Chapter 8
Chapter eight
That Wednesday, I am driving back into Buckholt for my regular shift at Kroger and feeling unaccountably nervous.
I’m not even five months pregnant yet, so why was Cara telling other staff that I’m quitting?
I’m really hoping it’s just a misunderstanding because after holding my breath and closing my eyes like I was making a wish—a rather ridiculous instinct, I know—I checked our bank balance online and healthy is not a word I would use to describe it.
Yes, we can afford our bills… just. But any extras or any improvements we want to make to this homestead are currently unaffordable.
And then there’s the fact of this baby. Even the shortest hospital stay will likely run into the thousands, and even though Josh’s hospital stay met our deductible, that was last year, and guess what? It reset in January.
I briefly considered having a home birth—Lily managed just fine, after all, and Bethany could be my doula—but considering my own less-than-stellar response to Lily’s birth, I don’t think that’s wise. Plus, when I mentioned it in a very offhand way to Josh, he went as white as a sheet.
“Mabel gave birth on her own,” I pointed out, and he gave me a disbelieving look.
“Mabel is a cow.”
“I suppose there’s a biological instinct,” I mused, but in truth, I didn’t push very hard at all because I don’t actually want a home birth. As I said, we’re not quite in Little House on the Prairie territory yet, even if Emmy birthed all seven of hers at home.
But that’s a worry for another day, I tell myself, because today’s worry is keeping my job.
And trying to figure out how to handle my father’s friendship with Jolene.
Of course, as far as he’s concerned, there’s nothing for me to handle.
All he said on the car ride home, despite my attempt to ask for information in an oh-so casual way, was, “She’s a friend I met through PT.
She lost her husband three years ago. She’s from Charleston. ” And that was it.
Later that night, I told Josh about this development, somewhat reluctantly because I knew he wouldn’t feel the unease I was obviously exhibiting.
“He has a friend?” he remarked as he folded back our duvet. “Great.” He made it seem so simple.
“Her name’s Jolene.” I gave the name the kind of emphasis that made Josh raise his eyebrows.
“Abby,” he warned as he climbed into bed, “you might be starting to sound like a snob.”
“A snob!” I was faux outraged because, secretly, I agreed with him. I picked up my pillow and plumped it with more force than was strictly needed. “I’m sure she’s very nice,” I said, so dubiously that Josh let out a shout of laughter.
“Mmm. Okay.”
“It’s just…” I put the pillow down on the bed and stared at him in appeal. “What if they get married?”
Josh cocked his head. “I think you might be jumping the gun a little here.”
“I know, but my dad doesn’t make a lot of friends, especially lady friends,” I protested. “He didn’t have any such friends back in Pennsylvania.”
“That you know of,” Josh pointed out.
I acknowledged the truth of that with a grimace.
“Just let him have a friend,” Josh said gently as he slid down in the bed, tucking the duvet over him, ready for sleep.
“Let him have a life besides playing with our kids and watching Midsomer Murders. Not that those aren’t good things…
but your dad was pretty active back in Bucks County, and I know he doesn’t want his diagnosis to slow him down any more than it has to. ”
“Yes, but…” I nibbled my lip, still unconvinced. My dad was shaky on his feet—even if he’d been jitterbugging—and had some pretty noticeable memory lapses. Plus, sometimes he couldn’t do things like brush his hair or button his shirt up properly.
Was he really in the right place for a relationship?
What if Jolene took advantage of him? I knew Josh would say I was being ridiculous and unfair, so I kept those thoughts to myself.
And, if I was honest, I also knew that my concerns sprang from a sense of fear that my dad wouldn’t need me as much as he had been, which was absurd and childish, but when it comes to our parents, maybe we never truly grow up.
Something to keep in mind when dealing with Bethany, I reflect as I pull into the Kroger parking lot. She’s been packing up her stuff to move to Miss Barbara’s, and for some reason, it feels so final. William, Jack, and Rose all asked if they could have her room.
“You already have your own room,” I pointed out to Rose, who pouted.
“Yes, but Bethany’s is bigger.”
“And we have to share,” Jack said in the sort of aggrieved tone that suggested he and his brother were subject to deprivations usually known only by Victorian orphans and war refugees.
“You’ll manage,” I told him shortly, and he let out a long-suffering sigh. A few months ago, he might have kicked up a fuss, but now he let it go after just a sigh and went to help Josh out in the barn. My children really are growing up… in all sorts of ways.
Inside the grocery store, a few people are strolling down the aisles with carts, but it feels pretty empty, so it seems like a good time to talk to Cara before my shift starts.
I’m wearing my company-issue blue polo shirt with the Kroger insignia and a pair of khakis that no longer zip up.
