by Beth K. Vogt
It was true I hadn’t wanted to be pregnant. Hadn’t wanted this baby at first. But now . . . now I didn’t want to lose her.
I’d been given an assignment to rest. Take care of myself. Take care of my baby. But I wasn’t in charge. Not really.
A door separated me from the normal world. But when I walked through it tomorrow, it wouldn’t be the same world that I’d known.
It seemed scarier. Unfamiliar.
Tomorrow I’d be back home. Not in my house, but what had been home a long time ago. The room where Jillian and I stayed up late and talked about school and boys. The house where Mom and Dad had surprised Jillian and me with not one, but two little sisters.
The house where everything changed.
The house I left behind when I went to college, ready to be independent.
And now Mom was going to take care of me again.
“Johanna?” Mom stood beside my bed, where Beckett had been just moments before.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I could tell. Are you okay?”
“Just thinking. All of this has been a lot to absorb.”
“I understand. We’ve all been scared. But Dr. Gray talked to all of us just now and we like her a lot.”
“I do, too. It’s funny because I didn’t at first.”
“You’re too much alike.”
“What?”
“You and she are both medical professionals, and I believe she holds her views strongly like you do.”
Sometimes I didn’t give Mom enough credit. “Yes, we do.”
“Payton said she’d pack your suitcase for my house.”
“I haven’t had a chance to make a list because I was talking to Beckett.”
“We’re going to get some breakfast, so why don’t we make a preliminary list and then we can talk it out when we get back?”
“Sounds perfect.” I motioned for my purse. “And if you’ll hand me my phone, please, I’ll call Axton and fill him in. At least it’s a long weekend. I think they went out of town, but I’m not sure.”
But Axton didn’t answer—his wife did.
“Hello, this is Dr. Miller’s phone.”
“Mrs. Miller—um, Dot? This is Johanna Thatcher.”
“Johanna? Is everything okay?”
“I’m fine.” That was true—now. “I’m sorry to bother you on the holiday weekend, but may I speak to Axton, please?”
“Absolutely. Let me get him out of the pool.”
Perfect. Of course, I was continuing to disrupt everyone’s weekend.
“Johanna, is everything okay?”
“Yes and no.” Now it sounded like I was hedging. “I’m in the hospital . . .”
“Working? Johanna, I thought we’d agreed you’d take the weekend off.”
“Not Mount Columbia. St. Francis. I had a minor pregnancy complication, but I’m fine. The baby’s fine.”
“What exactly is going on?”
“I have placenta previa, which has become more problematic than we originally thought. I experienced some bleeding yesterday and I’ll be spending another night here at the hospital. But like I said, the baby is fine.”
“I’m thankful to hear that.” Axton paused for a moment as Dot spoke in the background. “Hold on for a moment, please. Let me just update Dot.”
“Sure.” I allowed myself to sink back against the pillows and count the rhythm of my daughter’s heartbeat.
“Sorry about that. What does this mean for you long-term?”
“I’m on modified bed rest at my parents’ house until I deliver. And that means I can’t go back to work.”
“Whew. That’s quite a change for you.”
“I know. And I’m sorry because this also inconveniences you. I can try and work from home—well, from my parents’ home. It turns out I can’t be by myself, and I have to be within twenty minutes of the hospital.”
“That’s quite a lot of changes for you.”
“I’m thirty-two weeks, so it’s not forever.”
“Why don’t we talk after the weekend? Nothing’s so important that it can’t wait until Monday.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry I interrupted your vacation—”
“Johanna, I’m glad you called. Even more, I’m very glad you and the baby are okay.”
“Thank you, Axton.”
After I ended the phone call, I sat there holding my phone. I’d checked a necessary box and contacted my boss. But it was more than that. Axton Miller was proving to be a friend—when I let him.
The door to my hospital room was closed. I was safe, but I also didn’t feel so alone. My family was helping me. Beckett had tried to help, even if that came with some complications. Axton’s concern was another layer of support.
But the reality was, everyone else had their own lives. Payton had Zach. Jillian had Geoff. Mom had Dad. I didn’t know if Dr. Gray had anyone, but she was my obstetrician, not my friend, even if she had defended me from Beckett. Beckett’s involvement in the baby’s life would be restricted by legalese and my own emotional limitations.
In the future, when this crisis was long past, it would be me and my daughter.
We’d do life on our own.
And we’d be enough for each other.
28
I WANTED TO GO HOME.
It wasn’t that my parents weren’t supportive. Attentive. Going out of their way to make certain I was comfortable. That I liked my meals. Dad continued working full-time, but Mom had taken a leave of absence from her part-time job since I couldn’t be left alone. And she didn’t complain once about the adjustment.
Me? I wanted my life back. All of it.
My morning get-ready-for-work routine.
My busy workday.
My too-many-things-to-think-about-at-night struggle, not to mention the freedom to sleep in my own bed. On my back. Not that I’d been doing that before the spotting episode on July 4, but if I was making a list of everything I wanted, it was going to be complete.
