A/N: Omg, who am I updating as I said I would. Lol. :) Happy New Year everyone!
8.
May
Second week
The house phone rings, blaring through the still night, waking her. Alicia blindly reaches out and picks up the cordless phone, answering on the fourth ring.
"He-hello?"
"Hey, hon. Sorry to wake you."
"It's fine," she says, eyes shut. "Are you still at the office?"
"Yeah, wrapping up. About to head home."
She stifles a yawn. "Okay."
"Did you, uh, set the alarm?"
She rolls onto her back, flinging an arm over her head, brows drawn together. "Um, yes."
"Patio doors locked, too?"
Her eyes creak open as she peers into the dark ceiling, thinking. "… I believe so. I didn't go in the backyard today and neither did the kids." The line goes quiet. "Peter?"
"Last argument on the Murphy case didn't go well today. Verdict expected tomorrow. Got a strong hunch which way the jury may lean."
"You feel things will go rogue?"
The other side, the unruly side of his position. They have been fortunate. A close call happening only once.
"Possible." He sighs in the receiver.
Silence fills the winding blank. She used to be au fait in his silences. Able to pick a part their rhythms, depths. Now she's unsure if this is from a hard day, a vengeful defendant, or more.
A series of sounds from his surroundings fire off; an eventual interlude of him shuffling things fade to an end.
"Where are you now?" she says.
"Almost to the car. Everything's good there, right?"
"Everything is good." She exhales and slowly rolls onto her left side, phone to her ear. "Talk to me while you drive home."
"You sure?" he says over the engine rumbling awake. "It may take me about thirty."
"I'm sure."
And they talk, more than they have in a while. About little things, scaling the edge of big things. She ignores fatigue riddling her bones and listens closely, realizing, and for the first time acknowledging, how this case has stressed him. How asking more of him lately, turns out, was asking too much.
He was giving as much as he could.
They glaze over restoring their balance—and keeping it—after the verdict, and laugh in between pockets of silence.
Minutes whiz by.
He mentions a conversation he had with someone earlier in the day about another life. About leaving this life behind if given an opportunity to pursue different dreams. She perks up when he shares he answered he would first learn to sail, then sail the Pacific in a catamaran, anchoring at every archipelago along the way.
"You never told me that before," she says.
In the early days of dating, they talked at lengths about their goals and dreams. His revolved around climbing a political ladder.
Had his changed, had he changed, and she didn't see it?
"Guess I thought you were too busy to listen."
She closes her eyes, sighs. "We thought we were too busy for each other. How did we get there?"
"I don't know. But I don't want to go back. I like where we are."
"I do, too." She tunes in to the faint hum of the engine in the background and calm static from the car's speed hurling against the wind, while sifting through the time of too busy. "Did you ever want to give up? On our marriage?"
He slips quiet again; her fingers clasp the phone tighter. She turned the knob on a door she thought could never exist. What lies on the other side scares her. Still.
"No," he answers, level and clear. "Never. Did you?"
She pushes a layer of duvet and sheet from her chest and glances down, resting a hand on her round belly. As she rubs, she reflects on everything she filed away. Issues they danced around.
"At one point, I wondered if we gave up without saying it. Last November. Remember?" A time when minor problems snowballed. Something as simple as forgetting to turn out a light would set them off. Tiptoeing around each other was safer. "We were … co-existing. I didn't know what to do with that."
She gulps, recalling in that month, she pondered their final stage. Fantasized if the grass could be greener.
"Honey?"
"I'm here," he says gravely. "I'm, listening."
She smiles, eyes watering. Then she accused him you're not listening to me so often she questioned if that's all she needed him to do to make it right.
"I never wanted to give up either," she adds, "but those days it felt easier to. I would try to imagine life without you. I couldn't."
"I'm sorry if I made it hard ... made you feel you would need to choose."
"... I made it hard, too."
"We said we could never be these people. Think that was, our first fight. Or one of the first. Remember that? Said we would never put our relationship in the backseat."
"We were young."
"Too young. We had no idea."
She breaks in a throaty chuckle. "Well, life happens."
"It does."
On cue, flutters and subtle rolls ignite in a leaping performance inside her stomach. "Our little one is up. Moving."
"Really?" His voice has risen an octave; the most lively he's sounded since calling. "I'm two minutes away. Are you feeling strong movements or like the other day?"
"Like the other day." She lightly laughs. "You're not missing anything. The baby is moving just enough to tell me they are in there. Which, has ... stopped. For now."
"Ah. Life happens," he echoes in a daze. Silence blankets—different, calm, familiar. Not as loud as before. Right as she's about to interpose, he announces, "I made it."
