sisder!" he yelled,
"I am," I laughed. "He told you?"
"Kind of, they noticed the ring. I was banking on them being a little less observant," Logan smiled, his mother's arms around his neck.
"What do we need to do, with the cancer?" she asked, stepping forward to kiss me, a soft impact on the side of my mouth. "Do you need us to call anyone? Second opinions? Are you okay with money?"
I bit my lip. I actually didn't know how much money the Brunos had; I didn't want to impose on them. My brand new family—how generous would they be after we told them about the babies? "No, I have really good insurance through the school, and I have, um," I lowered my voice, the way that money shames us into quiet tones, "have a trust fund from my grandparents' death and the sale of their farm. It's more than enough to pay for school and stuff. And if my folks ever stopped taking care my co-pays, I can cover it. I'll take out a FAFSA and use my trust for my medical care."
"Well, we're happy to help," Lyman said, nodding. "Really. These two are going to college scott free," he said, pointing at Logan and Kerry, "so it's okay. Don't think that you're taking advantage to ask. Didn't buy a grill." He let out a disgusted snort.
"This is so exciting," Kerry beamed, though her smile faded away. "I mean, not you being sick again. But you'll get better right?"
"That's the hope," I shrugged. I tried to smile, too, but it wouldn't start. Instead, I held out my left hand, and the family huddled around the rings.
"It looks wonderful on you," Rose smiled. "He showed us, gosh, a year ago, was it? Lovely."
"The wedding bands are ugly," Kerry announced. "What, did you get them at Wal-Mart?"
"No, Target," I laughed. "They were cheap. We didn't much care."
Lyman reached out and pulled a lock of his wife's hair around his finger, ringing it there. "For your formal wedding? We'll give you our rings."
"What?" I breathed, staring at their own hands.
"It's a tradition—to the first child married in the family, the parents pass on their wedding bands. And then we buy ourselves new rings. You get married to have children, this is a way to show that," Lyman smiled, putting an arm around Hunter. "I figured that Kerry would be first, though."
"No way, boys are obnoxious, self-centered cretins," Kerry spat. "I haven't found a single worthy one. Maybe I should be a nun."
"I bet you'd be the first fighter pilot nun, then," I nodded. "A real trailblazer." Kerry tapped her nose, as if we were playing charades, and giggled.
Raising up to put one hand on one son's shoulder and drooping one hand down for the other son, Lyman said, "So. We're going to go get this grill in order."
"We'll make some lunch and start the sauce—it'll have to cook for a few hours," Rose replied, glancing at her watch. "I'd love a tour of the campus this afternoon."
"We could go see Duke, too," I offered, and five horrified faces met me.
"March 28, 1992," Hunter said, shaking his head. "Doe, Barry Add. Never."
I led Kerry and her mother into the kitchen as the guys headed outside to stare at a large cardboard box. "Who wants to take a bet on who singes their eyebrows right off?" Kerry giggled.
"I'm saying Hunter," Rose answered, glancing out the window. "The kid has a real thing for setting the gas jets too high."
I grinned as Rose grabbed a bag from the specialty foods store in Durham. "We went there for some really good, fresh stuff for the sauce—it's Ly's family's secret recipe," Rose said. But her face snarled as she continued, "Are people always that mean to my son?"
"What happened?" I asked, my eyes stealing into the yard where that son was helping his father lift a large metal hood out of the box.
"This man called him a—" She slapped her hands over Kerry's ears and whispered, "F-U-C-K-E-R."
"Mom, I was there," Kerry rolled her eyes.
"Not all the time. He's used to it," I shrugged. "He rarely goes into Durham. You should feel really special that he took you."
Kerry sighed, grabbing a grocery bag. "Momma, it's like if…if a guy from the U of Louisville team went strolling around Lexington. The UK kids would have him strung up at Rupp Arena and using his torso as a piñata. And, and, I bet you and Daddy would totally approve of that."
Rose frowned. "Well, that's different. It's Kentucky."
"I guess I never really got how much basketball meant to people from there," I commented, unpacking the groceries from Kroger.
Fishing out a pot from the lower cabinets, Kerry looked at me. "Listen, Mary Anne. In Kentucky, there are three seasons. Basketball season, horse racing season, and then basketball preseason. I swear, the only people who don't get this are, like, Yankee women. It's, like, if you're from Kentucky, your blood pulses like a basketball. It's how it is. People who don't even go to U of L and UK pick a team and root for them like their lives depend on it."
