Authors: Anna Cruise
THIRTY SEVEN
ABBY
“You and West have plans tonight?”
I turned around, startled. My mom was standing in the doorway to my bedroom.
“Uh, yeah. Not sure what, though.” It was the fourth and West had said we'd go somewhere to watch the fireworks. Beyond that, I had no idea what he'd planned.
She folded her arms across her chest. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.” I picked up a folded shirt from the laundry basket sitting on my bed and grabbed a hanger. I slipped the shirt on to it and walked it over to my closet.
“I know we haven't had a lot of opportunity to talk about the baby,” she said. She stepped inside my room.
“That's okay,” I said quickly. “There's been a lot of other stuff going on.”
And there really had been. With her mastectomy and recovery, with her follow-up doctors appointments. Throw in finals and working at the office, always covering for my dad when he wasn't there, and I'd barely seen either of them except for when she'd been in the hospital.
“We should sit down,” she told me. “The four of us.”
“Okay.”
She unfolded her arms and shoved them in her pockets. I glanced at her. Her hair had grown out even more, long enough for her to clip it back with barrettes and bobby pins. Her expanders were already in, prepping her body for the implants that were scheduled for later in the summer, but they weren't noticeable. She wore a baggy t-shirt and, to the unknowing eye, she looked normal. Complete.
“I just mean that with everything that's been going on, I don't really know what your plans are. With the baby. The future. All of that.”
I didn't want to tell her that I didn't know, either. The baby still felt a little surreal to me, even closing in on six months. The flutters in my stomach, the pokes and prods that seemed to become stronger and more insistent each day—they were all reminders of what was happening, of what was growing inside of me, but I felt like I hadn't had time to fully absorb what was happening. Because there was a lot of other stuff that had taken priority.
“I know.” I reached for another shirt, shaking out the wrinkles and trying not to grimace at the darts running down the sides of the garment. I despised maternity clothes. “We can talk. Probably during the evening since West is working days.”
She nodded, a smile on her face. “Okay. Whenever is convenient.”
“Okay.”
“Abby?”
I turned my attention to her.
“We're not upset,” she said softly.
I thought back to the conversation we'd had in the living room back in May. I did know that. “I know.”
“Good.” She leaned up against the door frame. “I just...I want to be part of this with you. And I know we haven't gotten off to the best start because of everything else going on. The surgery and everything...” Her voice trailed off and I saw the tears sprout in her eyes.
“It's okay,” I said quickly. The last thing I wanted her to feel was guilty. “Honestly.”
She looked up at the ceiling, her eyes blinking rapidly. “I want to go to appointments with you. Go shopping for baby things. Clothes and diapers and rattles and strollers. All of that stuff.” She smiled at me through her tears. “And I'm sorry I haven't been able to. I'm sorry this goddamn cancer has gotten in the way of things.”
I dropped the shirt I was holding and it fell soundlessly into the basket. “It's not your fault, Mom.”
She nodded, wiping at her eyes. “I know, I know. But it's taken up more of my time than it deserves. More of my life. And your life. And the life of my grandchild.”
She pushed herself off the wall and moved toward me, sitting on the edge of my bed. I grabbed the laundry basket and put it on the floor and sat down next to her. She wrapped her arms around me and I felt her body shake and I knew she was crying. I answered with my own tears.
“I want to be there,” she whispered. “For everything.”
I just nodded, my tears soaking her shirt.
Because I wanted her to be there, too.
THIRTY EIGHT
WEST
“I fucking hate living here.” I slammed the steering wheel in frustration.
Abby glanced at me from the passenger seat. “Since when?”
“Since every goddamn person in San Diego decides to come to PB for the 4
th
.”
She tried to hide a smile. “Everyone?”
“Yes. Every single one of them.”
It was seven o'clock and we were sitting in gridlock traffic on Garnet, heading west. Cars clogged both the main road and all of the turn lanes. No one was moving. And it was not how I'd planned to spend the fourth with Abby.
“We don't have to go to Sessions,” she said.
“We're not.” It was our standard spot for watching fireworks, the park offering some of the best views for watching the fireworks explode over the Bay.
She looked at me in surprise. “We're not?”
I shook my head and inched the truck forward. At this rate, we'd be spending the entire holiday in my truck.
“Where are we going, then?”
I let out an exasperated sigh. “Nowhere, apparently.”
“We can just go back to your place,” she said. “We don't have to go anywhere.”
