Part 21
January 11th.
Doorbell. Damn. I knew this was a mistake – now I have to roll onto my side, then onto all fours and slowly right myself, and my ankles aren't even back yet. And I'm not expecting visitors and I look terrible and oh, great, Carter.
"Happy Birthday!"
"Yesterday."
"You sure?"
"I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that. Come in, you're letting the cold air in."
And in he comes, the flowers obscuring his whole head, and he drinks coffee at the kitchen table while I try and arrange them artistically. In the end I give up and stick them in a bucket with some water. "I'll do it later."
"It really was yesterday?"
"It really was."
"I'm sorry. I thought it was today."
"No kidding. It doesn't matter."
"Still – "
"Carter, it doesn't matter. I don't like birthdays much."
"Do anything nice?"
"Yeah – we went for a picnic."
"What, a sit outside and eat picnic?"
"By the lake. Hot soup and dancing to the Rolling Stones."
"That a Croatian thing?"
"It's a Luka thing."
"Right." There's a silence; he picks an apple out of the fruit bowl and polishes it on his sleeve; puts it back.
"Help yourself."
"What?"
"Fruit – help yourself. We can afford it and it's good for you."
He laughs a little then. "So – how are you?"
"Bored. Moody, irritable." Another laugh. "It's OK, you can say it."
"What?"
"'No change there then'."
"I wouldn't dare."
"You were thinking it."
"No."
"Sure you were."
A moment's pause. "Yeah. So . . . I wanted to say I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"The crap about you and the baby."
"And Luka. Don't forget Luka."
"Don't forget Luka," he repeats under his breath. "He told you what I said?" He looks uncomfortable now.
"The gist of it."
He nods. "I was out of line."
"Forget it."
"No, I . . . I'm happy for you with all this," and he nods to indicate the house and kitchen, my impressive frontage, "and I know I keep saying that and then screwing up but it's true."
"So why do you?"
"What?"
"Keep screwing up?"
"I don't know. Because you let me?"
"I let you?"
"You chew me out and then forgive me."
"Must be love."
"That's the thing, I think it must." Oh boy, what are we talking about here. "I, er," and he clears his throat, "I've not had a lot of call to use that word, and when I have it's been . . . well it's been narrow."
"Narrow."
"Yeah. I don't even know if I can say I love my parents. I mean, I love them like a kid loves them because they're my parents but as people . . . I don't think . . . they're not very lovable."
"Not like me," I say and immediately regret my flippancy.
"You have your moments" he grins. "Thing is, Abby I do love you. I love you for what you are, you know, for who you are, and it's just taken me a while to see that that doesn't mean that I'm supposed to . . . be in love with you."
"You just now realised this?"
"Pitiful, huh?"
"Well – "
"Pitiful. But you know when I saw it? When you told me that you didn't need me to look out for you, that it was Luka's job and he was doing just fine with it."
"That's all it took?"
"That and everything that went before it."
"Well, you know, we can never have too much love in our lives."
"Ah, the watchword of Kerry Weaver."
"And Robert Romano. You want some more coffee?"
"Sure." The silence that follows is more comfortable and we go on to chat about Christmas which he spent with Jing-Mei's family and couldn't wait to get away which they did the day after to an hotel and holed themselves up there for two days "redefining their boundaries".
"Two days and nights of crazy sex, huh?"
"Yeah. How about you two? I mean . . . I don't mean -"
"Crazy sex? Look at me. Once I'm underway stopping is like halting an oil tanker. My crazy sex days are over for the time being. In fact my crazy sex days are probably over for about the next 5 years."
"Poor Luka."
"Poor me! I was kinda enjoying married sluttiness."
"Lucky Luka."
"He knows it. Hey, look at this." I lead him into the sitting room, cursing as yet another pine needle lodges itself in my foot and I pick up Ivica's picture, holding it in front of my face. "Guess who?"
"Wow."
"It's an original Kovac."
"Luka?"
"Kovac the Elder."