"Why didn't Logan play basketball then?" I asked.
The two of them exchanged a look. "Lewis," Rose sighed. "The two of them were so hypercompetitive, and their dads were absolutely using their sons to work out their childhood rivalry. He played up until middle school, you know. Because Logan's legs were so long, the coaches stuck him in as a forward, waiting for the growth spurt that never came. And he's no forward—kid has no inside game. Still doesn't," she clucked. "But Lewis? Lewis was a terrific forward—he's stocky and was tall at an early age. Because Logan was, well—he wasn't bad, but he wasn't like Lewis, Ly pulled him out and stuck him in baseball and football. He did better there."
"That's…" Stupid. Men. I touched my belly and promised, I will never do that to either of you. Whichever of you makes it through.
A jar of pesto dropped from my hand and rolled onto the counter, banging hard against the splashguard of tile on the wall. I was acting like I was going to keep the babies, wasn't I. Like I had made up my mind. As if I wasn't going to have to pick one of them to live. Someone lives, someone dies. Who?
Me?
Tell me, tell me: who is the strong one inside? Who is worth saving?
Kerry brought the pot to a boil, setting two boxes of premade tortellini by the stove. She tossed in a handful of salt and turned to her mother, poking in the grocery bags from Fowler's. Rose pulled out jars of honey and molasses, bubbled-glass bottles with cloth wedged between the lid and the seal. She looked over each vial of vinegar, frowning at them as though she was suspicious of them somehow.
Kerry spread out peppers over the counter, small green curls and large red streaks of hotness, tomatoes so ripe, they were crimson around the crown of leaves. Onions and garlic and a sunshine bright lemon, a paper sack of brown sugar.
"Everything, I think," Rose murmured, twisting her mouth up.
"Did we have anything here?" I lamented.
"Oh, sure," Rose laughed, patting my hand. "You had salt."
Kerry winced. "Well, no. We had to get kosher salt. Sorry, Mary Anne, but table salt isn't for cooking."
"It's not?" I blinked, and Kerry and her mother exchanged a long, horrified look before averting their eyes down at the food.
"We should buy them a cookbook," Rose said in a stage whisper.
"I think they're beyond help," Kerry muttered back. She looked up and smiled at me. "Did Lo tell you? I'm down to six schools now."
"U of Lou, Kentucky, Auburn, Georgia, right? And Air Force, of course," I smiled, handing her package of precooked chicken.
"And York in Toronto—Canada has the best divers in the English-speaking world, some really great coaches who defected from China? So, I'm thinking about going there to train with Xie Wu. I don't know. There's a lot to think about." She and her mother snuck smiles at each other.
"Do you like St. Mark's?" I asked, handing her a spatula.
She shrugged. "It's a high school. Though, it's sad how many Stoneybrook athletes go there. It's, like, if you have any talent, you avoid SHS and go to St. Mark's. They spend so much on us, it's ridiculous. You should see their field house," she whistled. "Like, dude, no wonder RJ Blaser and Wayne and stuff thought Logan was so queer for going back to SHS. They won the state title in hoops again last year."
"Yeah, that kinda stung senior year, getting whupped by them," I winced. "But, you know, the guys who stay at Stoneybrook High finally get to, like, flourish. Look at Rick Chow. He never would have gotten to play quarterback if Irv Hirsch hadn't transferred to St. Mark's."
Kerry started shredding basil leaves. "I think Mercer's a totally cuter town, too. Mom says it reminds her of home—you know, the town square, all of the red brick? I've been pushing for us to move to Mercer for three fricking years."
I smiled, my head jerking up and looking out the window as Hunter ran away from a bee that was swirling around his head. He reminded me of J.D. the way he was yipping away, whirling in wild circles as his brother and father laughed.
This was my family, too.
My dress swung with the breeze of this new mother woman and this new sister girl moving around me, their giggling filling up the room like heat.
This was my family, too: four more people to hurt. Four more people to disappoint, to take their hearts and break them like bottles, like glass-hollowed things that shatter hard when struck. Struck like a hand on the side of a face.
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"Can't talk, changing," Dawn called, storming up the stairs.
I pressed my lips into a firm line as I heaved my body away from Logan's and off of the couch. I followed Dawn up the steps and marched into her room.
"Where have you been all day!" I hissed as she tore into a heap of clothes on the floor.