A wheeling construction unfurls in her chest; she hears the garage open.
"I see Zach set out the trash bins."
"Mm-hmm."
She doesn't hang up, but listens to the patterns of him entering the house. Doors close, the alarm disarms then arms. His footfalls shuffle across cold floors.
"Patio doors are locked," he confirms as he moves through the first level, letting her know things are secure, then creeps up the stairs. "Kids are sleeping sound ..."
She smiles, seeing his shadow limbo in the hallway through their cracked bedroom door. Seconds tick by when he finally pushes it open.
He stands in the doorway, looking toward her. "I'm home."
She presses END on the phone and sets it back on its base, watching him walk over to the bed.
By the light from the hallway lamp, she discerns lines of exhaustion traced on his face, hair standing in an array of directions from his hands raking through.
He's defeated. The day won.
He strips from his jacket, rolls up his sleeves and sits on the bed's edge beside her, rubbing along the curve of her hip.
"Our family is safe," she reminds, and studies his haggard veil, tries to source his mood. With eyes downcast, she concludes it more than a guilty verdict. More than a defendant capable of seeking revenge.
He nods and bends forward, braces his palms on either side of her. She cranes up from the pillow, frames his face and kisses him.
When they part, she whispers against his mouth, "What else? What is it?"
"Nothing," he whispers back, resting his head against hers.
She strokes his stubbly cheeks, wanting to ask questions, but stops herself when he lowers his head to the dip where her shoulder and neck meet.
Whatever else may be wrong, she trusts he will tell her, but for now, grant him the moment to let his guard down. Unpack the day's worry and stress in the safety of her embrace.
. . .
Sunday
Time heals.
Alicia stands at the stove, hand on her lower back, stirring a small pot of oatmeal as she construes and meshes the two words.
It is a phrase she believed overwrought and, frankly, pointless.
Though with the Murphy case over, and their family beyond the realm of danger, the words apply. It is like they, exhaled. Really exhaled. Swings in their marriage ceased. Peter had planned more time off to spend at home; and for the two of them to drive up to his family's lake house for a long weekend.
Their progress pastes a contented smile on her face. This is happy.
Pockets of air bubble and burst in the pot, drawing her back to reality. This morning, she woke up craving oatmeal with apples and cinnamon, grateful to start the day with a healthy first meal. Yesterday it was a glutton overload of carbs and bacon, which cemented a morning, afternoon and evening of indigestion.
"Wait-wait-wait. Don't move."
She pauses stirring and glances over her shoulder towards Peter crossing the kitchen. "What?"
He clamps his hand on her waist and moves behind her when she reaches toward the spice rack.
"I need to memorize how you look right now."
A couple weeks pass, and poof! Her growing belly has made an unmistakable debut, currently fighting against the delicate fabric of her shirt. She peers down at his palms inching around her bulge and relaxes against him.
"In a few months, I'll be a blimp."
"The most beautiful blimp," he mumbles, nuzzling her neck. "I can't wait."
She smiles, a teasing lilt in her voice when she says, "You woke up in a good mood."
"I did. Happy Mother's Day, babe."
She looks back at him, beaming. "Thank you."
"I thought you'd be in bed when I woke to tell you."
"Your child demands oatmeal."
His laugh rumbles through her neck and shoulders. "I could've made breakfast for you. Me and the kids actually wanted to."
"I'm sorry. You all could've, but I could not wait."
He snaps his fingers and Zach and Grace barge in, an enormous bouquet, balloons and gifts in tow.
"Happy Mother's Day, Mom!" they sang.
She backs away from the stove and nears the kids at the island, smiling mile-wide. Only then does she notice a card propped against a small wrapped box from him.
"Is this also to butter me up for brunch with your mother?" she says to him.
"A tad."
Shooting him a playful scowl, she turns and smothers the kids in hugs.
. . .
"You can't do that," says Zach.
"Yes you can. Those are the rules," counters Grace.
"You made that up!"
Alicia sighs and impatiently scans the sea of diners for the host.
Meeting Jackie for a Mother's Day brunch is the last way she wants to spend this day. Often, they celebrated separately. In the early years of their marriage, she offered to host celebrations at their house, or suggested his parents.
Neither happened.
Jackie ruled it uncouth.
After Peter's father passed, Jackie reluctantly bent and agreed to share the day in some manner. Last year, they all spent too many days in a rental home on Lake Geneva. Since she and Jackie barely survived under one roof for five days, she assumes that is the reason this year, Peter arranged a safe few hours for brunch.
How ironic they're both here, not of their own honor, but for Peter. The love of one man continues to bind them in a desert of disparity.
