by Beth K. Vogt
“You’re not going to use the crib right away. Most of the time, a newborn sleeps in a bassinet or a cradle near the parents’ bed.”
“Why can’t I just use the crib?”
“Do you really want to be traipsing back and forth from your bed to the baby’s crib during the night?”
“No. But my baby isn’t going to keep me up at night.”
“Spoken like a delusional first-time mom-to-be. No newborn sleeps through the night.” Claire eyed the window. “Do you sew?”
“Not even a button on a blouse. If something rips, it ends up in the thrift store pile.” She stared Claire down. “What? We each have our talents. Can you drive tacks with a Glock at twenty yards? Disassemble and reassemble a Walther PPK in under a minute?”
“I don’t even know what you just asked me. But I doubt either of those skills is going to help you get ready for this baby.”
As if Claire needed to tell her that.
“Do you know what color you want to paint the room?”
“Blue?”
“Original.”
“Blue is a boy color.”
“Hundreds of years ago, boys wore pink. Did you know that?”
“No—and I am not painting this room pink. What would Sam think if I painted his son’s room pink?”
Her question thudded against the walls. What would Sam have said about any of this? Would he have wanted a son or a daughter? He’d been denied the chance to experience fatherhood—and her stubbornness had stolen what few moments he could have savored.
“Hey, you okay?” Claire’s question pulled Haley back from an emotional abyss. Grief was one thing—remorse could crumble the fragile ground beneath her feet.
“Sure. I’m fine.”
“Missing Sam?”
“Yes.” She switched off the light, moving back into the hallway. “There’s a part of me that always misses Sam.”
“I planned this shower to encourage you, not to upset you.”
“It’s not the baby shower.” The words piled up in the back of her throat. If only she could let them tumble out . . . find release. “It’s just . . . everything. All the things I have to do before the baby’s born. All the letters from the homeowners’ association. Never mind.”
“Haley, how many times do I have to tell you the guys are willing to help?”
“And how many times do I have to tell you I can handle it?” Laughter sounded in the living room. “Even if Sam were here, I’d be the one painting the baby’s room. Come on, let’s go enjoy this baby shower you surprised me with—but I’m warning you, I don’t play games. Got it?”
Well, she couldn’t say the baby didn’t have stuff.
Haley sat in the middle of the baby’s bedroom, surrounded by the gifts the women had given her. A stuffed yellow duck with a neon orange bill snuggled in a car seat. Bottles of baby shampoo, baby wash, and baby lotion overflowed from a blue plastic baby tub, nestled against a pale green terry-cloth towel with one end that formed a hood that looked like a turtle, and a pile of soft pastel washcloths.
Could she wash a newborn without breaking him?
She picked up a teddy bear covered in soft golden fur. How many stuffed animals did one baby need? A duck, two bears, a lamb, a cow that rattled when she shook it, and a floppy striped tiger—she was well on her way to a zoo for her unborn son. If she put all these animals in the crib once she assembled it, he would have nowhere to sleep.
Depositing the bear back in the menagerie, she touched the bundle of tiny clothes lying near her left knee. Would her baby really fit in these? Her finger traced the stitching on a pint-sized jean jacket. Sam would have loved this, especially paired with the BORN TO BE WILD onesie. Claire had instructed her to wash all the clothes and blankets—a glimpse into her future of nonstop laundry once the baby was born. Time enough for laundry tomorrow. She still needed to attack the piles of her own dirty clothes she’d been ignoring.
Ignoring things. That seemed to be her modus operandi since Sam had been killed. If possible, she would have shut the door in the stoic faces of the men who’d shown up almost five months ago to tell her Sam had been killed. Not that they had to say anything—just seeing them standing outside the apartment, so formally dressed, so still, so sorry . . . She’d known.
“He’s been killed, hasn’t he?”
“Ma’am, may we come in?”
“Just tell me.”
“Please, ma’am, may we come in?”
