Chapter 20 Nisha
twenty
nisha
What to Expect When You Weren’t Expecting
“Wow, that’s turning out to be quite the sweater,” I say, eyeing the mostly-complete black cable-knit in Abby’s hands. “I’ve never made anything quite as intricate before—just simple sweaters, or beanies and scarves.”
I smile, watching my fingers work through the last loops on the beanie I’m making for Rome, knowing he’s going to love the Saturn appliqué I stitched on. Instead of the usual planet, the center is a baseball—his favorite sport—between Saturn’s rings.
“Thank you,” Abby murmurs softly, her green eyes gifting me with the smile her lips rarely do.
Sounds of trays being placed on tables and the hum of lunch conversations filter into my closet-sized, make-shift salon tucked into the shelter. I’m in the salon chair, waiting for Janice to come in for her haircut as soon as she finishes her lunch, while Abby sits by the sink.
Over the past several weeks, I’ve somehow managed to coerce Abby a little further out of her shell. Okay, so maybe that’s an overstatement. But she’s started saying more than a handful of words to me, a feat compared to how tight-lipped she was when I first met her.
In that time, I’ve learned that she’s a skilled knitter and has found a temporary job working as a bagger for the Safeway in Almaden, but she doesn’t love it. I also noticed little things about her, like how she pulls on her sleeves or chews her nails when nervous.
She once told me she moved to San Jose searching for something. I still don’t know what that something is, but I haven’t pushed. She’ll tell me when she’s ready, or maybe she won’t. Either way, for reasons I can’t quite explain, I like having her around.
Perhaps it’s her quiet presence or this feeling I have that she’s seen things I couldn’t begin to imagine.
Or perhaps it’s her veiled strength, the kind that shows up in people who don’t know when they’ll get their next meal or where they’ll sleep that night, but continue to fight. Continue to rebuild and restitch.
There’s a lingering sorrow in her eyes, and maybe it’s that which my soul connects with.
“When did you learn to knit?” I ask, because somehow, I can’t seem to keep my mouth shut around the woman.
Her gaze flicks around my closet-sized make-shift salon. “More than thirty years ago. I started knitting when I was pregnant.”
Her words stir in my chest, and though I want to ask more, I get the feeling she wouldn’t tell me. I get it. Some scars are better left alone, as even touching them poses a risk of reopening them.
“Me, too,” I respond, keeping my eyes on the yarn in my hands. “I made these sea-foam-colored booties the first time.” My smile wobbles, recalling how proud I was when I’d finished them. “But I never got to use them.”
Abby’s fingers still mid-stitch, and when I glance up, her gaze is already on mine. “Perhaps they’ll get used this time around?”
My heart slams into my ribs, my mouth dropping open. I’m not even six weeks along, and definitely not showing. I haven’t told a single soul besides the ones who were there this past Sunday at Dad’s house.
I haven’t even told Patton.
I know she posed it as a question, but it didn’t sound like one.
“How . . .” I lick my lips, feeling my brows pinch. “How did you know?”
She shrugs almost imperceptibly. “You looked like you were going to be sick when Hector stopped by to offer you his onion rings earlier. And I saw you looking in the mirror, running a hand over your stomach when you thought no one was watching.”
I blink at her, perturbed by the calm and certainty in her voice. For someone who barely speaks above a whisper and hopes to blend into the background, she doesn’t miss anything.
“I . . .” I clear my throat. “I haven’t told anyone.”
She nods, fingers threading yarn. “I understand.”
“Hold up,” Piper says, reclining in my styling chair, gesturing in the general area of my torso with a half-eaten protein bar.
“So this Abby lady just knew about your uterus drama when you hadn’t shared it with her?
” She raises a perfect brow. “I don’t know if that’s just some serious women’s intuition or a HIPAA violation. ”
“Yeah. Isn’t that strange?” I ask, laying my clean shears perfectly in line next to the combs, which are, of course, arranged by size. “Like, am I just walking around with a neon sign that says, ‘Knocked up and fucking panicking!’”
“Maybe it’s the glow,” Sarina says, helping Snatch get her little bald head through the neck of a sweater, before glancing back at me from the doorway. “You look radiant.”
Snatch wiggles out of Sarina’s hold, having had enough fashion torture for the day, and lands on the floor soundlessly.
Of the three cats, Snatch is definitely the best dressed, not by choice, of course.