"Sorry for the wait," says a young man—the host—bouncing into her view. "Your table is ready and your party's being seated. Please follow me."
With a curt nod, she swivels to the kids at her right. "Zach. Grace." A sharp lift of her brow, and they cease their bickering to fall in line behind her.
They trail through the main dining room; lulls from a grand piano and saxophone in a corner drown out hushed conversations and glasses clinking.
Their table is in an arc off from the grand room. Secluded. Near floor-to-ceiling windows offering unobstructed views of Lake Michigan and the Chicago skyline.
Jackie rises from the table as they approach.
"Alicia." She outstretches her arms, a maroon painted smile fixed on her mouth. "Happy Mother's Day."
"Happy Mother's Day to you too, Jackie." She awkwardly returns her embrace.
On one hand, possibly two fingers, Alicia can count how many times they have hugged. It's foreign. Weird. When she steps back, Jackie's eyes roam over her in a way that's disrobing.
She tightens the lightweight cardigan around her dress, but to no use. She can't button it, nor will it remain lapped.
"Where's Peter?" Jackie asks as the four of them take seats.
"Out with the valet. He'll be in soon."
"I see. Well, he told me last week you are expecting. You look … radiant, dear."
What she wants to say is fat, or something unpleasant judging by the wry curl of her lips. Alicia threw on the one dress which comfortably fit and didn't give too much away—as much as her body allowed to not give away. Shopping for maternity clothes lie high on her to-do list.
"Hey, what a table!" boasts Peter, pulling out the chair beside her. She flashes a rigid smile up at him as he greets Jackie, then sits.
She needs wine to get through this brunch. Wine or crack.
Needless to say, and to her pleasure, brunch goes fairly uneventful. Until right before dessert.
"You good?" Peter says in her ear while she sips water, observing Grace debate Jackie on historical women's issues she recently learned in school.
"Mm." She sets down the glass. "Tired."
"Ready to go?"
"I think so. Next stop home?"
"Ah, the kids and I have one more thing—"
"So, Alicia." They turn their attention to Jackie. "Peter never mentioned. How far along are you?"
"Sixteen weeks. I'm due in October."
"I presume you will know the gender soon?"
"Yes. We will know in two weeks."
She nods. "I have wanted to ask, and pardon me if I'm being invasive." Alicia rolls her eyes. Nothing has ever stopped her from being invasive. "Was this child planned?"
Her back steels against the seat. "Excuse me?"
Jackie's face remains stony as she wipes her mouth.
Peter sits up, clearing his throat. "Mom—"
"I don't believe it is any of your business whether this child was planned or not, Jackie."
Alicia sees her lips purse, and shift in the seat ever so slight; she's not the least bit swayed.
"I was asking out of consideration," Jackie says airily.
"For whom?"
"Considering Peter's career"—Alicia scoffs—"how far he's come and has to go—"
"Mom," interjects Peter, "it doesn't matter if we planned or not. I thought you were happy when I told you?"
"I was. I-I-I am." Jackie sweeps her gaze to the kids. "Just ... Zach and Grace are practically, grown. The timing of this has me ... puzzled."
"What matters is they're happy about a younger brother or sister." Peter turns to them. "Right, kids?"
"Yeah." Grace beams. "I hope it's a girl."
Zach chimes in. "You said last week you hope it's a boy."
"I changed my mind."
"Well, that's wonderful. They're, accepting," Jackie says, resounding in a nervous laugh. "But this seems ..."
"Seems what, Jackie?" It comes out harsher than Alicia intends. Jackie's brows rise as she blinks. Does she care now she's past the point of invasive?
Peter's fingertips brush her shoulder; she shrugs him off.
"Not thought through," responds Jackie, palms lying open as she grapples with words. "Careless."
Alicia's mouth falls open.
Careless. She made the same comment the evening they informed her and her late father-in-law she was pregnant with Zach, post a dinner two months before their wedding rehearsal.
"All right, Mom. That's enough. Let's not ..."
"I'm only trying to understand as you asked for my help."
Alicia shoots a piercing look between them, mindful of Zach and Grace watching.
"Her help?" she hisses to Peter.
He sighs, throwing his tablecloth atop his plate. He leans in the space between their chairs. "Do you want to do this here? Now?"
She angles to face him, giving him her best you-tell-me-now-or-else face. "Peter."
He sputters, lowly, "I … I only mentioned after you have the baby, we may need her help to pick up the kids from school, and so forth. What's the problem?"
A laundry list of problems, she wants to scream.
"I don't mind, Alicia."
