Chapter 4
The next day, I stared at myself for way too long in the mirror, trying to work out how I’d been so delusional to think the little round podge of my belly had been gas. Or like, a big burrito. Or just extra chub. It was hard and round, and the more I stared, the more it couldn’t be anything but a pregnant stomach.
I’d always been a little soft around the middle. Wide hips, a little pooch. I was never one of those flat-belly babes out in their bikinis every summer, getting a golden tan. So I’d kinda just assumed I was putting on weight because I was basically eating potatoes and Rossi’s subs every day.
Sighing, I buttoned up my stretchiest pair of work pants and a sweater that was pretty but also baggy. I had to hide my pregnancy from Bob for just a little longer; he didn’t need an excuse to fire me. It wasn’t like he didn’t have a filing cabinet full of people who wanted to replace me.
I walked to work, my brain running a million miles an hour. I needed to find a doctor closer to my house, because there was no way I could keep traveling to the other side of town for my appointments. Luckily, Mrs. Byrne’s house was in a nice neighborhood of Boston, and there were some good OB-GYN around. None I could actually afford, but I’d done some Googling last night and had scared myself into forking over the money.
The risks for me, and for the babies—they were huge. Multiple births were an anomaly, but triplets were even more so. With each extra baby came a higher risk factor. At least I could be thankful I wasn’t having quintuplets.
I strolled into work five minutes early, just so I didn’t have to look at Bob. My stomach was roiling, but luckily for me, my morning sickness had decided that it wanted to strike every day at six p.m. At least by then I was home from work, and I was no longer deluding myself that I had bad food, or a gastro bug, or whatever the hell else my brain had come up with to justify the fact I’d been puking for two weeks straight.
Nope, it was straight up morning sickness.
I smiled tightly at Tammy as she bustled around, doing the opening checklist. Picking up my apron, I got to work too. I needed the distraction. Too soon, the store was open, and the steady stream of coffee drinkers didn’t stop until one. We all rotated out to have our lunch breaks, but I couldn’t bring myself to eat anyway.
I was hanging out back at the machines as Tammy made coffee, and the new girl Priya was working the window. “Tammy, did I give my number to anyone while we were at Camila’s farewell? The night is a little fuzzy.”
Tammy frowned, pouring a hazelnut shot for a mocha. “I don’t know about your number, but you were dancing with a cute guy there for a while. Tall and built.”
Yeah, I remembered that guy. I also remembered when he’d wandered to the next girl. “Hmm, I see.”
Tammy stopped what she was doing, giving me a frown. “Is someone harassing you?”
I wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. “No, nothing like that. Trying to piece some things together, is all. I didn’t disappear or anything at the end of the night?”
She shrugged. “You went to pee, but that’s about it. You were gone for ages, but when you came back, you just grinned and said the lines were long.”
I didn’t remember that, but taking a pee wasn’t exactly something that stuck in your brain. It must have been then, not that it mattered. That horse had bolted. The ship had sailed. The tadpole had turned into a frog. Three frogs.
I didn’t get time to talk much more as lunch finished, and I was relieving Priya again. “Someone just ordered a pup cup for their tarantula.” She visibly shuddered, and I tilted my head.
“Wouldn’t a spider be lactose intolerant?” We got some weird customers, and a tarantula wasn’t even the strangest thing I’d seen in the window.
Priya rolled her eyes. “He ordered it with almond milk.” She hightailed it back to the breakroom, and I didn’t blame her.
It was a day for weird customers. I had a guy whose husky tried to jump through the window to kiss me. Followed by a woman who wanted me to measure exactly how much milk was in her latte—eight and a half ounces, not a single drop more—and gave it back to me twice, until I made Tammy come over with a measuring jug so she could watch the pour.
That backed us up, meaning we had to hustle to clear the line. When someone ordered an extra-large caramel macchiato with cherry syrup and chocolate whip, I was about ready to reach through the window and shake them if they were another prank order.
The car that pulled up was hot pink. It seemed to have chia seeds growing in heart-shaped chunks on the doors. I decided that the disgusting order probably wasn’t a prank. This lady looked like she’d love an unholy combination of flavors.
“Caramel macchiato with cherry syrup and chocolate whip?”
The woman just stared at me. Her hair was in a beehive on the top of her head. Her eyelashes were fake, and her red lipstick was a touch too orange for her skin tone and bleeding up through the wrinkles around her mouth.
I cleared my throat. “Uh, that’s $6.90, thanks. Cash or card?”
“You should go to Crete.”
I stared blankly at her. It was too late in the day for this shit. “Pardon?”
“You should go to Crete if you want to survive. Amourgeles. They’ll come for you soon.”
Her voice was monotone, and her eyes… They were freaking me out. It was like storm clouds were moving across her irises. The lights coming off her were intense, and I squinted as they hurt my head. “What do you mean?” I breathed.
“If you want the children to survive, go to Amourgeles. If you stay, you’ll die.”
I swallowed hard. “Ma’am, I don’t have any children.”
Her eyes snapped to my face then, and they were an eerie pearlescent. “Crete. Only they can help you.” Then she blinked slowly, and when she opened her eyes again, they were a deep brown. “Did you say $6.90? Have the prices gone up?” She handed me a handful of money, and I took it on instinct.
My eye twitched, my heart now thundering in my chest. “Uh, yeah. Sorry. Management, you know?” I fell into the natural excuse I gave anytime someone whined about the prices. I gave her back her change as Tammy appeared with the drink.
