40. Baby Davies
Chapter 40
Baby Davies
Bonnie
I drive with Lulu claiming the passenger seat of my Jeep. In the back, Rafe tries to survive a war with my car mess. Canvases, work clothes, and various storage bins jostle around.
The Jeep rumbles over a speed bump.
Lulu groans, “I’m gonna be sick.”
“There might be an empty bucket back there,” I say, reaching back to point.
“No, watch the road!” Lulu yells.
I jerk my wheel back in place. “My hands are firmly ten and two, Lu.”
“They are now .”
Rafe places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. Though when we crest another speed bump in the hospital parking lot, he anxiously chews on a stick of gum.
Rafe kicks a pencil case when it almost collides with his shin.
Lulu kicks one in the floorboard just for fun.
We pull into the hospital drop-off. Lulu bursts out of my Jeep when she sees Izzy. They both walk through the automatic glass doors as Rafe piles into the passenger seat next to me while I park. He grabs my hand, holding it tight and not letting go once we’re out of the car.
Hand in hand, we walk into the waiting room. It’s flooded with my family. The only exception being an elderly couple in the corner, who seem to be fearing for their peace. I don’t blame them. The Davieses’ chaos operates at an eleven on a ten-point scale.
Wendy talks to Milo in the corner. The Twins argue beside them, both immersed in a video game. Lulu is talking to Izzy, next to Dad. Ma is a pacing, nervous wreck, clinging on to Jasper’s flannel sleeve as he also attempts to calm down Charles Starkey—Marina’s father—who won’t stop picking at a string on his work polo from the docks. Sam is sitting in the children’s area with Melody, sliding blocks through an abacus for toddlers.
The automatic doors open from another part of the hospital, and Peter rushes in, out of breath.
“Did I miss it?”
“People can be in labor for a while, Pete,” Wendy says.
“Well, sure, but—” Peter halts mid-sentence when he spots Rafe. He looks like a deer in the headlights, surprised and uncomfortable. “Oh. Hey.”
Rafe’s hand stiffens in mine. “Hey.”
“I’ll just … uh …” And then Peter walks off, pointing to nothing and landing somewhere between Milo and Wendy in the process.
“I should say something,” Rafe murmurs to me, chewing his gum more intensely.
I squeeze his palm. “Later. Let’s find a place to sit.”
We take a seat on the same row as the older couple. Rafe gives them a half smile. They sweetly smile back, but not before the woman eyes Rafe’s tattoos. She scoots closer to her husband.
“Does that always happen?” I whisper to Rafe.
He shrugs. “Tattoos make some people uncomfortable.”
“You just have a different way of wearing your personality on your sleeve.”
“Are there other ways?” he asks.
“Of course. Everyone does. Just not in the same way.”
“How so?”
“Well”—I nod toward the couple—“she’s got a crocheted cardigan. Probably means she did it herself. You can’t have machines do real crochet. It’s impossible.”
“Really?”
“Mmhmm. So, she’s crafty. Appreciates homemade things. Would probably like you, if she gave you the chance. And her husband’s got a cute fishing vest. Little hooks and everything.” I grin. “He might not like you as much.”
Rafe blinks at me, a half smile tipping up the corner of his mouth. “Got their souls well captured, eh, Little Red?”
I lean my head on his shoulder. “Maybe.”
He raises his arm around my shoulders and tugs me close, kissing the top of my head, like he usually does.
It’s funny how our position feels both natural and completely abnormal. Nobody is blatantly gawking at us, but I occasionally catch eyes with Ma, who immediately turns her attention back to Charles. Sometimes, Peter will look over, but he averts his eyes even quicker.
Suddenly, the double doors leading beyond the waiting room swing inward, and Cassidy erupts in a full scrubs uniform and a tight surgical cap trapping his curls.
“She’s here!” he yells. “I’d hold her up like Simba, but they told me I couldn’t,” he jokes. “But daughter number two is here!”
He punches the air, and a collective cheer bursts through the waiting room. You’d have thought the Red Sox won the World Series or something. Milo high-fives Wendy. Jasper hugs Ma. Charles Starkey and my dad shake hands, like some manly grandparent response. As if any of us did anything to bring this child into the world ourselves. But I still hug Rafe all the same.
After a few minutes, the chatter calms down, people seem to find their seats, and Charles Starkey is the first to be called back to see his daughter and new grandchild.
“Wild in here,” Rafe says with a smile.
“Always is with us.”
Ma paces the floor, but finally decides to take a seat right next to me and Rafe.
“Exciting, huh?” she says, squeezing her fists.
“Another girl,” I say.
“Oh,” she says, waving me off. “Another child . Good enough for me. Though”—she leans in conspiratorially—“not complaining that it’s a girl.”
Rafe and I smile, but the conversation fades from there. The three of us sit in silence until Ma starts to fidget, squeezing a small bit of fabric between her fingers. Her nose is crinkling again, like she needs to say something.
Rafe exchanges a look with me before patting his knees and standing. “I’m gonna go see if they have some coffee. Mrs. Davies, would you like anything?”
“Oh, no, thank you.”
“Shiv? Your usual?”
The feeling of belonging rushes down my spine as I say, “Please.”
He smiles and walks off, boots thumping over the hospital floor until he’s out of sight. The remaining silence between me and Ma is louder than it has any right to be.
After a few seconds, Ma blurts out, “I’m sorry.”
My eyes widen. “What?”
Ma lingers on the space where Rafe walked away, twisting her lips to the side and biting the corner. “For anything I’ve said about him. For doubting that you can handle things.”
My heart leaps into my throat. “Oh.”
“I should have trusted you could handle this,” she continues. “Moira told me you said that you’re not a child anymore?—”
“Part of what I yelled …” I almost forget I had a complete breakdown in the middle of Never Harbor.