"I didn't know he did portraits."
"I don't think he does much but, you know, I am that pretty and that special."
"Absolutely." he says and of course he doesn't know what it means, what I just said. "What did you get him?"
"Ivica?"
"Luka."
"Nothing."
"Cheapskate."
"We said we weren't going to buy gifts and he sprang this on me."
"Bastard." I look at him sharply then but he's smiling.
"Yeah. I hate him."
"I can tell."
"Ask me about my birthday present."
"What about your birthday present?"
"It's coming all the way from Zagreb and costing thousands of dollars."
"The Croatian Crown Jewels?"
"They don't have crown jewels. Well, I don't think they have crown jewels."
"Then what?"
"A piano, baby grand, badly out of tune and needs polishing."
"You play the piano?"
"Nope. Luka can a little but he's not to touch it."
"I don't get it."
"It was his mother's. His dad was going to have to sell it and I saved the day."
"How much does it cost to ship a piano from Zagreb to Chicago?"
"Not my concern."
"See I was going to say that taking the piano was a sweet thing to do for the old guy and now you've gone and spoiled it."
"Also not my concern. And besides, you love me, right?"
"Right." He goes over to the window and looks out into the godawful dreary greyness of the late morning.
"I'm thinking . . . I'm going to ask Deb . . . I'm going to tell her I want us to find a place together."
"Wow. I thought . . . "
"It's better. I mean once I smacked myself in the face and woke myself up. Love's where you look for it, right? It doesn't beat a path to your door. And I mean, even if it did it might be heavily disguised."
"I think you should leave it there with the metaphor."
"No, no, it's good. Important thing is to open the door and see past the disguise."
"You just said that it doesn't beat a path to your door."
"I did, didn't I. OK, then you have to sit in the rocker on the front porch and watch out for it."
"What if it goes down a different street?"
"You're pissing on my parade here."
"I'm sorry. I know what you're saying. I mean, I can look back and see turning points, landmarks, you know, when if I'd done something different it would have changed things totally. Some of them are open door moments."
"Are we for real, talking like this?"
"You started it."
"See that's why I love you."
"Why?"
"I talk crap and you talk it right back."
"Hey, I'm an Earth Mother now, you can't talk to me like that."
"Not yet you're not. How's that going?"
"Good."
"Liar."
"I feel like shit."
"No signs of anything yet?"
"Couple of contractions but they never amount to much."
"You've got a few days left yet. No rush."
"You try living with 30lb of live eels strapped to you and tell me that."
"You want it over?"
"Yeah. And no. I don't know."
"You scared?"
"Only when I think about it."
"Which is . . . "
"All the time."
He nods. "What are you scared of?"
"Everything, nothing. This is a person, I'm going to be its mother. Mother isn't a word with a whole lot of good associations for me."
"Abby – "
"You know, you should meet Luka's dad. He'd kick you into shape in no time. Did it for me. He's hell on wheels the old bastard but he knows a bit about life. Use it or lose it."
"That what you're doing?"
"You bet. I'm scared shitless Carter but I've never felt so alive in my life. It's better than drink. You should go talk to Deb and just, you know, go for it, stop thinking about it, stop – "
"– being the guy whose brother died and who has useless parents and who got stabbed and stole drugs at work and turned himself into a squalid junkie."
"Not quite what I was going to say."
"I'm sort of channelling my Grandmother here. "
"She said that?"
"Not exactly; something like it."
"Think she'd be interested in an elderly Croatian widower with paint down his fingernails and a dirty laugh?"
"Wouldn't that make Luka my . . . uncle or something?"
"Hey, I'd be your aunt! How cool would that be?"
"I think I've heard enough."
"You'd have some cool cousins too – Anna's a beauty and if you can wait a few years – "
"OK, I understand that you want to get in practice for the post partum crazies but this is creeping me out."
"No, I think it's a good plan. This way we get into your will, right?"
"See now you're talking crap back at me without me talking it to you first."
