She trudged on until she came to a small brook. An ancient tree gripped the big boulder by the water, its exposed roots winding over the granite and into the soft earth. She felt the rough wood of the trunk and thought of their elm back home. This tree was probably so much older. Older than her neighborhood, older than her country maybe. She wondered if their elm would ever get that old, and if their names, carved in its side, would still be visible after hundreds of years.
She ran her hand along the bark, feeling its rough edges, and then she felt it. The smooth patch at shoulder level, the bark stripped away, the letters etched into ancient wood. A single word. Small and awake as a heartbeat: cherry.
“What are you doing out here?”
She jumped at his voice. He came strolling down the hillside, kicking loose the pebbles and dirt and letting them tumble into the brook. Even in the low light, she could see his eyes were red and raw.
“You did this?” she said, her hand on the sharp word in the wood.
He was quiet. She’d stumbled into his private gloom, tracked her own misery into his, here by the water.
“I’m sorry,” she said, trying to find more words, a joke maybe. “I have nothing.”
He looked confused. “What do you mean? I’m here.”
“You don’t want to be with me,” she said. “I don’t know if I’d let you take me back, even if you did.”
He looked up into the branches, and losing his eyes was like losing him in miniature, all over again; she didn’t even have his full attention. But then, no. He was just trying to hide his tears. “No. That part’s changed. It’s changed. But we’re still something.” He looked at her. “We’re still family.”
She came to him carefully, worried he might vanish. But he was solid and stayed in her arms when she held him. He didn’t move at first, but then, stiffly, his arms encircled her. He felt so sturdy, so permanent. And Cherry felt so shaky, like a leaf ready to drop off in autumn. Her legs felt weak, and she lost herself, falling against him. He caught her. He helped her up, put his arm around her shoulder.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m not feeling too good. I keep getting these cramps.” She blinked. It was hard to concentrate. She felt drunk but hadn’t been drinking. “I feel kinda woozy.”
“Let’s get back to the house.”
He led her through the orchard, pointing out the smaller roots, helping her over the large ones. She tried to walk on her own, but her feet felt weightless, floating out from under her. Soon he was supporting her entirely, and Cherry felt the ground fall away. The stars were swimming through her vision now, and she realized Lucas was carrying her through the orchard as she drifted in and out of consciousness.
“I hate . . . damsels . . . in distress,” she whispered to him.
They crossed the road, and she felt the even rhythm of the stairs, and then the light and echoey music of the front foyer undulating around her. She closed her eyes and squeezed her arms around his neck, and suddenly she was back in their elm in Aubrey, between their trailers, her arms around the trunk, her body hidden by the waxy summer leaves. She pressed her cheek against the smooth bark. It was smooth where Lucas had once carved their names, but the names were somehow still there, beneath the surface, burning with life.
“We’re here,” a voice said, and she opened her eyes, and they were in the downstairs bathroom. There were three mirrors, three panels here, Lucas with his arms around her, Red Guy and Green Guy, and all over again he was saving her life.
“In and up,” she mumbled, and Lucas was there, helping her sit beside the toilet and holding back her hair. But she didn’t feel queasy. The blood began to return to her head. She was on the bathroom floor with her fiancé, and Ardelia and some strangers were crowded around the door, looking worried.
“I didn’t see how much she had to drink,” said Ardelia. “Did anybody?”
“She’s had nothing but seltzer,” said Eve.
“I’ll call an ambulance,” said Spanner.
“Let’s give her some space,” said Lucas, standing and spreading his arms, barring the crowd. When he got them through the door, he closed it, and they were alone.
Cherry pulled herself onto the toilet seat. The light-headedness was replaced by pounding. Light spots danced in her vision. “That was scary. God, my head.”
Lucas crouched in front of her. “Do you want aspirin? Not sure if that’s okay if you’re feeling faint. . . .”
She swallowed, still unsteady on her feet, and reached out for the counter. Lucas checked in the medicine cabinet. There were sanitary pads, some tile cleaner, and a blue-and-yellow box Cherry recognized, the Sure! test.
“Wait,” said Cherry.
Oh.
“What is it?” Lucas asked.
After a while, Cherry opened the door. Ardelia was sitting on the bottom step of the master staircase. Spanner stood by the window, and Maxwell was slumped against the wall. Ardelia stood, hands folded, looking worried. They waited for her to speak.
“Well?” said Ardelia. “Is everything all right?”
“I’m not sure,” said Cherry. “I think so.”
“What was it?” said Spanner.
Cherry put her hand over her stomach and laughed. She grinned at them.
It was pretty funny.
“Well,” she said, “I’m pregnant.”
Cherry’s hands ached from rolling burritos. She wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, took a long swig from her lemonade, and folded the last of thirty. Vi was propped on the counter. The girls had changed out of their commencement gowns — Vi into a tank and shorts, Cherry into a breezy sundress. Despite the two mini–oscillating fans, both were slick with sweat.
