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I’ve never been late a day in my life. Well, once—and then Knox was born nine months later. I’ve laid the pregnancy test on the bathroom counter, staring at it from a distance, waiting for it to give me an answer.
My heart is pounding. I’m slightly nauseated. I’m not sure how I feel about the possibility of bringing another baby into this world. Hell, J.R. and I haven’t even gotten married yet. We agreed to wait until he was home again rather than squeeze it in before he left, but as the holidays approach, he’ll be gone once more. Apparently, Halloween, the entire month of November, and the first couple of weeks of December are prime dates for rock concerts.
I don’t think I’m ready for a baby. I’ve only just gotten J.R. back, and I’m just now getting a grip on all of the changes we’ve encountered over the last few months. Now is not a good time. Still, it wouldn’t be a terrible thing. Being back with J.R., getting to watch him love our baby through pregnancy to birth—that’s something I never got to experience with Knox. It was my own doing, I know. This could be a really good thing. It’s a second chance.
I hesitate to look at the test again. I’m afraid, but I can’t stand in this bathroom all night, so I step a little closer to the counter. I peer at the test with my eyes pinched closed, not touching it. I count to three, take a deep breath, and then open my eyes.
Pregnant.
It’s in bold, black letters. I briefly think about how pregnancy test companies should have these tests read instead. If it’s positive:better start stocking up on diapers!If it’s negative:try again.
I try to catch my breath as I stare at those bold letters, and the next nine months flash before my eyes. I see J.R.’s smile when I tell him. I see Knox making room for her new sibling in her bedroom. I see me, big and round, and then I see J.R. again, holding our most perfect baby in his arms.
The timing isn’t ideal, and we certainly didn’t plan for this, but it could be good. Itwillbe good. I’m pregnant. I’m going to have a baby.
I’m overwhelmed but excited. I want to die, cry, and laugh all at the same time. I’m scared, too. I’m no spring chicken. Pregnancy in your thirties isn’t as easy as pregnancy in your twenties. At least, that’s what I hear.
J.R. comes home tomorrow. I’ll hold onto this secret until then. We’ll have dinner and put Knox to bed; and then when we go to bed, he’ll pull back the covers. There, on his pillow, will be the pregnancy test. Sanitized, of course. No one wants something that’s been peed on lying on their pillow. J.R.’s bright blue eyes will grow wide. He’ll stare at me, mouth wide open; and then he’ll hop across the bed, take me in his arms, and kiss me.
It’s going to be okay. Everything is going to be okay.
30
“Set the table, Knox. He’ll be home any minute.”
I hand her the plates with the utensils on top. Knox lays the plates out, and I finish dinner. It’s nothing special—spaghetti, homemade pasta sauce, and some crusty bread lathered in garlic butter. I even splurged on a salad. J.R. will be impressed. I’ve never been much of a cook.
I see lights in the driveway from the kitchen window, and I feel my heart flutter. It’s been a long four weeks. We’ve talked, of course, but long-distance relationships never suffice.
“He’s home!” I exclaim, and then we both take off for the door.
Knox beats me to it, swinging it open, and scales all three porch steps in one leap. She runs straight into J.R.’s waiting arms, and they take a minute to embrace.
He looks tired. I remember this look from the past. Twenty shows, back-to-back, late nights, and probably more alcohol than one man should drink in a year. He always came home exhausted and hoarse. He’s not as young as he used to be. I think recovery may take a little longer this time.
Knox grabs J.R.’s guitar case, and then he pulls his luggage behind him, meeting me on the bottom step of the porch.
“You are a sight for sore eyes,” he says to me with an exhausted half-grin. He kisses me. “I missed you.”
“I missed you,” I say. “You look exhausted.” I put my palm against his beard.
“I have never been so happy to be home.” He sighs.
“Come on, Dad. Mama made dinner, and it’s going to get cold,” Knox says, leading the way into the house. She carries his guitar case with such care and gentleness, taking it straight to the music room.
“Let me take your stuff,” I tell him, motioning at his luggage.
“I’ve got it,” he says. “Let me look at you.” J.R. steps into the house behind me, takes his hands from his luggage, and observes me. “You look different.”
“Different?” I feel myself choke, and I know that there’s no way he could know I’m pregnant. I literally haven’t told a soul.
“Yeah,” he says, unsure, still running his blue eyes over me. “Haircut?”
I decide to play it cool, and I laugh at him. “No. I think you’re just tired.” I kiss him. “Go put up your stuff. I’ll see you in the kitchen.”
I’m nervous now. My hands are shaking, and I hope he doesn’t find the test that I’ve left on his pillow under the covers. I busy myself with dinner, trying not to act too suspicious, serving the food onto our plates, pouring J.R. a glass of wine and Knox and me a glass of water. I’m hoping J.R. doesn’t notice that I’m not drinking wine tonight.
Knox and J.R. appear in the kitchen, and I can’t help but notice that Knox is wearing a J.R. and the Band t-shirt.
