Molly sat on her bed, stared at the layaway slip with her weekly payments, a log of tiny thefts she’d pulled off to secure the black jacket. She dug an old cigar box out from under her bed, put the ticket on top of other artifacts she’d collected or stolen. She went back down the stairs and arranged herself like a broken man, the weight of his life finally material and hers to bear. She imagined the roof lifting off, a sky full of stars above it, and, beyond the stars, her grandfather feeding white doves in a perfect heaven.
Chapter Twenty
1987
Early in December, Maeve woke to another contraction, the tiny feet inside her pushing her spine, her uterus wringing itself out, her husband snoring gently next to her in their double bed. She had drifted off since the last one, but they were getting stronger and closer together. “Babe,” she said, shaking his arm.
Sam bolted upright, practically flew out of the bed. “Now?”
She nodded, pushed herself up to sitting so she could get dressed. He would follow the plan: call her parents to meet them at the hospital and take care of Dylan until this baby was born. Everything would be fine. Maeve knew she was a good mother. That had come naturally to her once she recovered from the shock of pregnancy itself.
The first time she’d had sex with a boy was in the back of a Toyota pickup during the summer before her senior year. She’d hated it, his slobbering kisses, the slippery penetration. What got her through was how mad she was—at herself and her parents, yes, but mostly at Wendy for leaving without saying goodbye. The first chance Maeve got, she’d called Wendy’s house. The line had been disconnected. That’s what she’d thought about—disconnection—as she stared blankly at theunderside of a camper shell, this boy and his icky condom moving in and out of her.
She had a real boyfriend after that, a theater kid named Tal Martin. He had a beautiful singing voice and spotless skin and played Ali Hakim in the senior production ofOklahoma!He was fun to be around, read all the books she read, liked going to movies, and didn’t complain at all when she brought Molly along on their dates. He smelled like aftershave, which didn’t make much sense because he hardly had any facial hair. Maeve thought she might have sex with him, too, imagined a smooth body under tight shirts and bell-bottoms. They held hands and kissed for months. One time, she made the move in the front seat of his car, rubbing her hand along the zipper of his jeans. But he’d pushed it away without a word. In the end, that had been fine with Maeve. He talked to her about his plans to move to the West Coast, to pursue an acting career in California. He was wistful and gentle, and eventually they were only friends. After graduation, he left, and she never heard a word about him again. It would take her years more to understand what she was to Tal and what he was to her.
Sam was different.
He was quiet and dutiful. When he’d asked Maeve to coffee, everything about him seemed long—his lashes, his fingers, his doe-eyed gaze. His parents were stern, he told her, and expected him to marry and have children and take over the business—an office supply store—so they could retire. He paid for everything on their dates, and his studio apartment was above a bakery, so it always smelled like bread.
She liked the attention he gave her, the way he demanded so little. She liked his company, the way he held a book with both hands when he read. On Friday nights, once they were a couple, he’d make lasagna or spaghetti and set the table in his front window with a lace tablecloth and lit candles.
The first time he kissed her, he asked for her permission.
The night he proposed, the night she said yes, was likely the night she got pregnant with Dylan. She had to admit that she’d been less than careful with birth control, often forgetting to take the pills, thendoubling up or skipping days altogether. She had been stunned by the pregnancy test, somehow in disbelief that their perfunctory, sporadic sex life had produced anything at all. Still, there was something about Sam. He was nice, and she felt safe with him.
Her parents had been happy about the engagement, if a little muted. Sam’s bland, centuries-old European nothingness couldn’t compare to her family’s immigrant Irishness, and she’d figured they were disappointed that she’d carry on neither the family name nor the Irish bloodline. She knew her dad wasn’t all that impressed with Sam’s bookishness either. And although her mother defended him—Grandpa was bookish, after all—Maeve knew it was different. Her grandfather, in his prime, had been skilled with tools, always ready to lend a hand or a solution, quick with quotes from his favorite poem, with anecdotes from his reading, whether it was a book or an article fromThe Irish Times. Sam, on the other hand, absorbed and absorbed but rarely discussed what he was reading beyond a line or two. When she held out her finger with the delicate engagement ring, her mom stared at her as if she was trying to see what it was that Maeve was hiding.
“You’re awfully quiet, Mom,” Maeve had said.
Her mother snapped out of her trance with a forced smile. “Oh, I’m sorry! No, I’m just getting excited thinking about all the things to be done. Flowers! Cake!”
“And Pix,” Maeve said. “Maybe you’ll be my maid of honor?”
Molly had shrugged her off, tilting her head while she shook it. “Yeah, I don’t think so, but congrats.”
Maeve and Sam decided it would be better to drop the bomb about the pregnancy to their parents separately since Sam’s were devout Catholics and might have something to say that he didn’t want Maeve to hear. But it was Molly who was the cruelest.
“Well, I would rather be alone than marry a corpse like Sam,” she said. “I hope your baby is more interesting than its dad.”
Maeve had wanted to slap her but thought better of it. Forget Molly and her petty jealousy. She and Sam married at the courthouseand moved to the farmhouse until they could find a place of their own, suitable for their family.
Maeve had breastfed Dylan, though no one had expected her to, not even her mother, who told Maeve she could afford formula. But it felt like a miracle, the way her breasts filled up with milk, how the baby took to it, his whole mouth open, milk seeping out the corners of his lips, full over her nipple. When he was done and she put him to her shoulder, his head tucked into her neck while she rubbed his back. Then out the burp would come, satisfying them both. The rest of it—the diapers, the long nights, the milestones—Maeve didn’t mind at all. At the end of every day, she felt accomplished, a natural at something. She had done it. She’d made herself into a woman who could be a wife and mother, who could have a family. It was bittersweet when she allowed herself to recall how afraid she’d once been that she’d never have any of this, that she’d never find the kind of happiness that her parents had. But here she was, ready to bring another baby into the world. With her husband. With Sam.
With Dylan secured in the back seat, Maeve gritted her teeth. “Babe, you have to ...” She paused to let the latest contraction subside. She rounded her mouth to keep her breathing in check. “Slow. Down. The last thing we need is to hit a deer and end up having a baby by the side of the road.”
Sam took the corner tight then put his hand over hers. “Not far now. Hold on.”
Maeve focused on the road, how it was lined with pine tree sentinels marking the way. She was twenty-six years old, about to have her second child. She stared at her husband in the lull between contractions—his earnest face, sleepy eyes like dark commas, square bony shoulders, tidy haircut. A thin scar from a childhood bicycle accident creased his right cheek when he smiled. It was dented with anticipation. “Are you excited to meet the baby?”
“I can’t believe it.” He flashed her a giddy smile.
She was grateful for him, for the way he made sense to her, made sense of her. “I don’t deserve you.”
It was minutes before midnight, and snow was in the forecast. Maeve grimaced, said a little prayer of thanks that they weren’t driving in a storm. She swore she could hear the baby crying inside her, could hear her voice.Her voice,she thought. A girl. She dug her nails into the back of her neck, trying not to bear down. Sam pulled her arm toward him. “Hang on.”
In the hospital parking lot, Faye and William swept up Dylan before Maeve was out of the car. Wet snowflakes as big as dimes fluttered on a cold white wind, confetti shot from a snow cannon. Sam ran around the front of the car and opened the door for Maeve, holding out his hand to keep her from slipping. As she stepped out, her water broke, running down the legs of her sweatpants, soaking the snow. “Oh, God. Okay,” Maeve said. “Here we go.”
“Call with news!” her mother said.
