Stop being mean to yourself, Abs. You’re going to be a great mother, and you aren’t alone. Let people be there for you.
As I turn the couch back into a makeshift bed, I make a promise to myself–from now on, I will.
Chapter 11
Abby
Thirteen Weeks
As much as I hate to admit it, Ellie was onto something.
The Abby Duty schedule has been great.
It’s both a break in the monotonous routine of grief and setting a new routine in and of itself. I know exactly what my day is going to be depending on who’s “on duty.”
With Ellie and Griffin, it’s so incredibly normal in the best way. They tell me about the business, which is apparently booming, and I tell them about whatever side project I’m working on for the local newspaper. Ellie and I fall into conversation in our own kind of language, the way you do when you’ve been friends for nearly thirty years, and Griffin watches in awe while trying to decipher even a fraction of what we’re talking about.
It’s also productive–we do hours of research on strollers, cribs, high chairs, you name it. Griffin has started working on minor projects around the house, with an emphasis on babyproofing our distinctly un-babyproofed home. They also helped me research a new couch for the living room, and make a game plan to rearrange the guest room in preparation for the nursery. Nowthat I’m not quite so alone, sleeping in my own bed has felt feasible again, and while David may fit comfortably on my velvet couch, Jack’s feet hang over the arm. And although he would never complain, it can’t be comfortable.
When David comes over, it’s a genuine 90s coming-of-age movie type of sleepover. We order pizza, eat an ungodly amount of candy, play hours of Mario Kart, and watch shitty horror movies we pretend not to be scared of before going to sleep with all of the lights on. I never thought I’d see the day when I’d rely on David for something, but those nights of pure childlike fun do more for me than I could ever put into words.
And Jack, of course, feels natural. Even when someone else is over, it still feels a little weird and empty–but never with Jack. Those might be my favorite nights. I don’t think they do it consciously, but people tend to avoid bringing Aaron up around me, afraid it might set off some kind of grief bomb.
Jack doesn’t shy away from it. He brings up Aaron often, and it’s such a relief to talk about him without worrying that I’m making anyone uncomfortable with my pain. It actually helps to talk about him in a way that doesn’t revolve around the accident or its impact on me. We tell stories intentionally, we reference him casually, we even posthumously rag on him the way we would do when he was still here.
Best of all, we sit in a silence that doesn’t threaten to crush me from the weight of it. He does paperwork while I read, or we put a record on and listen in silence with our eyes closed, or we eat dinner without forcing conversation. Those are the nights I feel most comfortable in my own home (and in my own skin).
“So, how are you feeling about this whole thing?” David asks, stuffing a Twizzler into his mouth. “Is Abby Duty a success or what?”
“Honestly, it is,” I say genuinely. “I didn’t think it would be this helpful. Or this fun.”
“I’m just practicing for being a Funcle,” David says, voice muffled by the faux liquorice.
“All you’re doing is demonstrating a choking hazard,” Jack says pointedly. He’s off duty tonight, and even though he’s not “scheduled,” he decided to come over anyway. “You’re going to set a bad example.”
“Newsflash,” David says, swallowing hard. “Fetus can’t see me yet. No bad examples being set here.”
“As if you’ll stop when the baby is born,” Jack scoffs. “You’re both going to end up terrorizing Abby, and she’ll have to lay down the law.”
“Yeah, David,” I say with a wicked grin. “Count your days, buddy.”
“Well, at least you’ve got the scary mom thing down,” he mutters, taking a more demure bite of candy this time. “Better?” he asks sarcastically, glaring in Jack’s direction.
“Much,” Jack nods.
“Why are you over here anyway? It’s not your night.”
“I can leave,” Jack counters, half rising from the couch.
“No, don’t,” I say, grabbing his wrist. “Please stay.”
“What, I’m not good enough for you?” David cries in mock outrage.
“Of course you are, David. But won’t it be nice to get your ass kicked in Mario Kart by someone else for a change?”
“If you weren’t growing a child right now…” he grumbles under his breath. Jack sits back down with a laugh, snatching the controller from the table and launching the game.
We spend the next several hours acting like we’re sixteen in Griffin’s basement again–David screams in frustration every time he loses, winding himself up on more and more sugar as me and Jack egg him on, until we hit a lull in the game and David passes out on the floor like an overgrown toddler.
