The Baby Wait

“You’ve got something left to do on this earth, that’s for sure. Ovarian cancer is a sneaky, sneaky cancer. And, based on what I see from your oncologist, you beat it. Now look at you. You and Joe are going to have this beautiful bambino…and a trip to China to boot. How long do you have to stay again? I forget.”

“A week and a half to two weeks, something like that. We’ll be in her province—the province where her orphanage is—for most of it, then in Guangzhou for the last bit.”

“Guangzhou? That’s Canton, right?” At my nod, Dr. Kaska looked off dreamily. She came back to the present. “Enough gossiping. I’ll get your test results back to you double-quick so Mr. Worrywart won’t have a heart attack. Last year, I thought he was going to come back in the exam room with you.”

“I think he feels like if he ever gives up his vigil, it will come back. He thinks he can single-handedly scare it away,” I said.

“He must have done something right. Now you and Joe call me the minute, the absolute minute you get the call. I’m just so tickled for you. You’ve been through a lot, but you’re coming through just fine.”

I got up from my chair, relieved to have the appointment over. I had done it. All by myself, nobody holding my hand. I had done it.

“Sara?” Dr. Kaska’s concern stopped me. “Is—is something bothering you? You don’t seem like your usual chipper self.”

I hesitated. For a moment, I just stood there, not sure what to say. I couldn’t find the words to explain how recalcitrant Joe was being, how he grumbled about even assembling Meredith’s crib until “we know for sure.”

Maybe I didn’t want to admit it to myself.

But his superstition all these months—from the start of the adoption, really—had tainted even my hardy optimism.

How could I tell Dr. Kaska that sometimes, especially late at night as I lay sleepless next to Joe, I worried that maybe Joe hoped things wouldn’t work out.

That maybe he hoped we wouldn’t get a baby at all.

CHAPTER TWO

IN THE PARKING LOT, my mood lightened under the bright April sunshine. I shook off my doubts and headed for the car. If I hurried, I could get back in time to make my half day at work, though I could probably forget my lunchtime walking session.

Walking was Habit Number Two I’d planned on implementing during The Wait for Meredith. Cursing—or actually, not cursing—had been at the top of my list. I’d given myself four months on that one. It still hadn’t taken.

My cell phone chirped, conjuring up Habit Number Six, the final step in my transformation to a mom: Actually getting along with my own mother.

“Sara? Is that you?”

No mistaking the querulous voice greeting me. “Ma, it’s me.”

My mother sniffed audibly. “Well, finally. I’ve been trying to get you for ages.”

A beep interrupted our conversation, letting me know that I’d missed at least one call—and knowing Ma, probably more. “I’m heading for work, Ma. I’ve just left the doctor’s office.”

“You have time to take a morning off, but not any time to look in on me.” The petulance of a four-year-old ruled her words.

I clenched my teeth until I remembered to relax my jaw. Breathe. It’s just your mother. You can do this. Breathe. “I checked on you yesterday afternoon, remember? When I got off work?”

“Right. For twenty minutes, and I should be grateful for that.”

Knowing this song had about thirty verses to go, I decided to cut today’s performance short. “What do you need, Ma?”

“Need? Can’t I call you just to talk?”

I didn’t bother arguing. In response to my waiting silence, she grunted. “I do need something. I need you to take me grocery shopping. Oh, and something for a headache. I think I’m getting another migraine.”

The stifled groan inside me rattled my innards in a frantic bid to escape. Yesterday when I’d stopped by, my mother had been her usual belligerent self, with the exception of being mostly sober, and there’d been no mention of a bare cupboard. Today’s headache was probably part of her customary morning hangover.

My jaw was tight again. I sucked in a lungful of air in an attempt to relax and not lose my patience with her. “What are you out of? Can’t you pick it up in Campbell?”

“You know I don’t, er, have a license.” She pointed out the fact delicately, leaving out the reason: She’d kept her license after her first DUI, but had a snowball’s chance of getting it back after the second one. I’d sold her car and banked the money, doling it out monthly to supplement her Social Security. Then she added, “You have sick days. You could get off. You’re off already because you went to the doctor this morning.”

“What. Did. I. Tell. You. About. That.” She’d shot my patience to hell, but at least it hadn’t been in record time.

“That you were saving your sick days for the baby.” She dragged the words out, clearly unhappy with the boundaries I’d set. Then, in a rushed, all-in-one breath, “But I need you, too, Sara, and that damn baby’s not even here yet. They’re probably taking your money and telling you that you’ll get a baby. Just like they did with all those infertility treatments.”

The reins on my temper broke, letting it run away like a wild horse. “Goodbye, Ma. I’m hanging up now before I say something I regret. And I am not answering this phone if you call back, not until I cool off.”

But as I was about to click the phone off, Ma played her trump card. “Well…I guess I could pick it up at the IGA. I have a little cash on me. And the store is just across the street.”

I held on, wondering when the other shoe would drop. And it would—with the pain of a stiletto to the instep.

Sure enough, she interrupted my, “Okay,” to interject, “Yep, I’m kinda thirsty anyway. I might pick up a six-pack while I’m there.”

I sank my teeth into my cheek to hold back the slew of cuss words I wanted to shower her with. “Okay, fine, Ma. You win. What is it you need? I’ll pick it up.”

It was only when I was slinging a gallon of milk in the grocery cart ten minutes later that I remembered I hadn’t called Joe the way I’d promised. A glance at my watch told me he was probably taking his lunch break, but I couldn’t get my cell phone to work in the store.

What the heck. I’d just stop by his job site and skip any pretense of lunch.

Joe’s current job was off Highway 80, so I hustled down Bellevue Avenue. I drove through downtown Dublin with an eye out for red lights and cops, slaloming the curve around the courthouse and cursing the idiot driver in front of me who couldn’t get the hang of using a turn signal.

The drive from Joe’s job site would take twenty minutes once I hit the open road to Campbell, where I worked as the absenteeism prevention coordinator for Bryce County schools. Make it in time to get in my half a day? Maybe, if the old guy in the rusty El Camino in front of me would make a hole and make it wide.

JOE CLAMBERED DOWN from the roof when he saw me pull up. I admired my husband’s denim-clad backside as he came down the ladder. Nearly thirty-seven years old, and he was in better shape than he’d been in high school. Manual labor had kept him hard and muscled.

I couldn’t say the same for me. At thirty-six, I had a stubborn ten—okay, make it an even dozen—extra pounds that wouldn’t come off for love or money. I had to admit it was better than when I was on the fertility treadmill. Then I’d blimped up like Mr. Big Boy.

The fear in his face abated when I sketched a wave and called, “Forgot to call. Sorry.”

“I thought—” He broke off as he neared me.

“Everything’s fine. I just thought I’d stop by and see how things are going here.”

He shrugged. “Going pretty good. We’ll get the framing done today. You going back to work?”

“On my way. Thanks for the flowers.”

A pleased expression filled his eyes. “Yeah. The azaleas were blooming this morning, did you notice? Saw it when I put Cocoa out. Damn dog was on the couch.”

“Hey, at least she wasn’t in our bed,” I pointed out.

He growled in the back of his throat. “How on earth do you think you’re going to discipline a kid if you can’t discipline a dog?”