"I win!"
......................................................................................................
January 12th,
Cold. Cloudy. Freezing wind. Ominous twinges for about half an hour and then nothing but my back aches like a sonofabitch.
I can't get to the table to eat, I can hardly move, but it doesn't stop me washing all the clothes we got at the shower and from my mom and the grandmothers. Again. I've made up the crib, stacked the diapers, opened the nursery window a little for fresh air, can't settle, feel like I'm on hot coals. Everything is ready. Even me. I think. Carter's flowers are still in the bucket. Luka hasn't mentioned them.
January 13th
"Sonofabitch."
"I don't think that's going to work. I mean how far do you think you're going to get before you're saying that?"
"OK then how about foley? Ten blade?"
"You want to confuse the staff?"
"What if I just grab you by the throat and threaten you with violence?"
"You might want to do that anyway."
We've been at this half an hour now. I want a "surrender" word, something only we know and that I can scream at him and he'll know I've had it with the whole natural childbirth thing, no arguing, no "You only asked me twice" just action and fast. "You've seen more births than I have, what is a woman least likely to say?"
"I don't know. 'How about a blow job before the next contraction.' I don't think I ever heard that."
"Could work. I'd have to try not to take you at your word."
"I can't think about this any more. Make me some tea?"
"Sure. And how about I do something with Carter's flowers? That bucket isn't doing a lot for them."
"How do you know they're from Carter?"
"Who else? Besides, they're in a bucket." He gets as far as the hallway when the 'phone rings; I can hear it's from Croatia and after a few minutes he comes back to get me and he's grinning and I'm grinning back because we've got it. In triumphant unison we say "Ivica!"
......................................................................................................
I've been thinking about stuff, a lot of stuff. All those things I looked back on and I realise suddenly that I'm not doing that so much. I feel like everything's opened up in front of me, like I have a future and instead of being terrified I'm excited. Don't get me wrong, I'm scared too but . . . I don't know how I can explain. All that stuff before – I don't feel like it was ever about me, not really. It was my mom, my dad leaving, my mom some more, Richard – it was all stuff that happened to me like some crazy soap opera script writer was thinking stuff up, stuff to torture me with. I think if I'd found out I had an evil twin who had been plotting my downfall from her secure hospital ward somewhere in Argentina before making good her escape disguised as a face-lift patient covered in bandages I might actually have felt better, it would have made more sense.
Now – now I feel like I'm writing the script myself. Well, sort of. Maybe I'm a consultant producer. Except I don't really want a script, you know. I mean, I know what happens on the last page, I get killed off and no- one's going to wake up and find me in their shower any time soon after that. It's OK; I don't want sneak previews of what happens up to then, but at least I know I'll be playing other parts. Wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend. Was a time when I had to be just one of those at a time but shit, my repertoire's expanded and I can play them all together. I don't have to learn lines or know what side of the stage to walk on, or hit my mark because Matt Roush isn't watching and I can improvise if I want and dry and corpse because I have a very good supporting cast and a world class leading man.
A world class leading man whose head is an inch or two away from mine as he sleeps. He looks younger when he's sleeping, maybe we all do. He told me once that I look like Jasna when I sleep. He's a quiet sleeper. After getting home at noon he has to go back to work tonight, has to cover for Pratt who has put his back out I don't know how. So I came up here and lay next to him to watch him sleep and think about stuff. I'll have to wake him in a minute or two so he can shower and shave and dress and head off into the dark again. This sucks.
"Hey". Nothing. "Hey, wake up, it's eight thirty. Luka." Ah, movement at last. Except all he does is inch a little closer and rest a hand on me. "Luka."
"I know."
"If you want to eat before you leave – "
"I don't want to eat before I leave." His eyes flicker open. "Did you cook?"
"Hell no."
His eyes close again. "Another five minutes."
"Want to fool around?"
He laughs then without opening his eyes. "With you?"
"No, with Professor Mrs Backhaus."
"I'd stand more of a chance."