I didn’t want Mom asking me how I was every time I went to the bathroom. Sometimes I delayed going until I was afraid I’d have an embarrassing accident on my way there. And sometimes I went every five minutes just to ensure I wasn’t spotting. That my unborn daughter was fine. I avoided the bathroom off the family room—and not just because I was limiting walking up and down stairs. After what happened there, I might not use that bathroom ever again.
There were so many hours in the day demanding to be filled—and so much not to be done. I could only hide in my old bedroom, resting or watching the TV my parents had put in the room, for so many hours a day. Mom had left a pile of her favorite books, but I’d never read a Regency romance in my life, and I wasn’t about to start now.
But tonight . . . tonight I was so bored, I was almost tempted to pick one up.
The Toll-Gate. Regency Buck. Faro’s Daughter. Bath Tangle.
None of the titles made any sense. The last thing I needed was more confusion in my life.
I used a few of my limited steps and wandered into the kitchen and found the leftover carrot cake in the fridge. Standing beside the counter, I took slow bites, savoring the taste of cream cheese, nutmeg, cinnamon, and golden raisins. Might as well let the diversion last for as long as possible.
“Hungry?” Mom spoke from the doorway.
“No. Bored. And it was either this or read one of your romance novels.”
“They’re not so bad, Johanna. The authors I like weave quite a bit of history into the story.”
“I can’t remember the last time I read a novel.” I plunged the fork into the carrot cake again.
“Tell me some of your favorite authors and I’ll be glad to pick up some books for you to read.”
“I can’t remember having any favorite authors since I went to college and was loaded down with mandatory reading.”
“Genres, then. You’ve been in a book club with your sisters for months now.”
If I asked
Mom to pick me up a set of Pippi Longstocking books, she’d do it.
“Your dad likes a good mystery.” As she talked, Mom poured a glass of milk and set it beside the cake. “Here, you probably need this. Do you want to sit down?”
“Subtle, Mom, very subtle.”
I should appreciate her concern, but she was smothering what little independence I had left. I couldn’t even sneak into the kitchen and snitch a late-night snack. Her encouragement to sit was like someone insisting you carry an umbrella because the weatherman said there was the slightest chance of rain. Next week.
I forced myself to swallow my bite of cake without touching the glass of milk. I needed to regain control of this situation somehow. All of these limitations. This avoidance. This wasn’t me.
“Mom, you don’t have to stay up with me. I’m almost done.”
“I don’t mind.” She settled at the table in the breakfast nook, carrying the glass of milk with her, any attempt at being subtle gone.
“Fine, Mom. I’ll sit.”
Mom had the graciousness not to smile. “I know this is difficult for you, Johanna. You went from working—having a very busy life—to moving back in with your dad and me. You weren’t even given a choice. You’re an independent person. Always have been, more than any of your sisters.”
“If that’s a nice way of saying I like to do things my way, I’ll admit it. But except for the relationship fiasco with Beckett, I’m usually right. He was a major mistake on my part.”
And now I was doing true, late-night kitchen confessions with Mom.
“Have you talked to him since you’ve been here?”
“A text or two letting him know that I’m fine. We still need to figure out how we’re going to handle things once the baby’s born.”
“Does he want joint custody?”
“He’s never used those words. He says he wants to be involved. I need to figure out what I’m comfortable with.”
“Do you have a lawyer?”
“Not yet, although I know I need one. I got a little sidetracked, what with the bleeding episode.” I used my fork to separate the icing from the cake. “It was simpler when Beckett didn’t know I was pregnant.”
“He would have found out about the baby sometime.”
“Yes. But I wanted to control when and how he found out, not run into him at a Thai restaurant.”
Every day I got closer and closer to having a baby, and every day I seemed to lose a little more control of my life. Was that what motherhood was, then? Have a baby, give up control of my life?
As Mom sat across from me, I couldn’t help but notice all the ways she’d changed through the years. Gray hairs and wrinkles. Those changes were surface. Then there was the loss of one daughter, which led to changes I couldn’t begin to fathom.
But I also couldn’t imagine labor and childbirth. Holding a newborn. I couldn’t imagine dealing with a sick child—and being the mom. Couldn’t imagine being the one who was supposed to have all the answers. I couldn’t imagine so far ahead, when my daughter would be an adult, dealing with grown-up problems.
Mom settled back in her chair. “I was thinking about things yesterday . . . and I found myself wishing we hadn’t gotten rid of the piano.”
“The piano?” Mom’s words scattered my thoughts. “Why?”
“I’m just sorry we don’t have it anymore.” Mom hesitated as if unsure how I would respond. “If we did, you could play a little bit each day.”
“Why would I want to do that?” I gripped the fork tighter, smashing icing into what was left of my cake, while trying to comprehend why Mom would even mention the piano—my playing—after all these years.
“I thought, when you wrote the song for Payton’s wedding, I thought maybe you missed—”
“I don’t. The song for Payton? That was an anomaly. I hadn’t even been near a piano in years, much less played one. Not since . . . not since my last recital.” Unspoken words burned in my throat.
“You were so gifted, Johanna.” Mom smiled at the remembrance, as if the memory of my piano playing meant something to her. “I never understood why you stopped your lessons.”
