“I wasn’t . . .” Too late, I see the mischief in her face and stop myself.
“Now. Did you eat? Did you bring snacks and water? Make sure you hydrate like crazy.”
“Yes, Mom.” I hold up my water bottle in one hand, my baggie full of crackers and cheese and nuts in the other.
“I don’t see Lance puking or having to go to the doctor or giving up a single one of his plans. He can just deal with a little discomfort around this freaking play. All right?”
“All right.”
But it’s not all right. My feelings for Lance run deeper than I want them to. The minute we walk into the theater, my eyes find him in the semi-dark. My heart lurches drunkenly. Val squeezes my hand. “You’ve got this.”
“Thank God!” Bill bellows when he sees me walk in. “Thought maybe we were going to have to cancel the performance. Sorry, that came out wrong.”
“Over here, you two,” calls Tara. “We saved you a place.”
Lance, on the other side of Tara, says nothing, just looks grim.
“You going to be okay to do a full run-through?” Bill asks. “Your health is more important than anything, of course.”
I make a little curtsey. “The show must go on, right?”
“As you say,” he booms approvingly. “You’re a pro, Liz. Well, then, let’s get started. Tonight we’re aiming for a complete run-through. Might go a little long. Next week we’ll be drilling down into trouble spots. And the week after that is tech week—adding in the lights and mics, orchestra and choir, complete costumes and props, the whole shebang. Eat your veggies, boys and girls, because this is where the rubber meets the road.”
Lance and I manage okay onstage, but all of our lines fall just a little flat. In the scene where he kisses me, it’s very clearly a stage kiss, impersonal and cold. He looks tired, and my ridiculous soft side wants to comfort and soothe him. I harden my heart.
Poor baby, did you have a hard day? Did your little fun adventure end up not so fun?
I make sure I’m fed and hydrated before we get to the dance scene that dropped me to the floor last time. Lance keeps breaking the flow, holding on to me too long when he spins me, putting out a hand to steady me when he’s supposed to be turning the other way. When he causes a collision between two other people moving in their proper choreographed positions, Bill calls a halt.
“Everybody okay up there?” he asks as the music goes quiet and everybody stops to breathe and stare.
“Perfectly fine here,” I call out.
“Can we just take Lacey out of this scene?” Lance asks, not looking at me. “I’m worried about a repeat performance of last week.”
“Maybe we should take Darcy out of this scene so he doesn’t stomp all over Lacey’s toes,” I retort. I want to shake him, slap him, stomp on his toes, on purpose. How was I stupid enough to think I was falling in love with this man? He’s insufferable.
“I just think you should take it easy a little, given your condition,” Lance says.
My eyebrows go up. “And what is my condition exactly?”
I see him struggling with himself and realize that we haven’t talked and he doesn’t know if I’m still even pregnant. Did I run off and have an abortion? He has no way of knowing.
“Fragile,” he says after a long, uncomfortable silence. “Unwell.”
“I am not fragile. I’m pregnant. No more fainting episodes so long as I remember to eat. If Darcy will stop hovering over Lacey, the scene will be fine.”
“Good enough,” Bill says. “Darcy, you heard the lady. Stop hovering. Places. Music. Let’s go again.”
It’s late by the time we make it through a complete run of the play, and everybody’s nerves are frayed. Bill gives us a little pep talk.
“The first run-through always feels like a disaster. This is normal. Promise. The next couple of practices we’ll spend on cleaning up individual acts. Remember to clear your schedules for tech week! Now, go home and get a good sleep and dream of the flawless production we’ll have by dress rehearsal.”
I’m unconvinced, nauseated, and exhausted.
I’m also still furious with Lance and with myself. How did I fall for him? So many warning signs. That empty apartment he lives in, for one. And what is a fifty-year-old man doing just working for his brother and sister? No wonder his wife left him. He was probably a dick to her, too.
Bernie pulls me out of my dark thoughts. “When are we moving you?”
