11. Lucy
11
LUCY
B y the time I’ve put away the food and my meager things, I’m shot. Thankfully, Caroline is well versed in introducing a new goat to a herd. She returns and reports that Matilda is settled in perfectly.
I’m relieved and fall asleep the moment my head hits the pillow, curled up in the big T-shirt Court got me.
I wake up to the wonderful sounds of meh eh eh and the unique ring of grain being poured into a metal trough.
I get up, eat some of my leftovers, and put on the first new outfit since I left Colorado, the yellow sundress.
I find some duct tape in a drawer and mend my old shoes since I’ll probably get muddy. I don’t want to ruin my new ones.
The day is bright and warm. Some of the goats approach me as I walk out. Others are kept in the pens.
I reach down to pet their heads. “You must be the good goats.”
A man in his early fifties waves from the barn. “You must be Lucy!”
I head over. “Is Matilda in there with you?”
“She sure is! She’s a sweetheart!” He walks over to the gate and swings it open for me.
I spot Matilda standing on a rough-hewn wood platform. There are several of them scattered around for this purpose. Other goats have taken up the rest.
“She’s been chill, just observing.” The man extends a hand. “I’m Tom, Caroline’s husband. Glad to have you.”
When Matilda spots me, she jumps down and dashes over in her funny, loping gait. I pet her head. “This is a wonderful farm.”
“We have lots of goats,” Tom says. “Goat yoga will be starting soon, so the ones that participate in that will be heading to their duties. The rest stay inside the pen. You going to do it?”
“I’m going to rest another day before jumping into exercise,” I say, running my hand over my belly as if it isn’t wildly obvious.
“Caroline said you were about a month out. And a yoga teacher?”
“I have been. Looking forward to being able to do a forward fold without looking like a nutcracker.”
Tom laughs. “Now that’s a picture. Feel free to wander around.”
And I do, putting Matilda on a lead in case she gets startled. I don’t want her taking off in an unfamiliar place.
We have a pleasant walk through the front grounds. It’s filled with trees, and the barn is well kept. The lane down the middle keeps going into a more heavily forested area in the back, but we don’t walk far.
By the time I return, goat yoga is in full swing. I watch from outside the low white fence that marks the yoga yard. About ten women have spread out their mats, and six goats wander among them.
Cute. Caroline approaches from the main house, waving a small box. “I got a delivery for you while you were walking,” she calls.
The phone. Court was quick.
I take it from her. “Thank you. I’ll get you my number as soon as I figure out what it is.”
“New phone?”
“Yes.” I don’t explain further. I like it here, and I don’t want any strange feelings. “I’ll need to milk Matilda. Is there a place for that?”
“Yes, there’s a milking shed attached to the barn. Water. Buckets. Whatever you need.”
“Perfect.”
I leave Matilda in the barn to look over the phone. It’s been years since I had one of my own. It takes some effort to relearn the swipes and pinches to make it work. I find Court’s information and text him I have it.
Within a half hour, I’ve set up a new email account, searched the area for OB/GYNs, and made an appointment with a nurse practitioner since I could get in more quickly. I forward that to Court, who hasn’t responded to my first message, and head out to milk Matilda.
This is the life. I sit with Matilda for a while after we’ve filled three of the Dill with It bottles. Then I store the bottles in my fridge and take a nap.
Court doesn’t get back to me until evening, with two quick responses.
Glad the phone arrived.
Thank you for your appointment information.
I run my finger over the screen. No indication of whether or not he might come. Just acknowledgment.
Even with his salty self, I miss seeing him. It was a strange, intense day in his office.
And now, I just have to wait for the baby to be born.
I have enough food for the weekend, and Matilda and I spend the days easily. I turn her milk into goat cheese and soap with the supplies I packed, but they won’t last long.
Caroline sells her own products locally, and I don’t want to compete with that. I locate the spa owner’s card that Kaliyah gave me and email her to negotiate some sales.
Then I look up Stanley’s Emporium, not sure if Stanley really wanted my goat cheese after meeting me on the subway, or if he was being nice. A woman takes my name and number and says he’ll call me later.
I hesitate with the phone, considering whether I should contact April and Summer now that I can.
Maybe so.
I rummage through the bottom of my knapsack where I hide a few important things. My wallet with my driver’s license, which I’ve kept active even though I haven’t had a car in years. My meager cash. And a couple of sticky notes from the yoga studio with the phone numbers of important people.
This includes April, even though it’s the middle of the night in France.
And Summer, on the new phone her boyfriend gave her right before they left to elope in Vegas.
Me: New phone! It’s Lucy!
I get an instant reply from Summer.
Summer: Did you have that baby yet?
Me: Not for a few weeks.
Summer: Are you still in the yurt?
How to answer that? As I type, delete, and re-type, April pops in.
April: I was about to go to bed! Lucy! You’re on the grid!
Me: I got a phone from Court. From New Year’s.
April: What!
Summer: You called him?
Me: I’m in New York. He found a farm for me and Matilda to live on until the baby is born.
April: He did what!
Summer: Are you happy there? Did you have sex with him again? ARE YOU GETTING MARRIED?
I wait until their barrage of questions dies down.
Me: No proposal. I’m here until the paternity test.
April: How long?
Summer: Asshat!
I go with April’s comment.
Me: We’ll swab the baby’s cheek when he’s born.
They continue to pepper me with questions long into the night, until they seem content they know everything.
It’s good to have friends again. I plug the phone into the wall before I go to sleep, such a simple thing I’ve not done in a long time.
On Monday, I get an advance of money from the spa for soap and can breathe easier. I take an Uber to a grocery store and carefully pick out a few things I can afford, plus supplies to make more soap.
I’m making my way, little by little.
By the time the appointment rolls around on Thursday, I’m nervous again. Will Court show up? I’m really hoping so.
I Uber to a small community clinic within sight of the bigger hospital complex. The petite woman with glossy black hair asks questions about my prenatal history. “We’ll probably repeat a few things since we don’t have complete records. Bloodwork. Then fit you in for a sonogram. Gina will also do a quick glance at your cervix, since you’re new and so close. Is that all right?”
I nod, watching the door.
She smiles. “Is Dad late?”
I don’t know what to say to that. “He works in Manhattan. It’s not easy for him to come.”
She nods.
I almost ask about the paternity test but decide against it. I’m not doing an amnio, and the hospital will be the time to swab the baby. I can bring it up then.
“Gina will be in soon,” the nurse says. “Go ahead and undress all the way, gown open to the front.”
“Okay.” When she leaves, I turn to the neatly stacked gown and paper cover on a small bench in the back corner.
I hate this part, always feeling like I’m racing to change before someone might come in.
My belly hinders me a hundred ways as I slip out of the new shoes and pull the yellow dress over my head. I got a maternity bra at a thrift store before I left Colorado, but it has far more hooks than my old ones. It takes more bendiness than I currently possess to reach them all. So much for all that yoga. I’m losing my flexibility.
Lightning pains dart through me as I reach. Seriously?
I’ll have to do it another way. I pull my arms out of the straps and turn the bra to move the hooks to the front.
I’m tussling with it when the door opens without a knock.
No! My worst nightmare!
But it gets worse.
As I turn, standing in nothing but panties, my belly as big as the moon, my boobs hanging out over the back of the still-hooked bra, the person standing in the doorway isn’t the nurse. Or Gina, the PA.
It’s Court Armstrong.