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Holy and I convert the spare bedroom on the second floor into a nursery. We paint the walls pastel yellow on a beautiful spring day. To ensure my safety, I wear a mask, and every window in the house is open so the fumes can’t hurt me. Still, Holy makes me take lots of breaks, just in case.
When the paint has dried and a second coat has been applied, we spend a weekend furnishing the room with everything our baby boy will need, like an expensive Grace Hadley 5-in-1 crib with changing table and storage drawer. “This might be the most expensive piece of furniture I’ve ever bought,” Holy laughs nervously as he loads the box into our cart. It’s large and awkward, kind of like me right now.
“I can buy it.” I reach for my purse at the top of the cart, and Holy grabs my hand to stop me.
“That’s not what I meant,” he corrects. Holy brings my hand to his chest and spreads my fingers over his heart. “I’ve bought a lot of cheap crap for my house. Or got stuff handed down to me from one of the Kings. I haven’t cared about what was in my house before because it was all just stuff. And frankly, I didn’t have anyone to share my stuff with, so who cared if it was new? But this stuff,” he pats the box, “this stuff matters. This stuff is important. This stuff I’m sharing with the love of my life and my beautiful baby boy. And it’s worth every penny.”
After that, we never really talk about money, even though I know it should be a bigger discussion than we’re letting on. Holy pays all the bills and buys everything from onesies to the adorable little hangers we put them on. He never complains. He never says the Diaper Genie is just a fancy trash can marketed to parents. He does more than his fair share, and it endears me to him.
On the nights I can’t come over, he’s in touch with me the entire time. He sends me cute little text messages or calls me. He understands that I am studying for my AP tests and preparing for graduation. He even understands when I tell him I’m going to prom without him. Holy is the most understanding man in the world, and I feel so lucky to have him.
But the valleys are all the moments in between.
Though my morning vomit ritual has decreased exponentially, I am still nauseous all the time. I have stretch marks on my hips and dark tiger stripes emanating from my belly button. I wear baggy clothes all the time, and with nicer weather finally coming around, it’s getting harder and harder to justify wearing a sweatshirt all day.
A few days ago, my dad called me downstairs and slid an envelope my way. In the sender’s address, I saw the Women’s Health Group, and I paled. Before I could make up a lie, Dad asked if I was okay.
“I know I haven’t always been as involved with your feminine health as I should be.” The color on his cheeks tells me he is as uncomfortable having this conversation as I am. “I’m still grateful for your grandma talking me through how to deal with periods.” He shudders like it was a horrifying time in his life. In reality, his mom just told him what kind of tampons and pads to buy and then talked me through how to use them.
“But if you’re going to the feminine doctor for birth control,” Marcus shifts from one foot to the other, “or some kind of STD testing, you can tell me.”
Once again, the little voice in my head warns me that this is the moment to come clean. And once again, I ignore it. I calmly open the letter, telling him, “It was my annual physical. I figured since I was eighteen, I didn’t need your name on my account anymore. That’s all. Do you want to see?” I offer him the bill. It’s a dangerous move because if he takes it, he’ll see the charges for my most recent maternity appointment and tests. My heart thunders inside my chest, and I pray that he says no.
My prayer is answered. Marcus looks at the folded-up piece of paper and then smiles at me. “I trust you, honey. Do you need my checkbook?”
Despite the gesture of confidence I just displayed, I am relieved by his response. I’d say yes, but the second he sees a charge for $150, he’s going to start asking questions. I wave him off instead. “I got it.”
“You sure?” He raises an eyebrow. “I don’t want you wasting your trust fund on stuff I’m supposed to pay for, anyway.”
When I was born, my grandparents set up a trust fund in my name with money from one of their restaurants. Year after year, they put a percentage of the profits into the account. The trust fund was designed to get me started when I came of age. It would help pay for college, put a down payment on a house, and keep me from having to work myself to death when I turned eighteen. “I’m sure. I’m an adult now. I can pay my own bills.”
Marcus steps forward to envelope me in a hug. I try to twist sideways so he doesn’t feel my bump against his stomach. “I’m so proud of you, Danielle. You’re becoming an amazing woman.”
His words warm my heart but also pluck the strings of my discontent. I’m still keeping secrets from everyone I know. I’m still risking Holy’s future by being with him and not coming clean. I’m still hiding my pregnancy from the one person that loves me almost as much as the man that got me pregnant.
Not to mention that I feel like I’m drifting apart from my friends. Even Rosemary seems busier these days. I’m not sure what she’s doing, but she’s never around. Worse than that, she can’t even be my alibi because she doesn’t pick up her phone.
My dad is willing to overlook a lot of weird behavior because he’s a busy man and works with teenagers every day. The way he looks at it, at least I’m not doing drugs. If I’m away from the house but still keeping up my grades, he’s willing to give me a pass.
But one day, he might look at me in a baggy shirt and see the curve of my stomach beneath it. He might realize that I haven’t just gained stress weight; I’ve gained baby weight. And when he gets to that conclusion, will he be as accepting of me as he’s always been? Or will he fly off the handle and demand answers?
Only time will tell. And time is not on my side.
31
HOLY
Prom is on April 29th. I plan to go, not as Danielle’s date, but as a chaperone. It is the closest we’ll get to being together on prom night. Also, it’ll give me a chance to keep an eye out for her. She’ll be at the start of her third trimester, and she’ll inevitably be showing.
A week before prom, at 27 weeks and five days pregnant, we stand in a dress shop in Kansas City looking at gowns. Danielle said I didn’t have to come, but I don’t want to miss a single moment with her. I already miss her most nights of the week because she’s playing the dutiful daughter. A two-hour drive to KC is plenty of time for us to discuss her birth plan, which came up at her most recent visit to the OBGYN.
“It has to be black,” Danielle stipulates to the sales representative pulling dresses.
She looks at Danielle’s protruding stomach with a raised eyebrow and says, “I see.” Somehow those two words carry the weight of every judgmental person we’ve encountered since this whole thing began.
When the woman disappears into the shop to grab a few options, Danielle flips the bird. “Bitch,” she mumbles under her breath.
I trail my hand down her spine to calm her down. “Ignore her, baby.”
