A Mingled Yarn

by Melissa F. Miller

  She nearly laughed at the hyperbole. Then she took a closer look at his drawn face and wide eyes. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You’re really afraid.”

  “Of course I am. Aren’t you?”

  Was she? She considered it for a moment. Then she shook her head. “No. I’m honestly not.” She didn’t know why she wasn’t at least a little bit apprehensive, but she wasn’t. What she was, she realized with surprise, was ready.

  “Why not? What if we’re terrible parents? We have no idea what we’re doing.” His face was a study in pure panic.

  “Connelly, this baby is going to be well loved and completely cared for. That’s enough.” She smiled encouragingly.

  “Are you crazy? That’s not enough. We don’t know anything. How will we know when it’s hungry? Or if it’s sick? Or if something’s wrong? What if we make a mistake?” His voice was rising.

  She pushed his wine glass toward him. “Pull yourself together, Big Daddy. Let’s be serious here. We’re both reasonably competent adults, right?”

  He nodded and gulped his wine.

  “And we’re pretty smart. I mean, I’ve had twenty years of formal education. And the government trusts you to do whatever very important, top secret stuff it is that you do.”

  “Right?” he said, still unsure.

  She leaned forward. “Well, then shame on us if between the two of us we can’t outsmart an infant. Just … fake it until you make it.”

  “That’s it? That’s your plan for taking care of a helpless little baby?”

  “In total.”

  He tilted his head and looked at her for a long moment. Then he shrugged. “I guess it could work.”

  “It better. I read babies can smell fear. You know, like dogs.”

  “Really?”

  “No.” She laughed. “We’ll figure it out together,” she promised.

  * * *

  After sharing a plate of fruit and cheese for dessert, Sasha and Connelly started the short walk back to the house in much improved spirits. As they waited for the light to change so they could cross South Highland Avenue, she pulled out her cell phone to call Katrina.

  “What are you going to tell her?” Connelly asked as the phone rang.

  “I want to ask her what she hopes to find out from the ultrasound. If it’s just that the baby’s gargantuan, I don’t think we need an ultrasound to tell us that. But if there’s something specific and actionable that could make the delivery easier or safer for the baby, then sure, I’ll do it.”

  “Or you. The labor and delivery has to be safe for you, too,” he insisted. A shadow crossed his face.

  As she listened to the phone ring, she couldn’t help but wonder what it was like for him—to be so integral to the whole pregnancy and childbirth, but yet so unable to control it. She imagined it made him feel powerless. And powerlessness was not a feeling Leo Connelly was overly familiar with. She actually felt a little sorry for him. She nodded.

  “Answering service,” a bored female voice trilled.

  “I’m trying to reach Katrina Waterhouse.”

  “Are you a client?”

  “Yes, Sasha McCandless-Connelly.”

  “In labor?”

  She swore she heard the operator stifle a yawn. “No, no. I just need to talk to Katrina about a test she recommended. She said I could call her tonight.”

  “She’s attending a birth right now. When she checks her messages, I’ll let her know you called. Can she reach you at this number?”

  “Yes. Please tell her it doesn’t matter how late it is. I’d really like to talk to her tonight.”

  “I’ll give her the message, but it could be several hours before she checks in.”

  “That’s okay. Really, any time.”

  “Understood. Good night, Ms. McCandless-Connelly.”

  “Good night.”

  The light turned green as she dropped the phone back into her purse and took Connelly’s hand. “She’s with a client who’s in labor. She’ll call back.”

  The heat of the day was finally evaporating, and the sun had faded from the sky. She breathed in deeply, inhaling the scent of wild roses in full bloom and released a small, contented sigh.

  “Do you have to work this weekend?” Connelly asked.

  “A little bit, but I can do most of it from home. Why?”

  He shrugged. “I was just thinking this might be our last quiet weekend for a while. It’d be nice to spend some time just hanging out, beating you at Scrabble and trying to figure out how to fit all those casseroles your family’s made into the freezer.”

