Journey clears her throat. “We wanted to surprise you,” she says to Hannah, turning around to greet her with a smile.
“Well, tell me. I can’t take it any longer,” she whines.
“It’s a girl!” Journey says in the highest pitched voice I’ve ever heard come out of her.
Hannah shrieks in the highest pitched sound I’ve ever heard come out of her. And then there’s me, feeling like I might just black out again.
21
Life doesn’t stopwhen a new journey presents itself. It keeps moving forward, and we either follow the path of that journey or go in a different direction. The irony of Journey being my journey still plays with my mind, but if we had stayed together in the first place, things would have been very different. I wouldn’t have had to deal with some hard times that fell upon me, but those experiences taught me to appreciate what I have. t When you overcome a challenge that seems overwhelming and unthinkable, you feel a sense of newfound strength knowing you survived. Maybe I secretly read too many of those “how to live” books despite Journey’s disdain and her free spirit ideas of living without rules or maps, but it’s easy for her to say when she is the map.
I know nothing was easy for her between the ages of eighteen and now, but she passes by eruptions as if they are invisible. She doesn’t even blink but just keeps moving forward as I watch from behind, wondering why I don’t have that same switch to turn things on and off. We brought a baby into this world, and if I didn’t know Journey, I would have thought she’d given birth ten times. Everything was natural and calm, almost easy, aside from the pain she gritted her teeth through for thirty-two hours. And then, as if the clouds parted on the stormiest of days, Isla Raine Pearson made her entrance into this world with what was likely gas, but appeared to be a smile. Perfect, pink, bright eyes, a button nose, six pounds on the dot, and a natural beauty.
I’m surrounded by beauty and a little chaos.
Isla is almost a year old, and Hannah is driving. Journey smiles all day, which weirds me out sometimes. It’s like she had the opposite effect of postpartum depression. Either that or she’s silently planning my murder, but I’m going to go with happiness. I’ll take the happy, contentment, and peacefulness surrounding Journey and Isla because I’ve done everything in my power to give Hannah that same sense of calm and peace—somewhere away from the drama, misery, and depression that doesn’t seem to relent.
She isn’t as snippy as she once was, but the silence kills me more than the attitude. I don’t know what’s going through her head. I can't tell if she’s happy, angry, or somewhere in the middle. She sees a therapist and a psychiatrist, and I’m only given information if there’s a risk to her well-being. For that, I’m grateful because I haven’t heard much from the therapist. No news is good news I guess, but I want to be inside of her head so I can understand what her eyes see when she looks at the same world that I do.
“I’m going to do it,” I say to Journey.
We’re still in bed on a lazy Sunday morning, but Isla is bouncing up and down on Journey’s lap while yanking at my t-shirt.
“What we talked about last night?” Journey asks.
“Yeah, I think you’re right. I don’t think it’s going to send her the message of what I’m afraid of, just a moment to be open and share a past she’s old enough to hear about.”
“I think it’s a good time. You were around the same age she is now. It makes sense.”
“Do you want to come?”
Journey smiles and shakes her head. “I have to finish a client’s edits, and Isla will need a nap.”
I take Isla from Journey’s hands and sit her on my chest. “Da-da,” she says with a mouthful of spit following. Her clammy little hands press into my cheeks and she giggles.
“Where did you come from, little girl?” She only knows a handful of words, but she can make a room full of people laugh with just the sounds she makes and the infectious giggle she has for everything around her.
“She has your humor, obviously,” Journey says, nudging me with her elbow.
“Finally, someone will understand me,” I say, poking Isla’s nose.
She sneezes on me. Yup. My kid.
“Ew, boogers,” Journey coos, grabbing a tissue.
“Yeah, on me,” I whine.
“But they’re Isla’s booger, so they’re cute.”
“No, Journey. No. I need a tissue before I gag.”
Isla starts a bout of belly laughs at the scene as Journey smears a tissue lightly from one side of my cheek to my forehead. “How’s that?”
I feel a gag coming on. Can’t deal with boogers. I can’t. “Journey,” I groan.
She leans to her bedside table and grabs a baby wipe. “You’re such a whiny baby,” she says, cleaning my face off with the wipe.
“Thank you,” I sigh.
