Page 49

Mackie

Lo, how a rose e'er blooming / From tender stem hath sprung

I sit on the edge of the guest bed with both feet flat on the floor, the way Dr. Rao showed me. The cuff tightens around my upper arm and squeezes until my fingers go tingly, then lets go in slow ticks. The screen blinks and holds.

138 over 88. Not bad for a woman thirty weeks pregnant with twins. I've learned to interpret when my blood pressure is acceptable or worrisome.

I open the Notes app and peck the number into the morning column. Four weeks of readings stack above it, one line per day. Taking my blood pressure is the first thing I do every morning now.

The labetalol bottle sits on the nightstand next to the shark-tooth necklace. I shake one pill into my palm and swallow it with the last flat inch of water in the glass. Then I lift the leather strap over my head and let the tooth drop back against my chest where it lives during the day.

The ring light is already clamped to the dresser, aimed at the wall with Mom's beach photographs. The other angle put the hurricane-shutter track right behind my head, which made me look like I was broadcasting from a bunker. This corner is better, so it's where I've worked for the last several weeks.

The vacation version of this room is gone. This is my office now, and it will be until the twins come and my maternity leave starts.

Carson doesn't know about the blood pressure. He knows the twins mean extra appointments, and every two weeks I give him whatever update seems necessary.

I never told him my trip to Mom's turned into me staying.

He hasn't asked, and I haven't offered. That's plenty for where we both are with this. It's not like he can do anything about a number on a machine from Wyoming, anyway. I don't hand people facts they can only worry with.

I stand up and go make a hot tea. I finally gave up drinking decaf coffee because it just pissed me off more than it brought me comfort. Mint tea is my morning compromise now. I make one mug and nurse it until lunch.

Two of Rao's appointment cards live under a magnet on the fridge. My next one is Monday at ten, with the following week's appointment time tucked behind it.

Mom taps the front one on her way past. "Rao at ten on Monday."

"I'm aware, Mom. I'm the one who's pregnant."

"Then you'll be aware I'm driving you."

I don't respond. She refills her coffee and doesn't make a thing of it, which is the only reason I don't either. I still like the smell, even if drinking it is off the table.

I eat cantaloupe out of the container with a fork while my phone buzzes with a text from Trina.

Are you sure you're up for the Q3 deck?

I'm pregnant, not dying. Send me the numbers.

She sends them. I open the deck on the laptop and start moving cells around while her texts lay out the retail deposit story we're telling the board. My job did not stay in North Carolina. It came south with everything else.

A text comes from Rhonda with a photo of my bungalow table. My mail is fanned out in a neat stack. She goes over about once a week to check on things, make sure no pipes have burst, and grab my mail to send to me.

Sending anything that looks important tomorrow. Stacking the rest for you to go through in October.

Nobody in Holly Ridge expects me back before October. My doctor, my job, my mail, and my mother are all in Florida with me now.

The bungalow is still mine. My life just moved south to wait for the twins.

At 10:40, Mom grabs her purse and the pan of lemon bars she made for Sabal Point.

I close my laptop. "I'll ride over to Sabal Point with you."

"That will be a nice treat. You okay?"

"Yeah, just need to get out of the condo. Plus, maybe I can help Sylvia finish that puzzle finally."

I reach for the lemon bars, but she moves them out of range. It appears pregnancy has reduced my approved lifting limit to an iPad.