Written in the Scars(100)

Six months later . . .

ELIN

“Are you sure I’m not too heavy?” I start to lean off Ty’s lap, but he pulls me down again against his Arrows’ shirt.

“Will you stop it? You aren’t too heavy.”

“I’m huge,” I say, rubbing my swollen belly. “This baby is going to be ten pounds. I know it.”

“You’ll be the prettiest ten-pound-baby-carrier I’ve ever seen,” he teases, rubbing my nose with his.

I settle against him as we sit in a loveseat in the nursery. The sun streams through the windows, the tree outside casting shadows on the golden walls.

Baseball decorations adorn the walls and crib, and sure enough, a signed picture of Lincoln Landry on the closet door.

It’s the perfect room for little Cord, even if it is a little cheesy. But Ty’s gusto to decorate and his enthusiasm for his vision—how could I say no?

We rock gently back and forth, feeling the late afternoon sun on our skin.

“Did you get your homework done?” I ask him.

“Yes, Mother,” he mocks, kissing me on the shoulder. “I’ll be glad when my homework is done and I’m giving it out instead.”

“Wait until you have to grade it,” I point out. “Not so fun.”

“Remember how fun grading papers is with me?” His eyebrows waggle and I laugh. “Besides, you’re not going to do that for me? It’ll be geography papers, and I hate to say, much more interesting than your cut and paste sheets.”

“Maybe you can take them over and get Jiggs to help you. That nine-to-five job of his at the power plant isn’t enough to keep him occupied. Lindsay is ready to murder him,” I laugh. “She was saying yesterday that it’s a good thing they didn’t move to Florida. Without you to entertain Jiggs, she’d be out of her mind.”

Ty rolls his eyes. “You’d think he’d have that truck working by now with all the time he has on his hands. Maybe Delia can help him when she gets older.”

“Speaking of Delia,” I say, grinning, “I told Jiggs we’d watch her tomorrow night so they can have a date night. Jiggs had me make reservations for them and order flowers and everything.”

“It doesn’t count if you do it for him.”

“Yes, it does!” I laugh. “I just hope you want to cater to me like he does Lindsay after I have Cord.”

“Don’t I already?” he says, kissing my cheek.

“You do. Just remember me when your little sports buddy arrives in the world,” I laugh, hearing the back door squeak. We wait as heavy footsteps walk through the house and the nursery door opens.

Dustin’s head pops around the corner. Yogi bursts in at the opportunity and plops down at our feet. I reach down and scratch her behind the ears.

“Hey, can I go play some ball with Jason?” Dustin asks.

“Yes. Dinner is at six-thirty, so make sure you’re back by then,” I say, smiling at my new foster son. He returns the gesture, a softness in his eyes that’s just begun to settle in.

The Case Manager from Child Protective Services said Dustin had lived in five different homes since being turned over to them. That helped explain his attitude and behavior issues. Once we passed the foster care courses and pulled some strings, he moved in and things have changed.

His grades are markedly better. His disciplinary record at school much cleaner. And the lightness in his step much easier.

Dustin told me he’d never had a room of his own and never went shopping for his own shoes. The day he picked out his own bed and basketball shoes was one of the happiest days of my life, just because of the joy on his face.

It’s the little things. I knew that before the accident, but I know it more now. It’s not about money, it’s not about cramming in a week’s worth of work in one day. It’s not about getting from point A to point B and it’s surely not about getting irritated over the little things in life. As a matter of fact, that’s what it’s all about.

Life is about stopping to chat with Ruby at the counter at The Fountain while she makes my Bump. It’s about planning the Thanksgiving menu with your sister-in-law and arguing about who is hosting it this year, burning dinner because your husband won’t keep his hands off you. It’s about setting up Becca with every man I meet so she finds her happily-ever-after even though I don’t have time and arguing with your foster son about his curfew and making a scarecrow every fall.

Some of those things might hurt. Life does pack a punch. But it’s the scars that make us who we are, that tell the story of the life we lived.

“What are you making for dinner?” Dustin asks.