She pulled out her robe and began undressing. "Well, we had breakfast at this place down in Raleigh? It was so much fun, we were discussing, like, everything from the Angels and the Niners to NAFTA and illegal immigration and how America just won't banish Paris Hilton from our collective consciousness and whether or not tie-dye is quirky or ugly or both, and it was just fun!" she crowed, clapping her hands over her bare chest. I couldn't help staring—did she know how lucky she was to have those? To have anything there? I crossed my arms and looked away.
"Then, we went to a Durham Bulls game, and God, do they suck. And Henry and I were still talking about everything and nothing, and it was great. And then, we went for ice cream, and then I came home," she finished, shrugging. "I gotta hop in the shower. Stacey called, said she'd be home any minute. We gotta hustle if we're gonna make it to the dinner."
"Dawn!" I yelped. "You were supposed to stay here tonight!"
"Oh, you'll be fine," she blustered. "Besides, Logan is five times bigger than his dad. What's the worst Mr. Bruno could do?"
"You hate econ," I pointed out, edging in front of her path to the door.
"I do, but it means a lot to Stacey," Dawn whined. "If I'm gonna keep this secret from her, I totally need to, like, make it up to her and go tonight. Go tonight and spend a lot of time with her tomorrow, too. We were thinking about going shopping after all of the Brunos leave to see that cousin. What do you think?"
"Whatever," I said, shaking my head. This was moving too fast—how she moved conversations like they were carpets, tugging them from under my feet. I eyed her with dark eyes. "You're not going because Dr. Collins will be there, right?"
"Oh, hell no," Dawn snickered. "What do you take me for, some girl with a schoolyard crush? Come on. I don't need him to yank my pigtails. I'm going for Stace. She's been really insecure lately except with econ. I think it'll be really good for her to show her stuff off, and for me to say, Stacey, you rawk." She held up her pinkie and index fingers, banging that hand in the air.
"What's going on with her?" I asked, trailing her into the bathroom.
Dawn turned on the shower. "She hasn't had sex since coming to college, how's that for a start."
"No!" I gasped. "Stacey?"
"Yup," Dawn said. "The last guy was, well, Davis, when he came to visit over Christmas senior year. She won't talk about it—I mean, she acts like she's getting busy all over Stanford, right? But she's all, I'm not ready."
I leaned against the doorjamb. "Well, maybe Stacey wants to make sure that she owns herself before being with a guy. I mean, unpacking the rape was a hard, horrible thing to do. And she had so many issues and stuff, maybe this is normal. I'll read up on it," I promised.
"Thanks, I'd appreciate that," Dawn said with a smile. "I worry about her. Like, she's so much better, right? But, Stacey's so weird about guys now. All talk, no action."
"She used sex as a weapon for years," I shrugged. "I don't think it's abnormal that she'd recoil from it."
Dawn let out a deep breath. "Good work, Psych Girl. Just let me know what you find out. Now, I love you, and I let you see me naked, but you ain't showering with me. We aren't those kinds of sisters, no matter how many people from Kentucky you bring into this house," she stated, wagging her finger at me.
I laughed, walking out of the room and shutting the door. I heard the front door open as I was mid-way down the steps. Stacey said hello to the Brunos and made her way upstairs. "Hey, May," she grinned.
"How was the library?" I said, my voice two octaves too high. Smooth, Mary Anne.
"Oh, great," she nodded. "I am so Nicaragua's daddy. My position paper is gonna be tight." She snapped her fingers and beamed at me. "Tomorrow, we're going shopping. Sound good?"
"Excellent!" I chirped. I had to work on my casual nonchalance. Starting with the fact that I sounded like Alvin and/or the Chipmunks. "You guys sure you don't want to stay?"
"Are you kidding?" Stacey said, pulling her chin back in a wince. "I just watched the male members of the family march on out to the yard to begin grilling like they were entering the trenches in the Ardennes. I want my meat dead, not grilled into submission, you know?"
"It's some kind of masculine battle ground, the ability to work fire to their will and produce food things," I said with a somber nod.
"May your first child be a girl child," Stacey sighed, patting my shoulder. She kept her hand there. "How have the Brunos been?"
"Great, but we haven't dropped the baby bomb yet," I sighed. "If you guys get a text message that says '911' come home immediately."
She saluted at me and then winked, charging up the rest of the stairs. I went back to the living room where the Lakers game we were watching ticked down to its final moments. Kerry gave me a dreamy grin.
