Chapter 15: Corabelle
By the time Gavin and June are back, I’m feeling well enough to fake it. Dad has ordered pizza.
The four of us sit in the sunroom looking out on the backyard. Mom’s planted more flowers there and coaxed them into blooming even in the desert. That’s what she does.
June is animated and lively, talking about her hike. I’m glad Gavin did this with her. It’s clearly a very special memory for her already.
The sun starts to set. Dad stacks the plates.
“Coming up on seven,” he says. “Seems like we should be hearing about your dad waking up soon.”
Gavin and June get all still. I don’t know what that means for either of them. Probably Gavin cares more than he wants to admit. June must be terrified.
“You want to go up there?” Gavin asks his sister.
“Maybe,” she says. “Mom probably wants us.”
“Let’s go.” He stands up and pulls the keys to our car out of his pocket.
“Take mine,” Dad says. “Keys are in the kitchen.”
“You coming?” Gavin asks me.
“You can puke on Grandma K again,” June says with a giggle. “I totally want to see that.”
“I’m not sure I want to see her again just yet,” I say. Which is true. I also don’t want to have my stomach vibrate in a car for an hour after eating pizza, not that I ate much. Just enough to escape notice.
Gavin leans over and kisses my hair. “We’ll be back tonight.” To my dad he says, “We’ll bring Mrs. Rotheford back.”
“Sounds good,” Dad says. “Let us know how your father is doing.”
“Will do.”
The two of them head out the front door. In the quiet of the early evening, I can hear the car start up.
I take a stack of cups and follow Dad to the kitchen. It’s bright and colorful, like only happy things can happen here. Mom has changed out the curtains since I lived here, but the orange and white stripes have the same sunshiny feel as the yellow ones she had before.
Dad opens the dishwasher and starts loading plates in. “I’m thinking of trading cars with you,” he says. “That battle-ax of yours isn’t safe.”
I hand him a cup. “You don’t have to do that, Dad. We’re getting by.”
“Grad school is tough enough,” he says. “I’ll trade your old one in. Your mom’s been angling for a new one anyway.”
“I’ll talk to Gavin about it.” He can be proud, even though an SUV would be a lot more convenient with the baby.
If the baby comes.
“So when do you plan to tell your mom and me about the baby?” he asks, sticking a plate on the bottom rack as if this is any old question.
My breath sucks in. “What?”
“Your mom won’t ask about it. She thinks if you’re not telling us, you have your reasons. But she’s not here. So I’m asking.”
I should have known they would figure it out.
“When did you know?”
“The minute Gavin walked you in like you were made of glass. He acted just the same with Finn.”
Hearing someone else say his name out loud makes my heart clench.
Finn.
“And then I got sick this morning,” I say.
“And pizza is usually your favorite,” he adds. “You only ate a few bites to throw me off.”
Obviously that hadn’t worked.
I sit on a stool by the bar. “I’m due in February,” I say. “I just found out two weeks ago.”
“Seen the doctor yet?” He sticks the last plate in the rack and dries his hands.
I shake my head. “I’m scheduled for nine weeks, but I can come in earlier if I want.”
“They know what happened last time?”
“They do. We can’t do a sonogram to check this one’s heart until I’m at least sixteen weeks along.”
“Whew. That’s a long time.”
“I know.”
“How are you and Gavin for health insurance? A sick baby is a huge expense.” He leans against the counter, his face etched with concern.
“Gavin’s garage doesn’t have benefits, but we bought an independent policy a few months back.” I don’t mention that we did this before the reversal surgery, in case something went wrong. Insurance wouldn’t cover the reversal, but complications would be part of the plan.
“Does it cover maternity?”
“Yes. We made sure.”
“So you planned this? Even with grad school?” His question carries a note of disapproval.
“I know. We should have prevented. We just didn’t. My two best friends have started families.” I stop. I can’t explain how I really felt. Like I needed to try again. That I felt like a failure and I wanted to fix this hole, if it could ever be mended.
“Do you need help? I can send your mother up there.”
“No, no,” I say. “I’m fine. I have a scholarship right now and I’m not having to work beyond school and my thesis. It’s actually the easiest load I’ve had in a while.”
“Gavin still on course to graduate?”
“Eventually. He’s taking off this summer, of course, and putting in extra hours. I’ll try to make sure he goes back in the fall.”
“That degree is important if he wants to do more than be a mechanic. That’s honest work, to be certain, but it’s a waste of all those years of study.”
“I know.”
Dad walks over and curls his arm around my neck. “Don’t feel like you have to hide something like this from us, Tinker Bell. We’re here to support you.”
My eyes prick with tears. “I know, Dad. It’s just so hard and scary. I don’t want to feel like I caused other people sadness and fear too.”
“But we want the chance to help. It’s worth risking those hard feelings.”
I nod against his chest. He smells like Woolite and desert air. Like my childhood. Like home.
I’m glad we’re here.
“Let’s head back to the sunroom,” he says. “It’s always been the good place in the house.”
“It has,” I say. We walk that way, to the wicker furniture with overstuffed cushions, Mom’s indoor plants, and the huge glass windows. I want to ask him something hard, and it’s better to do it there.
When we’re settled again, I gather my courage, then ask it. “Dad, did the doctors ever figure out why Mom lost those four babies?”
His eyebrows lift above the rim of his glasses. “Well, that’s been a lot of years ago. But when Finn was diagnosed, we went over all that paperwork again. Mom even called her old ob/gyn’s office. Dr. Jenner is long retired, but the clinic is still around.”
“What did they say?”
“In those days, they didn’t test like they do now. But it seems like the problem was with the shape of your mother’s womb. Nowadays they do some surgery to correct it, I believe. But then you just had to hope one of the babies would make it through. Like you.”
“So no heart problems in the babies?”
“Not that we knew about. One of the babies was…” he hesitates, then coughs into his hand. My eyes spring with tears again. Faking a cough is how he’s always covered his emotions.
He begins again. “One of them was fully formed. A boy. Stillborn. But yea big.” He holds his hands about a foot apart. “Looked perfect.” He brushes his graying hair back even though it’s nowhere near his face.
“They did an autopsy. But nothing wrong. Not a thing. Just died inside her. They think he didn’t get enough blood supply. He was small for what he should have been.”
“Did you give him a name?”
Dad shakes his head. “No, that wasn’t really done then. We only saw him a minute or two before they whisked him off. They said the more we held him, the worse we’d feel. Didn’t get any pictures or anything.” He taps his temples. “He’s just up here.”
“That’s terrible,” I cry. The pictures I have of Finn are the most important things I own. They are what got me through.
“I understand things are different now. They let you hold on to them. Do special photo shoots and all. That’s good.” He nods vigorously and clears his throat.
“I don’t have a problem inside,” I say. “Nobody has said anything if I do.”
“You’re probably all right then,” he says. “And this baby should be too.”
A few hot tears track down my face for all my parents lost before me. So much pain in the world. It is hard to bear.
We sit in the sunroom as the day comes to a close. The yellow light fades across the alley, disappearing over Gavin’s house just beyond the fence. I hope he and June are doing all right, and that whatever happens with his father is something everyone can handle.
Life is precious and fleeting. Seven days for Finn. Forty-seven years so far for Mr. Mays. We have to hold on to every moment and make them count.