27
ROWAN
The afternoon sunpours through the blinds in tired slats, striping the bedroom with gold and shadow. Charleston heat does this thing where it sits on the windows and watches you breathe, then decides to climb inside. Nothing like Ireland with its easy, crisp-aired summers.
Willow is propped into a geometry of pillows that would impress an engineer—two behind her back, one under each elbow, one long one under her knees, another shaped like a comma that supports the side of her belly.
Third trimester with triplets looks like a small miracle and a big math problem. She’s beautiful and pale and uncomfortable and stubborn about all three.
“I feel like a beached mermaid,” she mumbles, tugging her sleep shirt down to cover the wedge of skin where one of the babies keeps trying to practice martial arts.
“A beached mermaid would have scales,” I say, adjusting the long pillow so it doesn’t cut into the curve of her calves. “You have freckles and opinions.”
She snorts, which makes her wince, which makes me feel like a monster. “Don’t make me laugh,” she begs, half smiling. “Everything shakes when I laugh.”
“Duly noted. Humor embargo.” I ease the long pillow again until she nods. “Better?”
“Better,” she says, then wiggles—careful, slow—to coax a heel out of her rib cage. When the heel relents, she exhales and lets herself sink.
Beside the nightstand, Declan checks her blood pressure with the same soft focus he uses on anxious patients who pretend they’re not anxious. The cuff gives a slow sigh. He writes the number on a sticky note and sticks it to the lamp base like we’re building a tiny hospital out of furniture.
Sean leans in the doorway, eating a Granny Smith apple. “You know,” he says around a bite, “there’s a pizza place that does a discount for every kid you’re carrying. Triplets is basically a whole pie.”
Willow and I both turn to give him a look that makes him retreat instantly.
“She’s not dizzy,” Declan says, voice low like he’s speaking to the weather. “Headache’s down from this morning. Swelling is minimal.” His eyes find mine.We’re good for now.The sticky note gleams fluorescent yellow like it agrees.
“What I am,” Willow says, “is hot.”
“Cool washcloth incoming,” I say, and go to the bathroom to resoak and wring out the washcloth. When I lay it across her forehead, she closes her eyes and lets her body trust me with the small thing. I can do small things. They’ve let me be usefulfetching things here and there. It’s easier than trying to find a niche.
Declan taps his watch. “Fifteen minutes and we turn Willow like she’s a rotisserie chicken,” he announces. “We’re not growing bed sores in my presence.” Willow gives him a weak middle finger. He kisses it. “Love you too.”
I could do this every day. The quiet competence, the half jokes, the way the room breathes with us. It feels like a lesson I wasn’t given as a kid and am now getting as extra credit. Family as a verb.
Willow’s phone trills on the dresser. She glances at the screen and reaches for it. I snap it up for her and put it in her hand. She puts it on speakerphone. “Hey, Chey! The guys are here with me!”
“Okay.” Cheyenne’s voice fills the room, and it’s obvious instantly that something is wrong.
“What? What’s wrong?” Willow’s voice is panicky, like she’s already imagined it.
“Your mom called me.”
“You didn’t tell her, did you? I’m just not ready. I know I have to eventually, but?—”
“She’s on her way to your house with Camille. Now.”
Silence becomes a living creature in the room. The air pivots on a hinge. I press the washcloth harder against her forehead as she goes white. “Oh…oh no,” she says. “How long do I have?” It’s the kind of question you ask a doctor who’s given you a diagnosis, not the kind of question you ask about your family coming to visit. She chews on her bottom lip, and it starts to bleed.
“Thirty minutes, tops.”
“Thirty—”
“I told her that she should call you first, but, Willow, she was just hell-bent on surprising you.” Willow doesn’t say anything, her eyes fixed on a wall. I look up at Declan and Sean, who have gone mute, watching her like a car crash. “I’m coming now. I’ll be there for you when she finds out, okay?”
“Okay,” Willow answers softly, too softly. “Thanks.” She hangs up and takes the washcloth off her head, letting it drop to the mattress beside her.
Sean starts first. “They don’t know about the—” He gestures in the general direction of Willow’s planet of a belly, like a man trying to refer to the moon without spooking it.