“They look fine,” Vi said. “Don’t . . . no! Don’t reroll!”
“This is a matter of personal pride.” Cherry redid the last burrito. “I can’t let people think I’ve lost my touch.”
“For burrito rolling?”
“It’s my stance — that’s the problem. I should be closer to the counter.” She rubbed her tummy. At eight weeks, there was a just-visible bulge. “Sorry, Baby Bump, but it’s true. You’re ruining the burritos.”
“Hey, don’t blame Bump.” Lucas came in through the side door with bags of ice in both arms. “You’ll hurt his feelings.”
“Or hers!” Vi corrected.
“Oh, those look heavenly.” Cherry hugged Lucas, pressing the bags of ice between them. “I love you, but you know this is just for the ice, right?”
He laughed. “I’ll try not to take it personally.”
“Cherry!” Pop bellowed from the yard. “Where are those damn burritos?”
It wasn’t much of a yard, just a few square feet of scrub grass, a patio table, and a George Foreman Grill, all secreted away behind the tenant house on Vernon Hill. They’d been calling it “Shangri-La.”
“Don’t rush the pregnant woman!” she shouted through the window.
Lucas hefted the bags of ice into the freezer. The rest of the fridge was stuffed with barbecue supplies. So far the kitchen was the only room in the tiny bottom-floor rental that looked lived-in. Everything else (there wasn’t much else, just a living room, bedroom, and bathroom) was piled high with half-unpacked cardboard boxes. The barbecue was doubling as a housewarming.
“What time are people getting here?” Vi asked.
Cherry hefted the burrito tray, balancing it on her tummy. “Any minute, so could you start setting out the chips? Oh, and call Stew. He was supposed to be here an hour ago with paper plates.”
Vi saluted, hopped off the counter, and squeezed past Cherry into the next room.
“I wish you’d take a break,” said Lucas.
“Just try to make me sit still. You think I’m bat-shit crazy now?”
She looked around at the chaotic kitchen, the spilled seasoning, the tortilla wrappers overflowing from the trash bin.
“Home, sweet home,” she said.
He kissed her
forehead. “Heaven.”
“My feet are killing me.”
“We have mildew.”
She smiled. “Heaven.”
“Cherry!” Pop bellowed from the lawn.
“I told you I’m coming!”
“No, not that! I think . . . you’ve got a visitor.”
She hesitated, then handed Lucas the burrito tray and hurried down the stairs leading to the street, which in a few minutes would be lined with the cars of friends, extended family, even a few teachers Cherry’d invited, everyone from her old life she wanted to continue on into the new: the new home one town over; the new receptionist job at the fertility clinic up Vernon Hill; the new marriage after Labor Day; the new baby due in February.
Ardelia was paying the cabbie. She stepped out onto the sidewalk, and they hugged.
“I didn’t know Worcester had cabs.”
“I’m only in town for a day. Decided not to rent a car.”
“Oh,” said Cherry. She didn’t know where to put her hands. It was so strange to see her. It was like someone doing an Ardelia Deen impersonation. “What brings you to the States?”
“I got an invite,” she said, “to an important event.” She removed a crumpled piece of paper from her purse. It was a printout from her e-mail account. In the body of the message was Cherry’s BBQ invite. But Cherry hadn’t sent it.
“Hello, Lucas,” Ardelia said. Cherry turned. Lucas stood on the porch, leaning against one of the supports.
“Hi, Ardelia. Glad you could make it.”
Cherry turned back. The starlet smiled weakly. “I hope . . . that’s okay.”
“Well . . .” said Cherry.
The mosquitoes hummed. She could feel her feet throbbing.
“Well,” said Ardelia.
Cherry sighed. “You better go around back before someone spots you and calls the press.”
It was eight thirty, and the sun-kissed, pork-saturated guests had all trailed away. The kitchen was a disaster area, the yard an atrocity. Pop, Stew, and Lucas were in the den watching television, and Cherry smiled to think of Lucas in the big easy chair, in his living room, the man of the house. A sunburned Vi was asleep on Cherry’s bed. The sun was still setting.
Cherry and her guest lounged on the front porch overlooking the street. Both girls were damp with sweat, holding cold glasses of lemonade to their temples. The day’s heat was just beginning to break, and there was electricity in the air. Late-night thunderstorms were expected.
“I can’t believe Olyvya Dunrey cried,” Cherry said, and they both laughed. Ardelia sighed.
“A lot of people claim to be my number-one fan, but I actually believed her.”
Cherry took a sip, cleared her throat. “I’m, uh, sorry we didn’t talk much.”
“You were a busy hostess,” Ardelia said.
“I mean, at all,” said Cherry. “After everything.”
“Oh, yes.” Ardelia considered her ice cubes. “There’s no reason for you to apologize for that.” She glanced at Cherry. “You received my letter?”
“Yeah. It was very thoughtful.”
“I meant it. All of it.”