Fine. They wanted to be inside the apartment before telling her what she already knew. She moved out of the way, her hand still clenching the doorknob of their second-floor apartment. Followed them into the small living room. Sat in the chair she’d reupholstered during Sam’s first deployment after they’d married while all three men sat on the couch.
And waited.
They’d expected tears.
She’d been polite. Controlled. She knew what was expected of her as an army wife. Sam never worried about her when he was gone . . .
A sharp twinge at the base of her belly caused Haley to wince. Rubbing the area, she eased herself to her feet. Braxton Hicks contractions—that’s what Lily had called them. A physical reminder that motherhood was imminent. Single motherhood.
No tears. No tears.
I can do this. I have to do this. I will do this. I won’t let you down, Sam.
Dispersing her thoughts with a shake of her head, she retrieved a white rectangular plastic basket from the laundry room, bending to pile the clothes and blankets, towels and washcloths into it, and then carrying it back to the room between the kitchen and the garage and placing it on top of the dryer, kicking at the pile of dirty jeans on the floor.
“I’ll see you in the morning.” She muffled a yawn with her hand. “I need a snack and some sleep.”
In the kitchen, she noticed her iPhone sitting in the wooden fruit bowl between two yellow bananas just beginning to sport brown spots. Okay . . . what was it doing there? Where was her brain? If she couldn’t keep track of her phone, how was she going to take care of a baby?
When she picked it up, she noticed she had a message from Sam’s mom. It’d been a couple of weeks since they last talked—the night of their “Do you have another son?” conversation.
Captured in a voice mail, Miriam’s voice hesitated. “Haley? Why aren’t you picking up the phone? I hope you’re okay—that you’re not too angry with me. Has Sam’s brother contacted you again?” Haley deleted the message and checked the time. Nine o’clock. Still early enough to call. But first, she tore into a bag of mini candy bars, filling a cereal bowl with an assortment of Snickers, Milky Ways, Three Musketeers—and setting the Twix aside for Claire. Then she poured herself a glass of milk—plain—and settled onto the couch to talk to Miriam.
Her mother-in-law answered before the second ring. “Haley? Oh, Haley, I’m so thankful you called me back.”
“Is everything okay?”
“I’m fine. I want to know how you are—you haven’t called me since . . . since . . .”
“Since Stephen showed up here?” Were things so bad that Miriam couldn’t even say her son’s name?
“Yes.”
Haley swallowed half a mini Milky Way chased with a sip of cold milk. “Sorry. Having a before-bed snack. Sam’s twin showed up here a couple of times. I finally agreed to meet him for dinner and answer some of his questions.”
“What did he want to know?”
“Basic things. How long Sam and I were married. Did Sam like the military—that kind of thing.”
“How did he look?”
“Just like Sam—”
“No, no. I mean, did he look happy?”
Now, why did Miriam expect her to be able to answer that question? “We weren’t talking about him. He asked questions about Sam. I answered as best I could. Miriam, can’t you call him? Is it so hard—so bad between you both? I mean, he told me that you were the one who let him know about Sam.”
When Miriam didn’t r
espond, Haley voiced the question lurking in her head. “Did you and your ex-husband make some sort of agreement that you’d take Sam and that he’d take Stephen? That you wouldn’t talk to Stephen?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Then call him. You must miss your son.”
“I—I wouldn’t know what to say.”
Haley unwrapped another candy bar, but she’d lost her appetite. “Well, that seems to be the problem that kept Sam and Stephen apart all these years. Maybe it’s time to say something—anything.”
“It’s so complicated.”
“So are all the unsaid things—the things you can never say once someone’s dead.” Now whom was she talking to—her mother-in-law or herself ? “I’m sorry, Miriam. You’ve got to decide how to handle this. I’m no relationship expert.”
“Are you getting together with him again?”
“I don’t plan on it.” She stirred the mix of chocolate bars with her fingers, swirling them around in the bowl. “What’s the point?”
“Well, if you do . . . will you tell him I asked about him?”
“Of course.”