I blink at her. “I’ve scheduled a moving company.”
“Why on earth would you do that? We moved Abigail in. We can move you out. Way cheaper.”
“I can’t ask—”
“Are you kidding?” Tara asks. “Pizza and beer. We are in.”
“Can we do it on a Saturday? I’ll bring a truck,” Geoff says. “Can’t imagine you’ve got much stuff left. That was one epic yard sale!”
“Deal!” Bernie says. “Can’t wait to see the new house.”
Val grins and shrugs. “You know I’m in.”
“What happened to Lance?” Geoff asks. “We need at least one set of muscles.”
Everybody goes silent, exchanging uneasy glances. Finally, Tara smacks Geoff’s forearm lightly. “You are so clueless.”
“What am I missing?”
She sighs and tows him toward the door. “Come with me and I’ll explain it to you.”
“Lance will come around,” Bernie says, always direct. “He’s a good guy. Just taken by surprise, I’d think.”
“He’s not the only one,” I retort.
“Point,” Bernie agrees. “And you don’t have the luxury of running away. Want me to beat him up for you?”
I laugh at that, feeling lighter than I have in days. Maybe I’m not as alone as I thought I was. Val makes me feel even better.
“I had this idea,” she says as we’re driving home. “Later, when you’re further into your pregnancy, you can stay with me for a while if you want. I mean, keep the new house, but come and be closer to town. And maybe let me help you with the baby for the first couple of weeks. Unless Abigail is going to do it.”
“You are the best friend ever. I might take you up on that. Abigail is talking to adoption services.”
“Are you seriously considering that?” Val asks.
“Abigail is. Same difference.”
We laugh at that, but I sober quickly. “She might be right this time, Val. The idea of raising a baby by myself is daunting. It was hard enough when I was eighteen, and I had Thomas. Plus, that bit about being retirement age by the time the poor kid graduates high school? And my budget doesn’t exactly allow for a child.”
“Did he actually help?” Val asks. “Thomas, I mean. I’m not seeing him changing midnight diapers.”
I snort. “Now that you mention it, it probably would have been easier without him.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
“Deny everything and pretend this isn’t happening?” I sigh. “Or, you know, grow up and have the ultrasound and start making decisions.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
June 14, 2019
Dear Inner Me,
Maybe I owe Thomas an apology. I wanted to be out from under all of his dogma and make my own decisions. Can I take that back? I thought this whole say-yes-to-life thing would be a big adventure. Drama productions and dream houses and fantastic sex.
Not decisions like whether to have an abortion or an adoption or try to raise a baby on my own.
Yesterday I had my ultrasound. Today I see the doctor and get the verdict. And then I have to decide. Abigail has already e-mailed me a link to a site where I can look at adoptive parents. I clicked it open and had a massive anxiety attack. All of these hopeful couples begging for my maybe baby. But I know damn well they aren’t all what they appear to be. Anybody can smile pretty for a picture and write up a thing about what a wonderful, loving family they are. If Thomas and I had put up one of those posts, we would have looked amazing. Which we clearly weren
’t.
And if this is a baby, and if I carry a baby to term, and if I keep it, then what about my plan to shake Abigail free from the way we raised her? She’ll make herself a martyr to raising a half sibling she secretly resents, and that would be horrible for both of them.
Oh God. What have I done?
I’m dreading this doctor’s visit. I’m dreading tomorrow’s move. I’m dreading rehearsals and talking to Lance and the minute Abigail gets out of bed. I’d probably still be in bed myself, hiding under the covers, if I had an actual bed to be in. This sleeping-on-the-floor routine has got to go.
Dr. Lerner looks at the computer monitor, reading intently, while I fidget, shuffling my feet, tapping my fingers on the arm of my chair. Finally he swivels toward me and gives me a long look over the top of his glasses.
“Well, it’s definitely a baby.”
“Oh good. I was worried it might be an alien.”