  “We can play casserole Jenga all you want, but I don’t know how you think you’re going to win at Scrabble—I’m pregnant, not comatose.”

  He laughed and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close.

  Remember this moment, she told herself. A completely ordinary, perfect moment in their sometimes extraordinary, imperfect life together.

  9

  Sasha crept down the bare, hardwood stairs in the dark. She trod slowly and as lightly as she could in the still unfamiliar house. She didn’t yet know where the creaky floorboards were, and she didn’t want to wake Connelly—or take a tumble. She grasped the railing with one hand and her cell phone with the other, just in case Katrina called. She didn’t want to miss the call simply because she was thirsty. Or, more accurately, parched. The longer she lay in bed thinking about how dry her throat was, the thirstier she’d grown. Now her mouth was arid, a desert.

  She tiptoed into the kitchen and found a drinking glass, aided by the streetlight that shone through the white trash bag covering her broken kitchen window. Seeing the shattered, jagged glass peeking out of the edges of the bag made her heart skip a beat. The baby responded by hammering her in the stomach.

  “Sorry,” she murmured, rubbing a hand over her belly. In just a week, maybe less, she’d be able to caress her baby in person. It was almost unbelievable.

  She filled the glass with cold water, foregoing the ice. The icemaker was convenient, but noisy. And Connelly needed to sleep. She stood at the sink and drained the glass, then refilled it. She’d pay for it later with multiple middle-of-the-night trips to the bathroom. But those were a given, at this point.

  Java prowled into the kitchen, tail high in the air, and mewed expectantly.

  “It’s not breakfast time yet, kitty,” Sasha whispered, resting the glass on the counter and lowering herself to an awkward crouch to stroke the cat’s velvety ears. Java purred in appreciation and rubbed his head against the side of her hand.

  Then the sound of muffled cursing floated through the broken window, followed by the dull but unmistakable thud of feet hitting pavement. Java arched his back, flattened his ears, and hissed. He turned and raced out of the room, his belly low to the ground.

  Sasha froze for a moment and surveyed the room wild-eyed, calculating her options. She forced herself to think calmly, despite the deafening sound of her own blood rushing and pumping, as her adrenaline spiked. Someone was in the backyard. Connelly was a floor away, on the other end of the house, asleep. His gun was secured in its box. She was nine months pregnant, barefoot, and slow.

  Suddenly, she was back in her office, on Valentine’s Day night, two years ago. She’d run in to grab a chocolate bar, of all things, out of her purse and had been ambushed by Nick Costopolous. For a long, horrifying moment, she’d thought he was going to choke her to death. But then her training had kicked in and she’d taken him down.

  And he’s been living in a cell ever since, she reminded herself. Nick Costopolous was not in the backyard.

  She pulled herself to her feet and grabbed her phone off the counter beside the sink. Then she ducked her head below the window and crossed the room. She pressed herself against the wall beside the door to the backyard and decided on a course of action: get a visual confirmation of the intruder then call nine-one-one as she made her way through the house to wake up Connelly.

  She took a deep breath,
exhaled, and then swiveled her head to the side to peer through the kitchen door into the small, fenced yard. A shadowy figure, not much taller than she was, lurked near the back fence. The person was holding something in his or her raised right arm. A gasp escaped from between Sasha’s lips. She winced, hoping that the figure in the yard hadn’t heard her. At that moment, her cell phone blared to life, jarringly loud. Sasha jumped and swiped at the display. Katrina. Not now, she thought. She pressed the button to send the call to voicemail and stared out into the yard.

  Whoever was out there heard the ringtone, too, because the person froze in place for a moment, then hesitated, turned toward the fence as if to leave the way he or she had come, and then twisted back toward the house and started to prowl across the lawn. About five feet from the edge of the porch, he or she stopped and made a shaking motion with his or her upraised hand. Sasha heard a distinctive, metallic rattle. Clack, clack.

