Early Departures

by Justin A. Reynolds

  Her head bobs. “I can walk.”

  I jump out, run around to her side just as another contraction strikes. She groans, pulverizing my hand in her own with the sudden strength of the Incredible Hulk. I choke down a yelp.

  We wait for her pain to subside and then carefully get her on her feet. Her hand immediately goes to her back, the other to her belly, that tropey pregnancy pose. “You’re doing so good, Whit.”

  “Don’t lie to me,” she says.

  “I wouldn’t.”

  “I’m really glad you’re here.” Except the way she says it feels like she’s omitted still. I’m glad you’re still here. A side effect of losing so much.

  “What? You think I’d miss this?”

  We take a few steps, but another wave comes raining down, and she leans into me, her face a clenched fist. “I think I may need that wheelchair.”

  “Yeah? Okay, sure. No problem.” Except there are no wheelchairs in sight. Probably a few at the main entrance. But I can’t exactly leave her.

  The glass door flies open, a wheelchair barreling toward us. It’s squeaky AF but easily the best thing all day.

  Well, second thing.

  The first is the person steering.

  “Whit, come on. Sit down. I’m gonna get you up there,” Ms. Barrantes says, putting the brakes on.

  “Oh my God, I’m so happy to see you,” Whit says, as we help her sit, lifting her feet onto the shiny foot pedestals. “I think the baby’s coming right now, Ms. B.”

  “What are you doing back at work already?” I ask her as I unlock the brakes.

  Ms. Barrantes spins the chair around. “Just trying to keep busy.” She laughs. “Plus, when I stay home, a certain someone thinks he has to keep me company all day.”

  I shrug. “He doesn’t think he has to. He just wants to.”

  I run ahead, prop open the glass door, move my feet out of the way as she steers Whit straight in. Ms. Barrantes slaps the elevator button.

  Whit groans, her hands squeezing the chair handles, her back slightly arched.

  The doors open and we all climb/roll in.

  “Whit, I know it’s hard, baby. But try not to push, okay? We’re almost to triage. Just hold on. You’re doing great, Whit. You and your baby are gonna be just fine.”

  The elevator chimes, the doors part. Two other nurses waiting on the other side. Whit’s OB, Dr. Stokes, behind them, shaking his hands like pom-poms.

  “Let’s go have a baby,” he sings.

  I’m not allowed in the delivery room. Well, I guess not allowed isn’t right. More like it’s probably weird to be in the room when your sister is having a baby. I stand beside the door, though.

  I hear Whit bringing life into this world.

  I hear a baby cry out.

  I hear Whit gasp.

  I’ve never heard anything more amazing.

  Not even close.

  2

  Whit’s beaming when I enter the room.

  “Look who’s heeerrre. It’s your Uncle Jamal.”

  With every step toward the bed, fear and joy battle for my brain.

  But I see her face and it’s an immediate KO, joy’s hand raised in victory.

  It’s true, brown eyes are a dime a dozen, but hers are devastating, like twelve photon torpedoes simultaneously crashing into my heart at close range.

  “She’s a girl,” I say. “Called it.”

  “You did.”

  “She’s the most beautiful human alive, Whit. You did so good. Look what you made. Like, wow. Nothing you do from here on out will ever top this, you know that, right?” I say, laughing.

  Whit cracks up. “I wanna argue with you but you’re probably right.”

  “Am I allowed to know her name now, or is it still a secret?”

  “Actually, I think I might’ve just changed it, but I wanted to know what you thought.”

  “So, let’s hear it.”

  “Jada Quinn Anderson.”

  And it’s perfect.

  “You think Dad would feel left out?”

  Whit shrugs. “Next kid’s his.”

  “Next kid,” I say, but before I can press her for details, someone’s knocking at the door. And then Ms. B’s walking in, out of her scrubs and in street clothes.

  “Hey,” Whit says. “Look, Jada, it’s our favorite nurse.”

  Ms. B smiles. Her eyes red, maybe for crying, maybe from exhaustion, I’d put my money on both. “You up for a little company?”

  Whit nods. “Jada’s been waiting for her godmother to come back and see her.”