"Actually you'd stand more of a chance with Robin."
"And he can cook." Still, his mouth is on my neck, his hair tickling my face.
"Stop that, it's going nowhere." He stops and I regret it. He sighs and turns onto his back, eyes open now.
"Three days to go."
"Could be longer."
"This kid's a Kovac, we're punctual."
"Half Wyczinski. We're not."
"Fair point." He turns his head on the pillow to look at me, his eyes soft. "You OK?"
"I'm good."
"I'm not talking about your blood pressure."
"Neither am I."
"Come here." I wriggle closer and lay my head on his shoulder, listening to the clock ticking, his heart beating, feeling his hands on my hair. "When Dani was pregnant, toward the end, I never knew when she was going to be excited and when she was going to be absolutely terrified. Me, I was just excited. Too stupid to be terrified I guess. She was more of a realist than me."
"What about now? You more of a realist?"
"I don't know. But I'm terrified. And excited and grateful."
"I don't like the sound of grateful."
"Thankful then, is that better?"
"Better."
He's quiet for a moment or two, heartbeat, clock ticking, and then he says "You know, don't you, that there'll be no-one there except us, you and me."
"Do I?"
"I don't know. That's why I'm asking." I don't answer and he sighs. "Well, there'll be no-one else there for me." I twist my head upwards so that I can look at him. "Believe me?"
"I don't know. How can you be sure?"
"Because I have to be. Because I have a second chance and it's more than a lot of people get. Because I want to be sure, because I want this, I want this with you. Because we've earned it. I'm sure because I can be. I'm still standing, Abby, after everything, and it's what matters, maybe all that matters. Life, you know? It's taken me a long time but I'm in the middle of it all again and it feels so good sometimes that I could cry. We're in it together and together is a word I didn't think I'd ever use again."
It's not a word I ever thought I'd use at all but I don't say so. "I love you", that's something I can say and know what it means and be glad to say it and be glad that it makes him smile and his hold on me tightens a little and he says "I know."
January 11th.
Doorbell. Damn. I knew this was a mistake – now I have to roll onto my side, then onto all fours and slowly right myself, and my ankles aren't even back yet. And I'm not expecting visitors and I look terrible and oh, great, Carter.
"Happy Birthday!"
"Yesterday."
"You sure?"
"I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that. Come in, you're letting the cold air in."
And in he comes, the flowers obscuring his whole head, and he drinks coffee at the kitchen table while I try and arrange them artistically. In the end I give up and stick them in a bucket with some water. "I'll do it later."
"It really was yesterday?"
"It really was."
"I'm sorry. I thought it was today."
"No kidding. It doesn't matter."
"Still – "
"Carter, it doesn't matter. I don't like birthdays much."
"Do anything nice?"
"Yeah – we went for a picnic."
"What, a sit outside and eat picnic?"
"By the lake. Hot soup and dancing to the Rolling Stones."
"That a Croatian thing?"
"It's a Luka thing."
"Right." There's a silence; he picks an apple out of the fruit bowl and polishes it on his sleeve; puts it back.
"Help yourself."
"What?"
"Fruit – help yourself. We can afford it and it's good for you."
He laughs a little then. "So – how are you?"
"Bored. Moody, irritable." Another laugh. "It's OK, you can say it."
"What?"
"'No change there then'."
"I wouldn't dare."
"You were thinking it."
"No."
"Sure you were."
A moment's pause. "Yeah. So . . . I wanted to say I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"The crap about you and the baby."
"And Luka. Don't forget Luka."
"Don't forget Luka," he repeats under his breath. "He told you what I said?" He looks uncomfortable now.
"The gist of it."
He nods. "I was out of line."
"Forget it."
"No, I . . . I'm happy for you with all this," and he nods to indicate the house and kitchen, my impressive frontage, "and I know I keep saying that and then screwing up but it's true."
"So why do you?"
"What?"
"Keep screwing up?"
"I don't know. Because you let me?"