The man has never had a sense of humor. He doesn’t laugh, just keeps looking at me in a way that raises my anxiety level to the point where I finally ask the question that’s really been bothering me.
“Is it okay? The baby? Is it . . . Down syndrome? I read I’m at high risk for that.”
“We can’t really tell so early. It’s implanted in a good place in the uterus. The heart is beating. But we can’t see most birth defects for a long time yet. Trisomy 21—what you call Down syndrome—and some other genetic abnormalities don’t ever show up on the ultrasound unless they come with a significant physical problem. Which is why we’ll do genetic testing. And an amniocentesis.”
“What’s the amnio thing?”
“Very simple procedure. We insert a needle through your belly into the uterus and withdraw an amniotic fluid sample that we then send for analysis.”
I stare at him in horror. “I don’t want to do that.”
“Truly it’s not a big deal. Most women say that it is painless. You’ll want that information so you can make decisions. If the fetus is—compromised—you can choose to terminate.”
“No.”
His smile disappears. “Elizabeth—”
“Liz.”
He raises his eyebrows.
“I’ve always been Liz. Elizabeth was a Thomas thing.”
“All right, then. Liz. Having a baby at your age is entirely possible. Some career-conscious women are doing it these days on purpose. But it’s serious business. It’s not just hard on your body, your reproductive cells are aging. Did you know that a baby girl is born with all of the ova already formed? So yours have been around for fifty—”
“Forty-nine. Why does everybody insist on adding on that extra year?”
He sighs, patiently. “Okay. Forty-nine years, six months, and, what, twenty-three days? Those eggs are past their shelf life.”
“You make it sound like I’m going to give birth to a three-headed chicken.”
“The principle is the same. Are you ready to commit the rest of your life to a three-headed chicken?”
“I don’t know if I’m ready to commit the rest of my life to the most beautiful and perfect chicken in the world.”
He shifts his position, his face going impersonal and even more professional than usual. “We don’t do terminations here, as this is a Catholic facility. But if you choose, you can visit Planned Parenthood.”
As soon as he says the words, I know termination isn’t really an option. Much as I would love to avoid the reality of months of nausea, of sleepless nights, of the embarrassment and discomfort of waddling around with a giant pregnant belly, not to mention the pain of childbirth, I know I can’t do it.
I’ve said the words “the baby.” I can no longer think of this interloper as an alien or a chicken or a clump of cells. We’ve crossed that line with this whole beating-heart thing. And if it’s a baby, then it gets to live if it wants to, no matter how many heads it has.
I shake my head. “I won’t terminate. Even if there are birth defects. So I can skip the needles, right? I mean, there’s no point to it.”
“Due to your age, I strongly advise that you still have the testing. And then you’ll know what you’re getting into. Have you considered adoption?”
“It’s a possibility.”
He nods. “Is the baby’s father involved?”
“He is not.”
“In that case, you might strongly consider whether you have the resources you will need to raise a child on your own. If you do choose to adopt, the prospective parents may want to have the DNA testing. So take a few days to think about it, but not too long. There is an optimal time frame, so we need to get you scheduled. Due to your age and the potential for complications, I’d also like to refer you to a specialist in Spokane.”
“I’d rather deliver here.”
“Let’s have you at least meet with the specialist once, shall we? I’ll have my nurse come in and talk to you about all of these referrals.”
The rest of the visit passes in a blur.
All I can think about is that there can be no more denial. It’s time to step into the reality I’ve accidentally created.
Maybe it’s too late to control whether or not I’m with child, but at least I can decide when and how the news is going to break. First, I text Abigail and Val:
Not a tumor. Definitely a baby.
Val responds with encouragement. Abigail doesn’t respond at all.
When I get home, I call Earlene and invite her over for a cup of coffee.
“It’s about time you and I had a chat. It’s been weeks!” She walks into my kitchen with her nostrils pinched as if she smells something rotten. I sympathize. Coffee doesn’t smell good to me today, and I’m wishing I’d thought to make tea instead. Not that this conversation is going to be pleasant, no matter what the beverage.