My sister just thinks her cat needs more “layers” to keep her warm, but I swear that cat has a bigger closet than I do.
Tail flicking in obvious annoyance, Snatch prowls over to the cat tree to join Beaver, who is currently standing on his hind legs, as still as a piece of creepy taxidermy, except for the occasional twitch of his right ear.
He does this often, just standing there unmoving like a weirdo. It freaks people out. We’ve had clients—tech bros worth eight figures—yelp like little girls when they realize he’s not just a white statue.
Once, this hipster twenty-something millionaire dropped his craft matcha, and Beaver didn’t even blink. I bet he was internally saying, “Gotcha, sucker!”
Is it weird that we have cats in the salon? Yes. But they’re part of our family here and part of the contract our clients have to sign. Literally. I believe it says something like, “This salon is co-managed by three emotionally complex felines. Enter at your own risk.”
They’re well cared for, too. Each night, they’re tucked into the cozy backroom just for them, and if the salon ever closes for an extended period of time, one of us takes them home like the pampered royalty they are.
“Definitely radiant,” Piper agrees, taking another bite of her bar. “Plus, your boobs look phenomenal. Bet Patton’s having a field day with those.”
I roll my eyes at her wagging brow before moving around my suite, fluffing throw pillows unnecessarily. “He’s not because I haven’t seen him yet.”
I straighten the magazines on the small table, even though they haven’t been touched since I last straightened them three hours ago.
Some people journal; others scream into pillows. Me? I organize things with the precision of a museum curator and the nervous energy of a squirrel on espresso.
Basically, when things feel like they’re out of control, I like to keep my hands busy and pretend everything is fine.
But everything is not fine. Not even kinda.
I don’t need to look at my sister and best friend to know they just exchanged a glance.
We’ve been slammed with clients and conflicting schedules.
Ever since I took the test at Dad’s house four days ago, I really haven’t had a chance to speak to either of them, aside from a couple of texts they both sent me asking how I was feeling.
I suppose my vague, “I’m fine,” replies are now catching up to me, and they’ve staged this intervention between their appointments.
“Haven’t seen him because he’s out of town or because you’re avoiding him?” Sarina asks, leaning against the doorway with crossed arms.
Have I mentioned how annoying it is to have people who know you this well?
“Look, I just need a minute, okay?”
And maybe another minute to Google “what to expect when you weren’t expecting.”
I pull a broom from the hidden area behind a tall shelf and start to sweep nonexistent hair into the built-in suction-thingy on the floor.
“I need a little time to process the fact that there’s a human growing inside me, again.”
Beaver chooses that moment to unfreeze himself and drop a ring at my feet. I pick it up to take a closer look. “Oh, my God, Beaver. This is someone’s wedding ring. He’s probably looking for it.”
I place it in Sarina’s outstretched hand. She’s dealt with this kind of thing before with my cat and will figure out how to get it to its rightful owner.
“Seriously, your cat is going to get himself on the FBI’s Most Wanted list,” Piper says, watching Beaver sit back on his haunches, looking proud of himself.
I pinch my brows at my mischievous but adorable cat, hoping to look admonishing. “Buddy, you can’t go around robbing people! This is a respectable establishment.”
Picking him up, I put him back in the cat tree to hang out with Snatch before going back to the task of sweeping my already-clean room.
Dropping the empty protein bar wrapper into a nearby garbage bin, Piper rises from her chair, taking the broom from my hands. “Babe, we know you have a lot to process. And knowing you, you’re scared shitless but too stubborn to admit it.”
“It’s okay to admit you’re scared, Neesh,” my sister says, walking inside and pulling my hand in hers. “The way you always hold yourself together is admirable, but you don’t have to with us. I can imagine what you’re thinking, given what happened before . . .”
My shoulders deflate like the rest of my body as they pull me into an embrace I didn’t think I needed.
These two have seen me at my worst, but I also hate burdening them—or anyone—with my problems. Between Piper becoming a new mom, and Sarina still in the throes of last-minute wedding planning, they shouldn’t have to worry about me.
“I just . . .” I pad over to the styling chair Piper had vacated, sinking into it with a sigh.
“Since the moment I found out, it’s like I’m bracing for impact at every turn.
Like I’m expecting to wake up cramping, or go to the bathroom and see blood, or God, feel that soul-deep emptiness that I felt when . . .”
I don’t finish the rest of my sentence, but I don’t have to. They’re identical expressions of empathy and sorrow tell me they understand.