She snaps back on her. This is probably all Jackie ever wanted, granted not under the circumstance, but it is enough. A new baby and them short of hands is the perfect rationale to provide leeway for her to be in their house for extended periods.
This is not happening.
"Oh, I'm sure you don't mind."
Jackie brings her folded hands to rest on the table, her posture perfect, scrutinizing gaze aligned. She's sitting like she's ready to command the finishing strike on a wounded soldier in battle.
The solider is her.
"Does your family know?" Alicia's head tilts, jaw locking. Was that some type of provocation? "I assume they would want to know. Your mother, at least?"
"Mom, that's irrelevant."
"Irrelevant? The children should know their other grandmother. I hope she's here for this child. For when it is born."
"Okay, Mom—"
"—Grandma wasn't here when we were born?" says Grace.
Alicia drops her cloth on the table and stands. "I'm going to the ladies' room," she says to Peter. "When I get back, I'll be ready to go."
He tries reaching for her hand, but she snatches it past his grasp, fighting tears from falling.
Some Mother's Day.
. . .
Hi Mom—Happy Mother's
No. Doesn't even feel right to send her those wishes. Besides, when's the last time they said those words to each other? Biting her bottom lip, she taps delete on the keyboard and tries again.
Hi Mom—Cartagena seems lovely. The kids adored the chocolates and hammocks you sent.
Things are good here. Owen mentioned you would be home for Thanksgiving. By then you can meet your
[. . .]
The cursor blinks.
Alicia's hands lie dormant on the keys as she stares at the laptop screen. Hypnotized by the one-second blink, letting her thoughts drift.
Would her mother care after emailing three paragraph highlights of her Colombian days and nights, only asking about them in salutation?
Each time she responds to these emails, she chastises herself for giving the effort of a response. Really, why bother? Why even write back?
Damn, Jackie.
Grace opening the patio door distracts her. She closes the laptop and sets it on the table.
"You've been sitting out here a lot lately," notes Grace, shutting the door.
Alicia picks up her glass of iced tea from the coaster and pats the empty lounge chair next to her. "I'm enjoying the first few warm days. And it's a nice day."
Grace plops in the chair, bringing her knees to her chest. "Are you still mad at Grandma?"
"No. I'm sorry you heard that today."
"It's okay."
"No, it's not." Grace drops her head to her folded knees, focusing on her. "Your grandmother, doesn't always respect boundaries."
"And Dad?"
Soon as they arrived home from brunch, she and Peter had a not so private argument about Jackie's offered help. She came out here to cool down. He's likely still sulking in the office where she last left him.
"Your father and I are fine." She drinks a sip of tea, then places it back on the coaster. "I'm sorry you heard that, too."
Grace shrugs. "Can't be happy all the time."
Alicia frowns, unsure of how to respond, but thankful when Grace averts her attention to the cloudless sky. She follows her line of sight, pivoting to the grand tree in one of the yard's four corners, welcoming silence while they fixate on nature from beneath the patio awning.
"Why doesn't your mom come around?" Grace says so quiet she almost mishears the question.
Alicia reclines her head against the top of the seat; potential answers puddling. The question and its genuine answer, she's long resolved to never know.
"Your grandmother believes she has a greater … purpose in life. Which does not always involve being present for family."
"I think I've only met her two, or three times."
"Mmm. She first visited when you were one and Zach was three. She was traveling a lot then, and now."
"She sends us gifts, but what grandmother doesn't want to see her grandkids?" A twinge spikes in Alicia's chest; she looks at Grace, eyes welling. "Dad's mom is annoying, but at least she sees us."
She reaches over and cups her chin. "My mother—your grandmother, loves you. You and Zach. She's just not the best at showing that."
"Grandpa—your dad—was the opposite. He was so much fun and always spent time with us." Alicia looks away; the tears overflow. "I miss him."
"I miss him, too. Very much," she hoarsely whispers, quickly drying her eyes. Clearing her throat, she sits upright. "What do you say we make your favorite fudge brownies?"
"Okay! But we're out of ice cream."
They always had brownies with ice cream. It was basic protocol. Their current lack was because of her late night kitchen visits.
"We'll send Dad and Zach to the store," she declares with a wink.
Taking Grace's outstretched hand, she rises, picks up the laptop and glass of tea, and they trek toward the house.
"Are you having a good Mother's Day?"
"I'm having a splendid Mother's Day." Alicia wraps an arm around her shoulder, smiling down at her. "You know why?"
She shakes her head. "Why?"
"Because I have you. And your brother."
"And baby."
Alicia's chest expands with so much love she feels it will burst. She kisses the top of her curled mane. "And baby."
"You're a great mom," Grace whispers.
"And you're a great daughter."