Chapter 43 | Liz

Chapter 43

Liz

“ S orry, sorry! I’m here.” Zoey skids into the kitchen, still in her work uniform of mesh shorts and an Ardena Heat T-shirt, a Bellewood cinch bag across her back and her hair in a messy ponytail. Quintessential Zoey.

“Hi,” I say, not looking up from the sandwich I’m making. If I stay focused on it, maybe my sister won’t notice my hands are shaking. I hand her the sandwich and start on a second one. “You really didn’t need to take the afternoon off to come with me.”

“It’s fine,” Zoey says, her eyes taking in the sandwich as if she’s never seen food before. “We lost track of time.”

“Ew.”

“Because of a runner, weirdo.”

It’s probably the truth, but her mischievous smile speaks volumes. And I love it. This is the Zoey I’ve always known—vibrant and exuberant, silly and happy. There’s been little trace of her this summer, the exception being when Haley was here. But her grief seems to be diminishing lately. My sister is evolving into a strong young woman right in front of my eyes. She’s always been resilient; she had no choice. But now she is rising from the ashes of first love. For the first time this summer, I can see the other side and who Zoey might become. It’s beautiful to watch.

“What?” Zoey asks around a bite of sandwich.

“Nothing.”

“Not nothing. You were looking at me all doe-eyed.” She pauses and adds a few more pieces of ham to her sandwich. “Oh, hormones . You were all mothering out on me, weren’t you?”

“Maybe.” I pour some water into a cup. “I like seeing you happy.”

“Famished and sweaty is more accurate, but I guess I’ll take it.” She slides, literally on her socks, out of the kitchen. “Let me change, and then we can go.”

I glance at my watch. “We have to leave in ten minutes.”

Almost ninety minutes later, we sit in an exam room. I decided to stick with my regular gynecologist, which meant the ride was long, but the comfort of a familiar face is worth it. Zoey sits in one of the chairs lining the walls. When I asked her to come, I didn’t think through the whole process or the part where I have to sit here with no pants on. But she’s rallying, chattering on about one thing or the next. I’m honestly not even sure what she’s talking about. It might be mock trial or something to do with her sorority. Either way, there are a lot of acronyms to follow.

A soft knock sounds on the door, and then my gynecologist steps in wearing a smile. One thing I’ve always liked about her is that she seems to remember me even though we only see each other once a year. Usually that means she asks after Julian, but today, she simply nods at my sister and takes a seat.

“Hi, Liz,” Dr. Manning says with a warm smile. “Your test came back positive, so let’s get in there and take a look.”

I nod, but I know that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. “Okay.”

“Do you want your...”

“Sister,” I finish. “And yes, she can stay.”

“All right. You can stand here then.” She positions Zoey behind me near my head. Right where Julian stood last time I was in this situation.

Zoey puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “You got this, Mama.”

“How have you been feeling?” Dr. Manning asks as she readies the wand.

I stare at the ceiling. I hate this part, and I can’t bear to wait for the screen to come to life and possibly dash my dreams. “I haven’t been feeling great, but I’m taking that as a good sign.”

“Yes, an unpleasant one but definitely good.”

Memories of the last time I was here waiting to see my baby flash by—the quiet of the monitor, the baby that wasn’t. It’s too much. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to ignore the cold discomfort. Zoey’s hand tightens on my shoulder.

“You can look now.”

And I do. On the screen is the tiniest of miracles. Emotions overcome me, and the tears are instantaneous. Warmth surges through me. My baby. Love fills me. I blink back tears and stare at the screen, a smile forming. My perfect little blob with two little feet.

The doctor turns a few knobs, and the sound of a rapid heartbeat fills the room. My new favorite sound. Nothing can ever top that perfect pitter-patter.

“And there we are.” Dr. Manning smiles, her eyes focused on the screen.

I reach for Zoey’s hand. A weight lifts from my heart, and a completely different one takes its place. One I know will never leave me from now until forever. The weight of motherhood.

“I’m going to do some measurements to get your due date, but the baby looks to be about nine weeks,” Dr. Manning says. “And if you want, Liz, you can do your blood work today for prenatal testing. It’ll tell you the gender, if you don’t want to wait.”

