“Love you, sunbeam,” her father said, Dylan perched on his hip.
Sam splinted Maeve with his body as he guided her to the red cross of the neon emergency sign.
“You’re in luck,” said the receptionist, an apple-faced woman with steel-colored hair. “Slow night in maternity. You’ll have the place to yourself. At least for a while. Shift is changing, so you’ll even get a fresh nurse.”
“Swell,” Maeve said dryly, immediately regretting her tone. “I’m sorry ...”
The woman brought a wheelchair around and guided her in. “No worries, honey. You’re probably scared. All first-time moms are.”
Maeve pointed to the chart the woman held. “Not my first time.”
Sam brushed white flakes from his hair. “Can I push her?” he asked.
“And you are?”
“The husband. Husband and father.”
Maeve could hear the pride in his voice.
“I see. But no. House rules.”
Sam put his hand on Maeve’s shoulder, and she put hers on his. “I’ll be right here,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Maeve was in a hospital johnny, and the doctor had already checked her cervix when the shift changed and a new nurse walked in. Jockish sway, tumbled hair, that bit of overbite as she reviewed the chart. Sweat rose on Maeve’s scalp. She wished she’d put on lip gloss or curled her hair. Something. Anything. When the nurse looked up, her face shot through with recognition. “Maeve?”
Wendy and Brett had been the talk of the school in the weeks after prom and Wendy’s disappearance. The group-sorrow of the star athlete’s shocking death eclipsed the fact that some ex-con, suspected gunrunner, IRA sympathizer had died in a freak accident at a Maine farmhouse. And in all those years, Maeve hadn’t spoken a word to Wendy, hadn’t seen her since she dropped her off barefooted in a ripped prom dress a block away from home.
So much had changed. And yet, here she was. Wendy Walker in the flesh. Blood rushed to Maeve’s head. She thought she might pass out.
“Hey, Wendy,” Maeve said, her voice breathy from labor. “Long time, no see.”I can’t believe I said that. How stupid can I be?
Wendy hung the chart at the end of the bed. “Jeez, yeah. Wow.”
Shared memories chattered around them like hens at the fence rail. The pause was ironically pregnant.
Maeve mopped her sweating brow, smoothed her johnny. “Not my finest moment.”
“What are you talking about? You—you look great.”
Wendy glanced at the open door. “Boy, you’re really far along. Um, I guess this is a little weird. Are you okay with me being your nurse? Since we ...” Those memories. “Since we know each other? I can switch with Pam.”
Maeve had spent years trying not to think about Wendy, about their days and weeks together. So much had changed. Pain came from all sides, crushing every part of her. “It’s fine. You’ve seen me now. I must look terrible.”
Wendy took the stethoscope from her neck and readied it to listen to Maeve’s heart, to listen to the baby. “Seriously, you look beautiful. You’re about to be a mom! First time?”
Maeve shook her head. “I have a little boy. He’s five.”
Wendy moved closer, swooning Maeve with honeyed breaths. “Oh,” she said, her voice so noncommittal Maeve could read nothing into it.
Wendy made notes on the chart. “When was your last contraction?”
“Like three minutes ago?” Maeve winced.It’s been what? Seven years? Eight?
“What’s your little boy’s name?”
“Dylan.” The 8-track was in Wendy’s parents’ car.My heart a sunken ship.
Wendy paused, looked up from the chart.
