Forever christmas, p.8
Forever Christmas, page 8
“Okay, Mom,” I say, giving my sister some hard-core side eye.
“And let me know how Corabelle is,” Mom says. “She looked positively green.”
“Will do.”
I end the call. June hops off the rock.
Corabelle hasn’t messaged me today at all, and nobody has told me she was sick. I remember the tough time she had with Finn the first few months and worry that this is the beginning of that again. It will be hard to hide the pregnancy from her parents if it keeps up on this trip.
I want to shoot her a message, but June keeps going, so I have to hurry to catch up. We’ll talk when I get back, I guess. She would have called me if anything big was happening. The fact that her mother stayed with mine means it was minor.
“I wish I could have seen Corabelle barf all over Grandma K,” June says. “That would have been awesome.”
“She’s probably mad as hell,” I say.
“She deserves it,” June says. “You’ve gotten to miss all the horrible Christmases with her yelling at everybody all day.”
“I remember those.” Guilt washes over me that I wasn’t there to make those days better for June. “How has Dad been since I left?”
“I dunno. Angry and brooding as ever. He has a hard time keeping anybody working with him. They quit after a few months.”
Dad does landscape work. He usually has some sort of assistant, as some of the jobs require a lot of lifting and grunt work. I’d helped him most summers growing up.
Sounds like they are getting the brunt of the anger he used to save for me.
“Is he all right around you and Mom?” I ask her this whenever we talk on the phone, but she always says he’s fine. Face to face, though, I can judge her expression when she answers.
“He’s a jerk, like he’s always been, and I can’t stand it when he yells at Mom.” She jumps over a boulder on the path. Our conversation has gotten her energy up again. “I know I’m supposed to love him because he’s my dad. But I don’t know if I do. Does that make me a bad person?”
“No, no,” I say. “It makes you a sane person. He hasn’t earned it.”
“I don’t know why Mom stays with him.”
“I had the same questions when I got to be your age. Still don’t have the answer.”
“Did she get knocked up or something? I always thought they were married a couple years before you came along.”
“They were. Maybe he was different back then.”
We stamp along. June is slowing down again.
This much alone time with my sister is a rare opportunity. I want to make absolutely sure Dad isn’t getting physical with her.
“June, has Dad ever hit you?”
“He spanked me once. Not long after you left. It made me laugh for some reason. He didn’t do it again.”
“You laughed?”
She cracks a smile. “I know, weird, right? He just looked so silly, trying to catch me and swat my butt. He’s slow, you know.”
“But he’s still mean.”
“He’s never anything but mean.”
We reach the trailhead and walk along the road to Corabelle’s car.
“Gavin?” June says, peering at me through the glare.
“Yeah?”
“Are you and Corabelle going to have another baby?”
At first I think she’s asking if Corabelle is pregnant, but then I realize it’s a general question.
“Sure,” I say.
“I sure would like to be an aunt,” June says.
“You’ll be a good one.”
“I want to be an aunt like Uncle Ben is an uncle. Funny and silly.”
“He’s a great example.”
June gets serious. “You think I’ll be a good parent? I don’t think we had good examples for that.”
Her question strikes right at my heart. I reach out and tweak her ponytail. “They just taught us what not to do. Now we’ll be perfect at it.”
She laughs and ducks away from me. “No, I will be perfect. You’ll just be my stinky big brother!”
June takes off running for the car, and despite my own exhaustion, I speed after her. I miss her. Maybe we can take her back with us for a while. It’s summer.
Except Corabelle is in school. And I work. Damn.
I’ll just have to take this moment and hold on.
Chapter 15: Corabelle
By the time Gavin and June are back, I’m feeling well enough to fake it. Dad has ordered pizza.
The four of us sit in the sunroom looking out on the backyard. Mom’s planted more flowers there and coaxed them into blooming even in the desert. That’s what she does.
June is animated and lively, talking about her hike. I’m glad Gavin did this with her. It’s clearly a very special memory for her already.
The sun starts to set. Dad stacks the plates.
“Coming up on seven,” he says. “Seems like we should be hearing about your dad waking up soon.”
Gavin and June get all still. I don’t know what that means for either of them. Probably Gavin cares more than he wants to admit. June must be terrified.
“You want to go up there?” Gavin asks his sister.
“Maybe,” she says. “Mom probably wants us.”
“Let’s go.” He stands up and pulls the keys to our car out of his pocket.
“Take mine,” Dad says. “Keys are in the kitchen.”
“You coming?” Gavin asks me.
“You can puke on Grandma K again,” June says with a giggle. “I totally want to see that.”
“I’m not sure I want to see her again just yet,” I say. Which is true. I also don’t want to have my stomach vibrate in a car for an hour after eating pizza, not that I ate much. Just enough to escape notice.
Gavin leans over and kisses my hair. “We’ll be back tonight.” To my dad he says, “We’ll bring Mrs. Rotheford back.”
“Sounds good,” Dad says. “Let us know how your father is doing.”
“Will do.”
The two of them head out the front door. In the quiet of the early evening, I can hear the car start up.
