Twenty-One
“I’ll be damned, it’s true.”
Tanner hugs Easton before slapping my hand. “Yeah, yeah,” I tell him. “Get the teasing out of your system now.”
“Hey, I think it’s great, you two being back together. Maybe now Bram will stop asking me about you-know-who.”
I lower my voice, but not much. “Are you and Skye…?”
“No,” he says loudly, stepping aside so we can walk through to Bram’s backyard, “and thank you for not saying this shit in front of Milena, at least.”
“Where’s she at?” Bram calls from the grill. “I haven’t seen your engagement announcement in The Hillford Times yet, by the way.”
“‘If it’s not in the Times,’” Tanner, Hudson, and I say at once, “‘it didn’t happen.’” Easton laughs. The newspaper’s slogan hasn’t changed since automobiles were the hot new trend.
Tanner pointedly ignores Bram’s actual question and gets Easton and me a beer from the cooler. Hudson and the rest of the party, mostly high school friends we used to drink with by the river, say hello and eventually pull us in different directions. I smile whenever she glances my way, a silent reminder that we’ll have plenty of time together later.
“Seriously, man, are you guys a couple again?” Bram shuts the grill and joins me in the semi-circle we’ve made out of lawn chairs. “Officially?”
“I don’t know—I guess. We haven’t talked about it yet.”
“Probably should,” Hudson says. “You pissed her off pretty bad last time around, not doing the ‘boyfriend-girlfriend’ thing.”
“First of all,” I sigh, swigging my beer, “we were kids, last time around. I don’t think that shit matters to her anymore. The labels and all that. Second: who cares what everyone else thinks we are, if we know what we are?”
“Does she know?”
I lower the bottle mid-sip and stare at him. “Look, she knows I care about her. She knows I’m not going to see anyone else. That’s ‘boyfriend-girlfriend,’ right?”
“So why not call it that?” Bram asks, laughing like he can’t believe what a dumbass I’m being, an action we usually aim at him.
“I said we haven’t talked about it yet. Not that we never will.” I scratch my neck. Blood’s rising to my face, and I’m not sure why. “Can we drop this shit? Seriously.”
“All right, all right.” Tanner holds up his beer. Bram and I clink it with ours, while Hudson lifts his soda can.
We don’t cheers to anything. We almost never do. If you stick with silence, you can make it mean whatever you want.
For most of the cookout, we just catch up and razz each other; Easton and Marnie play a round of tetherball in the yard, all of us heckling from the sidelines. I think for sure the subject of us getting back together is old news, by now.
I really should know better.
“So, Easton, I gotta ask”—Tanner unfolds an extra lawn chair so she can join our circle on the patio—“what made you get back with this guy? Last I heard, you hated him.”
“I did,” she says simply, and flashes me a smile when the group erupts into Oohs and teasing. “But he won me over, I guess.”
“Aren’t you leaving soon, Ford?” Marnie asks, and half the circle nods. I could tip each and every one of them out of their chairs for bringing it up, but I’ve only got myself to blame. Anytime I ran into people from the old group, I gave them the same spiel: Yes, I’m back in town. No, I’m not staying long. A few months, at most.
“It’s not decided,” I answer finally, and finish my beer just so I’ve got an excuse to get up and get another, out from underneath Easton’s stare.
“Are you going with him?” Great, now Marnie turns her questionnaire on Easton. I knew I never liked that girl. I’m pretty sure she only got added to our group because her brother bought us Grey Goose at cost.
It seems like the entire party holds their breath at once, waiting for Easton’s answer. Even I do, my back to them, hands rifling through the cooler.
“Um...I don’t know. Like Ford said, nothing’s decided.”
“All right,” Bram announces, “I’m sick of hearing about Ford. Can we please discuss the fact not one of you has commented on my new tattoo?”
My chest loosens. When I come back to the circle, I make eye contact with Bram long enough for it to count as thanks.
“Oh, sorry, I should take this.” Easton pulls her ringing phone from her purse and steps inside, giving me a smile as she passes. Something is off about it, but she might just be happy to escape the questions. I don’t blame her.