“No.” My voice was firm. It wasn't an option. Because I knew what we were doing. And it was going to happen, no matter how long it took to get where I wanted to go.
She stifled a yawn.
I glanced at her. “You okay?”
“Just tired.” She shifted in the seat, her hand resting on her stomach. “This kid doesn't know the difference between night and day.”
I stole another glance at her, this time looking at her belly. “Yeah?”
She nodded, smiling. “Stays up all goddamn night.”
I felt a twinge in my stomach, a twinge that morphed into a twisting vine of love and protectiveness that wrapped itself around my gut. “Just giving you some practice for when it's born,” I said.
She chuckled. “No doubt.” She shifted again, tugging at the seatbelt that lay across her stomach. She scooted toward me, then sighed and unbuckled the seatbelt.
“What are you doing?”
She slid to the middle seat and grabbed the lap belt, clicking it into place. “I wanna sit next to you.” She put her head on my shoulder.
I reached out my hand and squeezed her thigh. She was wearing a blue and white striped sundress and the fabric was soft, like a well-worn t-shirt. It hugged her curves and her stomach—our baby—stretched and strained against it. I let my fingers trail over the fabric and up her leg until they rested on her stomach. I palmed it, massaging her gently, my fingers kneading the hard firm flesh. I felt a poke as the baby responded to my touch.
Abby laughed. “Guess you woke him up.”
“He?”
She smiled. “I had a dream last night that it was a boy. He was born wearing a baseball glove and his penis was a baseball bat.”
“What the hell?”
She shrugged. “Pregnancy dreams are weird.”
“Clearly.”
But I couldn't help but smile. We'd chosen not to find out the gender. Well, Abby had decided and I'd relented. Her decision to wait had taken me by surprise. She hated surprises and I thought for sure that she'd want to know what we were having. But when we'd gone in for the ultrasound at twenty weeks and the tech had asked, Abby said no. She'd glanced at me quickly, a questioning look in her eyes and I'd just smiled and nodded. If she could wait, I could wait.
She snuggled against me and yawned again.
“You should take a nap,” I told her. “So you don't fall asleep in the middle of the fireworks.”
“I thought we weren't going to Sessions.”
“We're not,” I told her. I stroked her stomach softly. “I'm talking about different fireworks.”
THIRTY NINE
ABBY
Someone was shaking me. “Wake up.”
I opened my eyes, disoriented.
West was staring at me, smiling. “About time, sleepy head.”
I sat up. My chin was wet and I realized I'd drooled not only on myself but all over West's t-shirt.
“How long have I been sleeping?” I mumbled.
“Long enough for us to get where we were going.”
I straightened and stretched and glanced out the window of the truck. We were at the bay, right on Riviera Street. My phone was in my purse and I didn't wear a watch but, judging from the sky, it had taken us quite a while to drive the few miles to get there.
“We're going to watch fireworks from here?” I asked doubtfully.
“Maybe,” he said. He took the keys out of the ignition and stuffed them into the pocket of his cargo shorts. “We might be able to see them.”
I slid across the seat and hopped out of the passenger side. The sky was dark blue, purples and reds streaking the sky. I couldn't see the sun from where we were but I knew it had sunk below the horizon.
“What time is it?”
He reached for my hand. “Almost eight.” He had a backpack looped over his shoulder and a Mexican blanket draped over his other arm.
“So we're just gonna hang out here tonight?” I asked, looking toward the sand and the calm, dark water of the bay. A few sailboats floated by but, otherwise, it was empty.
“Is that okay?” he asked.
“More than okay,” I told him. And it was. Riviera Street and the bay would always hold a special place in my heart. It was where we'd had our first date, that party that he'd promised would be small but had included half of the teen population of San Diego. It was where we'd first kissed, where our journey together had started.
We made our way down to the sand, West keeping a firm grip on my hand as we navigated the steps down to the thin stretch of beach. I knew he was being protective, knew he was worried about me slipping and falling. I waffled between being grateful that he was so cautious and careful with me to being irritated that he thought I was that big of a klutz that it was something I needed help with. I was pretty sure most pregnant women managed to walk down sets of stairs all by themselves. Like, on a daily basis.
Families and groups of people littered the beach, parked in front of blazing fire rings. Older kids tossed Frisbees and smaller kids frantically worked on sand castles in the dying light. I slipped off my sandals, letting my feet sink into the soft, cool sand. West led me further down the beach, mimicking our walk that first night.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Just a little further,” he said.
