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“A man of his word.”
“Yes, he is,” she said, ignoring the sarcasm in my tone.
While I washed our dishes, Aunt Izzie continued working on the puzzle. She had pieced together a leaf by the time I returned. A Blake Shelton song came on the radio. “How’s Kyle?” she asked.
I laughed. She insisted my husband resembled the country music star. He did not. “He’s fine.”
Aunt Izzie’s green eyes, so similar to my mother’s and sister’s, bored into me. “Everything good between you?”
My hand froze on the puzzle piece I was about to pick up.Should I tell her about trying to get pregnant and the strain it’s placing on our marriage?An image of her at church lighting candles for me and Kyle popped into my head. She would ask Father Doherty to pray for us. I could see the old priest’s tightly pressed lips and hear the judgment in his faint Irish brogue.Reproductive technology is immoral. Babies aremeant to be conceived through the marital act.No, I definitely couldn’t tell her.
“Yes, of course.”
“I haven’t seen him in a while.”
I nodded. “Come for dinner next week.”
“Why don’t we all go to Hank’s?”
“I’ll cook so you know what good food tastes like. It’s not that slop Hank serves.”
Aunt Izzie stood to tend to the fire. “You just inhaled his chicken parm.”
“You said it yourself. It was a DeMarco family recipe. What I tasted was my father’s love.”
Aunt Izzie poked at the glowing embers. “Yes,” she agreed. “You did.”
Chapter 4
I didn’t want to get my hopes up, but when I woke up Saturday, day six, I was sure I was pregnant because I had cramps—not the God-was-so-unfair-to-women cramps I usually experienced every month but a tingling with—well, I hated to admit it—a positive energy. During the first cycle, Dr.Evans had told me some women could feel when the egg attached to the uterus wall, and they often compared the sensation to a friendlier version of menstrual cramping. I wanted to call her to confirm I remembered her words correctly, but it was so early that darkness still masked my bedroom. The only light came from the fluorescent-green background of Kyle’s alarm clock and the bright-blue LED numbers on mine that read 6:04.
Next to me, Kyle fought an imaginary demon in his sleep, his hands balled in tight fists as he bounced from his stomach to his side to his back. I wondered what was running through his subconscious and hoped it didn’t have to do with the baby.
“Kyle.” I whispered his name, though I had no idea why. After all, I was trying to wake him. He didn’t stir, so I propped myself up on an elbow and leaned over him, poking his chest.
He jerked awake, jolting upright. “What’s wrong?”
“I think it worked.”
He yawned. “What worked?”
“I’m pregnant.”Did I jinx myself by saying it out loud?
Kyle opened his mouth. No words came out, just the stench of his morning breath.
“I can feel him.” At that moment, I was certain the baby was a boy. “Will. Let’s name him Will.”This babywillbe born. Iwillbe a mother. See, Dr.Evans, I’m thinking positively.
Kyle flopped back to a horizontal position. “Go back to sleep, Nikki.” Minutes later, his snores rattled the bed.
I had been pregnant one other time. Almost seven years ago. Shortly after we got married. We weren’t even trying. One night, Kyle and I were drinking margaritas. I couldn’t hold mine down, which was weird. I had never had a problem before. I thought maybe I had a stomach bug. The next day I realized I was late. It took me a few days to work up the nerve, but I eventually peed on the stick. Three minutes later two pink lines appeared, confirming the pregnancy. My initial reaction was,SHIT!I had wanted to be married for a year before starting a family.
Kyle, on the other hand, was thrilled. He ran out and bought that scary-ass book,What to Expect When You’re Expecting, and sent me daily texts with suggestions for the baby’s name. Trevor and Jasmine were his favorites. Thinking they sounded like names of Disney royalty, I pooh-poohed them in a hurry. At week twelve, we went for an ultrasound. By then, I was on board with the idea of being a mother. Really excited about it. I had decided if it was a girl, we would name her Gianna after my mother, and if it was a boy, we’d name him Dominic after my father but call him Nico.
I wished I didn’t, but I remembered the day of the ultrasound perfectly, so humid that the backs of my legs had stuck to the leather seats on the drive over. When we arrived at the doctor’s office, two white vans with logos for a local heating and air-conditioning company were parked out front. The doors to the building were propped open. In the hallway, repairmen perched high on ladders fiddled with the vents. I had forgotten my phone at home. When we checked in, the receptionist said she had tried to call us to reschedule because the office was closing for the afternoon due to the excessive heat. Dr.Kaplan, our doctor atthe time, said since we were there, we might as well do the ultrasound. The nurse helping with the procedure flung a hospital gown at me and told me to change. Less than a minute later she knocked on the door. When I told her I wasn’t ready, she sighed so loudly I could hear it on the other side of the wall.
She walked several inches in front of me as she led me to the exam room. Occasionally, she looked back over her shoulder. “Come on,” she urged.
We approached a restroom. “I need a minute,” I said, stepping into it.