  Ms. B’s really cheesing now, and I carefully transfer Jada into her arms. “Jada Quinnnnnnn,” she coos. “Jada Quinnnnn . . .”

  And okay, I know it’s not possible for a newborn, but I swear Jada grins.

  A familiar voice at the door. “Heard there was a party in here,” Autumn says, flowers and a string of balloons in one hand, two gift bags squeezed together in her other.

  I hurry over, take the balloons and flower bouquet.

  Kiss her face and feel the rush I always get when she kisses me back.

  “Hey, baby,” I say.

  “Hey, baby,” she sings back.

  “Eww, get a room, you two,” Whit yells, waving her hands like we physically stink.

  “But not a room here anytime soon,” Ms. B pipes up, giving us her patented stare. “You hear me, you two?”

  And we crack up, even though we know she’s serious as hell.

  Because we know she’s serious as hell.

  She’s already told us she’s gonna use the time she has on her hands to make sure we all stay in line. She’s already talking about painting a room for Jada, when she watches her when Whit starts back up school in the fall.

  I wonder if it’ll be Q’s room.

  Part of me hopes not.

  But also, I think Q would like that.

  Would want that.

  And then just when I think this room can’t possibly be full of more joy.

  Three rapid taps on the door, and standing there with more shiny foil balloons in one hand, a vase of yellow flowers clutched against his chest, and tears in his eyes is . . .

  “Whit, ohmigod, ohmigod, I can’t believe . . . I’m so sorry I wasn’t here, baby. But wow.” He moves quickly to the bed. “You look so beautiful. Radiant.”

  “Liar.” Whit wipes her eyes. Smooths her hair, which she’d thrown up in a messy bun. “I look terrible.”

  He kisses Whit’s forehead, gently, like she might break. “You’ve never looked terrible a second in your whole life.”

  I clear my throat extra loud. Wave at my sister, at Angeles.

  “My bad, I’m so rude,” Angeles says, pulling me into a hug. “How’s my ace?”

  “Making it,” I say.

  “Dang, either you been lifting or you really trying to crack my ribs right now,” Angeles says, squeezing my bicep. He rubs the top of my head and then takes in the rest of the room. “Autumn! Did you get that article link I emailed you?”

  “The one about renewable energy? Umm, yeah. I read it like three times.”

  He laughs. “Figured you’d be all over it. How are you?”

  “Making it,” she echoes.

  Whit tugs at Angeles’s shirt. “Angeles, there’s someone else I want you to meet. This is . . . this is my mama . . . what should I call you?”

  “That’s Mama B,” I chime in.

  “Has a nice ring to it,” Mama B says. And she turns to Angeles. “Do you want to hold your daughter?”

  Angeles grins, his hands shaking. “I’d love to.”

  He reaches down, and Mama B holds up Jada. “Say good morning, Daddy. We’re so happy to see you.”

  My niece in a room full of people who love her.

  Who’ll protect her.

  And okay, even when you do your best to keep the people you love safe, things still happen. But you still try.

  You still love them with your whole self.

  Love them foreve
r.

  Even if their forever turns out to be not nearly long enough.

  “She has your eyes, Jamal,” Angeles says.

  And I don’t know if it’s true or not, but it feels good to hear.

  “But she has her mama’s mouth. Look! Already pouty.”

  And we all laugh, Whit loudest of all.

  “I do not have a pouty mouth. Potty sometimes, but not pouty.”

  Angeles nods. “I can already tell she’s a heartbreaker.”

  Jada swaying in Angeles’s arms, Jada’s tiny eyes fluttering, exhausted.

  We all are.

  So, how do you know when it’s time to stop grieving?

  When it’s time for our hearts to move on?

  I thought it was when the loss stopped hurting so bad.

  When breathing stopped being so hard.

  But the hurt-intensity isn’t letting up.

  My heart isn’t ready to ease up.

  I guess it’s like having a physical injury and asking, how does your body know when to stop hurting?

  We don’t get to decide.

  We wait.

  And while we wait, we maximize our time.

  I look toward the window, the sun pushing its way through the closed blinds.

