I’d be lying if I said I didn’t expect him to turn up the next day. Not just expect. I hoped to see him. Wanted, needed to see Gabe. So when Kat walked me up my stairs and hung around and got me settled, and then finally left, I sat there on the couch and waited. I put my hand on my belly as a reminder something small and perfect was growing inside, even as everything outside was so awful. I knew I’d have to pick out a black dress and go to Mama’s house and pick one out for her, and in a few more days, I’d have to bury her. So I waited for him. To give me strength. To show me love. To support me the way I felt sure I’d support him if the situation were reversed.
And Gabe never showed. Not that morning, when I picked out black dresses, or that afternoon, when I got in my car and drove to Bledsoe’s Funeral Home to pick a casket and plan my mother’s visitation. Not the next day, when I met with the pastor and called all of Mama’s far-flung relatives. I hung out on the couch and walked on aching, noisy feet as I went to and from the kitchen, eating foods that didn’t taste good or feel good in my churning stomach.
The next day, I drove to Dothan to see a specialist, to be sure nothing was wrong with my body that would prevent the baby from thriving. Maybe I should have told Gabe, but I didn’t.
The next day, I got up, put on my black dress, and Kat and Lainey drove me to the funeral home, where I stood beside my mother’s casket, greeting most of town. Except for Gabe.
And afterwards, on a misty, white-gray day that felt as bare and apathetic as I felt, I buried Mom beside Daddy. I always thought I would be stoic when it came time for the funeral of someone I loved, but I sobbed when they lowered Mom into that awful hole, and threw a bunch of roses on the casket. I cried more when I got into Kat’s car, having not gotten a single glimpse of Gabe.
I feel numb as I ride home.
“I’m going to walk you up,” Kat says as she parks beside Gabe’s motorcycle.
I shake my head. “I’m okay. I just want to be alone a little while.”
“You sure?”
I nod.
Kat’s lips pinch. “Okay—if you’re positive. You gonna text me later?”
“Yeah. I will.”
I try not to look at the house’s lower level as I walk to my stairs. I haven’t heard Gabe in a few days, but I still need to be careful to avoid him. Right now, if I encountered him, I think I might fall down and weep, or slap him. So I keep my eyes on my feet, on my stairs, until I reach the top and find a package. It’s about the size of a shoe box, with a floppy green bow atop it.
I kneel slowly, rifling for a tag I can’t find, so then I read the label on the package.
Grow Your Own Christmas Tree!
Forevergreen
It's always a little sad, once the holidays are over, to say good-bye to the tree. Kick off a new tree tradition of yearly growth and reminiscence with our Christmas Tree Grow Kit. Sweet-scented Douglas Firs are one of the most popular holiday trees—they've graced the White House at Christmas —beautifully bedecked with soft, shiny, dark blue-green needles. They thrive in a wide range of environments, so give a kit to someone you love to sprout and grow indoors for the first year. Then throw a tree birthday party and transplant it to its permanent, outdoor spot. Celebrate together every year as it grows into a large Christmas tree. No worries about saying good-bye to this one: These western North America natives can live for 1,000 years. Detailed instructions, a recycled tea grow bag, and soil are all included with the seeds. Made in California.
I check the again, but there’s no tag. Gabe, I think, but then of course I think it’s him who left it for me. My brain is hardwired to want that man, and look where it got me this time.
I carry the tree kit inside and set it on the kitchen counter. Finally, in the silence of my apartment, I allow myself to really lose it, sobbing so loudly, I feel sure that all of Fate can hear me. Can he hear me? Is he home? I tell myself to shut up. I crawl into bed, where I fall quickly into a deep, tired sleep.
Hours later, when I wake up feeling tired and nauseated, I hear Gabe for the first time in days: flushing the toilet, running the sink—the father of my baby living his life right below me. Finally, I just admit it to myself: I said I wanted a break, but I don’t want to give him a pass for believing me. He should know better.
I tell myself I’ll be okay. I talk to the baby. In a few hours, I’m asleep again. The next day, I’m back at work. Not because I feel okay or ready, but because it’s flu season, and the clinic really needs me.
I get nice comments about Mom, but nothing about the pregnancy. And I realize with a laugh, it’s because no one knows. It’s obvious to me, but I don’t have a belly yet. And Kat, Lainey, and Gabe have kept my secret.
I try my best to have a good day, focusing on being positive and making all my sick kids feel better—and it works, just a little. When I get home, I’m surprised to find another package at the top of my stairs. It turns out to be a bag of M&Ms…except when I look closely, I see that they’re really M&Gs.
My stomach bottoms out. I think I might be sick as I hurry inside and sit down on the couch with my head in my hands. Gah, I hate feeling dizzy…
When I’ve got myself under control, I look again—and sure enough, they’re really M&Gs.
It has to be him…
I bite my cheek to keep from crying. God, the fucking crying. Who has time for this?
I pop an M&G into my mouth and lean back on the couch. A few tears dribble from the corners of my eyelids, just to spite me.
Fucking Gabe.
So he does care. I grin, and hate myself for it.
I take the bag to bed with me and doze off like some animal, with melting chocolate in my mouth. When I wake up the next morning, I’m sleeping on a half-melted G.
That evening, after a particularly long and tiring work day, I smile as I top the stairs and find a pie. God, what kind of pie is this? It looks delicious, topped with thick and fluffy whipped cream.
Smart boy…
I get inside, take off the top, and inhale a glorious whiff of key lime. Oh, dear God. One of my favorites.
I eat two pieces—one for baby—and then decide to do some dancing. I can hear him downstairs. I hope he can hear me.
Thank you, thank you, tap tap tap!
I forget to eat enough before bed, so in the middle of the night, I’m sick. I think I hear him downstairs at about that time, and afterward, I lie in bed and wonder: what is wrong with Gabe, that he won’t come to me? Is it really him leaving the gifts? Surely it must be—but why? Is it even possible he cares about me now? Would I forgive him if he came back?
Please, God…