I want to reach out to him, to tell him it’s going to be okay. That after this time apart things will be clear—we will survive this temporary split. But I can’t, because I’m not sure we will. Temporary might very well turn into permanent. Within the four walls of our French country kitchen, a place usually vibrant with our family’s rowdy activity, a place filled with so many ordinary, yet unforgettable memories, the two of us weep inconsolable tears. I might be making the worst mistake of my life right now, stubborn bitch that I am. But this stubborn bitch will be damned if her husband is going to make her feel like she trapped him, caged him and declawed him of his manhood.
“Grace, I’m pretty flipping sure it’s two pink lines. Look!”
“Lemme see,” she says, grabbing the plastic stick from my shaking grip.
Grace flips the pink box from back to front, then from front to back as if juggling the damn box is going to make the directions any different.
“Give it to me, Grace! It says it right here...two lines means positive! And this is the third damn test.”
“Congratulations?” Grace shrugs her shoulders, crinkling her perfectly upturned nose.
I slump down on the toilet seat, staring at the bright pink lines that seem to be flashing like an obnoxious neon sign. Before I can even control it, I start to cry, lifting my hands and the urine-soaked, evil piece of plastic to my eyes. “What the hell am I going to do, Grace? We’re not ready yet.”
I couldn’t have painted this grim picture this way even if I’d planned it. And it’s pretty obvious that nothing about this scenario was planned. I’ve been Mrs. Declan Murphy all of two months. This cannot be happening!
Grace kneels in front of me on the cold tile floor, the mosaic pattern of light and dark blues blurred by my onslaught of tears. I swipe at the droplets, reaching behind me for a wad of toilet paper to blow my runny nose. I search Grace’s face for her true reaction to this unexpected news. I need her strength right now. And if there is one measly ounce of fear, panic, or dread on her always cheery face, I am in for it.
Set amidst those expressive grey blue eyes, behind the minor detection of concern, I see genuine happiness. And she’s smiling. Not just any insignificant smile but one of those Duchenne smiles I’d read about. According to scientists this is the sincerest of smiles. The kind that reach up to the eyes—in this case, very evident in Grace’s glowing gaze—something about the eye muscles only being triggered by a genuine, heartfelt grin.
Whatever...she’s obviously happy, why can’t it rub off on me?
“Mia, this is good news. I know it’s sudden, but—Declan is madly in love with you, your mother made a speech at the wedding about getting started on grandbabies, and I get to be an aunt! Oh my God, I get to be an aunt!”
I actually feel like I’m disappointing her by not being excited about this. I want to be excited about this, I really do. Grace and I have talked about being mothers since we used to play house as little kids. We always pretended we were sisters, married to brothers, each with a bundled up baby of our own. We dressed them up in the old clothes my parents saved from when I was a baby, strolling them around in little plastic carriages and shopping carts. It kept us busy for hours because those babies never cried, or needed changing, or were unplanned!
“Grace, Declan’s going to flip. We’re only just starting out. He’s finally working full-time at the firm and he has to put in a lot of time—a lot of travel, to prove himself. And what about my job? I love teaching. I can’t leave those kids.” A million different images flash through my mind. We’re not prepared, this will change everything. But beyond all the fear and doubt, when I hone in on the fuzzy image of a beautiful, pink-faced newborn with Declan’s stunning blue eyes, my fears start to melt away. Things could be a lot worse. I’m a married college graduate who owns a home and has a great job—it’s not the end of the world. I’m pregnant. I’m going to be a mom and I know Declan is going to be an amazing dad.
With a compelling surge of baby bliss, I suddenly can’t wait to tell him the news. Grace recognizes the shift in my behavior, both of our tears now representing joy. She takes the pee-stick out of my hand, the little plastic nothing that just informed me of the single most life changing moment of my existence, and places it behind me on the tank of the toilet.
“You are going to be one hell of a mom, Mia Page Murphy! And I am going to spoil the crap out of her, so you better watch out.”
“Her? It’s a fifty-fifty chance, Grace. A baby boy could be brewing in here.” I point to my belly with the uncontrollable impulse to rub the part of me that contains the little seedling Declan and I have created.