  A few tears roll down my face, but I laugh them away.

  “She hails from a family of heartbreakers,” I say.

  We laugh some more.

  Because comedy rule number one, jokes are always funnier when they’re true.

  1

  Dear Q,

  Yesterday in therapy, Dr. Ocean suggested that when I miss you so bad it hurts, I should write to you. Which, to be honest, I’m not sure how I feel about this. It’s weird, but man, Q, I really wish you were here right now. So here I am.

  And I won’t lie to you. Since you left, there are days when I really struggle. When I want to do nothing more than stay in bed for the rest of my life, cocooned in a thousand blankets.

  I can’t tell you how many times a funny thought crosses my mind and I reach for my phone to call you. Every now and then, I do call you—just to hear you say Wait, are you really contemplating leaving me a voice mail? Listen to me. Texting is your friend.

  Sometimes I scroll through our text chain and just crack up—I did this yesterday while waiting for Dr. Ocean to finish up with a patient, and the receptionist glared at me like I just cut her off in traffic, which I blame you for.

  But mainly, I see this as a true testament to your gift.

  You’re so funny, I read your jokes and laugh my ass off.

  I guess your jokes are kinda timeless. But don’t get a big head or anything, okay? I’m still funnier. Ha!

  Speaking of funny, Jada is hilarious. Like, she makes these faces where her entire face scrunches and her little mouth turns up in this awesome smirk. Whit says she’s just gassy, but Angeles and I disagree. She’s sassy, and we love it. Also, I’ve pretty much realized I’m never gonna be able to say no to her, so cool, cool.

  Your mom is doing okay. A few times a week, we eat dinner together. She’s teaching me to cook! Last week, we made enchiladas. And okay, mine tasted a little weird but still! I want you to know I’m going to live up to my promise. She’s in good hands, don’t worry.

  Okay, well, Autumn just got here. I hear her downstairs laughing. She’s actually using the front door these days, haha. I guess, eventually everything changes.

  That’s it for now.

  I love you, Q.

  Sincerely your favorite co-host,

  Jamal

  I walk downstairs and into the kitchen. Whit’s standing at the island, an empty blender box on the counter, next to what is apparently a new blender. She looks up at me and smiles. “Hey, have a good nap? I didn’t wake you up with the noise, did I?”

  “Your sister’s making her own baby food now,” Angeles says, bouncing Jada on his knee. “And we get to be her taste testers for her very first batch. Yay.”

  Whit shoots Angeles a look, but he’s too busy lifting Jada up to sniff her butt. He makes a disgusted face and motions for me. “Hey, favorite uncle, your niece wants you.”

  I wave him off, and kiss Whit’s cheek.

  “Nice try, man. But Uncle Jamal doesn’t do poop, sorry.” I peek into the living room. “Autumn’s not here? I thought I heard her.”

  But before they can answer, someone yells “BOO” behind me, and I nearly jump out of my shoes. I clutch my chest. “Ohmigod, you could’ve killed me.”

  Autumn laughs. “You’re so easy to scare, I couldn’t resist,” she says with a shrug.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say, pretending to be upset.

  “Don’t be mad,” she says, draping her arms around my neck and pulling me into a kiss. “There, did that help?”

  I frown. “A little, but I’m still pretty shaken up.”

  She laughs, kisses me again. “Now?”

  “We’re getting there,” I say.

  “Ohmigod, groan,” Whit exclaims. “I thought you guys were going out.”

  “We are,” I say. I turn back to Autumn. “Except Autumn won’t tell me what we’re doing.”

  “We’re gonna have fun,” Autumn says. “Trust me.”

  And by fun she meant . . . a bike ride.

  “Bike riding is good for the soul,” she says.

  You should see us, decked out in elbow pads, helmets—the ones with the blinking light and the little rearview mirror thingy that extends like an antenna out in front of you—because safety, right?

  Whit’s alternating between taking pictures and laughing her ass off, although I’d say the ratio is more like thirty to seventy in favor of the laughs. Angeles is pumping Jada’s arms up and down, like she’s cheerleading. And I swear she’s smirking at me.

