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29
SKY
As promised,Dylan and I headed to the hospital for a check up on the pregnancy progress. We’re told the baby hasn’t settled into any position to suggest she’s arriving soon, but there’s always a possibility. Cue another half hour of Dylan deliberations whether to travel. His commitment to the pregnancy, from the start, is one hundreds of women would crave, and I love him for it, but two days isn’t long and France isn’t far.
A small niggle I don’t want him to go edged in last night, but he left me with a kiss and with a promise he’ll fly straight back if anything happens. He even bent down and told his daughter to stay where she is before he climbed into the taxi.This man...
I don’t entertain Dylan’s crazy stories. She unnerves me, but I don’t worry about Lily to the extent he does. She’s too public with her actions now. I call SMC to ask about the mail from Lily Dylan mentioned and am told Dylan’s in charge. I call Dylan and inform him he’s not in charge. Dylan retorts in this situation he is. I assure him the conversation isn’t over, and we’ll discuss this when he arrives back from France. Then I take a trip to Tara’s for a couple of days to lose myself in a tiny piece of normal.
We head out to the shopping centre. A weekend in early December, and the crowds are thick enough to lose myself in as a pregnant woman Christmas shopping, and not Sky Morgan. The silver and blue lights join the Christmas music in creating an ambience that hurts my head as much as my back does after an hour standing in a department store while Tara coos over designer babywear. She’s already bought the baby a whole wardrobe and behaves more like she’ll be an aunt. In a way, she will be, as she’s my sister in many ways.
“This one?” She holds up a tiny pink dress I swear would fit my daughter for ten minutes before she grew.
“Um.”
“Omigod! Look! How cute is this?” Tara holds up a furry, white all-in-one, complete with cat ears and lets out a quiet squeal. “Thissomakes me want a baby!”
I can’t help my eyebrows shooting up. “Seriously, Tara? And what does Tom think about the idea?”
“Oh, I won’t.” She waves a dismissive hand. “But you didn’t plan so who knows?”
“We did plan this baby,” I reply.
“But not the fir—” Tara places a hand over her mouth as my heartache grips, as suddenly as always. “Sorry.”
I can’t say “that’s okay” because it’s not. Because two weeks ago I lay on the bed crying, holding the toy Dylan bought for our baby, on the anniversary of the day we lost her. That day was tough; as tough as the due date, and hit me like a truck. I tried hard not to pay attention to the date, but as it drew nearer, I knew how hard the day would be.
Dylan didn’t mention anything, until he found me sobbing. He’d attempted to stay strong for me, and as he held me, he let some of his grief go too. Our daughter shifted inside me, kicking a reminder she’s almost here, but however hard I tried, I couldn’t forget the day I lost her sister.
Dylan drove us from the house, away from the world and into the secluded hills above a nearby town. We sat together on a bench overlooking the houses, wrapped up against the winter and in each other. For a long time, we hardly spoke, his warm hand encompassing my gloved one, the arm around me stroking my neck with his thumb a bigger comfort than any words.
“I’m sorry, Sky. I didn’t mean to sound heartless.” Tara interrupts my thoughts, and I take the furry suit from her hands.
“Dylan will love this.” I give a weak smile.
Tara laughs. “Dylan? You mean he’s already trying to dictate his daughter’s fashion choices?”
“Weird, huh? I mean, look athim.” I point at a dad-to-be whose fake interest in his partner’s excitement over clothes is laughably unconvincing. “That’s what I expected.”
“Who’d’ve thought Dylan would be such a hands-on dad.”
“Hah. We’ll see what happens once the nappies appear.” I link my arm through Tara’s. “Might want to warn Tom if you’re planning on having his baby.”
“I was kidding.” She rests her head on mine. “Coffee break?”
“Definitely, my back’s killing me. How are you doing?”
“I’m fine. I don’t get as tired anymore.” She tugs my hand. “My shopping addiction is fully functional again.”
March sees two years since Tara’s accident, and each time I see her, she’s improved further. Her energy levels are higher and walking is normal, but Tara still tires easily despite what she tells me. I hug her that bit tighter each time we meet, remembering her lying in the hospital bed.
We weave through the crowds to the busy food court where I use my “eating for two” excuse to order cake.
“Tom wants to move to London,” says Tara as we take a table in the middle of the crowds. One or two people glance at me, but nobody approaches.
“Moving there would be awesome! We’d be closer some of the time.”
“Hmm.” Tara blows on her hot coffee.
