All Adults Here(67)
Porter shrugged. “I’m always hot, I’m growing a person.”
“Kind of,” Cecelia said.
“Not really,” Elliot said. “But women are always hot or cold.”
Porter smacked him in the chest. “That is so sexist, shut your face.”
“I didn’t know you were coming, honey, you should have come with us!” Astrid pushed aside Porter’s fist. “Why did you come?” Her face felt hot. He couldn’t know, about Barbara, about the phone call, could he? Astrid searched his face for clues but found nothing. Aside from Barbara, Elliot was the only one who knew that she was a hypocrite.
“Bob works for Dutchess County Electrical, we’ve done a lot of work with them.” He was looking over her shoulder at the snacks. “Porter, grab me one of those cookies? Yes, those. Holding hands in public, it’s a big step.” He nodded at the clasped knot of Birdie’s and Astrid’s hands. She wondered who else was clocking them, who else was taking note, which book club would be gossiping about them over caprese salads and pesto pasta. Let them talk, she thought, and pulled Birdie even closer.
Astrid watched as Elliot folded a whole cookie into his mouth. Elliot coughed and then shoved in a second. Wendy would not have approved. Once she’d served a half watermelon in place of a birthday cake at the twins’ party, claiming that they didn’t like sugar. “I have to get back to work.”
“So soon?” Astrid said. “You have to go?”
“Mom, I have to go. Bye, all.” Elliot scooped up one last cookie for the road, and they all watched him weave his way through the silver-and white-haired attendees, until he vanished back up the stairs. Astrid wanted to stop time, to run outside, to be his mother, properly. How many chances did she have? That was the point, wasn’t it? That was what Barbara had meant—the bus, not the phone call—Astrid watched the back of Elliot’s head disappear and knew that, once again, she had lost her shot to say the right thing.
Chapter 30
Alarm Bells
When Porter was feeling low, the goats always cheered her up, and when she was feeling giddy, their nuzzly noses made her feel positively euphoric. She bent over to dust some goat slobber off her calf and felt a sudden pain in her belly. The closest bathroom was inside, a Sheetrocked corner of the office that she’d been meaning to turn into a nice bathroom for years, but it worked well enough, and so she hadn’t. Porter sat down on the toilet and leaned forward, her elbows digging into her thighs. It felt like cramps, but it couldn’t be cramps. She reached between her legs with a wad of toilet paper and drew her arm back slowly, revealing a small archipelago of blood. Porter had her telephone in her other hand and dialed Dr. McConnell. In five minutes, she was on her way to the hospital. She texted Rachel on the way, even though they hadn’t spoken since their dinner. Fuck, she dictated into the air of her car. Scary stuff happening, heading to doc, if you’re free, I would love you there. I miss you. When she didn’t hear back right away, she texted her mother too, and told her where she was going. Then Porter started to cry.
Only one woman was in the waiting room when Porter arrived, knitting a powder-blue baby blanket, the expanse already knit lying over her mountainous belly. She was making warmth in real time, inside and out. Porter hovered at the desk, waiting for someone to appear, clutching her hands to keep her from ringing the small bell that was there to be rung. The receptionist came back, a woman old enough to be a mother, a woman who might be a mother, and Porter reached for the lip of the counter to keep herself standing. It wasn’t pain that was pulling her down, it was fear. With Jeremy and Astrid and Birdie and Cecelia, so many distractions, Porter had let herself forget how much she wanted this. She’d spent years thinking about it, imagining her body pushing out to a smooth curve, imagining a tiny, soft person of her very own. She wanted it. She wanted the baby. She wanted to be someone’s mom. The lack of sleep, the frazzled nervous system, the sore nipples, who cared! She wanted those too. Porter was sick of seeing old friends and having them humble-brag about their early wake-up calls, their spit-up–stained T-shirts.
“Strick?” the woman asked. “Room three. Dr. McConnell will be right in.”
Porter hurried into the room and lay back on the chair, her hands pressed against her belly. It didn’t hurt anymore, not the way it had at the farm, which made Porter feel both relieved and scared—what if it didn’t hurt anymore because no one was there? You heard about things like that, heartbeats fading to black.
There was a quick knock at the door, and Dr. McConnell poked her head in, followed by Astrid. “I found your mother in the hallway; can we come in?” Porter nodded. Astrid hurried to her side and gripped her hand, a worried look on her face.
“What’s going on? Let’s take a look. You said there was some blood?” Dr. McConnell sat on the wheeled stool and put on gloves.
How emotionally tricky, to be a doctor. Any other profession had the leeway of white lies, of truths softened by hopes and niceties. Doctors couldn’t lie. They gave you the results, which were never graded on a curve.
“Yes,” Porter said. When her animals were hurt, she did not waver. She called Dr. Gordon and took stacks of blankets into the pen and they would be there, together, until the trouble had passed. She could do that for herself too. Stay calm. Keep breathing.