“Hey.” Tanner taps my leg as I sit, pulling me into a side convo. “Don’t fuck things up with her, this time.”
I laugh. “Trust me, I don’t intend to.”
“No, I’m serious.” He pauses, and I see Hudson lean in behind him. Even Bram, still showing Marnie and another girl his tattoo, glances at us. He’s listening.
“Look, man,” Tanner whispers, “Easton’s a sweet girl. She was messed up for a long time, when you took off like you did.”
“We all were.” Hudson pushes his hair back with one hand, denting the soda can with the other. Guess I counted my chickens a little early with the whole forgive-and-forget theory.
“I’m sorry, guys.” I clear my throat and stare at my beer. It tastes sour now, and I set it on the concrete by my foot. “I know leaving without telling anyone was....”
“Inconsiderate?” Hudson finishes.
Tanner adds, “Insulting?”
From across the circle, Bram calls, “Complete bullshit?”
I glance at him; he’s already back to his conversation with the girls. “All of the above,” I tell Tanner and Hudson. “I’m sorry. I guess I...didn’t think anyone would miss me that much.”
“We did.” Tanner’s voice gets an edge when he says this. He glances at the door. “And Easton—she missed you more than anyone. Don’t do it to her again.”
“I won’t,” I say quickly. This conversation can’t end fast enough.
“Ford?” Easton hurries onto the patio and digs through her purse. “I need to go. One of my clients is having problems; she might need help.” She exhales, the sound twisted with the slightest hint of panic. “Where are my keys?”
“I’ve got them,” I remind her, patting my pocket. When she holds out her hand, I stand up. “I’ll drive you there, if you want. Maybe I can help.”
She hesitates, then nods and steadies her breathing. “Yeah...yeah, okay. That’ll work. If I need her carried out to the car or something.”
We say our goodbyes fast. It’s not the easy afternoon I envisioned for us. And I doubt, after seeing a live birth, either of us will be in any mood for yoga on a twin mattress. But we’re together. That’s all that matters.
We don’t speak until we’re on the county highway. I push the speed limit and roll down our windows, letting the wind mingle with whatever playlist she’s got on.
“That was fun,” she says. “Seeing everyone in one place, I mean. Usually it’s running into Tanner at the auto shop, or Bram when I’m shopping on Main. I see Hudson the most, probably, just because he’s always in Spoonbread when my grandma and I get lunch, but you know how he is. Just a wave, maybe a hi. He doesn’t talk much when he’s working. Did you know Tanner and his fiancée booked the Hillford Hotel garden for their wedding?”
“Wow.” I laugh, though I’m not sure there’s anything to actually laugh about. “You’ve kept in better touch with the guys than I have, that’s for sure.”
“Well...of course I have.” She gives me a once-over. “I’ve been here. Why did you say it like that?”
“Like what?”
“That. Like you were annoyed with me.”
“I wasn’t annoyed. It just seemed like you were rambling, so...I summed up the conversation.”
“Rambling. Okay.” She shakes her head, hair whipping against the seat in the breeze.
When our first turn comes up, I make sure to t
ake it slower than I usually would, a sort of peace offering. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it how it sounded. I just meant you seemed nervous, and that that’s why you were rambling. I didn’t know how to respond.”
“I am nervous,” she snaps. “My client is home alone, eighteen weeks pregnant, and bleeding.”
“She isn’t in labor? I thought this was a birth we were going to.”
“No.” Easton’s voice has gotten so soft, I have to roll up the windows to hear her. “She’s not that far along.”
My heartbeat throbs into my temple. If there’s anything I can say to make this better, it escapes me by a wide fucking mile.
I opt for silence. It’s safer.
“Ford?”
“Yeah?”
Easton lifts her chin, so I ready myself. Whatever’s coming next, it won’t be pretty.
“Why didn’t you tell me Bennett died in that accident at Lucerne?”
The car hits a pothole, hard, and jostles us. I might have done it on purpose. “I don’t know. It didn’t really come up.”