I nod, all words escaping me. I’m having a baby. I’m going to be a mother. Finally. Will the baby look like me? Will he or she have Julian’s eyes? His smile? Fresh tears fall. Julian . I’ve wanted this for so long, wanted it with him. And we’re further apart than we’ve ever been.

“According to The Bump, the baby is the size of a cherry,” Zoey says.

A cherry. That’s better than a blob. I take the strip of blurry photos from the doctor. I memorize the information on it. Nine weeks and two days. I run my finger across the cherry. “Hi, peanut.”

M y first thought after leaving the doctor’s office is to drive across town to see Julian. It’s Thursday, and he generally works from home on Thursdays. Separated or not, this is his baby. And I want to tell him in person. I need to see his reaction. His real first reaction. But now that I’m here, it seems like a bad idea. Our house looks the same from the outside. The lawn is carefully maintained by people we pay. So even with one of the house’s key occupants gone, it looks no worse for wear.

This isn’t the neutral ground I thought it would be. And a lifetime of Julian bubbles closer to the surface the longer I sit in the driveway. Some of the memories are real, and some are from his movies. How did our lives get so entangled with fiction?

“Do you want me to come in?” Zoey asks, her voice tight. She’s been fidgeting in her seat ever since I said I wanted to stop here. Her trepidation is palpable, even though she’s not the one with news to share. But I guess I wouldn’t want to witness this encounter either. Whatever happens, she’ll know something about us for the rest of time.

“You can stay in the car,” I say, fishing my keys out of my purse. “It doesn’t look like he’s home anyway.”

There’s always the possibility that Julian pulled his car into the garage, but the chances are slim. He hates backing out and complains about it all the time. Plus, this is prep season for him at work. Without me enticing him to stay home, there’s a good chance he went into the office.

The keys are heavy in my hand. I know the exact feel of my house key, where it sits on the ring relative to the cards and fobs and everything else. I find it without having to look. My feet move automatically around the crack in our walkway without having to see it. This is home, and I’ve never felt more like an intruder.

Inside, the house is quiet. And not the quiet of someone at work but the quiet of someone missing. The air is stale and warm. Too warm. Julian keeps the house frigid during the summer. Half the time, I walk around in a sweater. I eye the thermostat. It’s set to away. Worry needles its way into me, followed by disappointment. Where is he? Is he with her? Did he get tired of waiting for his wayward wife and seek comfort elsewhere? It is, I suppose, his right. I slept with Spencer, maybe even started to fall for him a little bit. But no. Abso-fucking-lutely not. Anger blinds me. There’s no living room, no house, only white-hot fury. He doesn’t get to sleep with Sheila.

I count to ten and open my eyes. The world’s a little less red. He could be in Cape May. Or at Jane’s. Or traveling for work. The anger resurfaces at the last possibility. Work means Sheila, and Sheila means everything is a lie. Shit.

I swipe at my eyes. Sheila or not, betrayal or not, he still needs to know. This is his child, and he deserves to know that. I sit down on the couch. My head throbs. This was an awful idea.

I pull out my phone and dial his number. The picture of him I have saved is familiar and foreign. It’s been a weirdly long time since I’ve seen a photo of my husband. I’ve avoided him on Facebook, though now I’m wondering if he has a second account. We’re still married on social media, irrevocably tied to each other. None of my life this summer has gone online except for Zoey. Spencer is saved only on my phone and in my memory.

The first tear hits my cheek. And it’s for Spencer, of all things. Julian’s voicemail picks up.

“Hi, Jules. It’s me... Liz.” God, this is awkward . I take a breath that will be audible on the recording. My mind filters through the million options of what to say. They all suck. “I need to talk to you about something. Can you please call me back when you have a chance?”

My hands tremble against the phone, and I finally let the tears fall. If he calls back or texts right away, that means something. But what if he doesn’t? What if he delays or doesn’t call back at all? I finger the spot where my wedding ring used to be. He’ll call. He always calls. I cradle my head in my hands. But what if this time he doesn’t?