"Logan said to give you this," she said, kissing my cheek as I sat down next to her on the couch. "I bet he would have given you a real kiss, but that's a bit much, even for Kentucky."
"We were just ripping on y'all upstairs," I laughed.
"Save your best stuff for Mississippi—my people are some odd, twisted folk," Rose mumbled, swinging a strand of yarn over her finger as she worked on a blanket. No, a sweater; I could tell by the angling out of the accumulated string, pyramiding from the small collar.
I pointed at it. "Who's that for?"
"Lewis," she smiled. "He says that his dorm at West Point is drafty, so I thought I'd knit him a sweater before term starts again."
"I like crochet better," Kerry confessed, leaning her head against my own.
"My best friend Barbara loved crocheting," I murmured, glancing over at her photo, a photo of her and Miranda and me from our trip to Italy three years ago. The day we stuck our hands in the Mouth of Truth, squealing as our fingers crept into the yawn of that opening.
I will not die from cancer, I had thought, and I waited for something to snap down and break my fingers off in a bloody, crushing way.
They didn't, emerging whole. Like me?
Kerry ran her fingers over her mother's arms. "Mom, should we start the rest of dinner?"
"That sounds like a good idea," Rose nodded. "Mary Anne, you want to take care of the salad?"
"I can do that," I smiled. I walked into the kitchen and grabbed the lettuce and vegetables, settling on the far counter by the sink. The sound of my stereo drifted from outside, purring out a song that made my hips sway. They missed the feel of hands on them, syncing in with my skin. I wanted those hands to wipe all of this away.
I glanced over my shoulder at Logan's mother. I didn't want her to hate me, to look at me with shaded eyes. I wanted it to stay like this, with me this wonderful addition to their family, a family that was working so well today. Not me, this ruiner.
Not me, this thing that makes people cry. The people I love most, I hurt the hardest.
When we sat down to dinner, the table groaning under the red-sweetened chicken and ribs, garlic buttered ears of corn, cornbread, beans, salad and a bowl of strawberries, the five of them tipped their heads against their chest. They crossed their chests, lowing themselves into prayer. It snaked from Latin, the recitation of the cross to a blessing in Italian that I barely understood, and back to that cross again. Cross my heart and hope to live. I mimicked that, I did.
"Are you going to convert?" Hunter blurted out, sniffing hard through his cleared sinuses.
"No, she is not," Logan said, narrowing his eyes at him. "And don't even start on sinning, she's just fine."
Kerry frowned across the table from me, glancing next to her at her father. Her father, sitting where my father did. I was in the same place as I was then. I wanted to be close to my dad when I told him my secrets; Logan wanted to be far away from his. "Well, will you raise your kids Catholic?"
"They have a long time before they have to think about that," Rose laughed, snatching a piece of chicken with the tongs. "I'm more concerned with whether you will get married in any sort of church."
"We will," I promised, spooning a large heap of salad onto my plate. "I'd like to have it in Stoneybrook, but we haven't really discussed it."
"There's always the cathedral in Louisville. All of the kids were baptized there," Lyman suggested. "All of our family is from there. And there are a lot more of us than there are of your clan."
"Dad!" Logan yelled. "That's not cool."
"It's true," Lyman shrugged. "I'm sorry, but except for us and some of your cousins? Everyone is within two hours of the Lou. Evansville to Cincinnati, Elizabethtown to Indianapolis. Besides," he added, "that's where we'll be."
The table grew quiet before Kerry's face pinked over, and she shouted, "We're moving back, Lo! We're moving back! Daddy took a new job, back with Louisville Slugger—no more stupid Connecticut, no more him going over to frickin' Iraq." She wrapped her hands around her father's arm. "Mom and Dad said that they'd look at places in Jefferson County, but I want to go to back to Belknap."
"But—how? I thought—how?" he spluttered, glancing between his parents.
Rose glowed, winking at her husband. "I'm finally ready to go back to work again, so your dad can leave that awful job with the defense contractor. And when he contacted people at Lou Slugger, they offered him a position back in Louisville."
"And not even a manager again," Hunter added, his mouth sloppy with barbeque sauce. "Dad's gonna be in product development—that means lots of time in batting cages, right? That's what you said."
"I did," Lyman grinned. He swung his fork over at Logan. "So, you'll apply to U of L for dental school, and we can all be together again, won't that be great?"
"Except me, maybe. But if you go to U of L, I'll totally stay in town, Kentucky at the most," Kerry said eagerly.
