Chapter_42_Sea_Salt_W

Three and a half hours later, we arrive at the hospital in Baker. Plum and Cosmo drove us, staying committed to their vow of silence the entire way. Thankfully they’re not on a luxury SUV sabbatical.

Wyatt and I weren’t exactly speaking to each other either.

“You guys, thank you so much,” I say to our new best friends as we climb out of the car with the dogs.

“You’re lifesavers. Truly,” Wyatt says, focused on unloading our luggage and the baby seat.

Plum and Cosmo step out of the car to give us warm hugs. Plum, or maybe Cosmo, writes something in a small, tattered journal. She rips the paper off and hands it to me.

You are a beautiful family unit.

Her penmanship is flowery and loopy, like a little girl’s.

Cosmo adds to it, his handwriting almost illegible, like chicken scratch: don’t forget... communication is key.

Wyatt and I wish them luck, and as we go, we look at each other, stifling smiles at the irony of this couple who took a literal vow of silence telling us we need to communicate more.

The hospital is brand-new and state of the art. Sprawling.

It looks like its ambitious architectural plans come to life.

We pass under a giant cantilevered roof and enter a beautiful, triple height, all-glass lobby that’s filled with natural sunlight.

The dogs’ fingernails click along the polished linoleum floor, trying to keep up with their anxious daddies.

“Hi. Maternity?” Wyatt spits at the woman behind the front desk.

“Allow me to translate into polite English: we’re looking for the maternity ward?” I say to the friendly, seasoned-looking receptionist, who throws us a knowing, warm smile, all too familiar with dozens of similar freaked-out, would-be parents.

“Of course,” she says. “I’m assuming your cuties are service animals?” The receptionist raises her eyebrows, hoping we catch onto her harmless little scheme.

“Yes?” I say, which is very much a lie that everyone is in on.

“Good. Just in case anyone asks. I’m a dog lover too. Got two Siberian Huskies and a Jack Russell Terrier who’s deaf and blind,” she says conspiratorially. “Fourth floor.”

The way Wyatt breathes inside the elevator—three quick exhales, three quick inhales—you’d think he was the one about to have a baby.

Our newly charged phones are fully operating. We both text our moms to tell them what’s happening and they reply immediately.

Exciting!!!

Here we go!!!!

Keep us updated!!!!!

Send us pics immediately!!!!!!

After checking in, we find several comfortable-looking love seats in the empty waiting room. We each take our own love seat, like two dads-to-be who happen to arrive at the same time.

Silence between us. Later, crunching.

Wyatt blankly eats a bag of classic Lay’s potato chips, slowly chewing them one by one, like a sloth. My breakfast of choice is quickly stuffing my face with Pepperidge Farm Goldfish.

Munch, crunch, crunch, crunch, swallow.

Next, pacing.

I meander in circles in front of a wall of windows, staring into the tranquility pond outside, my hand massaging my own neck, occasionally stretching out a leg or two.

Wyatt, arms crossed, stares into his own thoughts, marching back and forth along the wall of couches like a determined general going to war.

And then napping.

I’m curled up in a fetal position on my love seat falling in and out of sleep, mouth open, snoring exiting my face.

Sitting in the opposite love seat, Wyatt tries to maintain an upright position, fighting sleep as the weight of his head falls forward, then backward, then forward. Each time he catches himself, midsnort.

Finally, coffee.

I create coffee theater, making a huge production starring a packet of raw sugar, costarring a generous pour of almond milk, with special guest stars including a drip—no, three drips—of vanilla syrup and a cameo of cinnamon.

Wyatt pours himself a recycled paper cup of hot black coffee, blows on it and gulps.

We sit and sip. Both of us come alive. We savor the liquid energy.

The waiting area steadily fills up with families waiting for news from their loved ones.

With time running out, Wyatt finally breaks the silence between us. “Biz,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.”

I’m too emotional to respond. We both stand, meet halfway and give each other a warm embrace. People start watching us but we don’t care.

“I regret saying what I did in the desert,” Wyatt says into the crook of my neck. “I take it all back and I didn’t mean it. I know you want this just as much as I do.”

“It’s okay. I’m sorry I called you uptight.”

Creeping into my mind is how Wyatt’s highly organized schedule has been blown to pieces. I pull us out of our hug and we sit.