“I asked, plain as day, how he died—and you just danced around it. Why didn’t you tell me then?”
I’m tensing up like she’s shouting, but that’s the thing: she’s not angry. She just sounds sad. What I wouldn’t give for another pothole, right now.
I play my old standby: when there’s no answer you want to give, don’t give one at all.
Easton waits a long time, longer than I would, before rolling her window back down and letting the wind fill half the silence. Then she turns the radio up, filling the rest.
Twenty-Two
Kennedy’s house sits on the edge of forty acres her family used to own. She sold it all, save for one little patch by the creek that cuts through the fields.
While I show Ford where to drive when the access road ends, we look at the houses-in-progress around us. Some yuppies tried to build an HOA community here, thinking the nothingness between Filigree and Hillford would be the hot new homebuyers’ club. It wasn’t.
Two houses are barely framed out. The Tyvek is ruined on one side of a mammoth faux-colonial, and the ground is littered with craters for foundations that might never get poured. I wonder if Kennedy regrets selling it. Besides the eyesores of perpetual construction, she’s now got to deal with the closeness of neighbors that don’t exist. Physical reminders that someone should be there to help her, but isn’t.
“Right there,” I tell Ford, and point to the little A-frame behind some crepe myrtle. I stare into the searing white petals while he parks. Together, we haul my arsenal of supplies inside, even though I have a horrible, sinking feeling in my stomach that all we’ll need is my cell phone.
“Kennedy?” I call, when I test the door and find it unlocked. I guess she doesn’t have anything to lock it against.
“You’re sure she’s here?” Ford whispers.
“Yes, I’m sure,” I hiss, even though suddenly, I’m not. Maybe she tried to get somewhere on her own. Maybe she got tired of waiting for me.
Worse: maybe I’m too late.
We hear a bump from the bathroom. I set my supplies on the sofa and tell Ford to wait.
“Kennedy?” I knock. From inside, I hear sniffling.
Then, weakly: “Easton?”
“It’s me, I’m here.” Calm down. I’ve got to tame this breathy, panicked thing going on with my voice. “Can I come in?”
I hear her burst into tears, but a moment later, the lock clicks. I turn the knob.
“It’s everywhere,” she sobs, when I step inside and just barely avoid the blood pooled on the linoleum. The room smells like sweat and rust.
She’s on the toilet with her underwear around her ankles, a blood-soaked sanitary pad attached. Her legs are streaked with it. Her hands are stained.
There’s a trail from the copper soaking tub to where she is. I look inside and see the bathwater, now cold and clouded red, that she soaked in trying to tame the cramps before I arrived. From the pinched look on her face, they haven’t let up.
She says it again when I come back with one of my bags: “It’s everywhere.” I know what she means.
When there’s this much blood on the outside, you somehow know, deep down, there can’t still be a baby on the inside.
“We’re going to get you to the hospital and see what’s up,” I tell her. How my voice is so even right now, I have no idea, because my heart is wedged into my throat. I’ve never seen anything like this in my life.
Well, not never. Once.
“Ford,” I shout, “call an ambulance—see how long it’ll take for them to get here.”
“Okay. Should I just tell them the intersection or...?”
The door opens. Kennedy gasps; she’s completely exposed. Ford doesn’t even glance at her, though. As soon as he sees the blood smeared all over the tub and floor, he’s gone.
My hands shake as I slip on my gloves and help her change into some gauze underwear and a mega-sized sanitary pad. After I clean her legs with some sterilizing wipes, then give her one for her hands, she whispers, “I need a shirt, and—and pants....”
“Upstairs, right?” She nods. “Come on out and sit on the sofa. I’ll get you something loose to wear.”
She’s dizzy, stumbling as she stands. I pull her underwear the rest of the way up and wrap her in a towel from my bag. “Ford,” I call, “she’s coming out, and she isn’t dressed. So don’t look.” When I nudge the door open, Kennedy’s arm thrown over my shoulder, I find the living area empty. Ford is nowhere in sight.
