“So when’s the doctor?” I ask, switching gears. “I want to see that sonogram pic.”
Bella smiles. “Next week. They said not to rush coming in. When it’s this early, there isn’t much to do anyway.”
“But shop,” I say. My arms are full of small items now. I shuffle toward the register counter.
“I think it’s a girl,” Bella says.
I have an image of her, sitting in a rocking chair, holding an infant wrapped in a soft pink blanket.
“A girl would be great,” I say.
She pulls me in and tucks me to her side. “Now you have to get started, too,” she says.
I imagine being pregnant. Shopping in this store for my own tiny creation. It makes me want a cocktail.
On Sunday, I go over to her apartment. I ring the bell twice. When the door finally opens Aaron is there, or at least his head is. He pulls the door back, and I’m met with at least a dozen packages—boxes and baskets and all sorts of gifts—littering the entryway.
“Did you guys rob a department store?” I ask.
Aaron shrugs. “She’s excited,” he says. “So she’s shopping?” I watch his face closely, looking for signs of judgment or hesitation, but I find none, only a little amusement. He’s dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, no socks. I wonder if he’s moved some stuff in yet. If he will. They’ll have to live together, won’t they?
He kicks a box to the side and the door swings open. I enter and close it behind me. “Congratulations,” I say.
“Oh, yeah, thanks.” He’s stacking a garment bag on top of an Amazon delivery. He stops. He stands, tucks his hands into his pockets. “I know it’s pretty soon.”
“Bella has always been impatient,” I say. “So it doesn’t totally surprise me.”
He laughs, but it seems more for my benefit. “I just want you to know I really am happy. She’s the best thing that has ever happened to me.”
He looks right at me when he says it, the same way he did at the beach. I blink away.
“Good,” I say. “I’m glad.”
Just then Bella’s voice floats in from the other room. “Dannie? Are you here?”
Aaron smiles and steps to the side, holding his arm out for me to pass.
I follow the sound of her voice down the hallway, past the kitchen and her bedroom and into the guest room. The bed has been pushed to the side, the dresser placed into the center of the room, and Bella, in overalls and a head scarf, is painting white marshmallow clouds on the walls.
“Bells,” I say. “What’s going on?”
She looks at me. “Baby’s room,” she says. “What do you think?”
She stands back, putting her hands on her hips and surveying her work.
“I think you’re ahead of the curve for the first time in your life,” I say. “And it’s freaking me out. Isn’t the nursery usually a month seven project?”
She laughs, her back to me. “It’s fun,” she says. “I haven’t really painted in a long time.”
“I know.” I go to stand next to her and lob an arm over her shoulder. She leans into me. The clouds are off-white and the sky a pale salmon color with shades of baby blue and lavender. It’s a masterpiece.
“You really want this,” I say, but it’s not really to her. It’s to the wall. To whatever beyond has brought forth this reality. For a moment, I don’t remember the future I once saw. I am overcome by the one that is solidly, undeniably present here.
Chapter Eighteen
David and I are supposed to meet with the wedding planner next Saturday morning. It’s now mid-September, and I’ve been told, in no uncertain terms, that if I do not choose flowers now I will be using dead leaves as centerpieces.
The week is crazy at work—we get hit with a ton of due diligence on two time-sensitive cases Monday, and I barely make it home except to sleep all week. I take out my phone as I walk to the elevators the following Friday night to tell David we may need to push the meeting—I’m desperate for some sleep—when I see I have four missed calls from an unknown number.