"I let you?"
"You chew me out and then forgive me."
"Must be love."
"That's the thing, I think it must." Oh boy, what are we talking about here. "I, er," and he clears his throat, "I've not had a lot of call to use that word, and when I have it's been . . . well it's been narrow."
"Narrow."
"Yeah. I don't even know if I can say I love my parents. I mean, I love them like a kid loves them because they're my parents but as people . . . I don't think . . . they're not very lovable."
"Not like me," I say and immediately regret my flippancy.
"You have your moments" he grins. "Thing is, Abby I do love you. I love you for what you are, you know, for who you are, and it's just taken me a while to see that that doesn't mean that I'm supposed to . . . be in love with you."
"You just now realised this?"
"Pitiful, huh?"
"Well – "
"Pitiful. But you know when I saw it? When you told me that you didn't need me to look out for you, that it was Luka's job and he was doing just fine with it."
"That's all it took?"
"That and everything that went before it."
"Well, you know, we can never have too much love in our lives."
"Ah, the watchword of Kerry Weaver."
"And Robert Romano. You want some more coffee?"
"Sure." The silence that follows is more comfortable and we go on to chat about Christmas which he spent with Jing-Mei's family and couldn't wait to get away which they did the day after to an hotel and holed themselves up there for two days "redefining their boundaries".
"Two days and nights of crazy sex, huh?"
"Yeah. How about you two? I mean . . . I don't mean -"
"Crazy sex? Look at me. Once I'm underway stopping is like halting an oil tanker. My crazy sex days are over for the time being. In fact my crazy sex days are probably over for about the next 5 years."
"Poor Luka."
"Poor me! I was kinda enjoying married sluttiness."
"Lucky Luka."
"He knows it. Hey, look at this." I lead him into the sitting room, cursing as yet another pine needle lodges itself in my foot and I pick up Ivica's picture, holding it in front of my face. "Guess who?"
"Wow."
"It's an original Kovac."
"Luka?"
"Kovac the Elder."
"I didn't know he did portraits."
"I don't think he does much but, you know, I am that pretty and that special."
"Absolutely." he says and of course he doesn't know what it means, what I just said. "What did you get him?"
"Ivica?"
"Luka."
"Nothing."
"Cheapskate."
"We said we weren't going to buy gifts and he sprang this on me."
"Bastard." I look at him sharply then but he's smiling.
"Yeah. I hate him."
"I can tell."
"Ask me about my birthday present."
"What about your birthday present?"
"It's coming all the way from Zagreb and costing thousands of dollars."
"The Croatian Crown Jewels?"
"They don't have crown jewels. Well, I don't think they have crown jewels."
"Then what?"
"A piano, baby grand, badly out of tune and needs polishing."
"You play the piano?"
"Nope. Luka can a little but he's not to touch it."
"I don't get it."
"It was his mother's. His dad was going to have to sell it and I saved the day."
"How much does it cost to ship a piano from Zagreb to Chicago?"
"Not my concern."
"See I was going to say that taking the piano was a sweet thing to do for the old guy and now you've gone and spoiled it."
"Also not my concern. And besides, you love me, right?"
"Right." He goes over to the window and looks out into the godawful dreary greyness of the late morning.
"I'm thinking . . . I'm going to ask Deb . . . I'm going to tell her I want us to find a place together."
"Wow. I thought . . . "
"It's better. I mean once I smacked myself in the face and woke myself up. Love's where you look for it, right? It doesn't beat a path to your door. And I mean, even if it did it might be heavily disguised."
"I think you should leave it there with the metaphor."
"No, no, it's good. Important thing is to open the door and see past the disguise."
"You just said that it doesn't beat a path to your door."
"I did, didn't I. OK, then you have to sit in the rocker on the front porch and watch out for it."
"What if it goes down a different street?"
"You're pissing on my parade here."
"I'm sorry. I know what you're saying. I mean, I can look back and see turning points, landmarks, you know, when if I'd done something different it would have changed things totally. Some of them are open door moments."