“Here, rest a second.” I lower her to the sofa. Through more tears, she thanks me. I thank God: the bleeding has slowed, at least for now.
Up in the loft, I find a baggy T-shirt and basketball shorts that would be perfect...if not for the fact they definitely belonged to her ex. I learned all about that asshole at Kennedy’s consultation with me a few months ago: as soon as she told him she was pregnant, he went out, got drunk, and slept with someone else. She’s been alone ever since, and—despite the defeated, late-night texts she occasionally sends me—better off for it.
I rummage through the rest of the wardrobe until I find a pink zip-up sweatshirt and some black sweats.
“You have your phone?” I ask. I don’t know where her family lives nowadays, but I imagine she’ll want to contact them. No matter what the news.
She curses as she fumbles with the zipper; I do it for her. “It’s in the bathroom.”
“I’ll get it.” This offer takes every bit of strength I’ve got. It’s not that blood bothers me. God knows I see plenty of it in my profession.
But this isn’t a normal day in my career. I see blood in contained places, normal amounts.
It’s the handprints that get to me. There’s one on the edge of the tub, and several stamped across the wall near the toilet. There’s even one on her phone case, when I pick it up off the toilet tank.
I grab some tissues and wipe it clean. Stay calm.
Kennedy is doubled over on the sofa when I come back, crying fresh tears. I assure her it won’t be very long. We’ll get her help.
“Let me check on the ambulance situation,” I tell her, and rush outside, away from the coppery scent of blood. My lungs still burn, but at least it’s with fresh air.
“Ford?” I look around the porch and front yard, overgrown with kudzu at one end and bishop’s weed near the other, then jog to the car and shield my eyes against the window. No sign of him.
Suddenly, I hear coughing from the house. At first I think it’s Kennedy, struggling her way to the porch to see for herself what’s taking so long, but the door’s still shut.
I run in the direction of the sound, skidding to a stop around the corner of the A-frame. He’s vomiting into the grass, one hand braced on the sloping roof.
I curse and pull my phone from my pocket. I knew I shouldn’t have brought him with me.
“Sorry,” he rasps, then spits as he stands upright and wipes his mouth. “It was just.
... I didn’t know there would be so much blood. I did try calling, by the way. The signal out here is non-existent.”
He spits again and steps up behind me, watching over my shoulder as, sure enough, the phone struggles to find a signal.
“Fuck.” I kick a mauled coffee can into the weeds; it spins dust and birdseed as it bounces. “Her hospital is over an hour away. She shouldn’t wait that long.”
Ford follows me to the porch as I comb my brain for ways to tell Kennedy this bad news in a way that won’t destroy her, which is impossible. When I reach the steps, he grabs my arm.
“What about Unity Regional?”
I stop, watching him shove two sticks of gum into his mouth at once. “In Filigree?”
“Yeah. That’s where my dad goes, so nobody in Hillford knows what’s going on with him. It’s small, but....” He motions inside, as if to say, Desperate times.
I reacquire the Zen I’m projecting like a five-time Oscar winner. “Unity Regional. Okay. Okay, yeah, we can do that.”
Less than five minutes later, Ford is navigating the access road like he’s already memorized it, while I sit in the backseat with Kennedy and try to keep her relaxed and positive. Yes, there was a lot of blood.
No—that doesn’t mean it’s all over.
Not that I ever actually tell her this. My training days at the birthing center taught me many things, the most important of which was to never assure clients of outcomes you can’t guarantee. Never make promises you can’t keep.
Instead, I say things like, “There’s no sense assuming the worst until we have more facts,” and, “Let’s just see what information we have with more equipment at hand.”
“Can you drive any faster?” She’s nearing panic mode, now, because apparently none of my carefully crafted responses are cutting it. She braces her hands on the back of Ford’s seat and checks his phone screen, pulled to the GPS in his cupholder.
“I can,” he says, making eye contact with me in the rearview, “but I don’t know if—”
The Midwife’s Playlist: A Now Entering Hillford Novel Page 16