But that would be yet another message left undelivered.
ten
Stephen was 100 percent certain that his oh-so-reluctant sister-in-law was going to hate his showing up again. He’d thought about it all the way from Fort Collins to Colorado Springs. And yet, he wanted to do this. Had to do this. Why else would he drive over a hundred miles? But Haley? His actions might be grounds for another potential “click, click, bang” episode.
He pulled the car into the driveway to the left of the house, his glance straying to the leafless tree that looked even barer now that his plans to hang the baby swing had been thwarted by the unpredictable Colorado weather. He’d be lucky if he got to hang the swing before May—if Haley didn’t hang the swing herself.
He grabbed a small white envelope from its resting place on the front passenger seat. Not that heavy, but then again, you couldn’t always judge the value of something by how much it weighed.
Would Haley even be home? Was she going to work once the baby was born? If he asked her any more personal questions, she’d hit him over the head with a virtual NO TRESPASSING sign. It wasn’t as if a once-absentee brother-in-law and uncle-to-be had any say in how she raised the kid. Sam’s son or daughter.
Cold heightened by a biting wind cleared the cul-de-sac today. The bare tree branches rattled as a gust of air tossed Stephen’s hair and nipped his neck and ears. The front door swung open, and Haley stood with the screen door separating them.
“I don’t need anything else for the baby.” Haley stood with her arms crossed over her rounded tummy, which was evident beneath a long-sleeved brown T-shirt adorned with the simple slogan LIFE IS GOOD in muted orange letters. Did she believe that?
“Hello to you, too.” Stephen held up the envelope. “I wanted to show you something.”
She didn’t budge. Haley Ames redefined the word stubborn. “May I come in?” Another gust of wind shook the screen. “At least one of us is going to get cold.”
“The cold doesn’t bother me.” When he remained standing in front of her, she unlatched the door. “Fine. Come in.”
He watched her as he entered the house. Should he remove his coat? Leave it on? The coat stayed on. She’d said to come in, not sit down and stay awhile. She hadn’t issued an invitation to watch whatever was playing on her TV. Was that John Wayne? Huh. “You’re a John Wayne fan?”
“Absolutely.” Haley tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re not?”
“I didn’t say that.” Stephen studied a stack of half a dozen westerns next to the DVD player. “Although I may not be as huge a fan as you are. How’ve you been?”
“If you’re really interested, I’m doing all right—for a woman who hasn’t slept through the night in weeks.” A full-on yawn punctuated her statement.
“Sorry to hear that. I’m still job-hunting.” Not that Haley had asked. He was finding his way around an almost nonexistent relationship.
She nodded toward the envelope in his hand. “So?”
“Oh, yeah. I wanted to show you something.” Okay. Enough chitchat. Since it looked as if she had no intention of inviting him to sit down, he risked standing beside her.
“And this is . . . ?”
“I found this in a box of things I’ve kept since I was a kid.”
She reached out her hand, tracing the edge with her finger. “And why would you bring me something from a box of your childhood memorabilia?”
At this moment, he wasn’t even sure why. He’d sorted through a white box hidden on the top shelf in his bedroom closet, sifting through boyish treasures. His Eagle Scout medal. A carved wooden car that had taken first place at a Pinewood Derby competition. A watch that Sam had given him one Christmas—and he’d given Sam an identical one. An arrowhead. A shark’s tooth. A purple geode he’d bought at a rock store during a family vacation. The first pocketknife he’d ever owned—his dad presented both Sam and him with knives on their tenth birthday. A pile of photographs, where he’d found today’s offering. He pulled it out of the envelope, taking the time to smooth out the bent corner. “Here.”
“What is this?”
“A picture.” So much for stating the obvious. “Of me and Sam the day we finished the tree fort.”
Did Haley realize her hand shook as she took the picture from him? She turned it over, as if looking for a date or inscription. Stephen knew what she’d see: two boys, standing side by side, wearing identical jeans, identical T-shirts—only his was green and Sam’s was blue—and identical grins. Sam’s cowlick in his bangs twisted one way, while Stephen’s flew the opposite. They stood at the base of their brand-new tree fort, one on either side of the cockeyed ladder they’d nailed into the tree trunk.