  She knew that sound. New plan. She flipped the light switch on the wall beside the door and plunged the backyard into bright, white light. The person turned and ran. Sasha unlocked the door and raced out on to the back porch.

  “Stop!” she shouted.

  Mocha came barreling through the open door and darted past her into the yard, barking wildly.

  The person—a girl who looked to be about twelve—dropped her can of spray paint and pressed herself flat against the fence. “Please call off your dog, lady. Please.” Her voice broke with real fear.

  Sasha tried not to laugh as she called Mocha’s name. Her vicious chocolate lab came bounding toward her and licked her hand. Connelly materialized in the doorway.

  “Are you okay?” he demanded as he joined her on the porch.

  “I’m fine,” she assured him. “I’m not so sure about our trespasser.”

  Tears were running down the girl’s face and she was gulping air as if she were having trouble breathing.

  Connelly’s eyes swept across the yard, taking in the girl and the can of spray paint at her feet. He kept his eyes on the girl and spoke to Sasha out of the side of his mouth. “I recognize her.”

  “You do? From where?”

  “From a pile of framed family portraits the movers found stacked behind the furnace. She lived here.”

  All the anger leaked out of Sasha. She took a closer look at the preteen. Bitter divorce. Bankruptcy. Moving from her childhood home. None of it justified vandalism, but there was no denying that it was a raw deal for a kid. She sighed. “Go inside and put on a pair of pants. I’ll bring her in and make some tea.”

  * * *

  Two mugs of tea and a slice and a half of banana bread later, they’d worked out a deal.

  Sasha and Connelly agreed not to tell Jordana Morgan’s parents about her burgeoning career as a petty criminal. In exchange, she agreed to present herself at the offices of McCandless & Volmer, P.C., every weekday for the rest of the summer. Sasha explained that she’d be added to the payroll like any other part-time employee, but that until she’d paid for the replacement window in the kitchen, she’d be handing her paychecks right back over to Sasha.

  “Okay,” the girl said, unable to hide her excitement at the prospect of a job. “So, will I be helping out in court?”

  Sasha coughed to cover her laugh. “Not at first. I think you’ll start out sorting mail, making copies, and manning the paper shredder.”

  “Cool!”

  Connelly shook his head. “Come on, Jordana, let’s get you home. It’s nearly one o’clock.”

  The girl pulled a face and muttered something about how no one would miss her. The possibility that her statement was true tugged at Sasha’s heart.

  “Well, regardless, you need to get a good night’s sleep. Starting Monday, you’re a working woman. You need your rest.”

  Jordana giggled. Connelly went off in search of the car keys, and Sasha jammed her feet into her flip-flops.

  The girl eyed her. “How many babies are you having, anyway?”

  “What?” Sasha straightened herself to her full, if meager, height and stared at the girl.

  “Two, three?” Jordan’s face was wide open and innocent. She seemed to be asking a genuine question.

  “Bite your tongue, kid. One.”

  Jordan made a face that suggested Sasha was out of her mind. “No freaking way! You’re HUGE!”

  “Careful how you talk to your boss,” she cautioned. She stopped to fill Java’s and Mocha’s water bowls, then she turned out the lights and trailed Connelly and the girl out to the SUV, stifling the mother of all yawns.

  After all the excitement, she was exhausted, more than ready to crash. And a stabbing pain had taken up residence in her lower back. Great.

  10

  By the time they watched Jordana let herself into her side of the well-kept duplex her mother had rented and flash the porch light to let them know she’d locked the door behind her, the pain in Sasha’s back was strong enough to take her breath away. She moaned and shifted in the passenger seat, trying in vain to find a comfortable position.

  Connelly stared at her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Don’t know,” she panted. “My back hurts. It comes and goes, but it’s getting worse. The pain’s coming faster and lasting longer—“ She stopped abruptly.

  “What?”

  “It’s back labor. I wasn’t thinking. It’s contractions. Connelly, we’re in labor.” Her voice shook with excitement.