When I turned back to the lady, she was regarding me silently, her eyes the normal color but the golden lights jumping around her still extra strong. Man, I was losing it. I thrust the drink at her, hoping she’d disappear and I could just write the whole exchange off as another crackpot weirdo.
And I’d met a few. You couldn’t live in a city this long without meeting a few kooks. There was a guy who walked through the drive-thru once a month, even though it was against the law, because he insisted he was on his flying horse.
In the end, we just served him, because who was I to argue with invisible winged horses?
I finished out my shift, pushing the weird lady deep down into the box of shit I wasn’t examining too closely.
My baby daddy.
My finances.
Three babies.
Crazy lady in the drive-thru.
All of that was going straight into the “worry about later” box as I just focused on how I’d survive the day. And then how I’d survive the week. And then the month. For like, eighteen more years.
I walked home slowly, the tiredness that I’d attributed to some kind of illness still plaguing my bones. I had to stop and get Mrs. Byrne’s groceries, but soon I’d probably have to ask Nate if he could do it. Maybe Valerie would deliver them for me, even though it wasn’t part of their service. Mrs. Byrne had been going to Rossi’s since there first was a Rossi’s; surely that had garnered a little loyalty, though I was pretty sure they were still selling her canned vegetables for a quarter.
I walked in to find Mr. Lunetta—who was always there—looking at canned tuna on the bottom shelf again. Walking over, I plucked the can he’d chosen last time from the row and handed it to him. “Thank ya, girlie,” he said in his gruff old man voice.
I weaved my way through to Val at the register. She grabbed the sacks that I’d dropped off earlier and handed them over to me.
“No sub today?” Uncle Antonio yelled from the other side of the store.
I shook my head, giving Val a tight smile. “Not today, Uncle Antonio,” I called back, grabbing the bags.
Val stared at me, a small crease between her brows. “Everything okay, Wren? You’re looking sick.”
Ha. If only she knew.“Nah, I’m fine. Just tired. Crazy day at work today.”
Val didn’t seem convinced, but I hightailed it out of there before she asked any more questions. The bags seemed extra heavy, and I was puffing by the time I got home. Plus, my stomach was happy to swirl with nausea early today.
Dammit.
Knocking on Mrs. Byrne’s door, I heard the squeak of her recliner, then the clip-clop of her uneven gait as she shuffled across the room. Finally, she opened the door and smiled brightly. “My sweet Wren, come in.” She ushered me inside, but I didn’t miss that she was a little stiffer today. She was also a little grayer.
“Afternoon, Mrs. B. Are you using your oxygen while you watch your soaps, like you’re supposed to?”
She waved me off with a huff, which I was pretty sure meant no. “Have you come to tell me you’re pregnant?” she asked haughtily.
I gaped. She smirked. Touché, Mrs. Byrne.
“How the hell did you know that? I didn’t even know until yesterday!”
She raised a wispy eyebrow at me. “I’m old as dirt. I’ve seen a fair few pregnant women in my time. I just know. I was waiting for you to tell me. You must be halfway along, judging by the size.”
I huffed a disgruntled laugh. “I wish.” I slumped down at her small table. “It’s triplets.” Mrs. Byrne clutched her chest, her eyeballs rolling heavenward, and I bolted to my feet. “Mrs. B, are you okay?”
She flapped her hand at me. “Of course I am, child. I’m probably no closer to a heart attack than you were when you found out. Three!” She shook her head. “I don’t know whether I should pray that your parents watch over you, or curse out your grandmother for letting this happen.” She shook her head at the ceiling again, like she was actually cursing out the spirits of my dead ancestors. “And the father?”
I flushed red. Fuck, it had been easier to tell Nate that I didn’t know the father than Mrs. Byrne. “Uh, he isn’t in the picture.” See, a way better explanation than I have no fucking clue who he is and therefore he can’t be in the picture.
Mrs. Byrne clicked her tongue in disapproval, but moved over to her bags of groceries. I stood and helped her put everything away, and somehow, her not tossing me out on the street as a harlot made me feel better.
Finally, with everything put away, she pulled out a large pot and sat it on the stove. She took out half the vegetables we’d just stacked into the fridge, as well as some meat from the small drawer freezer.
I watched her totter around for a moment, before it became too much. “What are you doing, Mrs. B? You should be resting and sucking in that good oxygen.”
“Psh. I’m making you soup. You’re eating for four now. You need your strength. A big pot of vegetable soup, that’s what you need.” She was using too much of her weekly food rations as she tipped vegetables into the pot, muttering to herself the whole time. I was going to have to replenish her stocks, but the thoughtfulness of it made me want to cry.
And throw up.
Fuck.
“Thank you,” I murmured quietly. “I appreciate it.”
I appreciated her. I always had. She turned at the sound of my quavering voice and held her arms out wide. I stepped into them, and she held me tightly, despite how frail she seemed lately. She was disappearing in front of my eyes, and I didn’t know how to keep her here with me.
“You never have to thank me, sweet Wren. Having you here all these years has given me something I thought was gone forever. A purpose. I appreciate you just as much. And I’ll adore these little ones too,” she said softly, cupping my stomach in her pale, crepey hands. “Now, you look like you want to lose your lunch, and I’d prefer you didn’t do that in my apartment. Come back down before seven.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I rushed out of her place, making it up the stairs and into my bathroom with moments to spare. As I hugged the toilet bowl, I cried. Not in self-pity—okay, a little in self-pity, but more in fear. And thankfulness. Thankful that I had Mrs. Byrne, but fearful that one day I was going to wake up and she’d be gone. The last anchor I had. The last person who cared about me.
Then who would I lean on?