The Baby Wait. Cynthia Reese

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?”

      His words struck a sensitive spot in the soft underbelly of my self-doubt. I tried to ignore them, tried to tell myself Joe was just frustrated by Cherie’s mooching call and didn’t mean any malice. It didn’t work. Just because I’d convinced the social worker who’d done our home study that I was grade-A, blue-ribbon mom-material didn’t make it so.

      While I busily failed at propping up my ego, I changed the subject. “So, you’re going to get home early, then?”

      “I don’t think so. I have that final inspection for the Walker house. Ought not to be too bad, but the Walkers can’t do it until after they get off. It’ll be seven before I get done, most likely. What? You got plans?”

      “No, I just had crab legs in the freezer. Thought I might cook those.”

      We stood there, a little awkward, neither one of us knowing what to say to fill up the silence. I loved Joe, had since high school, but sometimes his uncommunicative ways drove me crazy.

      “Uh, don’t be surprised if Ma calls you looking for me,” I told him. “She’s already hit me up to bring her groceries.”

      “Not unusual. Just like Cherie begging money. I told her if she wanted money, she could work for it, same as me. I’m not a finance company, and one day my little sister will realize that.”

      I’d heard the angry conversation the night before, heard Joe slam down the phone. I knew the score. They wouldn’t speak to each other for two, maybe three weeks.

      Not having to deal with Cherie might be a relief for me, but Joe would worry and sulk and not talk about it until the two of them finally got past that famous Tennyson pride to mumble sorry to one another. And then, out of sheer guilt, Joe would give her whatever it was she’d wanted in the first place.

      Cherie brought out the absolute worst in Joe. True, Cherie brought out the worst in almost everybody. Right now, though, with the adoption making Joe so tense and with his obvious discontent at work, he didn’t need Cherie to worry about. Couldn’t she just grow up and stop her female version of the Peter Pan syndrome? Or did she think being twenty-eight too much of a drag? Couldn’t she, for once, pretend to be her real age?

      Right. That had about as much chance happening as Ma becoming a teetotaler.

      I