“You don’t have to prove anything to me.” Haley held the photo out to him.
“I’m not trying to prove anything. I thought you might like to see Sam when he was younger—” Stephen tucked the flap of the envelope back down, closing off the treasure of his past. For a moment, the only sound in the room was John Wayne, as G. W. McLintock, shouting, “Don’t say it’s a fine morning or I’ll shoot ya!”
Ironic.
“I wanted to show you that photo of me and Sam. I don’t know . . . Let you see a glimpse of my life with him.” He resisted clenching the envelope in a fist, a sigh dragging out of his lungs. “And I admit it: I lost my brother for twelve years. My fault . . . his fault . . . I’m tired of arguing about that. I still need answers. And you have them.”
His unspoken plea for help hung between them.
The blue of Haley’s eyes resembled that of a pair of faded, worn-out jeans. “You didn’t lose Sam—you let him go.”
“Are you trying to make me feel guilty? I do. But Sam stopped talking to me, too. We’re both to blame.” What could he say to get through to her? “Please, Haley. Help me find my brother again—the man you married. I should have been standing beside Sam on your wedding day.”
She stared past him for a few seconds, seeming to wrestle with a decision. Her shoulders relaxed. “Have you had breakfast?”
“Is that an invitation?” The coffee and bagel he’d eaten had burned off an hour ago.
“If you’re hungry, then yes, it’s an invitation. I could scramble some eggs, and we could . . . talk.”
“How about I make breakfast? I make a great omelet—if you’ve got the right ingredients.”
“Well, there’s one way you’re not like Sam. He was lousy in the kitchen—but great at picking up takeout. Cheddar cheese and some of that precooked bacon good enough?” She motioned toward the kitchen. “I may have the remains of an onion or green pepper in the bin . . . but there’s no guarantee.”
“I’ll make do. You can’t make an omelet without cheddar cheese and bacon.”
“That’s what Sam told me, too.” Their eyes tangled for just a second before Haley padd
ed over to the kitchen.
Stephen shucked off his jacket, hanging it on the back of one of the mismatched dining room chairs. How did Haley manage to make four different chairs look as if they belonged together? “Dad taught us how to make omelets. He used to let my mom sleep in on Saturdays, and the three of us would have breakfast, watch cartoons, and then we’d make Mom an omelet and bring her breakfast in bed—for lunch.”
“Sam mentioned making omelets with your mom.” Haley carried an armful of ingredients over to the counter: a package of shredded cheese, a half-used package of bacon, the remnants of an onion in a plastic bag, and a shriveled red pepper tumbled onto the counter. “Why did your parents divorce?”
“Didn’t Sam tell you?” Stephen brought the carton of eggs over to the counter next to the stove.
“Not much. Sam wasn’t a talker. He liked sports. Participating in them and watching them. He liked to be on the go—talking about the past, not so much. All he said was that your parents argued all the time and that your dad left.”
“That’s not the whole story.”
“I didn’t think it was. I figured he’d get around to telling me more details . . . later.” She placed a paper towel on a dinner plate, added a layer of bacon, covered it with another paper towel, and then put it in the microwave. “And that’s my contribution to breakfast.”
“Thank you. Now go sit down and relax.” Stephen waved her over to one of the tall wooden chairs tucked around the breakfast bar. “From what my dad told me, our parents married young—and without my mom’s parents’ approval. I don’t know what their marital problems were. Religion maybe. My dad’s job. Mom had a couple of miscarriages. Then Sam and I were born, and she had to have a hysterectomy after that. I don’t know why. I’m not sure if it was one of these things or all of these things that caused cracks in their marriage. This all new to you?”
“Yes.”
Another trademark Haley Ames one-syllable response. She acted like a spectator at a sporting event—somebody way up high in the bleachers who wasn’t all that interested in the game. “My dad got promoted when we were in middle school and traveled a lot. That was either when the tension started or when it increased to the point that they weren’t able to hide it from us.”