I take a stack of cups and follow Dad to the kitchen. It’s bright and colorful, like only happy things can happen here. Mom has changed out the curtains since I lived here, but the orange and white stripes have the same sunshiny feel as the yellow ones she had before.
Dad opens the dishwasher and starts loading plates in. “I’m thinking of trading cars with you,” he says. “That battle-ax of yours isn’t safe.”
I hand him a cup. “You don’t have to do that, Dad. We’re getting by.”
“Grad school is tough enough,” he says. “I’ll trade your old one in. Your mom’s been angling for a new one anyway.”
“I’ll talk to Gavin about it.” He can be proud, even though an SUV would be a lot more convenient with the baby.
If the baby comes.
“So when do you plan to tell your mom and me about the baby?” he asks, sticking a plate on the bottom rack as if this is any old question.
My breath sucks in. “What?”
“Your mom won’t ask about it. She thinks if you’re not telling us, you have your reasons. But she’s not here. So I’m asking.”
I should have known they would figure it out.
“When did you know?”
“The minute Gavin walked you in like you were made of glass. He acted just the same with Finn.”
Hearing someone else say his name out loud makes my heart clench.
Finn.
“And then I got sick this morning,” I say.
“And pizza is usually your favorite,” he adds. “You only ate a few bites to throw me off.”
Obviously that hadn’t worked.
I sit on a stool by the bar. “I’m due in February,” I say. “I just found out two weeks ago.”
“Seen the doctor yet?” He sticks the last plate in the rack and dries his hands.
I shake my head. “I’m scheduled for nine weeks, but I can come in earlier if I want.”
“They know what happened last time?”
“They do. We can’t do a sonogram to check this one’s heart until I’m at least sixteen weeks along.”
“Whew. That’s a long time.”
“I know.”
“How are you and Gavin for health insurance? A sick baby is a huge expense.” He leans against the counter, his face etched with concern.
“Gavin’s garage doesn’t have benefits, but we bought an independent policy a few months back.” I don’t mention that we did this before the reversal surgery, in case something went wrong. Insurance wouldn’t cover the reversal, but complications would be part of the plan.
“Does it cover maternity?”
“Yes. We made sure.”
“So you planned this? Even with grad school?” His question carries a note of disapproval.
“I know. We should have prevented. We just didn’t. My two best friends have started families.” I stop. I can’t explain how I really felt. Like I needed to try again. That I felt like a failure and I wanted to fix this hole, if it could ever be mended.
“Do you need help? I can send your mother up there.”
“No, no,” I say. “I’m fine. I have a scholarship right now and I’m not having to work beyond school and my thesis. It’s actually the easiest load I’ve had in a while.”
“Gavin still on course to graduate?”
“Eventually. He’s taking off this summer, of course, and putting in extra hours. I’ll try to make sure he goes back in the fall.”
“That degree is important if he wants to do more than be a mechanic. That’s honest work, to be certain, but it’s a waste of all those years of study.”
“I know.”
Dad walks over and curls his arm around my neck. “Don’t feel like you have to hide something like this from us, Tinker Bell. We’re here to support you.”
My eyes prick with tears. “I know, Dad. It’s just so hard and scary. I don’t want to feel like I caused other people sadness and fear too.”
“But we want the chance to help. It’s worth risking those hard feelings.”
I nod against his chest. He smells like Woolite and desert air. Like my childhood. Like home.
I’m glad we’re here.
“Let’s head back to the sunroom,” he says. “It’s always been the good place in the house.”
“It has,” I say. We walk that way, to the wicker furniture with overstuffed cushions, Mom’s indoor plants, and the huge glass windows. I want to ask him something hard, and it’s better to do it there.
When we’re settled again, I gather my courage, then ask it. “Dad, did the doctors ever figure out why Mom lost those four babies?”
His eyebrows lift above the rim of his glasses. “Well, that’s been a lot of years ago. But when Finn was diagnosed, we went over all that paperwork again. Mom even called her old ob/gyn’s office. Dr. Jenner is long retired, but the clinic is still around.”
“What did they say?”
“In those days, they didn’t test like they do now. But it seems like the problem was with the shape of your mother’s womb. Nowadays they do some surgery to correct it, I believe. But then you just had to hope one of the babies would make it through. Like you.”
“So no heart problems in the babies?”
“Not that we knew about. One of the babies was…” he hesitates, then coughs into his hand. My eyes spring with tears again. Faking a cough is how he’s always covered his emotions.
He begins again. “One of them was fully formed. A boy. Stillborn. But yea big.” He holds his hands about a foot apart. “Looked perfect.” He brushes his graying hair back even though it’s nowhere near his face.
“They did an autopsy. But nothing wrong. Not a thing. Just died inside her. They think he didn’t get enough blood supply. He was small for what he should have been.”
“Did you give him a name?”
Dad shakes his head. “No, that wasn’t really done then. We only saw him a minute or two before they whisked him off. They said the more we held him, the worse we’d feel. Didn’t get any pictures or anything.” He taps his temples. “He’s just up here.”