“How is the knitting circle going?” I ask, setting a cup of coffee down in front of her and launching into the safest topic I can think of.
“It is just not the same. Felicity has no sense of tradition. She is forever trying to change things. She has brought in new people, and they all want to knit from patterns. Can you believe it?” Earlene takes a sip of coffee and makes a face. “Don’t you have any sugar?”
“It’s actually packed. Sorry. Abigail and I don’t use it, and the move’s coming up.”
Earlene glares at me. “How have I not heard about this? Felicity and Pastor Steve don’t move in here until next month. I have heard absolutely nothing about where you are moving to or when.”
I blow on my hot coffee to hide my amusement at her affronted tone.
“The house I’m buying is available now. And I decided, why wait?”
“A house?” Earlene asks. “If you had asked me, I would have advised something smaller. Where is it?”
“Colville is a little short on condominiums,” I say dryly. “And I’m not living in an apartment. The house is out on Williams Lake Road.”
“So far? You will come to regret that, Elizabeth, in a few years. I spend more time at doctor’s appointments than almost anywhere else these days. And nighttime driving? Don’t even get me started.”
“Well, it’s a little late now. I’m moving tomorrow.”
“You are what?” She sets down her cup in genuine consternation. “There is no time now to organize a moving party. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Actually, Earlene, I have plenty of help.”
She’s busy with her phone, not listening. “Let me see what I can do. There are one or two people who might be available on short notice. If you hadn’t stopped coming to church, we would not be in this predicament. If Felicity knew about this and didn’t tell me, I will set that girl straight in no uncertain terms!”
Moving without Earlene’s advice and approval is one thing. Moving without allowing her to arrange interference is yet another. She’s out of breath, her face flushed, and I touch her wrist to slow her down and allow me to launch the real bomb.
“Earlene. Please don’t blame Felicity. She kn
ows nothing about any of this. I do have another matter to discuss—of a confidential nature. I’ve told nobody at church as of yet. Can you keep this to yourself?”
Her smile is so genuine, I feel slightly guilty over my manipulation. She pats my hand gently. “You can always confide in me, Elizabeth.”
I look directly into her eyes and let the cat out of the bag. “I’m going to have a baby.”
Earlene’s forehead wrinkles, her lower lip presses in against her dentures, and she continues absently patting my hand, trying to process this news.
“Surely Abigail is not—”
“Oh heavens. No. Abigail is not.”
“So you’re adopting, then? At your age? Are you sure this is wise?”
“I am having a baby,” I repeat, enunciating every word. “I’m pregnant. The baby is due at the end of January.”
“You’re . . .” She stops. Blinks repeatedly. She looks like a robot with some sort of glitch, and I start to worry that I’ve broken her.
“Are you all right?” I ask. “Shall I get you a drink of water?”
“A baby,” she says. “You. January.”
My evil self is enjoying this moment more than she should be. “Maybe you could knit a blanket in the circle. Of course, I don’t know yet whether it will be a boy or a girl, but . . . are you leaving already?”
Earlene pushes back her chair and gets to her feet but just stands there looking a little dazed. I carry her nearly untouched coffee to the sink, empty the cup and refill it with water. “Here. Drink this.”
The water brings her back to herself. Setting down the cup and wiping her chin, she says, “Well, then. I really do need to go get started on finding moving people. I’ll let you know.”
“One thing done,” I say as soon as the door closes behind her. “What’s next?”
I spend the rest of the day finishing my packing while simultaneously running lines for the play. Moses disapproves and is whiny and unhappy because I won’t let him outside, afraid he’ll run off due to the disruption and not come back before it’s time to go.
Most of the cookware is packed, so I put together a giant dinner salad for me and Abigail and am just setting it out with a couple of paper plates when she slams the front door and stomps into the kitchen.
A Borrowed Life Page 21
