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“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Delicate pregnant woman here. Maybe quit it with the–” I wave their hands off me and take a deep breath. “Let’s just walk around first, okay?”
Truth be told, I don’t have the mental space to even consider what I might need for a baby right now. Everyone has told me I have to start preparing early because in the blink of an eye I’ll be nine months pregnant and struggling to get up off the couch.
There’s just…so much going on in my head right now.
“Fine, but we’re taking a basket,” Harley says, pulling a light blue basket out from the corral.
Gillian smiles. “Thatwe can agree on.”
I have to smile, remembering how the two of them used to fight like cats and dogs. Now they’re the best of mom friends. Even if they still hold each other’s feet to the fire now and then.
We start down one of the aisles. Rattles, teethers, tiny stuffed animals. Things that should be making me squeal with joy and anticipation. I can’t muster any excitement.
“See anything you like, Dana?” Gillian asks.
“No, not really,” I reply.
“I told you the little things were too overwhelming to start with,” Gillian ribs Harley, only to receive an elbow to the gut afterward.
I continue to let them lead me around the store, limiting my vocabulary to “yes”, “no”, “like that”, “hate that”.
It’s the clothing section that does me in.
“Now look at this,” Gillian says, picking up a tiny onesie. “Drew would justdie.”
I crack a smile at the yellow onesie with the graphic of a smiling peach. “’Daddy’s Little Peach’…what does that even mean?”
“It doesn’t matter what it means. Once you’re a mom, babies are comparable to food. Any food. It’s a simple point of fact,” Harley explains in her best radio voice.
I shuffle through the rack a little longer and stop on one I shouldn’t. My face contorts.
“Please pass me to Grandma,” it reads.
I pull it off the rack and stare at it. I stare hard.
“What’ve you got th–ohhhh…” Gillian peeks over my shoulder and recoils before she can finish her sentence.
“How is it that none of our kids will have grandmothers?” I say softly, straightening out the fabric of the onesie.
Harley and Gillian exchange a look. “I guess I never thought about that,” Gillian says.
“Axel’s mom is gone. Grant’s mom is gone. Hunter’s too. And Drew’s.”
“Well, our kids stillhavegrandmothers,” Harley corrects. “They’re just not alive. But–”
“Our mother isn’t dead. Do you say she’s a grandmother to Stella and Tana?” I ask. I’m not trying to cause a scene or an argument. I need to know.
Harley shrugs. “She could. She just chose not to be one.”
“Harley,” Gillian scolds.
After how Mom seemed to latch onto her after her prodigal son-esque return two years ago, I don’t blame Harley. However with each passing day, all I have wanted is my mom. How can I become a mom myself if I don’t have my mom to lean on? To ask questions of. To just have whisper, “Everything will be alright,” and for once,for once, I’d believe it.
Gillian touches my shoulder. “Let’s sit down.”
Without realizing it, I’ve started shaking.What’s going on?
Gillian leads me over to a bench (which are thankfully plentiful in a store for babies and expectant mothers). “Let’s take some deep breaths.”
