The Storm (Fairhope) (12 page)

Why was she so paranoid? “Grace, is there something else going on with you guys … that you haven’t told me?”

She hesitated and looked away. “No.”

“Okay, then. You need something to fill up that mind of yours.”

“Like what?”

Remembering what
I
had to look forward to, I paused for dramatic effect. “Guess who finds out the gender in two days?” I clapped my hands together loudly and squealed, generating unwanted attention from coffee-sipping customers trying to read books.

Grace leaned back in her seat confidently, momentarily forgetting this Alex. “It’s a girl!”

DESPITE BEING BLISTERINGLY hot, the day I anticipated since the moment I found out I was pregnant proved to be stunningly beautiful, finally void of rain clouds. I took off work the afternoon of the ultrasound—there was no way anyone from Covington was going to ruin this for me—and Andrew met me at the obstetrician’s office. I decidedly shut off my cell phone and left my computer in the car, hooked to the charger, where it would rot until the next day.

“…there is absolutely nothing there,” the cute little ultrasound tech said confidently, grinning. I was jealous of her awesome little ass. She was maybe twenty-one. “It’s definitely a girl.”

Baby Girl Cook was spread eagle. No penis there, for sure. Or if there was one … probably not a good sign…

I squealed, forgetting my inferior ass. “Yayyyy!”

Andrew’s wistful, sweet smile when he heard “It’s a girl” will forever be etched in my mind. “A girl. I’m going to have a daughter. Calla Marie Cook.”

After fighting over girl names for months, we agreed the night before. He wanted Julie. I wanted Ella. He discovered the name at work, a suggestion from a colleague who was obsessed with flowers. I loved Calla instantly.

Grace was quite boastful that her prediction was right. After letting her gloat, Mama and I tore up the downtown shops that evening, leaving Covington Company worlds away. We rummaged through every children’s and infants’ shop in Fairhope, eventually trekking our way into Mobile, searching for good deals since my tight-ass husband had me on a ridiculous budget.

“You will have baby showers,” was his reply to my protesting.

I bought Calla a gorgeous smocked dress that mirrored the one tucked in my imagination. It was embroidered with adorable crab smocking, and I could see her sitting on a blanket in the sand, picture perfect. Mama purchased a soft, fuzzy, three-piece pink and white polka-dotted outfit that was ideal for her to wear coming home from the hospital. I daydreamed; full of romantic ideas that one day Calla’s own daughter might wear it.

“Jana,” Mama said loudly as she shoved a handful of outfits back on the shelf, notably sloppier than they were before. I scoured the place, hoping the sales representatives did not catch her lackluster effort at returning the clothes to their rightful place. “Seeing all these outfits reminds me of when you were little. Daniel was so terrible—” She snickered, unleashing a snort. “You would beg him and his friends to play with you. Do you remember that? One time, you had on a sundress that looked almost just like this one…” She pointed to a yellow, checkered sundress highlighted with pink roses. “…and they told you that the little girl next door had no clothes and she needed your dress. You were about four, maybe five. You took it off, and then walked next door in your Minnie Mouse panties to help her out. You were so sweet. You almost cried when they told you she had no clothes.”

I laughed out loud. “I remember that.” The little girl’s cashmere-clad, bouffant-haired mother found me naked, told me to put my dress back on, and promptly marched me back home to inform Mama that I was behaving inappropriately, scurrying around naked and giving away my clothes.

I also remembered the much smoother tactics my older brother’s friends had tried to get me out of my clothes in my later years … when I definitely did not have to beg them to “play” with me anymore. Daniel was not much of a protector; he was too concerned with baseball and getting
my
friends out of
theirs
. He practiced playing doctor with Grace long before he actually became one, mastering the art of bedside manner. Mama and Daddy should have known better than to let us stay up late with the big boys…

Chuckling, when I should have been cringing, at the memory, I made a mental note to keep a closer eye on Calla than Mama and Daddy had on us.

Lost in the warm, fuzzy feeling of a mother-to-be, I lost myself in the moment, piecing together her wardrobe in that fairytale boutique, until clumsy Mama literally stumbled upon the perfect furniture set, hand-crafted, real wood, and intricately ornate, at a discount store for a fraction of what it would have cost at a boutique.

Her left ankle caught one of the dainty spiral legs, and hollering loudly, she plummeted to the ground, landing face first with a loud BANG! The store owner rushed over to us at the speed of lightning, horrified.

“I’m so sorry, ma’am! Are you okay?” His face was red as a beet, and I’m sure he was calculating how much this could cost him. Mama was fine other than pain and suffering from sheer embarrassment, but the store owner offered us an extra twenty percent discount as consolation.

Needless to say, Andrew was proud of the results of our excavation.

It took nearly all weekend to perfectly piece together Calla’s furniture, but seeing the finished product was satisfying. On Sunday night, I found myself enjoying the cool night breeze and awe-inspiring sunset from our back porch. Our view of the sunset never failed to be less than incredible—it was my favorite thing about our attractive neighborhood. Whenever the sun began its retreat, the sky swirled with an artist’s palette, creating inexplicable pictures throughout the vast space. The colors bounced off the crystal clear ponds and illuminated the bristling trees. Clouds melted into balloons and roses and the occasional cartoon animal. From our rustic back porch swing, I could hear birds chirping cheerily and crickets singing peacefully. I was wrapped in a solace, sheltered from the stress of my everyday life.

