I made my way over and eased into the swing beside her. “How you feeling?”
She hummed. “Like a ship tossed at sea.”
I fought the urge to push with my feet, planting them on the planks instead. “Have you kept the pretzels down?”
“Yep. For about twenty-five minutes.”
Better than her typical five or ten, I supposed. I brought food to Bea constantly. A few bites here, a few bites there. She was so thankful to have someone to brave the kitchen for her, and even though she was willing to eat, her body never let her keep anything for long. Her next appointment was in two weeks, and the girls and I would be taking her, which worked out perfectly because I was ready to throttle some doctors.
Her voice sounded scratchy. “So who looks worse? Me or Frienda?”
A rip of laughter pulled out of my chest. And I marveled that my sister still had a sense of humor at a time like this. I croaked, “Don’t worry. Definitely Frienda.”
“She looks like she needs a spa day.”
“A spa day can’t help her. She’s beyond that.”
“Hmm. Plastic surgery then. And hair transplants.”
I giggled at Bea. “I don’t know why the girls draw oneverything.”
She huffed a laugh. “They are so sweet, Holls.”
“Thank you. They are.”
“I’m glad you’re here. I feel like I hardly know them.”
My smile sobered. “I’m glad too.” I reached up, gently running my fingers down her ponytail. “When was the last time you brushed your hair?”
She lifted a shoulder. “It’s been a couple days. It sounds stupid but lifting a brush through my hair makes me so tired. If I start, I can’t finish.”
I couldn’t imagine being so calorie deficient that brushing my hair felt liketoo much work.
She continued, “Tag usually does it for me. But I’ve been sleeping so much.”
“Tag brushes your hair?”
“Daily. Ever since I moved here.”
I blinked, unable to imagine what that kind of care might feel like. “That’s…so special.”
“It’s my favorite part of the day.” Then she smiled. “I think it’s his too.”
I bumped her elbow. “Where’s your brush? I’ll get you cleaned up.” After I fetched her brush from her bathroom, I returned and had her turn sideways in the swing. Careful not to rock us, I gathered her milk chocolate strands in my palm and worked on the knots for long, quiet moments. Then I weaved her long hair into a thick braid.
“I feel like a burden.” Her words were quiet.
“Why’s that?”
“Just the timing of everything. I can’t even brush my own hair.” A tremble rose in her voice. “I didn’t mean to get pregnant on my honeymoon.”
My hands paused as I tried to hear what she wasn’t saying. “Do you feel embarrassed?”
She huffed. “I feel a little embarrassed. Pregnancies aren’t hard to prevent. So it feels careless, you know?” Her voice disappeared into rising emotions. “We are completely—unprepared for a child.”
“Oh, Bea.” My heart squeezed in pain as I wrapped a rubber band around the end of her braid. I turned her shoulders until she swiveled around in the swing to face me. “Listen to me.”
Hot tears welled in her eyes.