We walked another fifty yards or so before he stopped. There were fewer people here, just a couple of families with a group of young kids goofing off close to the water's edge. West let go of my hand so he could spread the blanket. He dropped the backpack to the ground and sat down, pulling me down next to him.
“Hi,” he said.
I smiled. “Hi.”
I tucked my legs to the side and leaned back on my hands, breathing in the cool, salty air. I was glad we'd skipped Sessions, glad he'd decided to not brave the crowds and the drunkenness of 4
th
of July at the park. We'd had a good time the past couple of years but I wasn't in the mood for obnoxious people and illegal fireworks going off and the pungent smell of weed I knew would somehow work itself into the air.
He unzipped the backpack he'd brought and pulled out a thermos and two plastic cups.
“What's that?” I asked.
He unscrewed the cap. “Peach Snapple.”
I grinned. “God, I love you.” It was one of the only things I craved. I could drink gallons of it, breakfast, lunch and dinner.
He poured some into one of the cups and handed it to me. “You're so easy to please.”
I sipped it. “Did you bring a porta potty, too?”
He chuckled. “Nah.” He motioned to my dress. “But you can just hike that up and go wade into the water if you get desperate.”
I made a face. “Not a chance.”
“Yeah, let's see what you say about that an hour from now...”
I jostled his arm and he laughed, pulling me close. His lips nuzzled my neck and I closed my eyes and sank into him and sighed. I loved him, wholly and completely. His mouth moved from my neck to my jaw, finding its way to my lips, and he kissed me hungrily. I wrapped my arms around him, my fingers weaving through his hair and it was his turn to sigh, to pull me tighter, fitting himself against me.
“West,” I said, breaking my mouth free of his. “There are people...”
“I know, I know,” he muttered. His lips found mine again. “I'm just kissing you. And thinking about doing a million other things to you.”
I shivered in his arms. “Yeah?”
He nodded, his eyes dark. “Uh huh.” His hand moved from my arm to my ribcage and he rested his fingers below my breast. “A lot of things. Dirty things.”
“Later,” I promised. “After the fireworks.” I straightened a little and gazed out at the water, then turned so I was looking toward the road and the houses that lined that side of the street. “You know, if we face the other direction, we might be able to see some.”
“Maybe.”
“Unless you don't want to watch, “ I said.
“No, that's fine.” He reached for the thermos and filled his own cup. “I just wanted to go somewhere with you. Have a special night, you know?”
I nodded. I knew. It was one of the many thoughts that had started to creep in over the last few days. Thoughts about where we would be in a few months time and how our lives would change. Thoughts about how completely unprepared I was, how completely unprepared
we
were. We'd ironed out some of the details—West dropping baseball was a huge one—but it still felt like there were a million things to do to get ready. And not enough time to do it all.
We sat in silence, watching as the evening slipped further into darkness. Dots of light appeared on the beach, kids holding glow sticks and flashlights as they sprinted across the sand.
“What are they doing?” I asked, squinting at the shadowy figures.
“Looks like they've got a wiffle ball out,” West said.
I squinted more and tried to bring them into focus. There were five of them. One was holding what looked like a stick, some sort of make-shift bat, and another was winding up their arm, a slow-motion windmill. I watched as the kid released the ball, a flashlight trained on it as it moved through the air. The kid holding the stick swung hard. And missed.
“He's not swinging level.”
I looked at West.
“He needs to keep the bat level. He's swinging low to high.”
“Always the coach,” I said, smiling.
He smiled back and shook his head. “No. Just always the baseball freak.”
I looked back at the kids, watching as the ball was pitched again. This time, the boy swung and the stick connected with the ball, a soft thwack as it vaulted into the air before landing soundlessly on the sand. I thought about what West had said.
“Do you miss it?” I asked.
“Miss what?”
“Baseball.”
“I see a baseball nearly every day, Abs.”
I stretched out my legs and dug my toes into the sand. “You know what I mean.”
“No. I don't.”
I sighed. “Do you miss playing? Practices and stuff?”
He was quiet for a minute. “Honestly?”
I nodded.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”
I felt my pulse quicken, felt the guilt well up in my gut. I'd asked the question and I was pretty sure I knew what the answer was going to be, but it still stung to hear it.
“But not enough,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Not enough to go back to it,” he told me. He scooted closer to me, pressing his leg against mine. His skin was cool and goosebumps prickled my arms.
“I'm sorry,” I said.
“For what?”
I swallowed against the lump in my throat. “For making you choose.”