I craved all things spiritual, searching for a gateway to transcend this pit I had fallen into. The need to pray, or meditate, or
something
, burned brightly from the sparks of my spirit. I had never actually meditated but always wanted to, more pressing things moving further up my bucket list. I could enroll in one of those classes. Maybe I would transform into some version of a Zen goddess, escaping my unfair professional reality into a mental solace of “being” that hopefully involved love, sex, and chocolate…

Fizzling out of my daydream, I fingered the cover of the inspirational book I held. I should start with prayer—that, I had practice at.

“God, you have blessed me more than I deserve,” I prayed aloud, my voice not much louder than a whisper among the chanting wildlife. “I thank you for the many blessings that you have allowed Andrew and me to experience. You have given us more than we deserve.”

I listened to myself, hating how rehearsed I sounded, so disgustingly “religious.” I relaxed and started talking to God like I used to … like a friend.

“I need your help getting me through this conflict at work. I have a sinking feeling, like everything is going to go wrong, but I know you have a plan for me. You always have and you always will. So … don’t leave me.”

Suddenly, tears threatened to cascade in waterfalls, and I lost the ability to speak out loud. I tried hard to choke them back, but a few escaped, echoing the sound of pain. It felt good to release some of the hurt that had built up inside of me, and when it was over, I sensed peace, a whisper of hope. The old familiar wrap of comfort that granted me the faith to believe everything would be all right.

Sunset darkened to night, and a chill skipped through my bloodstream, the tiny hairs on the back of my neck prickling. The moon was bright and almost full, gleaming boldly in the turquoise-black sky. The birds hushed, settling in for their evening slumber, and the crickets chirped louder, announcing their dominion over the darkness. Andrew’s prized deck boasted a partial canopy shelter that was aesthetically attractive yet generously allowed for the pristine moonlight to shine through.

We longed for this brief time where we could roast marshmallows out by a warm fire and actually
need
our favorite North Face jackets, as we talked outside over an Easton Corbin song. Hot chocolate replaced my margaritas, although I usually couldn’t resist a pre-relaxation Captain Morgan & Coke beforehand. (Unfortunately, I was SOL on liquor now that I was expecting.) I wolfed down s’mores while Andrew snuck blocks of pure chocolate and skipped the graham crackers and marshmallows.

As I closed my serene prayer, relieved to feel better, Andrew stepped outside, tossing me my pink North Face jacket. He whipped his other hand out from behind his back, presenting me with a tall, steaming glass of hot cocoa overloaded with fluffy, sweet marshmallows. “Hi, sweetheart,” he breathed huskily. “What are you doing? Please tell me you are not working.”

I glanced down at an array of papers scattered across the table where I was seated. “Hey, babe. Ummmm … not anymore.” I took a quick sip of my hot cocoa. “I’m done.”

Rolling his eyes, he pointedly gathered up the papers and pushed them aside. “It’s Sunday night; this is your time off,” he ordered. “No more work. I’m sure you’ve already over-analyzed the week.”

I sighed. “I know,” I admitted resignedly. “In the back of my mind, I think that if I can figure out what stepping it up a notch means to them, maybe the situation will start to improve.”

“You’ve done everything you can do. Baby, I just think you need to realize that your boss is not going to give you any opportunities to stand out.” He paused and cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I think … I think he’s already made up his mind about you.”

My eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

“Jeff suggested that you shouldn’t do this job as a mother. That says it all. He won’t fire you because he can’t; he will just try to make you miserable until you throw in the towel.” His tone grew very serious. “I want you to get through this pregnancy and then quit. You are miserable.”

A wave of defensiveness clothed me. “I’m not quitting.” Instinctively, I balled my fists. I did not realize I was shivering until Andrew tucked me into my jacket.

“I know you don’t want to.” Andrew bent down to start a fire. “If you won’t quit, you need to do something about it. No amount of money is worth you putting up with this treatment.” He paused, sounding like his mother again.

I sensed it wasn’t the time to bring up the fact that his greedy employer would not cover Calla’s or my insurance. Andrew worked hard to take care of us, and I did not want to hurt his pride. And there was no way I would let the Cooks help us out.

I changed the subject before I upset myself to the point of no return. “All of this ruins my night, and you’re right, there’s nothing more I can do.” I silently cursed my fears and forced a smile on my face. “I’m excited about our
baby
coming.”

Andrew stood up and wrapped his arms around my neck. “Me, too.” He kissed me gently on the cheek, letting his lips linger momentarily, giving me comfort. “I can’t wait.”

It was completely dark now. “I can’t wait to take her to the park, and take her swimming at Mama’s,” I said in almost a whisper. “Or, should I say, Mimi and Pop’s!” My parents had already picked out their grandparent names. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mama so excited.”

Andrew groaned dramatically. “Calla is going to be one spoiled little girl … our first child, their first grandchild. We’re going to have to make sure your parents don’t spoil her to death.”

I ignored his jab at my parents. If
anyone
was spoiled, it was Andrew Cook, who grew up the center of attention in the midst of his father’s political success and his mother’s
Sports Illustrated
career. “Knowing that we have a child on the way makes me want to be a better person even more. You know?”

“I agree.” Andrew gazed out into the darkness. “It’s a big responsibility. No more golf or fishing for me,” he pouted, only half joking.