“You were right though. You’re an adult. And sometimes, I struggle to see that.” Ma blinks at me, her jaw set in a determined way.
“I … uh … thank you?” I don’t know what to say. “I didn’t expect you to be so …”
“Cool about it?” she finishes.
“Yeah. I guess.” I squint. “So … why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you cool about it? About Rafe?”
She sighs, squeezing the outside of my arm. “Because he looks at you the same way your father looks at me. He’s protective like that.”
I follow her gaze to the farthest wall of the waiting room. My dad sits next to Jasper, nodding along to their conversation. His white sneakers squeak on the linoleum floor. His folded hands sit attentively in his lap, and his mustache wiggles when he thinks.
“Dad?” I say, wincing at his low-ankle shoes, paired with high socks and shorts. “ Dad is protective?”
“Yes,” she answers with a wistful, dreamy sigh. She’s always looked at Dad like that. It’s the spark . She nudges me. “Just because he doesn’t have tattoos doesn’t mean he’s any less intimidating.”
I toss my head side to side. “I mean …”
“Besides,” Ma interrupts, “you look at Rafe the same way he looks at you.”
“I do?”
“Mmhmm. Protective. Very protective.”
“Oh.”
“So, what was I supposed to do? Not be there for my girl? What kind of mother do you think I am?”
Unease courses through me. Not just at the embarrassing knowledge that maybe I have a certain look when I’m around Rafe—that maybe I always have—but also the idea that I’ve severely underestimated my own mom.
“I …” I shift my shoes together. The laces bump over one another. “I think I’ve been a little in my head about stuff for a while.”
Her face falls. “About me?”
“No,” I rush out quickly. “No. Just … about me, I guess.”
“What do you mean?”
My heart hammers as I squeeze my eyes shut.
“I didn’t get an internship,” I confess.
“What are you talking about?” Mom asks. “You’re working with Rafe.”
“I asked him for it at the beginning of summer.” I cross my legs, then uncross them. “Because nobody else wanted to hire me.”
“Oh.” She blinks, allowing a pause, as if finding words. “Well, that’s all right, Bee.”
“I was just worried …” I sigh. “I was worried if you knew I couldn’t do it, you’d … I don’t know.”
“‘Couldn’t do it’? Do what?”
“Find something. An internship.”
Ma thinks again before saying, “Well, not everyone needs ?—”
“I do. Future jobs need it from me.” My eyebrows tilt in, as if I’m pleading. “My résumé needs it. And if I couldn’t even get something this simple then … well, Peter runs a business. So does Cassidy. I’m the only one in an unpractical career.”
“It’s not unpractical.”
I level her with a look. “Ma, I know you weren’t thrilled about me going to art school.”
“At first.”
“And now?”
“Now I know it’s your favorite thing.”
“Maybe.”
“Is it not?”
“It’s … I don’t know …”
“Tell me. Talk to me.”
I play with my nail polish, chipping off a corner. “I don’t want you to think less of me.”
“Less of you?” Her hand darts to mine, pulling my fingers away. “As if I ever could. So, tell me. Do you not like art anymore?”
I sigh. “I’m honestly not good at design, Ma.”
“But you got into art school.”
“I mean, yes, I’m good at art ,” I clarify. “I love art. But design isn’t for me.” I wince. “I’m not sure I can keep doing it.”
Her eyebrows pull together, but it isn’t in anger. It’s in concern. Worry. “Well, do you just need more classes?”
“No, that’s not it. It’s the wrong classes. It’s not … me .”
She shrugs. “Then, change your major to something else.”
“No, that’s …” I’m trying so hard to find my words—to say exactly what I mean, just like Rafe does. It’s difficult, and every syllable feels like taking pliers to an unloose tooth. “It’ll just be more you have to pay for.”
She furrows her brow. “So?”
“So?” I choke out a laugh. “Ma, you’re already supporting all of us. The Twins might need tuition eventually. And there’s a new grandchild and …”
“Yes, but you’re my daughter.”
“One of three,” I joke.
Her face hardens. “No, you’re the original,” she says. “One of a kind.”
I nod, curling my lips in. “Yeah, but I can’t talk about things with you like Wendy does. Babies and shopping for clothes and …”
She finds my eyes again. “You’re not supposed to. That’s not anything we’ve ever done. And I love that.”
“Don’t you wish I could?”
“No. Never.” She sighs. “Bon, you know these new girls can’t replace you, right?”
“Yeah, I know, I know …”
“No, you don’t.” She squeezes my shoulder. “You’re my girl. My Honeybee.” She raises her arm around my shoulders and tugs me close. “Who cares what we talk about? I just love that we talk. Some families don’t even get that.”
I think of Rafe and how much he tries to talk to his mom—at how much effort he puts in, only to get half of that in return. How his dad never tried to begin with.
Ma tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “You’re not Wendy or Marina. You’re my Siobhan. I like my Siobhan as she is, all right?”
My nose stings. I’m a crier. Always have been, always will be. But I’ve already cried enough today. My mom loving me shouldn’t be something that sets me over. Not when Maggie Davies makes it so obvious.
I blink. “Really?”
She scoffs. “Oh, you’re being ridiculous. Of course . All of you are so different in the most beautiful ways. I don’t want that to change.”
“No?”
“No.”
I’m finding it hard to breathe. My chest is too tight. All I can do is nod.
Ma laughs. “Come here.”
I lean my head on her shoulder and curl closer.
“You’re my girl. Artist or not. Tattooed boyfriend or not.”
I snort at that, coughing out a laugh.
She grins down to me. “All right?”
I swallow.
“All right,” I agree.
“Good.”
She kisses the top of my head with a loud smack. I smile, settling into her embrace. Just because I can.