Chapter Thirty-Two
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Denver welcomes us home with cold and ice. The mild weather, so perfect for giving thanks and feeling grateful, was chased away by plunging temperatures and a frost advisory, coating the roads and the air on Black Friday with a bitter layer of ice.
Our flight didn’t make it in until eleven thirty, and by the time Anton and I navigate the holiday crowds in the concourse, take the underground train to the terminal, and trudge all the way out to the farthest walkable parking lot, it’s nearly midnight.
The sound of my suitcase wheels grinding across the pavement might be permanently ingrained in my ears, but at least it means there are a thousand miles between my family and me.
“Go ahead and start the car. I’ll load the suitcases,” Anton says, opening up the back of my Toyota. I think that’s more words than he’s said since we left Ohio.
He had gone for a run before I got up for breakfast, but returned in time to shower for my mother’s photo shoot. She came over early to rearrange my sister’s furniture, then determined she needed to be at the center of every portrait, as the family “matriarch.” Celia had to change Gabriel’s outfit twice to meet her specifications, but Mom didn’t say a word about my fluttery gray maternity top. Just eyed me up and down with a smug smile that seemed to say now it’s your turn .
Dr. Adam got an emergency call just as the photographer got started, so we wound up with a bunch of awkward photos of Celia and Gabe flanking our mom on one side, and Anton and me on the other. All of us little farther from each other than looked natural. For about half the session, the photographer joked about us pretending to like each other in an effort to move us closer together, but I think he eventually gave up.
There were a lot of teeth, and no smiles. Except from the baby. When he wasn’t screaming.
The whole car shudders as Anton slams the liftgate and climbs in the passenger seat. I can still see my breath under the dome light, but he got the ice scraper out and cleared the windshield, and the defroster is doing its job.
“Are you too tired? Do you want me to drive?” he asks.
I shake my head, pulling out of the parking space, honestly invigorated now that the Ohio trip is behind us. The Pooches are closed for the holiday weekend, so I’ll take a couple days to recover, but Henry and I have an expansion meeting Monday morning, and I plan to hit the ground running.
“Well, I wouldn’t say we made it out unscathed, but at least we’re home,” Anton says, echoing my thoughts. “How are you feeling?”
I exhale, stopping at a booth to pay for parking. Things have been awkward since last night. I appreciate the effort he’s making. “I think this one earned a place in my Top Ten.”
“Ouch.” We have informally ranked events with my family since college. The Top Ten is not a place of honor. “Even above Celia’s rehearsal dinner?”
“ Yes. ”
He chuckles, leaning back in his seat, and it doesn’t even sound forced. “Now we can share the news with everyone, at least. That’s a relief.”
My hands tense on the wheel, navigating the maze of roads from the Denver airport back to the highway. I have to admit, when I was planning out my Monday meeting on the plane, I hadn’t thought to put that on the agenda.
“Yeah . . . guess we’ll have to.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him flinch. Then he reaches over, placing a hand on my stomach as I drive. “Hard to believe we’re going to be parents. It’s starting to feel real.”
I swallow hard, squinting down the dark road. I’m not sure how to respond.
“Well...” he says, and now he does sound forced. “Who are you going to tell first?”
“I—” I take too long to answer. “I don’t know.”
Anton sort of snorts. I look over at him. “Or do you just not want to tell anyone ever?”
“What? Of course I do.” The words come out of my mouth with sincerity, but my tone is defensive.
He shifts in his seat, turning to face me. “I’m just trying to understand,” he says in a voice that doesn’t feel at all understanding. “Most people get excited when they’re expecting. You aren’t. You don’t want to design a nursery. You won’t discuss names. You won’t buy maternity clothes. You won’t even tell your best friend this is happening.”
“I am going to tell Caprice,” I say, reluctance thick in my voice.
He shakes his head, a line cutting deep between his brows. “Sure. Eventually, you’ll have to. I’m just trying to figure out why you haven’t yet. What it means.”
“It doesn’t mean anything, Anton. As I’ve said before, it’s still early and I have a lot of other stuff that matters to me?—”
“Just like your mom.”
I grip the steering wheel so hard, my knuckles turn white. “Excuse me?”
“Isn’t that what you’ve always said your mom did? Never had time to come to performances or sporting events because she was too busy doing her own things?”
I blow out a hot breath. “Pregnancy isn’t exactly a dance recital.”
“I just need to know right now, Lydia.” His voice dips low and sad. “Do you—do you not want the baby? ”
And suddenly we’re back in our bathroom, arguing about birth control last July, and I’m trying to tell him I’m not sure about having kids. And he’s giving me that stony look and saying. That might’ve been good to know.
For a second, tears prick my eyes and the car drifts over the white line on the shoulder, but I quickly correct the wheel. I didn’t even realize I’d been dreading this question—having to answer it for myself.
Because when I think about it, I don’t want any of the things that are happening to my body. I don’t want the changes to our home. Or Anton’s affection. I don’t want our lives upended with diapers and crying. I don’t want our schedules turned upside down.
Do you not want the baby?
Or do I not want to be a mother?
Is that a different question, or does it mean the same thing?
Suddenly, I notice Anton’s posture changing next to me. He straightens, facing forward, and the air between us shifts like darkness descending on the car. We come to a red light, and though my 4Runner’s tires slide a bit on the icy pavement, we do come to a stop. And as the late-night traffic crosses in front of us, I turn to look at my husband’s face, but I’m not prepared for what I see. His expression, blank and removed. Like he’s interpreted my silence as my answer.
I open my mouth. “Anton?—”
But as I speak, a light catches my attention in the rearview mirror. No, it’s two. A pair of headlights approaching in the dark. I pump the brake to get their attention, because they’re coming so fast, and I know there’s ice, and?—
My hand flies to my midsection.
“They’re not going to stop.”