  “You guys look so cute,” Whit says.

  Autumn’s one of these people who keeps her bike attached to her car at all times. A hood-rack-having, waterproof-match-carrying human. One of those nature over Netflix types who walk around insisting a little fresh air is the solution to all our problems.

  That being said, I love the heck outa her.

  And I gotta admit, she’s not wrong. Being outdoors is already making me feel calmer. You know, except for the one-woman paparazzi.

  “See you guys soon,” Whit calls out after us.

  “Remember to use your hand signals,” Angeles yells, and I wave goodbye to him with my middle finger.

  The wind is howling something fierce; with each gust I jump, the way you do when you’re nice and toasty and someone comes in from the cold and rubs their icy feet on you.

  “Deadman’s hill,” Autumn shouts over the breeze.

  “Thought you said a nice leisurely ride?”

  “Are you down?”

  I give her a thumbs-up and we pedal faster, with purpose. Leaves, no match for our rubber-burning, crumble beneath our wheels.

  Cars slow down to honk at us and encourage us along. Or maybe to tell us to get out of their way. But either way, people are taking notice.

  Autumn pulls up first, straddling her bike with both feet firmly on the ground. “You sure you’re up for this?” she asks.

  Deadman’s Hill is not named ironically. With its steepness, its skid-prone asphalt, to even walk down it feels like you may be unnecessarily putting your life in jeopardy. So to bike down, it is probably not the sanest thing we could do.

  But life is nothing if not a series of risks.

  Taking chances.

  Rolling the dice.

  I unsnap and resnap my chin strap, pulling it tighter. I glance over either shoulder; no traffic as far as I can see.

  “The only thing I’m worried about is whether you’ll be able to keep up,” I say.

  Autumn laughs. “Oh, please, for the sake of your lungs, I’ll try to keep my dust to a minimum.”

  “Haha, you’re hilarious. I hope you’re a fan of participation trophies because that’s all you’re gonna—”

  But I don’t get to finish my boasts becau
se Autumn is a madwoman.

  Autumn starts pedaling feverishly down the slope, before lifting her feet and letting gravity do the rest.

  “Hey, you’re cheating, man,” I yell after her.

  She laughs into the wind, howls with excitement, and I push off after her, a little scared, yes, but feeling all sorts of alive.

  At the bottom, Autumn throws her arms into the air and laughs.

  I’m smiling, laughing. This is what it feels like to find something you’ve lost: happiness.

  0

  * * *

  JAUNCY RIDES AGAIN

  TuberOne

  19,812 views 1392 19 | JAUNCY COMEDY DUO | SUBSCRIBE 37,321

  * * *

  Hey guys!

  This is gonna be a really, really short video, but also a really cool video—

  Becaaauuusee I have a very, very special guest rejoining me!

  Jamal! That’s right! The gang’s back together!

  Jamal: Reunited and it feels soooo good. Yep, do not adjust your screen, you aren’t seeing things. Q and J, your favorite comedy duo you never knew you needed, is baaaaack.

  Q and J: It’s Jauunnncccyyyyyyy!

  J: Wuuuuut up, guys?!

  Q: As you can see he’s very excited to be here!

  Jamal: The excitedest!

  Q: He’s even making up words, that’s how pumped this man is. So some of you are probably like, why a guest, you’ve never done a guest before, Q—

  And you’re right!

  KIND OF!

  Because this guy—not only has he been one of my best friends since diaper days, he was also one half of Jauncy, a comedy duo-ship we had back in the day . . . then we had a bit of a hiatus—

  J: Because I suck

  Q: You don’t suck, man.

  J: C’mon, bro, I sucked.

  Q: Okay, you sucked. But you’re not sucking anymore.

  J: I’m doing my best to not suck. How am I doing, man?

  Q: Not bad, not bad. You’ve got a bright future.

  J: That means a lot.

  Q: Now look who’s getting all emotional. You told me not to get all emotional and now it’s you.

  J: I’m not being all emotional.

  Q: Mm-hmm. It’s okay, man. Let it out.

  J: Can I just . . . I just wanna say something . . .