I put my hand on Logan's thigh, rubbing over the rough denim of his pants. "We'll see," I said in an even tone. I cut at my chicken and looked down the table at his mother. "We have a long time before we can handle grad school."
"That's not very positive," Lyman said, squinting at me. "You'd love Louisville, Mary Anne."
"I've loved my trips there," I replied. "But things are a lot more complicated than that. I'm applying to get my master's and undergrad degrees at the same time, so I'd be here for five years—that's Logan's first year of dental school."
"You can always do a year apart—I was away from the family for two years during Deserts Shield and Storm. It makes a family stronger, adversity does," Lyman declared. "Really, what's the problem? We're going home. Don't you want to come home with us?"
"I do, it's just…it's not that simple," Logan mumbled, slumping lower. "Mary Anne's doctors are here, and—"
"There are great doctors in the Lou," Rose added with a gentle smile. "And you know that I'd make sure that you were well taken care of at the university hospital."
"And, and? You could be best friends with our cousin Susie," Kerry gushed, leaning her elbows on the table. "You and Susie and Lana, that's Lewis's oldest sister. It'll be so much fun, Mary Anne! You'll totally love our family so much."
"It's perfect," Lyman boomed. "What's wrong with this? You are always so stubborn," he shot at his son, my husband. "You can 'live your own life' or whatever and be close to us, can't you?"
"Dad, I don't know, okay? Can't we just wait on this?" Logan asked, running his hand over his head.
"I just don't—" his father began, but I couldn't take it. The anger fired up my stomach, up my throat and over my tongue.
My fork rattled on my plate as I dropped it. "Stop it! Just stop!" I exploded. "I'm pregnant, okay? We found out after the wedding, and if I don't terminate this, everything changes, do you understand? We don't know what's going to happen in two years because we don't know what's going to happen in two days, alright? Leave him alone," I snapped, putting my arm around the slack elastic of Logan's shoulders.
There was a silence thicker than blood. It crept over my body and belted me down, thickening my body into a dull, deadened thing. The messy shock on the faces of this family, my family, pummeled me. When Hunter coughed, I shook as though I had been slapped. I even touched my cheek, expecting to feel the rawness of it, feel the imprint of fingers on my skin.
"You're…gonna have a baby?" Hunter asked, his face so confused. "But you just got married."
"I know," Logan sighed. "It was…we didn't think that Mary Anne could ever have a baby. We didn't know."
Kerry's mouth kept hinging open and shut, open and shut. So her mother spoke first, her voice so soft, it killed me with the quiet of its knife. "You might end it? Why? God, why?" She put her face in her hands.
"Because Mary Anne is sick," Logan said, leaning his head on mine. "She can't get treatment until the second trimester, and that's a month away. I mean—Mom, please, please, she's sick, you have to understand," he begged, grabbing her arm. But his mother didn't move; she just sat there, looking into the press of her palms.
"Second trimester—that's three months," Kerry mumbled, staring at her fingers. "That means you had sex before you were married. You did, didn't you."
"Kay," he said, that word tripping in his throat. "Come on, don't."
Kerry stood up, her entire body rattling. "Give me your car keys," she said to Logan in a low voice. "I want to go to the hotel."
"Kerry," he pled. "Come on, don't be pissed at me."
"You lied to me," she said, her teeth chattering. "You said you were going to wait until you were married. You lied to me. I can't even look at you. You're a liar."
I am, too. My head drooped on my neck, and the dull rattle of Logan's keys stung my ears.
"I want to go, too," Hunter said, pushing back from the table. "I'm not hungry anymore." He followed Kerry out of the room, and the door clicked, the echo of metal on metal biting through the now-silence of the house.
"What have you done," Lyman mumbled, staring at his wife across the table. "What have you done, Logan?"
"It's not his fault," I snapped. "It was me, too. And it's my fault if I get an abortion. I'm pregnant with twins—it happens with women with my menstrual problems, and it's happening to me. Look at me," I insisted, waving my hand over my body. "I'm underweight, I have tumors in my lung, I have Hodgkin's lymphoma, okay? I don't know if I can do this, be a place for babies to grow and be healthy."
"They might not be healthy at all," I heard Rose cry, the muffle of her tears from under her hands.
"Well, if your body is so bad, then it will take care of itself. You'll miscarry. You don't need to get an abortion," Lyman retorted.
