8. Nora
NORA
Itell my mother in the canned tomato aisle. This is not the plan.
There's not much of a plan at this point, to be fair. My entire plan is mostly:
I'm failing number three before we even reach pasta.
My mother is holding two cans of San Marzano tomatoes and squinting at the price like she is about to ask the manager if the tomatoes have union benefits.
"This is robbery," she says.
"Mm."
"Nora."
"What?"
"You've been staring at the same jar of olives for three minutes."
I look down. I'm holding olives.
I hate olives. Not a normal hate either. A lifelong hate. Daniel once put one in a salad by accident and I looked at him like he had brought a knife to dinner.
My mother looks at the olives. Then at me. Then at the olives again. Her face changes.
"Oh," she says.
That's it. Just oh.
My eyes fill immediately.
"Don't," I say.
"I didn't say anything."
"You said oh."
"Oh is not a crime."
"It was a very loud oh."
She sets the tomatoes down in the cart with too much care.
"Nora."
The aisle is too bright. Somewhere near the bakery, someone has put out garlic bread, and the smell hits me all at once. My stomach rolls.
"Bathroom," I say.
She gets me to the single bathroom beside the pharmacy before I can embarrass myself on imported pasta. Then she stands outside the stall while I kneel on grocery-store tile.
Pregnancy is beautiful. People love to say that. People are liars.
When I come out, my mother has wet paper towels ready. She doesn't fuss. She doesn't ask questions. She just wipes under my eyes with one hand and holds my hair back with the other like I'm six years old and feverish.
That's what breaks me.
"I'm pregnant," I say.
Her hand stops. Then her whole face crumples. Not in a sad way. Not exactly. In a mother way.
"Oh, baby," she whispers.
I start crying so hard I have to sit on the closed toilet lid.
She crouches in front of me. My mother has bad knees. She doesn't crouch unless something is on fire or one of her children is falling apart. I am both, apparently.
"Does Daniel know?"
The question everyone lands on.
I shake my head. My mother closes her eyes. For a second, she looks older.
Then she opens them, and the older part is gone. Replaced by something sharper.
"Okay." She takes both my hands. "First, we get you home. Then you tell me everything you want to tell me and nothing you don't. Then I call your father, who will panic in the garage for twenty minutes and come inside with a toolbox for reasons none of us understand."
I laugh through the crying.
"No, listen to me." Her grip tightens. "You're not doing this alone."
I look away.
"I have been."
It lands small. Too small. My mother hears it anyway.
"Not anymore," she says.
I want to believe her. I do believe her. That's almost worse, because belief is dangerous when you're tired.
My father comes over with soup, saltines, ginger candies, and an outlet tester. Nobody knows why.
He checks three outlets in my kitchen while my mother makes tea and I sit at the island with one hand pressed to my stomach.
"All good," he says.
He looks at me. His eyes are wet. My father doesn't cry easily.
"You need anything electrical, you call me," he says.
"Dad."
"Or plumbing."
"I don't need plumbing."
"You might."
Then he comes around the island and kisses the top of my head.
"You're going to be okay, kiddo."
That does it. Again. I cry into my tea.
This baby is going to think I'm made of water.
The first trimester is not a trimester. It's a haunted house with crackers.
My mother moves in without saying she is moving in. At first, she comes by in the mornings. Then she starts bringing a tote bag, then the tote bag becomes a small suitcase, then I find her favorite moisturizer in the guest bathroom.
"Are you living here now?" I ask.
"Don't be dramatic."
"Your moisturizer is upstairs."
"My face gets dry."
"You labeled the soup."
"That's called civilization."
I let her stay. Obviously. I'm not stupid.
Bex finds out because she walks into my commercial kitchen at nine in the morning and catches me asleep sitting upright beside a tray of lemon bars.
"Are you dead?" she asks.
"Probably."
"If you are, can I have your mixer?"
"No."
"Rude."
Then she sees my face. Bex stops smiling.
"Nora."
I burst into tears. She drops her bag so fast a container of sprinkles rolls across the floor.
"Oh my God. Are you sick?"
"No."
"Did Daniel die?"
"No."
"Do we want him to?"
I laugh and cry at the same time.
"I'm pregnant."
Bex freezes with both hands hovering near my shoulders like she is afraid I might detonate.
"Pregnant pregnant?"
"No, emotionally pregnant."
"Okay, sarcasm is alive. Good sign." Her eyes fill. "Oh, babe."
She hugs me. Hard.
"Does he know?" she asks into my hair.
Everyone asks that.
"No."
Bex pulls back. Her face does the thing best friends' faces do when they are trying to support you and commit a small crime in their head at the same time.
"Okay."
"Don't."
"I said okay. I didn't say peacefully."
So I tell her enough. Not everything. I tell her about the texts. The eleven hours. Charlotte having his phone. The hotel. His message telling me not to send urgent things unless they were actually urgent.
Bex's face goes still.
"It sounds bad."
"He's under a lot of pressure."
"And you are what, a scented candle?"
"Bex."
"No. I'm being calm. My blood pressure is wearing a cardigan."
I laugh even though I don't want to.
"What are you going to do?" she asks.
"I don't know."
"Do you want to tell him?"
"Yes," I say.
Then, "No."
Then, "I want him to already know. I want him to have called back in eleven minutes, not eleven hours. I want him to have said, 'I'm coming home,' before I had to decide whether I was allowed to ask."
My voice breaks on the last word.
Bex puts her arm around me.
"That seems fair."
"It probably isn't."
"I didn't say legal. I said fair."
Two days later, I call Daniel again.
Not his cell. I haven't answered his last text. I'm still too angry. Also too proud.
I call the project office number from the Welling signature block because I tell myself that will be more professional. Less like a wife begging her husband to choose her between meetings.
A woman answers on the second ring.
"Welling Linden project office, Charlotte speaking."
Of course. My grip tightens on the phone. I can see her. Pale hair, black dress, hand on Daniel's sleeve, Daniel laughing.
"This is Nora Welling," I say.
There's a tiny pause. Maybe not even real.
"Mrs. Welling," Charlotte says warmly. "How can I help?"
Mrs. Welling. Not Nora. Something formal enough to put glass between us.
"I need to speak with Daniel."
"He's in a closed session with Linden right now."
"When will he be out?"
"The schedule is fluid today."
Fluid. I hate business words. They're just regular words wearing expensive shoes.
"Can you interrupt him?"
Another pause.
"Is this urgent?"
My hand goes to my stomach. Urgent. Yes. No. I don't know.
It's not a burning building. Not a board vote. It's only our baby.
"Mrs. Welling?" Charlotte says. Her voice is perfect. Helpful. Professional. Impenetrable.
I see the wall then. Not a dramatic one. No locks. No shouting. Just layers of schedule and access and polite women with Daniel's phone in their hands.
"No," I say. The word comes out before I can save myself. "It's not urgent."
"I can leave him a message."
"Don't bother," I say.
I hang up. Then I stand in the commercial kitchen with one hand over my mouth and one hand on my stomach.
Bex looks up from boxing shortbread.
"Did you tell him?"
I shake my head.
"What happened?"
"Charlotte answered."
That's all I have to say. Bex puts the pastry box down carefully.
"He's in a closed session," I say. "The schedule is fluid."
"I'm going to fluid her schedule."
I laugh once. Then I start crying. Bex comes over and wraps both arms around me.
"I'm not begging," I say into her shoulder.
"No."
"I'm not going to say please interrupt my husband because I'm carrying his child and apparently that's still not enough to get past the front desk."
Bex goes still.
"No," she says again, but this time it sounds like a vow.