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Emily tripped lightly into the world on a summer day. That summer,
the sounds of cicadas and crickets, tree frogs and night bugs, cocooned
the house. The air was cool and summer’s soft air drifted through
windows and open doors. He used to play his guitar for her and the
notes trailed the wind and spread through the house. She would sit
in the kitchen, fingers wrapped around a mug of tea, and watch the
fireflies in the backyard. The sound of his guitar, low and smooth,
eased over the pulsing clacks of the insects.
Condensation would gather on the bottom of her mug while she waited for him. Little drops of water formed beneath it, making rings on the table. She marked time through the water, the minutes passing with each drop. The nights stretched out, long and quiet, and flowed into each other. She didn’t mind waiting for him then. It amazed her now, how much patience she had then and how easily it had slipped away. How it had evaporated like the steam from her water, disappearing so completely that only the ghost of its memory remained.
“Oh.” He sat down on the bench, the wood bouncing beneath them. “I guess congratulations are in order.”
She waved a hand in front of her, sweeping away his words. “You don’t have to.” Swallowing, she glanced down at her lap. “I – it wasn’t planned.” Her hand fluttered over her stomach then settled on her thigh. “Obviously.”
He studied her profile. “Are you,” he began, then paused. “Are you happy about it?” His fingers curled around his knee.
“I,” she started. “I don’t know.” She straightened her leg and pointed her toes. “At first I thought it was the start of menopause.” She inhaled slowly. “I’d almost,” she stopped, her hand covering her mouth. “That sounds awful, doesn’t it? It’s taking some getting used to.”
“I-”
“I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this,” she said in a rush. “I’m really sorry.”
“No.” He stopped her. “It’s okay.” He smiled slightly. “It’s just a shock.”
She nodded, staring straight ahead of her. “I know. The girls – the girls are really excited about it.”
“Are you?”
“No.” The word escaped and she sighed. “Getting there. It’s hard not to be when those two are so wonderful.” She waved at their daughters. “It’s just - I’m too old to do this. Some people my age have grandchildren or at least full grown children.” She slipped her shoes off her feet and ran her toes over the grass in an arch. “I’ll be the oldest mother at the daycare center. And, oh God, by the time she, he, graduates from high school? I’m going to look like a grandmother. I could be a grandmother.”
He flinched. “Those two are never getting married, so you’re safe there.”
She laughed a little. “That’s a relief.” She nodded at the girls. They were laughing as Emily patiently taught Audrey some complicated handclapping routine. “Don’t you wish they could stay like this forever?”
Audrey was growing frustrated. He could see the tension in the lines of her back. She solved the problem by launching herself at her sister, tackling her to the ground. “Yeah,” he said quietly.
“It’s harder for you,” she said softly. “They grow up so quickly. I wish-” She stopped and sighed again. “I wish there was some way to make it easier.”
“It’s not your fault.” He propped his elbows against the table’s edge and leaned back. The wood was sharp beneath his shoulder blades and he shifted to get comfortable.
“It’s not yours either, you know,” she said, shrugging off his words. “Well, no matter how much we screwed up our lives, they came out pretty great, didn’t they?”
“They did,” he agreed.
She exhaled slowly, lowering her feet to the ground and watching as the grass billowed out from under her soles. “They love you.” She ran a finger over her knee. “You didn’t abandon them.”
He told himself the same thing every time he hung up the phone. He used the same words when he put them on the plane to go back to D.C. But the words sounded hollow, the comfort was cold, when he watched the plane taxi down the runway.
“You had a job,” she went on, “you had to go. You were transferred, you didn’t request it.”
“I know, but-”
“But you feel guilty anyway,” she finished for him.
“I feel the same way,” she added. “Every time I put them on the plane. I hate waving good bye at the gate.” She shrugged, her shoulders rising and falling beneath her dress. “It helps,” she said in a low voice, “knowing you’re waiting for him.”
His fingers slid over the back of her hand and he smiled when she turned her hand over and wove hers between his.