“Life just got so busy after the twins were born . . .” The mention of Payton and Pepper slipped out, and I took a quick gulp of milk before I said anything more, the liquid slicking my throat.
“That’s true. But the twins being born was no reason for you to stop playing piano.”
“It’s not much fun when your parents don’t come to your recitals.” I stood, crossing the room to scrape the destroyed cake into the trash before dropping my plate and fork in the sink with a clatter of china and metal against stainless steel.
“What?”
“You don’t remember?” But then again, why should she when the recital wasn’t important to her? The incident that convinced me how unimportant my “special talent” was. “My last recital—you didn’t even come to hear me perform. You had to stay home with the twins—”
Mom’s brows drew together as she seemed to try to remember that night so many years ago. “The night of your last performance? The twins were sick, Johanna. They both had fevers.”
“It was always something with Payton and Pepper. Some reason you had to be with them. Pay attention to them.” A rogue wave of emotions threatened to pull me under. “You used to sit in on my lessons sometimes. Or stop what you were doing—making dinner—and listen to me practice. And then you had the twins. After that, you never even had the time to say, ‘That was lovely, Jo,’ when I practiced.”
“Johanna—”
“Don’t say it’s not true, Mom.” I wanted nothing more than to leave the kitchen. “There was no time for me or Jillian after you had the twins.”
I was dragging Mom and me back—decades backward—jumping up and down like a small child and demanding, “Look! Look at me!”
Mom’s eyes were wide, unblinking. After all these years, I had her unwavering attention. What was the point of saying any of this? It wouldn’t change anything.
But if I didn’t say it now, I’d never say it. And maybe I shouldn’t have.
“Honey, after the twins were born, there were days I didn’t shower.” Mom shook her head. “But that’s no excuse.”
“The night of the performance, I kept waiting backstage, looking around the curtain, hoping you’d show up. I wasn’t counting on Dad because you told me that his flight back from his business trip was delayed. But you said you’d be there. Miss Felicia finally told me to come away from the curtain . . . I even told her I wasn’t going to perform. But she told me I had to play.”
“I can’t play tonight. I don’t feel well.” I tried to make my voice sound raspy, like I had a sore throat.
“Suddenly you’re sick? I don’t think so, Johanna.” Miss Felicia scanned me from head to toe. “Are you nervous? You’re never nervous.”
“Yes. Yes, I’m too nervous. Please, don’t make me.”
“I don’t believe this. Tsk. And even if you are, this is no reason to not perform. We ignore our nerves and we play.” She cupped my chin in her hand, bending down so that I had to look at her, the silk material of her shawl skimming my face. “I saved your piece for last, Johanna. It is the best one. You are so talented. You will astound everyone with your gift. You always do.”
But I didn’t care about anyone else. I wanted Mom to hear me play.
And she wouldn’t. Because of the twins.
It was an unwelcome memory, like the ache of a bone I’d broken years ago. I’d convinced myself that I was fine. Healed. And then the pain would flare up and remind me that some injuries never quite heal.
This ache was lodged in my heart.
Why was I mentioning this now, all these years later? Mom and I would never agree about this because we’d never agree on Payton and Pepper.
“Johanna, I was there that night.”
I couldn’t have heard Mom right. “What?”
“I came to your recital.”
&n
bsp; “No, you didn’t.”
“Honey, listen to me.” Mom crossed the room and gathered my hands in hers. “The twins were sick. I couldn’t leave them. But I also couldn’t miss your performance because that was important to me, too. You were important. At the last minute, I asked our next-door neighbor to come sit with Payton and Pepper, and I drove over just long enough to hear you play your song.”
“But . . . but I never saw you.” My voice cracked and pitched high, like that of a little girl trying to not cry.
“I stood in the back—just inside the auditorium doors—and I left as soon as you were done. I saw the audience give you a standing ovation.” Mom’s whispered words were earnest. Truthful. “I know I told you that you did a beautiful job when you came home.”
“I thought . . . I thought you were just saying that.”
“You mean you quit playing piano . . . ?”
“Because I was angry. I didn’t think it mattered to anyone—to you or Dad—if I played or not.”
Mom released my hands, but only so she could wrap her arms around me. “Jo . . . Jo . . . I always loved when you played. Your music was like the soundtrack for our family.”
Mom’s words were like an author rewriting the ending to a book, telling me that somehow what I did, what I offered the family, mattered.
I leaned into Mom’s embrace. Her tears wet the soft cloth of my robe. But I couldn’t cry as I faced an unwelcome question.
What else had I been mistaken about?
Two hours after Mom and I had talked, I was still awake. I shifted on my side, drawing my legs up to my body . . . well, as close to my body as my baby bump would allow, the top sheet cool against my skin.
The quietness of the house surrounded me. If I could, I would reach out and push it back, like the power of light against the darkness.
But I wasn’t that strong.
Mom was probably asleep, content that all was well between us. After a few moments more of reassurance and another hug, she’d dried her tears—not questioning why I wasn’t crying—and sent me off to bed with a motherly “You need your rest.”
But the discovery that I’d been so wrong all those years ago kept me awake.