"Are we for real, talking like this?"
"You started it."
"See that's why I love you."
"Why?"
"I talk crap and you talk it right back."
"Hey, I'm an Earth Mother now, you can't talk to me like that."
"Not yet you're not. How's that going?"
"Good."
"Liar."
"I feel like shit."
"No signs of anything yet?"
"Couple of contractions but they never amount to much."
"You've got a few days left yet. No rush."
"You try living with 30lb of live eels strapped to you and tell me that."
"You want it over?"
"Yeah. And no. I don't know."
"You scared?"
"Only when I think about it."
"Which is . . . "
"All the time."
He nods. "What are you scared of?"
"Everything, nothing. This is a person, I'm going to be its mother. Mother isn't a word with a whole lot of good associations for me."
"Abby – "
"You know, you should meet Luka's dad. He'd kick you into shape in no time. Did it for me. He's hell on wheels the old bastard but he knows a bit about life. Use it or lose it."
"That what you're doing?"
"You bet. I'm scared shitless Carter but I've never felt so alive in my life. It's better than drink. You should go talk to Deb and just, you know, go for it, stop thinking about it, stop – "
"– being the guy whose brother died and who has useless parents and who got stabbed and stole drugs at work and turned himself into a squalid junkie."
"Not quite what I was going to say."
"I'm sort of channelling my Grandmother here. "
"She said that?"
"Not exactly; something like it."
"Think she'd be interested in an elderly Croatian widower with paint down his fingernails and a dirty laugh?"
"Wouldn't that make Luka my . . . uncle or something?"
"Hey, I'd be your aunt! How cool would that be?"
"I think I've heard enough."
"You'd have some cool cousins too – Anna's a beauty and if you can wait a few years – "
"OK, I understand that you want to get in practice for the post partum crazies but this is creeping me out."
"No, I think it's a good plan. This way we get into your will, right?"
"See now you're talking crap back at me without me talking it to you first."
"I win!"
......................................................................................................
January 12th,
Cold. Cloudy. Freezing wind. Ominous twinges for about half an hour and then nothing but my back aches like a sonofabitch.
I can't get to the table to eat, I can hardly move, but it doesn't stop me washing all the clothes we got at the shower and from my mom and the grandmothers. Again. I've made up the crib, stacked the diapers, opened the nursery window a little for fresh air, can't settle, feel like I'm on hot coals. Everything is ready. Even me. I think. Carter's flowers are still in the bucket. Luka hasn't mentioned them.
January 13th
"Sonofabitch."
"I don't think that's going to work. I mean how far do you think you're going to get before you're saying that?"
"OK then how about foley? Ten blade?"
"You want to confuse the staff?"
"What if I just grab you by the throat and threaten you with violence?"
"You might want to do that anyway."
We've been at this half an hour now. I want a "surrender" word, something only we know and that I can scream at him and he'll know I've had it with the whole natural childbirth thing, no arguing, no "You only asked me twice" just action and fast. "You've seen more births than I have, what is a woman least likely to say?"
"I don't know. 'How about a blow job before the next contraction.' I don't think I ever heard that."
"Could work. I'd have to try not to take you at your word."
"I can't think about this any more. Make me some tea?"
"Sure. And how about I do something with Carter's flowers? That bucket isn't doing a lot for them."
"How do you know they're from Carter?"
"Who else? Besides, they're in a bucket." He gets as far as the hallway when the 'phone rings; I can hear it's from Croatia and after a few minutes he comes back to get me and he's grinning and I'm grinning back because we've got it. In triumphant unison we say "Ivica!"
......................................................................................................
