Josh and Gemma Make a Baby(80)

My mom gives me a stunned look. “But dear. I do love you as you are.”

I look at her through watery eyes, and I realize that yes, of course she does.

“I’m sorry, Gemma. I was trying to be useful. It’s hard to be useful as a mom when your kids are all grown and living their own lives.” She reaches out and gently tugs on a lock of my hair, just like she used to when I was little.

“That’s alright Mom,” I say. “Don’t cry.”

She sniffs and dabs her eyes with the kitchen towel.

Dylan clears his throat. “Well, Mom, you could take care of me by letting me have that tray of meatballs. And maybe that chocolate chiffon pie? I also wouldn’t mind you ironing my clothes like you used to.”

My mom swats at Dylan with the kitchen towel. “Shame. That’s not what I meant. You’re thirty-three years old. Iron your own underwear.”

Leah snorts into her hand. Then she steps closer to me and knocks my hip with hers. “You alright?”

I shrug. “I don’t know.”

She nods. “Me either. I haven’t for a while now.” She takes my hand in hers and squeezes it, then we watch my mom chase Dylan around the kitchen while he tries to steal another meatball.

“I’m going to take these over to Josh.” I grab the containers of spaghetti and Jell-O.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Leah says.

“Tell Josh I’ll bring him a tie in the morning,” calls Dylan through a mouthful of food.

I wave as I slip out of the noise and warmth of the kitchen.





No one answers the door, but it isn’t locked, so I slip inside. The house looks exactly the same as the last time I was here with Josh, except his dad isn’t in the recliner in the living room and the television isn’t turned on to some “medical drama garbage.”

“Josh?” I call out.

There’s no answer. I walk farther into the house. It’s quiet and dark and there’s a sadness hanging in the air that wasn’t here before. It’s like a curtain has been pulled and the room has been shaded from laughter.

I stop when I see a half-finished sudoku puzzle on the seat of the recliner. I wonder how many half-finished things lie around the house, waiting for Josh to stumble on.

I clasp the containers of food to my chest and move farther into the house. There’s a light coming from under the door leading to the basement. I turn the door handle and walk down the carpeted stairs.

I let out a shaky breath when I see Josh hunched over his drawing table. His back is to me, his shoulders are slumped and he’s running his pencil over a piece of paper. I stop on the stairs. He looks so…un-Joshlike.

His dark hair falls over his forehead and blocks his face from view. But the lonely tilt of his head, the darkness of the room, the tightness with which he holds the pencil, he looks so alone.

I must have made a noise, because suddenly he stiffens and then turns in his chair toward the stairs.

I pull in a breath when I see his face.

Oh Josh.

He looks…he looks like I did when I looked into the mirror this morning. At the time, I didn’t think there was a difference in me, but now I know there was, because I can see it in him.

He tries to lift his lips into a smile, but it falls flat.

“Hey Gemma,” he says. He sets his pencil down and stands. “What’s up?”

The air I pull in burns my lungs. My legs are shaky as I walk down the rest of the stairs. I hold up the plastic containers. “I brought you dinner.”

He stares at the containers, like he isn’t sure exactly what they mean or what he’s supposed to say. Finally he swallows and nods. “Okay. Thanks.”

I set the food down on the edge of the drawing table. I catch a quick glimpse of what looks like a kid in a spaceship and planets and stars.

I turn back to him, try to smile and fail. “It’s spaghetti and lime…”

He nods politely, distantly, so I trail off, then say, “Did you get my messages?”

He shakes his head. “I have so many calls I stopped checking. I didn’t realize how much work it is to bury someone.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

He pushes a hand through his hair and sighs. “Look Gemma. It’s been a long few days—”

He’s going to ask me to go. The back of my eyes burn. I thought I couldn’t cry anymore, but I think I was wrong. My throat feels raw.

I don’t think, I close the three feet between us and wrap my arms around him. “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I’m sorry.”

I bury my face against his chest and whisper it again and again. He stands unmoving and stiff. My heart breaks a little more. He wants me to go.

I start to pull away, but suddenly Josh moves, his arms come around me and he pulls me close and drops his face to my hair. Then, I feel his shoulders start to shake with choked tears as he silently mourns his dad.

His hands move over my back and he clings to my dress and pulls me closer. I hold him as tight as I possibly can.

We stand in the center of the darkened room holding each other. The only light is a small desk lamp illuminating the drawing table. I bury my face into Josh’s chest and he drops his chin to rest on my head. Minutes pass. We don’t speak, and I don’t want to move.