  “Are you sure?”

  Another wave of pain smacked her in the spine and she let out a low, keening sound. “I’m sure,” she answered between gritted teeth. “Call Katrina.” She pushed her cell phone into his hands.

  He stared at her for a moment then fumbled with the phone until he pulled up Katrina’s number, hit send, and put the phone on speaker. Sasha focused on breathing through her rising nausea.

  “Katrina Watertown,” Katrina sounded drained but awake.

  “Katrina, it’s Leo—“ he began.

  “Oh, good. I was beginning to think Sasha didn’t get my message.”

  Connelly threw Sasha a look.

  “Uh,” she managed. “I haven’t listened to it yet.”

  “We need to talk,” Katrina said in a firm, calm voice.

  Sasha squeezed her eyes closed and gripped the dashboard with both hands as another contraction started.

  “Not right now,” Connelly said. “Sasha’s in labor.”

  Katrina went into clinical mode. “How long have the contractions been regular?”

  “Not sure,” Sasha said. “Back labor. Took me a while to realize. But they’re close together and long. Really close.” She fought to keep the panic out of her voice.

  “Okay,” Katrina soothed. “Are you in the car?”

  “Yes,” Connelly said.

  “I’m still at the birthing center. My last mama just went home with her new baby. Start driving here now. I’ll be ready for you when you get here.”

  “Got it.” Connelly gunned the engine and pulled out into the empty street.

  “Leo, don’t speed, okay? You need to drive safely and smooth as silk. No bumps. No potholes.”

  “No potholes? Did you forget where we are?” he cracked.

  Sasha smiled faintly.

  “Sasha, can you hear me?” Katrina asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, I hate to do this to you, but I have to tell you now, so you can try to prepare yourself.”

  Sasha’s breath caught in her throat, and time stopped. “What is it?”

  She heard Katrina exhale a great whoosh of air. “I’m pretty sure I heard two heartbeats this afternoon.”

  Sasha couldn’t make sense of the words through the pain. “I don’t understand.”

  Katrina answered gently. “Two heartbeats means two babies. I think you’re carrying twins. I didn’t want to say anything until we had an ultrasound to confirm, but it sounds like that ship has sailed.”

  “I can’t be having twins!” Sasha shouted at the phone. She k
new she sounded like she was in hysterics. But she was pretty sure she was in hysterics, so she figured that was okay.

  “You can do this. It’s going to be fine,” Katrina promised. “Leo, this would be a great time to try out some relaxation techniques if you can do so safely while you’re driving,” she suggested before ending the call.

  Sasha turned toward her husband in desperation and disbelief. He stopped at a red light and faced her. His expression was unreadable.

  “She could be wrong,” he finally said. “But either way, this is it. Ready to weave another thread into the web of our life?”

  No, she wanted to shout, I’m nowhere near ready. I didn’t sign up for twins.

  She stared hard into Connelly’s clear gray eyes, drawing resolve and strength from him. She centered her mind and nodded. “I’m ready.”

  The light turned green.

  He gave her hand an encouraging squeeze and then hit the gas.

  11

  Six Weeks Later

  Sasha stared through the newly replaced kitchen window out into the yard beyond while the coffee maker hissed to life. In her new, upside-down world, the timer function was useless. She never knew when she’d be awake, asleep, or in dire, immediate need of coffee. So she and Connelly did the best they could. They kept the basket filled with ground coffee and the water compartment filled with water so they could be ready to brew at any time.

  Connelly padded into the room and caught her in an embrace. She leaned back against him and he nuzzled her neck.

  “The flowers are starting to look good,” he whispered.

  “Are they?” she whispered back. She’d been looking in the general direction of the flower bed that her mother had been kind enough to plant and tend, but she hadn’t seen it. There was a lot she didn’t see, or hear, or otherwise notice lately. Her days passed in a blurry watercolor of nursing, diapering, rocking, and sleeping, over and over in a continual cycle.