“We can’t check into our house rental for another week or so,” I remind Wyatt.

“I know,” Wyatt says.

“We’re gonna have to rent a new place,” I realize.

“Yep.”

“We don’t even have a crib or diapers or literally anything yet,” I say.

“I know.”

I look over to find Wyatt completely casual and calm. It throws me off.

“You seem like you’re okay with all of this?” I ask.

“I guess I am,” Wyatt says, looking at me, even surprising himself.

“Actually, you seem totally calm. How is that possible?”

“Maybe it doesn’t matter anymore,” he says. “The planning. The organizing. Having everything exactly perfect and in the right order.” Then out of nowhere Wyatt asks if I remember that weekend we painted the baby’s room.

“Of course,” I say. “That was a blast.”

Remodeling our spare bedroom into the baby’s room was pure joy. One rainy Labor Day weekend, we spent three days painting, making it perfect for our little one. Sitting on the paint-splattered drop cloth on the floor and eating Chinese food out of white cartons “like a commercial cliché,” Wyatt said, I brought up the idea of getting married.

“I just think it would be nice for the kid. To say their dads are legally married,” I said, trying to defend my idea. “And it’s a celebration of our relationship.”

“It feels like you just want an excuse to have a party,” Wyatt said.

“That too.” We laughed. True! “But it’s also something I’ve wanted since I was a kid. I used to read my sisters’ bridal magazines and dream of the big day. The ceremony. A huge, fun party with a cheesy DJ. Lionel Richie’s ‘Dancin’ on the Ceiling.’ With all of our friends and family. I mean—I realize my Italian cousins would make up two-thirds of the guest list but...”

“More than two-thirds.” Wyatt bit into a piece of sweet-and-sour chicken and arranged his thoughts while he chewed. “I understand wanting to get married before having a kid. It’s the traditional thing to do. But we’re having a kid in the most nontraditional way. Maybe we’ll get married when the kid is six or seven or thirteen, and they can be there and remember it too. Not to mention, we’ll hopefully be able to afford a wedding by then.”

Every excuse in the book. That’s what I thought at the time.

Matilda sauntered into the room and plunked down in Wyatt’s lap. “That’s my little monster,” I said. “Also, hey, Matilda.”

Wyatt laughed.

“I still love you even if you don’t really want to get married,” I said.

“I’ll only love you if you let me have that last egg roll,” Wyatt said.

“Deal,” I said, feeding him half the egg roll.

As we crunched and smiled at each other, something felt off. We both knew we weren’t going to see eye to eye on the whole getting married thing. But I was willing to focus on the baby before the wedding, if there ever was going to be one. Ultimately, I knew our life together was fulfilling in so many other ways.

Then something felt really off.

“What is it?” I asked Wyatt.

“Look at the wall,” he said.

I looked at the one wall we’d finished painting. The afternoon light was shining in and the color seemed to have morphed before our eyes.

“Is that the off-white we wanted?” Wyatt asked.

“It’s starting to look yellowy.”

“I think they gave us sand dollar yellow instead of sea salt white,” Wyatt said, turning to me. After our initial disappointment, we turned back to stare at our newly yellow room as laughter erupted from our guts.

Back in the maternity waiting room, waves of emotion flow through us both remembering that weekend.

I feel the warmth of the sunlight through the windows projecting onto my face. Wyatt turns to look at me, leans in and lands a sweet kiss on my mouth. I wasn’t expecting it.

“I know you’re not irresponsible. And that you’re going to be a great papa. And I know I need to learn to let go of my control issues.”

“You think?” I joke. Wyatt laughs at his own expense. “I know you’ve sometimes doubted my commitment to this but...” I want to say the right thing. “I’m one thousand percent committed, but you just have to give me a little more credit and trust me more. I’m ready for this. I’m ready for the little one to get here and ready for our family to grow,” I say.

Even though it’s the biggest day of our lives, we both arrive at a place of calmness.

We can’t stop staring at each other, our smiles bigger than ever.

“Guys?” Gabrielle is standing there, half smiling at how ridiculous the two of us look, gazing into each other’s eyes like this on such a stressful day. We don’t break away at first.

“Hey! Earth to love birds. Wake the eff up. It’s happening.”