“It’s okay,” said Cherry. “It’s . . . we’re past it now.”
Heat lightning turned the sky a living white. She’d have to run inside and close all the windows. Unless Lucas remembered to. Her brain felt foggy. She was so exhausted. The rain would feel so good.
“You’re working?” Ardelia asked.
“And going back to school,” Cherry said. Ardelia looked surprised. “I know, right? I’m training to be a counselor. They’ve got a service for young women up at the clinic. Sometimes they need someone to talk to.” She smiled. “I like to talk to them.”
“That sounds perfect.”
“What about you?”
“A new project. Science fiction, actually. Robots. I’m the villain. I thought you’d like that.”
Cherry chuckled. “And Spanner?”
Ardelia cleared her throat. “Spanner and I have parted ways. Temporarily.”
“You fired her?”
“No! No, I didn’t want her to go. But Spanner decided she needed some time on her own. Which I suppose is a good thing. She’s gone home to see her parents.” Ardelia did a little internal math. “This is the longest we’ve been apart in sixteen years.”
Cherry refilled their lemonades from the big pitcher. She liked the rattle of the ice. It was a cooling sound. She sat back, glass balanced on her tummy.
“I saw your pictures in People magazine,” she said. “We get it at the clinic. You know, for the waiting room.”
“Oh, yes.” Ardelia twirled her finger in her lemonade.
“So . . . you really went to a fertility clinic?”
“Yes, I really did.”
“You should have called me. I could have hooked you up.”
Ardelia laughed. “Yes, well.”
“And?”
“And I’m going to wait until I’m eight weeks to announce it but . . . I am officially, well and truly pregnant.” Ardelia raised her glass. “You think this would just be lemonade if I wasn’t?”
“That’s a change.”
“Spanner convinced me,” she said. “And you did.”
They were quiet a moment. More lightning.
“I just kept thinking what my daughter might think of me, if I did it the other way.” Ardelia set her glass on the table. It made a soft clink. “I wouldn’t want her thinking of me the way you do.”
“Hey, I don’t . . .” Cherry wasn’t sure what she thought of Ardelia. But she didn’t hate her. “It sounds like you’ve changed.”
Ardelia thought about this. Her eyes searched Cherry’s. “You haven’t.”
“Yes, I have.”
Cherry leaned back in the lounger, putting her swollen feet up on the porch railing. Ardelia looked down at her own stomach, resting her hand there.
“So, when are you due?” Cherry asked.
“March 24.”
Cherry thought. “That’s the day we met. March 24.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” The two girls looked up at the sky. “We should have a joint shower.”
Cherry looked over and smiled. “That sounds awesome.”
The sky was deepening to pink and lavender, the houses and trees turning to dark silhouettes against the sky. She could smell barbeque and her own sweat, and feel the mist of her breath off the cold, cold lemonade. Sprinklers were sputtering, and there were kids, brand-new kids, screaming somewhere, laughing, playing late-evening tag the way she and Stew used to, until they were called in — five more minutes becoming one more minute and then right now! Someone was playing music, and Cherry thought she could hear a train whistle, long and low, taking someone away, taking someone home.
Any second, it would rain. She could feel it.
“Everything’s going to be different now,” said Ardelia.
“It always is,” said Cherry.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To paraphrase one of my favorite authors, Cherry had a most difficult birth. She owes her existence to many people. First, to my agent and mentor, Scott Treimel, who suggested I write a book “about pregnancy” and who guided me through many versions of this story. If Cherry has a godfather, he is it. Second, to my superlative editor, Deb Noyes-Wayshak, who had the vision, patience, and fortitude to help me shape and refashion Cherry’s story until it was just right. She is undoubtedly Cherry’s godmother. Third, to all the folks at Candlewick Press and Walker who contributed their suggestions and insight, in particular my U.K. editor, Lucy Earley, who, among other things, honed my Britishisms.
My deepest gratitude to my best friend, Evan Simko-Bednarski, who talked me out of many trees, and Helena Fitzgerald, who talked me off many ledges. Thanks to my close friend and colleague Vicki Lame, who read many versions of this book and was its champion from the get-go. Thank you to Antonio Elmaleh, Anne Williams, and Cathy Ann Horn for their warmth, wisdom, and hospitality. Thank you
to my mother, Kate, who is so much a part of this story, it’s embarrassing. Thank you to my father, John, who is forever my first and greatest role model. Finally, thank you to Sarah Elmaleh, my constant companion, my love, and my muse.
www.candlewick.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2013 by John M. Cusick
Cover photographs: copyright © 2013 by Thomas Barwick/Getty Images (girl); copyright © 2013 by Ocean/Corbis (trailer park)
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.
First electronic edition 2013
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 2013931460
ISBN 978-0-7636-5557-0 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-7636-6709-2 (electronic)
Candlewick Press
99 Dover Street
Somerville, Massachusetts 02144
visit us at www.candlewick.com
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