Georgie, All Along (86)
“You are,” I say fiercely. “You will be the best mom, Bel. I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
She shakes her head against me. My shirt is wet, tons of Bel’s tears and probably a fair bit of her snot. I’m still making out better than the passenger seat of the Prius, though.
“I miss my mom,” she whispers brokenly, and my heart seizes with pain. “I think that’s why I moved back, because I got pregnant and all I could think was, I miss my mom so much. And she would’ve helped me, Georgie. She would have lived here, too, and she would’ve helped me with this. She would have taught me how to do it.”
“Oh, babe.” I hold her tighter, my chest aching. “She’ll still teach you how to do this. She will. Because you’re hers, and you’re wonderful. You’re going to be so good, Belly.”
She gasps and finds my free hand, squeezing it tight again. “Oh God.”
I shift, moving back to the chair, giving her room and letting her crush my hand while she breathes and sweats and still cries, while her body works to do this incredible thing that I know, I know she’s ready for. I must tell her a dozen times while she makes her way through it; I tell her she’s perfect and strong; I tell her how proud her mom would be.
When it passes, she sags back against the pillows, and I’m in awe of her. I’m in awe of anyone who’s ever done this, frankly; everyone who has should get a million dollars and also an opportunity to punch someone they don’t like in the face. I get her water and a cool washcloth for her forehead, for her tear-streaked cheeks.
“I made him go this morning,” she says, once I’ve gotten her cooled down, though she’s still fighting tears. “Harry. There was a quarterly meeting at his firm, and he was going to telecom it, but . . . but I don’t know. After y’all left last night he hardly talked about anything except my hip and my blood pressure and my swollen ankles, and I’m sick of it; I’m sick of this”—she gestures at her stomach—“being the only thing about me, and we had a fight, and then this morning, I—”
She breaks off, shakes her head.
“You what, B?”
“I hassled him so much; I said he should go, said I needed him to go, to give me some time alone.”
“Bel, there’s nothing wrong with needing time alone. I know he’s been a lot lately.”
“But I think I knew,” she says, and it’s a confession. “I knew today was the day, I had a feeling today was the day. But I’m scared, and I know we’ve made a mistake coming here, trying to reinvent our whole lives, and I don’t know how to admit it to him. I’ve never made a mistake like this, and I don’t know how to face the mess I’ve made, so I sent him away, and now—”
She starts crying again and, honestly, forget about this being more crying than I’ve ever seen from Bel. This is world-record crying.
“It’s okay,” I say. “He’s coming. He’s on his way, Bel, and he’ll be here soon.”
“I know he will, but . . . but what will I do? What will I do with how I feel about my house, and this town, and my job, and . . . everything? What will I do, when I’ll have a baby to take care of?”
I look long at her—my beautiful, polished, perfect best friend, an absolute mess—and I do the only thing I can think of that might have a chance of helping.
I start talking.
“Well, the first thing is, we’re going to let ourselves think of that house you’ve got as a luxury postpartum retreat. . . .”
I lay it all out for her. I talk about that big steam shower in her master bath and how it’ll help her heal; I talk about the cushy carpet that’ll pad her bare feet when she’s pacing back and forth, soothing the baby back to sleep. I talk about how my parents and I will keep filling her fridge with meals; I talk about how she can flip on the gas fireplace and curl up with Harry on that huge, fancy couch they ordered. I describe how they’ll sit together while the baby sleeps and look for someplace new to live, someplace back in the District, or if that’s not right anymore, then at least somewhere close to it. I explain that they’ll find something better than the old townhouse; I remind her of the drafty windows and the tiny bathrooms there; I tell her that she always wanted to live closer to a Metro station, anyway. I promise that her new house will sell inside of a week, once she’s ready; I brag about how much her old job will want her back, and how she doesn’t even have to take it, how she can still have her own consultancy business in the District. I describe the perfect daycare I’m picturing, the playground that’ll be on the walk home from it, the best babysitter that they’re going to hire, easy peasy, and how they’ll be able to have brunch dates at a place way better than The Shoreline.
I promise I’ll be there for her the whole way.
It takes us through the next three contractions, and she’s getting better now—calmer, more focused, her eyes drying and her breaths evening out.
“You’re doing so good,” I say to her, rubbing at her hand again.
She laughs softly, and I feel like I’ve hung the moon.
“You know half of that is probably not going to happen, right?” she says, a crooked smile on her flushed face. “The perfect daycare, ha. And I’ll probably still have to live in a place with drafty windows and a tiny bathroom. Especially if I live near a Metro station.”