“That’s terrible,” I cry. The pictures I have of Finn are the most important things I own. They are what got me through.
“I understand things are different now. They let you hold on to them. Do special photo shoots and all. That’s good.” He nods vigorously and clears his throat.
“I don’t have a problem inside,” I say. “Nobody has said anything if I do.”
“You’re probably all right then,” he says. “And this baby should be too.”
A few hot tears track down my face for all my parents lost before me. So much pain in the world. It is hard to bear.
We sit in the sunroom as the day comes to a close. The yellow light fades across the alley, disappearing over Gavin’s house just beyond the fence. I hope he and June are doing all right, and that whatever happens with his father is something everyone can handle.
Life is precious and fleeting. Seven days for Finn. Forty-seven years so far for Mr. Mays. We have to hold on to every moment and make them count.
Chapter 16: Gavin
The hospital seems quieter than last night. Maybe it’s because we’re walking to ICU rather than a normal patient hall.
Everyone inside this waiting room is somber. Makes sense, I guess. Cases here are more serious. People probably die on this ward every day. Maybe several times a day.
I shouldn’t think like that.
Mom is in the back corner, talking quietly with Uncle Ben. She looks like a widow already, in a black sweater and skirt. Ben listens carefully, nodding at the right moments. He’s grizzly, with a big beard that obscures much of his face. That’s new.
“Where’s Grandma K?” June whispers.
“Heck if I know,” I say. “You want me to go find her so you can give her a big ol’ hug?”
June stabs my side with her elbow. “Hush.”
Only six or seven other people are scattered through the room. In the opposite back corner, two women weep softly in a huddle. My stomach flips. I wonder what they’re going through.
I snuck into an ICU in California once to see Corabelle. The actual ward, not the waiting room. The beds had all been lined up along the wall, monitors beeping at random intervals.
I got caught, but the nurse had mercy and let me stay. Corabelle had pneumonia, a bad case. I was beside myself, thinking I had found her after four years only to lose her again.
This time is nothing like that. I try to find any concern for my father at all, and come up with nothing. If he’s dead, he can’t insult Corabelle. Blaming her for the way he treated me was ridiculous. Anger burns in my heart a second time, just thinking about it.
“June,” Mom says, holding out her arms.
June walks over reluctantly and allows Mom to wrap her up in a hug.
“Uncle Ben is here!” Mom says.
Ben must not have been around much in the last six years, because June gets shy when she turns to him. He holds out a hand and she shakes it awkwardly.
I guess I better get over there too.
“Gavin,” Uncle Ben says, standing to clap my back as we shake. “You’re not the teenage pipsqueak I saw last.”
“You look like you’ve filled out a bit yourself,” I say.
Ben spreads his hands across his belly. “Looking to apply for some Santa positions soon,” he jokes. “Just waiting on this hair to go gray.”
“Oh, you’ve got years on that,” Mom says. “Dad didn’t go gray until he was sixty.”
And died not long after, I recall. His favorite expression was “die young and leave a good-lookin’ corpse.” He hadn’t died all that young, but certainly before any of us was ready.
Grandpa Jack hadn’t cared one whit for my father and told Mom so. I heard them argue a time or two that she should leave him. But Mom always stuck by her husband. That’s what she always did best.
Sometimes I imagine Grandpa Jack and Finn are in some otherworldly play land, whooping it up together. Life sure was all right when he was around, giving me geodes and making sure I was learning stuff. He did hard labor on road construction sites, and it broke him down over time. His son Ben followed in his footsteps. He wanted something different for me.
Maybe I needed to get that degree done after all.
I sit by Ben, and June settles in next to Mom.
“Any news?” I ask.
“They update us every couple hours,” Mom says. “Everything looks good, so they’re going to let him wake up on his own. He’s ornery enough that he’ll make us wait all night.”
“You want to get some dinner or some sleep?” I ask. “I can hang out up here.”
“Ben and I had dinner,” Mom says. “We’re going to give it until midnight then break until morning.”
That’s about four hours away. “They let you stay here all night?”
“Sure,” Mom says. “New people come in fairly regular. I think they bring them up here from the ER if they aren’t stable enough for a regular room.”
“Some sad cases in here,” Uncle Ben says. His eyes dart to the weeping women. “Car accident. Teen daughter killed. Husband here after emergency surgery.”
My gaze skitters over them again.
I wonder what we look like to the others. Indifferent son. Unaffected daughter.
It was different with baby Finn. We were in the NICU and everyone’s situations were obvious. Each row was a different level of care. Finn was in the most fragile row.
Many of the babies on his row didn’t go home.
Here, you don’t see the same people day in and day out. Everyone moves all over.
A nurse comes in, nondescript in blue scrubs and black hair tied up tight. The room looks up expectantly, wondering who is getting news.
She heads toward us. “You all are for Robert Mays, right?”
“We are,” Mom says.
“He’s awake. Only two can come back at a time, for five minutes only,” she says. She looks at June. “How old is she?”
“How old does she need to be?” Uncle Ben asks.
Mom elbows him. “She’s fourteen. His daughter.”