Fortunately, they’re hidden by my apron, but I’m going to have to invest in some maternity khakis before too long.
That is, if I still have my job.
“Cara?” I smile at my manager, who is sitting in the cubbyhole that is the office, off the checkouts.
“Abby. Aren’t you starting work?”
“Yes, I just wanted to chat with you for a sec.” I smile, trying to seem friendly and capable, which hopefully isn’t too hard.
“Okay.” Cara pops her gum, a habit I find annoying, considering employees aren’t supposed to chew gum.
“It’s just… Elliot mentioned that he’d heard I was leaving?
” I raise my eyebrows like I’m inviting her to share the joke.
Ha ha, how ridiculous! She doesn’t so much as crack a smile, just gives me a flat stare that makes me feel decidedly uneasy.
“And I’m not?” I finish, my voice lilting upwards when I meant it to come out like a statement.
“Well… you’re pregnant,” Cara points out, as if it’s something I don’t know.
“Yes, but I’m not due for over four months,” I reply reasonably.
“And I was planning to work right up to my delivery date and then come back after a… a little time off. So…” I consider mentioning the Family and Medical Leave Act, but I don’t know enough about it except that employers can’t fire you for being pregnant.
At least I don’t think they can.
Cara stares at me for a moment, then says slowly, seeming to choose her words with care, “This isn’t my decision to make, but I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it anyway, so I guess it’s good that you’ve brought it up.
” She sighs. “I’m sorry, Abby, but Kroger is having some layoffs.
You know what the economy is like.” She shakes her head sorrowfully.
“It’s a case of first in and first out, especially when it comes to the part-time employees. ”
I swallow hard. “So I’m being fired?” Would I have been if I hadn’t forced this conversation?
“Management will contact you officially, but you are being laid off, yes. Your final day of work will be in the letter they send, sometime in the next week or so.”
I let out a huff of breath, hardly able to believe this conversation has happened the way it has. If I hadn’t approached Cara, would I have just gotten a letter in the mail? It appears so. “Okay, well.” I swallow hard. I’m not sure what to say. “I guess that’s that.”
Cara cracks her gum again. “That’s that,” she agrees, and turns back to her computer.
I head back to my checkout counter feeling weirdly numb. I can’t believe I just lost my job. Our bank account balance feels more precarious than ever.
I’m still thinking about my job, or lack of it, as I head back home seven hours later.
My feet and lower back are both aching, and my stomach is feeling achy.
I acknowledge with a sigh that standing on my feet for seven hours is not the best job for a forty-four-year-old pregnant woman.
Still, I need to find some kind of work—but who is going to hire a woman in my current condition?
Back at the house, I discover that Bethany has moved all her stuff into the middle of the kitchen, a pile of boxes and suitcases she has yet to take to the car. Max has been made anxious by the change of circumstances—he’s easily upset—and is circling the pile while whining.
William is sitting at the kitchen table, frowning at his laptop. The kittens are on top of the kitchen counter, along with what looks like half a box’s worth of spilled Cheerios. My temper starts to fray.
“Is it too much to ask,” I state with a definite edge to my voice, “to clean up after yourself?” I right the box of Cheerios and shoo the kittens off the counter. They jump elegantly to the ground, both of them giving me a malevolent look, only the way a cat can.
Max upgrades his whine to a near-howl.
We definitely have too many animals.
“I didn’t have Cheerios,” William says, his tone so reasonable, but I’m not in a reasonable mood.
“And when you see all this cereal spilled over the counter,” I snap, “you don’t think about cleaning it up?”
William blinks at me. I know I’m sounding a little unhinged, but couldn’t he have cleaned it up? Or am I the only one who does any tidying in this home?
I know I’m being unfair. William got up this morning to do the milking, and Jack has been helping Josh outside most days.
He’d much prefer that to homeschooling, and he’s been helpful.
Even Rose has risen to the occasion occasionally, emptying the dishwasher and cleaning out the chicken coop.
My kids do way more chores here than they did back in New Jersey, and yet…
No one thought to clean up the Cheerios. And I’m out of a job.
“What are you doing, anyway?” I ask, nodding toward his laptop. He’d been studying whatever is on that screen very seriously.
“Um, nothing.” Quickly, he closes the laptop, and I frown.
“What kind of nothing?” I ask as lightly as I can. If William is going through something, I’m not sure I currently have the emotional energy for it, but I know I need to ask.
“Well—” William begins, only to be silenced by the sound of the front door being open and Josh singing out,
“Guess what I brought home!”
This is followed by a sound that takes me a second to recognize—the squeal of a pig.