Chapter 34 Ligaya
LIGAYA
Veteran Valley Thrift’s chemical smell mixes with the musky odor of old books. It is, to me, the aroma of optimism. I freaking love thrifting. It’s early February, the wind outside bites, but inside it’s toasty warm and all yellow tags are half off.
I raid the baby section for summer onesies.
Holding up a cute Winnie the Pooh outfit, my heart tugs in a mix of anticipation and alarm.
How is any human creature this tiny? I’m used to kids in the broader sense, having been an active babysitter in the neighborhood and choosing a job in education. But babies?
How do I make sure they don’t break?
Should I be getting a onesie or a Kevlar suit?
Is there such a thing as infant-sized armor?
Where can I get baby helmets in pairs?
I wander down the aisle of housewares toward what looks like a maternity rack. My stomach is getting bigger every day. It’s time to get more elastic waistbands in the mix. I hold up soft fabric printed with bright flowers.
Is it a nightgown or a tablecloth? If I have to ask, maybe I shouldn’t get it.
My phone flashes with Ami’s name.
“I’ve ballooned,” I mutter into the phone, wedging it between my cheek and shoulder.
“You’re pregnant, not ballooned,” she says, always the diplomat.
“I’m like dough expanding with the heat.”
“Yummy. How are you feeling?”
“At the thrift store right now.”
“That must mean you’re feeling cooped up. Does your posh baby daddy know your shopping habits? Does he even know what a thrift store is?”
“I don’t run everything by him. And you’re making him sound like a snob.”
“Never mind him,” she says dismissively. “Hey, I called to tell you that I took time off for June.”
“You did?”
“Yup.” She pauses before speaking nearly timidly. “You did want my help didn’t you?”
“Of course, Ate!”
“Whew, OK, wasn’t sure if I’m imposing myself.”
“Never.”
“Can’t wait to meet my . . . when do you find out the sex of the babies?”
“We have an ultrasound coming up, but I’m leaning toward waiting.”
“No cake color or rocket launch reveals in your future, then?”
“Not for me.”
She sighs. “I wish I was there while you’re going through the pregnancy.”
“I’m doing well. I promise.”
“Still, I miss you. Hey, I have an idea. What do you think about visiting me in Texas during your spring break in March? Can you still travel?”
“Yeah,” I say, rifling through a rack of jeans that range from snug on a Barbie to aggressively wide-legged. “Dr. LeGuin said it’s fine until around thirty weeks. I’d love that.”
“We’ll get a cute Airbnb during the weekend. You can rest, and I’ll rub your stinky feet.”
“Don’t make promises you’re not prepared to keep.”
“Got myself a nose plug.”
“Deal. I’ll look at flights tonight.”
I pause to consider a gray knit dress. Stretchy. Forgiving. A little pilly, but nothing a sweater shaver couldn’t fix.
“You know, you could go to Target,” she adds.
“If I’m entering my ‘pregnancy muumuu’ era, I don’t want to pay full price. Besides, when I go to Target, I end up at the snack aisle.”
“That sounds healthy,” she deadpans.
“I’m thriving.”
The dress goes in the cart. Alongside a cardigan that smells faintly like cherry pie. I snag a pair of maternity jeans with an elastic waistband and belly panel.
“How’s Tristan?” she asks.
“He’s great. Our schedules don’t match, but he came really early for breakfast last Sunday morning. And he says my new stretch marks are sexy.”
Ami snorts.
“He did! While flipping pancakes. Though maybe he was trying to distract me from how badly he was burning them.”
I hear her smile through the phone. “Are there some feelings that go with those burnt pancakes?”
I glance down at my belly and remember Tristan kissing across its ever-widening circumference.
“It’s hard not to feel closer to him, obviously. Which is terrifying.”
“Terrifying how?”
I hesitate, thumb grazing the edge of a sequined maternity tunic. Hard no.
“I hadn’t told you this, but he . . .” I start.
“What?”
“He asked me to marry him.”
“He did?”
“No lead-up. Mid-spoon. Postcoital insanity.”
“Please never say postcoital again. What did you say?”
“I told him we need to focus on the pregnancy. Which is true. I mean, I’m not going to waddle down the aisle.
” I lower my volume to a murmur. “I don’t know if he’s here permanently.
He hasn’t sold his house in Denver, where he originally thought he would finish his career.
If he can’t commit to the city or the hockey team, is he really serious about committing to me?
Am I just the tagalong to him and the children? ”
My sister sighs. We’re both quiet for a beat too long.
“Well? Any words of wisdom for me?”
She clears her throat. “It also solidifies his right to the children.”
“What do you mean?”
“If he has to move away, a custody battle would take into account what’s best for the kids. He’s obviously more than a baby daddy. It would display his commitment to a stable home for them if he married you.”
And there it is, the crux of my problem. When Tristan said it “made sense” to get married, I had been hit by glee and dread in equal measure.
Do I want to raise our kids in a home we create together? Of course I do.
But I also want something more than a convenient and logical arrangement. When I walk down the aisle and promise myself to a person, offering my heart for eternity, that’s not about convenience or logic.
Perhaps it isn’t practical to hold out for true love. But I’ve been practical about everything else in my life.
Marrying the person I love—who is equally crazy about me with impractical, all-consuming, never-ending love—that’s not something I’m willing to compromise on.
“Tristan would never take the children away from me.” I nearly choke at the words.
“I know. I know. Sorry, I’m doing the paranoid worst-case scenario thing.”
“Well, then stop. I’m already an emotional mess.” I rub my belly absentmindedly, suddenly tired.
“Why are you an emotional mess?” Her voice gets louder, as if she stood up and pressed her mouth into the speaker.
“One moment I’m hoarding all the onesies on sale, and then next I’m wondering if I should buy baby armor and helmets.
I can’t wait to hold them and meet them and love them.
But what if that’s not enough? What if I mess up?
” I whisper my manic tirade into the phone but still get the attention of the woman across the aisle who gives me a sympathetic smile.
It’s the stranger’s kindness that makes my eyes prickle.
“You will not mess up, Ligaya Torres,” Ami states. “No one will love them more and keep them safe like you do.”
I sniffle and nod. Realizing she can’t see me, I add, “Thank you. As you can tell, pregnancy hormones are no joke.”
“I’m here for you any time you need a cheerleader, OK?”
Without being prompted, I unload more of my insecurities.
“And there’s still part of me that thinks I won’t recover if he leaves. Marrying him might be the logical answer to our circumstances, but I’m already feeling so vulnerable. I hate that feeling!”
“He’s not going to leave, Ligaya.”
“He’s done it before.”
Why can’t I shake that bitterness about something that happened a whole decade ago?
Everything about Tristan today indicates his commitment to be here for me and the babies. He’s given me no reason to doubt his ability to be a great father.
“Ligaya . . .” Ami starts but then pauses.
My phone pings with another call.
“Shoot, it’s the women’s center confirming my second ultrasound. I’ve gotta go, Ate.”
“OK,” she says quickly. “Call me later? There’s something I—”
I don’t catch the rest of her statement because I’ve already swiped to answer.