I've been thinking about stuff, a lot of stuff. All those things I looked back on and I realise suddenly that I'm not doing that so much. I feel like everything's opened up in front of me, like I have a future and instead of being terrified I'm excited. Don't get me wrong, I'm scared too but . . . I don't know how I can explain. All that stuff before – I don't feel like it was ever about me, not really. It was my mom, my dad leaving, my mom some more, Richard – it was all stuff that happened to me like some crazy soap opera script writer was thinking stuff up, stuff to torture me with. I think if I'd found out I had an evil twin who had been plotting my downfall from her secure hospital ward somewhere in Argentina before making good her escape disguised as a face-lift patient covered in bandages I might actually have felt better, it would have made more sense.
Now – now I feel like I'm writing the script myself. Well, sort of. Maybe I'm a consultant producer. Except I don't really want a script, you know. I mean, I know what happens on the last page, I get killed off and no- one's going to wake up and find me in their shower any time soon after that. It's OK; I don't want sneak previews of what happens up to then, but at least I know I'll be playing other parts. Wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend. Was a time when I had to be just one of those at a time but shit, my repertoire's expanded and I can play them all together. I don't have to learn lines or know what side of the stage to walk on, or hit my mark because Matt Roush isn't watching and I can improvise if I want and dry and corpse because I have a very good supporting cast and a world class leading man.
A world class leading man whose head is an inch or two away from mine as he sleeps. He looks younger when he's sleeping, maybe we all do. He told me once that I look like Jasna when I sleep. He's a quiet sleeper. After getting home at noon he has to go back to work tonight, has to cover for Pratt who has put his back out I don't know how. So I came up here and lay next to him to watch him sleep and think about stuff. I'll have to wake him in a minute or two so he can shower and shave and dress and head off into the dark again. This sucks.
"Hey". Nothing. "Hey, wake up, it's eight thirty. Luka." Ah, movement at last. Except all he does is inch a little closer and rest a hand on me. "Luka."
"I know."
"If you want to eat before you leave – "
"I don't want to eat before I leave." His eyes flicker open. "Did you cook?"
"Hell no."
His eyes close again. "Another five minutes."
"Want to fool around?"
He laughs then without opening his eyes. "With you?"
"No, with Professor Mrs Backhaus."
"I'd stand more of a chance."
"Actually you'd stand more of a chance with Robin."
"And he can cook." Still, his mouth is on my neck, his hair tickling my face.
"Stop that, it's going nowhere." He stops and I regret it. He sighs and turns onto his back, eyes open now.
"Three days to go."
"Could be longer."
"This kid's a Kovac, we're punctual."
"Half Wyczinski. We're not."
"Fair point." He turns his head on the pillow to look at me, his eyes soft. "You OK?"
"I'm good."
"I'm not talking about your blood pressure."
"Neither am I."
"Come here." I wriggle closer and lay my head on his shoulder, listening to the clock ticking, his heart beating, feeling his hands on my hair. "When Dani was pregnant, toward the end, I never knew when she was going to be excited and when she was going to be absolutely terrified. Me, I was just excited. Too stupid to be terrified I guess. She was more of a realist than me."
"What about now? You more of a realist?"
"I don't know. But I'm terrified. And excited and grateful."
"I don't like the sound of grateful."
"Thankful then, is that better?"
"Better."
He's quiet for a moment or two, heartbeat, clock ticking, and then he says "You know, don't you, that there'll be no-one there except us, you and me."
"Do I?"
"I don't know. That's why I'm asking." I don't answer and he sighs. "Well, there'll be no-one else there for me." I twist my head upwards so that I can look at him. "Believe me?"
"I don't know. How can you be sure?"
"Because I have to be. Because I have a second chance and it's more than a lot of people get. Because I want to be sure, because I want this, I want this with you. Because we've earned it. I'm sure because I can be. I'm still standing, Abby, after everything, and it's what matters, maybe all that matters. Life, you know? It's taken me a long time but I'm in the middle of it all again and it feels so good sometimes that I could cry. We're in it together and together is a word I didn't think I'd ever use again."
It's not a word I ever thought I'd use at all but I don't say so. "I love you", that's something I can say and know what it means and be glad to say it and be glad that it makes him smile and his hold on me tightens a little and he says "I know."