“You know, we technically failed,” he said. “We got out of bed.”
“I think we proved our point.”
In the bedroom once again, they lit the dusty old sex candle that had been gathering cobwebs in the corner the last few months and climbed under the covers. They both laughed as they realized that it had been a while. A long while. And that a lot of the angles had changed since the last time. During one kiss, their teeth bumped together, creating a horrendous clicking sound. Wren whipped her bra off in what was supposed to be a sexy move and one of the metal clasps hit Arthur in the eye. Ferdie was staring at them from the corner, ghostlike, asleep with his eyes open, the entire time.
Eventually, they figured it out, and they wondered why they hadn’t been doing this the whole time.
Arthur was sound asleep at 5:03 p.m. Poor guy. Wren supposed he’d earned it. But, in typical fashion, she couldn’t sleep. Far too uncomfortable. And now her thoughts were racing to boot.
Suddenly there seemed so much to do to get ready.
For starters, there was the bassinet she had picked out, still sitting there in the box. She’d heard the old joke about kids liking cardboard boxes more than the toys that came in them, but she figured the baby would probably appreciate it if she actually bothered to put the thing together.
“You want somewhere nice and cozy to sleep, don’t you?” she asked her belly.
She smiled, and it occurred to her that she had never done that before, spoken to the baby. Arthur had done it here and there, and had mentioned to her that he’d read in a book that it was supposed to help lay the foundation for a strong bond. She’d read some message boards herself to confirm he wasn’t making it up. He wasn’t. All the expecting moms did it. There were apps and devices that helped you talk to the baby, recommended books to read them, lists of songs you could sing to them. There were even these ridiculous headphones you could attach to your belly. She had laughed them off at first, then thought that they might be a good way to start the little bugger’s pop punk education early, and then looked at the price tag and laughed them off again.
The apartment suddenly felt so quiet. Like something, or someone, was missing.
“It’s just you and me now, little nugget. If you want to come out soon, I think I’m ready to meet you.” OK, her baby voice was a little bit too similar to her doggie voice, but it was a good start. “What does my womb look like, by the way? I hope it’s nice in there. Kick twice if you could use more legroom.”
She laughed. She liked this. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t been doing it the whole time.
It had been a good day. She’d done nothing at all, and it had been good. She didn’t previously know that that was possible. Look at her. Sitting here being so responsible, so motherly. Not trying to skirt the rules of pregnancy, not trying to engage in any reckless behavior whatsoever. Just sitting quietly with her own thoughts, and with the baby, snapping the various metal and plastic pieces of the bassinet into itscushiony frame, and most shockingly of all, actually enjoying it. It was satisfying in a strange way, as the metal prongs popped into the holes that would hold them in place, and plastic fasteners clicked into their exact landing spot.
Was this what it would feel like to actually, well, be a grown-up? And if not be one, at least act like that? She was never going to get her childhood back, she realized in this moment. But she could create a good one, a really good one, as the mom she never really had.
Bassinet done. It was a little plain, a little flimsy, but a quick double check of the reviews and safety ratings confirmed it was good enough for now.
The next thing she needed was a go bag. Of course, Arthur had packed his a while ago, and she had put it off. Was there anything more fitting than that?
“Let’s go look and see what we’ve got in the closet,” she said to the baby, hoisting herself up off the floor by the edges of a doorframe. She shuffled around inside the master closet quietly until she found her old backpack from college. Ratty, dusty, empty except for a few crumpled papers. It would do.
She began stuffing it like a piñata, haphazardly throwing in a pair of leggings, some underwear, a spare phone charger, a small reading lamp that was out of batteries, a first-aid kit (as if they wouldn’t already be at a hospital), a pack of gum.
She had no idea what she was doing. Yes, she could google it, but that was the answer to everything, wasn’t it? Fucking google it, watch an influencer reel, read a thousand blog post checklists, skim a YouTube video. She ached in that moment for someone to call who could tell her, show her how this was supposed to be done.
She’d figure it out in the morning. For tonight, Wren was running out of gas. But there on the floor of the closet was…something. A corner of the closet that had been converted into a graveyard of cough drop wrappers, loose change, and if you can believe it, even more outdated charging cables. Buried beyond that was a small bin of her old paints. It had been ages since she’d used them, and they were covered in dust bunnies. More importantly, there was one more thing that caught her eye, buried among the rubble. A small black velvet box that she hadn’t seen in years. Wren didn’t need to open it; she knew what was in there. But she did want to see it again. She grabbed it, flipped open the lid. The ring was still there, shiny as ever. Hardly ever touched by human hands.
When Arthur had asked her years ago, this tiny thing had filled her with terror. She knew that was not what an engagement was supposed to feel like. It was funny that he’d brought up dying, and his funeral. Because that’s exactly what had been so scary. It was never that she wasn’t sure he was “the one,” whatever that meant, but she had learned early in her life that people sometimes disappeared, whether they wanted to or not. That was not something she ever wanted to go through again.
She was always the Girl Whose Parents Died. It followed her around like a brand for years, people walking on eggshells around her and treating her with kid gloves, for the most part. A few cruel kids used it as bullying fodder, but they were easily dealt with. (Step one: Apply one scoop of dirt taken from a fire ant hill to bully’s backpack. Step two: Enjoy the show.) The large majority of everyone else looked at her like she was a fragile antique. Better to keep their distance, just in case. If Arthur got hit by a car or struck by lightning, she didn’t think she could live with being the Widow. At least, if they weren’t married, she could disappear and start over in the event of the unthinkable, take on an alter ego. Maybe become aninternational assassin, an exotic escort, or a mysterious railroad tycoon.
Keeping just that little bit of distance felt like a way to keep herself safe. And, until recently, she’d been doing it with the baby, too. Too scared to decorate, to give it a name, to get attached. The baby deserved better. And so did Arthur.
But back then, she’d felt she had no choice but to do the hardest thing she had ever done—she’d said no. She did love him, and she’d told him that, reminded him endlessly, and they’d worked through it. He never asked again.
But he did keep the ring.
Looking at it now, the teeny-tiny diamonds that Arthur had been able to afford at the time somehow still sparkling, Wren felt completely different about it. It was so cute, like a little bike with tassels and training wheels. Adorable. The kind of thing broke young kids who have nothing in their bank accounts but all the love and passion in the world buy. When she looked at it now she saw their family growing, their skin getting wrinkly, dull days full of laughter, hard days full of tears. She didn’t want to put it back in its dark place. So she closed the lid, put the box in her go bag instead, and shut off the closet light.
18
“Come on, Linda. Come on,Linda,” Arthur grunted in hushed tones, standing out in the hallway of the apartment building so as not to wake Wren, building to a hoarse, frantic whisper-scream now: “Linda!!”
A door across the hall cracked open and an elderly woman looked out through the crack with a single eyeball, the knife she was wielding poking through just under the chain lock.
“For the last time, Mrs. Flynn. I live here. I’ve lived across from you for years. I help you carry in your groceries every week.” No reaction.Really?Arthur thought. “I’m not here to rob you!”