"Dad, get real," Logan said. "God, when a woman gets pregnant, her body stops taking care of her and starts taking care of the fetus. Fetuses. Her body is going to steal all of her strength and give it to the babies. Come on—don't you want Mary Anne to live?" His face began this seismic shift from the cowed, shame thing it had been into anger. The way he looked when he threw my father off of me. "Don't you?"
"Of course I do—I just—why weren't you more careful! I can't believe you! I told you, I told you, you never do this to a girl, you never put her in this position!" Lyman erupted, slamming his fists on the table, making everything jump. Except for his wife, still sobbing, so oblivious to everything but those words we had strung together to yank her back over four years in time.
"I told you, it's not his fault," I spat. "I never once asked him to use protection because I thought I could never, ever get pregnant. Do you think we wanted this? Do you not understand that after what your family went through, we would ever want this? I lost my mother, I never had a mother, do you think I would ever want to not be a mother?" I put my hand on his and took a deep breath. "When my father found out, he slapped me. Right here," I said, taking that hand and touching my face.
"You never touch a woman in anger," he said, reaching out and taking my hand again. "Never."
"It wasn't anger—it was more than that," I murmured, looking away. "I think he saw my mother in me. She left him with a baby, she left him so lost and scared, he's never really figured out to do with all of that. But my father hit me, and then he left. I haven't spoken to him in a week. I might not talk to him for a long time. And I might have to lose my babies," I said, forcing those words over the choke of my throat. "I might get really sick—I might die, just like that, there's no guarantee. And it's possible that all of this could happen before I speak to my father. Don't be like him."
I wiped at my eyes and said, "Don't be like him, Lyman. Please."
Rose stood up, walking away from the table and out into the backyard. Her husband's eyes followed her, but he looked back at us. "But you haven't made up your minds. Why? What are the reasons to keep the babies," he said slowly.
"Mary Anne could get a transplant, if they're healthy, have the right chromosomes—or it, I mean, the doctors think that if we have any chance to get a baby to term, there can only be one. But it could be a cure," Logan told him, putting his arms around me. "And that's a really good reason to go ahead with this."
"Have you talked to your priest yet?" his father asked.
Logan nodded. "He said that we need to follow our hearts, that God would forgive. Forgive me, not Mary Anne. Mary Anne is just fine," he insisted, so sharp with that tongue.
"You're fine, too," I sighed, resting my head on his chest. "Angel, you are."
We were quiet for a moment before Logan said, "Dad? What do we do?"
"I don't know, bird," Lyman sighed. "I don't. I don't want Mary Anne to die, I swear," he said, swallowing hard as his eyes brightened over with tears. "But I don't want her to be like your mom. To hate herself for doing something that's right."
Me, too.
I unwrapped myself from my husband, kissing his cheek before going outside to the hammock where Rose was swaying, her long hair drooping over her shoulders. She looked so young, maybe not much older than me, with that droop of golden hair, her feet scraping against the ground like a child trying to slow an out of control playground swing.
Her purse yawned open next to her, and she was slapping the bottom of a pack of cigarettes. "They're a lot cheaper here," she shrugged, biting down on the filter and igniting the tobacco.
"Logan's gonna see you smoking," I sighed, glancing behind me to the house, to where her son was trailing me outside, his father close behind.
"Whatever," she mumbled. Her husband sat down next to her, tugging out a cigarette of his own.
"I can't believe you two, after all of the lectures," Logan snorted. "Smoking is so bad for y'all."
"Do as I say, not as I do," she replied dully, sinking her body lower.
Logan sat down behind me. He scooted against my body so I could snuggle into him. I pulled his arms around me, his fingers drifting down to my stomach. If only I could just lose this pregnancy, if only it would just go away.
Go away, take my cure. Take my chance. Shouldn't I want that?
I closed my eyes and thought of my trip to the hospital last night. Had I been relieved when the doctor said it was normal? Or had I regretted it? Because it would have prevented a moment like this one, us at the feet of his broken, weary parents. They looked their age now, and more, time creeping over their bodies and faces and drooping them down. Thanks to me.
In silence, we all sat. My husband and I cradled together staring at another couple linked by rings that they had promised to us, their hands so tightly held, I could see their knuckles whiten in the pinking sun of the nearing twilight. Lyman kept brushing his wife's hair away from her face, and she would lean over with a lungful of smoke and speak into his ear something that made him soften, each time melting those words on a huff of gray air.
"We have four kids now," Lyman finally said with a small grin. "Does that mean we get five cigs a night?"
Rose shadowed a smile at him. "Maybe seven. Until those two are taken away." She rubbed her forehead, the glint of the stick of fire swinging around her head. "Oh, kids. This is such a mess."
"Are you mad at me?" Logan breathed, ducking his head into my neck. "Mom? Do you hate me?"
"No, of course not. Accidents happen," she sighed. "I know that if Mary Anne didn't have cancer, this wouldn't be an issue. I just—can't believe this has to happen to you, too," she whimpered, hitting her forehead with the heel of her palm. But she stopped, wiping her crying eyes again. "If the cancer can wait a month, if you can be okay and wait? Then you have to keep going until the amnio, Mary Anne. You have to. Keep going until they say that it's not right. That they aren't right."
She leaned over to her purse and pulled out her billfold. "Until that moment, everything is perfect," she whispered. "They are perfect inside of you until you are told otherwise. They are whole and beautiful and so full of promise, you can't think one bad thought about them. Don't think anything bad, Mary Anne, not now. This is the best time."
Taking another inhale, she tossed the cigarette to the ground and stamped it under her shoe, the fire hissing into death. Her fingers began to shake, knocking against the leather case of the wallet as she flipped behind the photos of her children, of all of them in their sports uniforms—Kerry in her swimsuit, Hunter in his lacrosse gear, Logan in the colors of our old high school.
"Will Kerry forgive me?" Logan said, pressing his eyes into the fabric of my dress.
"She just needs to scream for a bit, she'll probably come back here at midnight and yell at you before asking for a hug," Lyman told him. "You know her. She's a good little bird."
"She adores you—Hunter does, too," I added, touching his face, the rough hint of hair on his jaw. "Give them a few hours to blow off steam. It's hard when your heroes show that they can be wrong."
"I'm wrong all the time," he mumbled, rolling his head back and forth. "I'm wrong so much."
"I'll talk to them, I'll make it okay," Rose promised, pulling out a folded over thing from her billfold, photo paper once slick but its edges were split into a softness that spoke of constant touching. Those grayed, worn edges, the deep folds that creased over the image: this was something that was never forgotten in the pockets of her purse, not ever away from her touch for too long. How often did she look at this thing, how often she stare at it and cry?
This ultrasound photograph, a date and a name written on the back. 18 weeks, Ivy Nicolleta. "When they do the ultrasound, you can't look," she said, staring at the picture. Her face was so blank, it frightened me. How could you wipe yourself from yourself? When your broken babies break you. "You can't look until they say it's okay."
"Rose?" I asked, my voice shaking.
"You can't look," Lyman repeated, putting his arm around his wife. "Don't look until they tell you that they see the baby, all of the baby—babies," he corrected. "Until they say, It all looks normal."
I reached out my hand, waiting for that picture. "Make them do a triple screen," Rose said, hesitating with that photo just beyond my waiting fingers. "They have to make sure that it won't happen with your babies, too. You can't do that to yourself or to them. End it, end it that very moment so you never have to see," she stated, gasping between so many of those words.
My fingers touched the edge of the picture, and she let it fall from her hands. "I'm so sorry that this is in your genes, rondine," she sniffed, digging her face into Lyman's shirt. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry that this is happening to you, too."
The ultrasound flopped back on its folds, so I had to lift it back into its battered rectangle shape. That feeling, the nausea that I had once assigned to the feel of chemo but now lined up with the feel of a baby, it charged up from my stomach. And Logan began to choke, this strangled sound that never made it up from the middle of his throat as he put his hands on the picture, too.
The rounded triangle of light where the dark outline of a baby's body lurked. The perfect shadow of fingers, of toes. Legs, flailing out from the body, showing that it was a girl. Arms with spread-open hands, as if waving with a gaiety at everyone who saw her. A yawning mouth, a pert nose. The bouncy line of eyes. So lively, the way she was floating there, so much hope in every line.
Except the half-moon of her head, stopping at her forehead and crumpling into a hollowed out cup until it reached her spine. Not a thing to be circled with a parent's waiting hand. A crushed thing, caved in like a dropped pumpkin.
I turned around and threw an arm around Logan's neck, just holding him as close as I could. I held that ultrasound in my hand until the meet of our bodies crushed my hand, and I tugged it out to curl my fingers against his back. That photo stayed there, suspended between the flatness of our chests, the press of our hearts.