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  I look at my father. “Why wouldn’t I come?”

  He avoids my eyes and doesn’t answer. Sheryl takes his hand. “We didn’t know if you would want to.”

  I know I should keep quiet, but suddenly I can’t control the anger I’ve been suppressing since I got home. “Why? Because in the three months that I’ve been away at college you’ve singlehandedly managed to move my things to another apartment, change the locks to what was once my home, and remove me from my life?”

  Sheryl’s face goes pale.

  “Laurel!” My father bristles. “You have no right to talk to her that way.”

  “It’s true, though, isn’t it? You never even gave me a chance.”

  “A chance to what?” he fumes. “To come home for the weekend and pout around with your sarcasm? A chance to be rude to the one person I’ve cared about since your mother died?”

  “No, Dad. A chance to warm up to the idea. A chance to be a part of your life.”

  His face is blank. He just doesn’t get it.

  I continue, “So that’s what I am to you? Pouty and sarcastic?”

  “Since your grandmother died, frankly, yes. Sheryl had nothing to do with me renting that apartment. I wanted some distance. I know you’ve had it tough. But how do you think it’s been for me all these years?”

  It feels as though this entire section of the restaurant has just frozen over. I can’t feel my fingers or my toes. “I didn’t know I’ve been such a burden, Dad.”

  Sheryl has withdrawn as far back into her chair as she can without actually melding into it and watches us, eyes unblinking, while my father pleads his case. “I lost my wife. Then I had to stand by a few years later and watch as my child dealt with the deaths of her grandparents.”

  “And you were barely there! You’re always at work and even in the summer…do you realize the minute you couldn’t dump me off upstate anymore, you bought that house on Shelter Island? You sent me to live with a housekeeper! How many times did you even come out last summer, Dad? Like three weekends?”

  “I have to work long hours. It’s my firm! And the city is no place for teenagers in the summer. They just end up getting into trouble.”

  I shake my head. Apparently he doesn’t realize teenagers can get into trouble anywhere.

  He continues, “You need to cut me some slack. I deserve some happiness.” He puts his hand on Sheryl’s leg. “She makes me happy.”

  And I make him miserable, clearly. I push my chair back. “I’m glad things are going so well for you, Dad.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m leaving.”

  “Sit back down.”

  “I don’t want to ruin the atmosphere with my sarcasm.”

  “Laurel,” he calls. But I’m already halfway to the door.

  Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  A week and a day after that awful night, I find myself back in the dank church basement with my pregnancy support group, and we are all cooing over Jill’s new baby girl, now a month old. Audrey is glowing after her amazing wedding, and she doesn’t hesitate to lift the baby out of her car seat. She bounces and fusses, and the infant is content in her arms. She’s a natural. “Want to hold her?” she asks. I opt to pass. The baby’s head doesn’t seem to be on quite as tight as it should be, and I’d hate to be the one to cause it to fall off.

  When we are finally in our circle, most of the conversation centers around what labor and delivery were like. Jill doesn’t hold back with her war story – twenty-four hours of labor and four hours of pushing only to end up needing a C-section.

  Ugh. I grasp at my belly. You’re not going to do that to me, are you, baby?

  Alison opens the floor to see if anyone else has anything to share. All eyes turn to me.

  “Looks like I’m aiming for Christmas instead.” I try to smile.

  It’s hard to ignore the expressions on both Audrey’s and Alison’s faces – a mixture of puzzlement and concern. I have a feeling I’m going to be called to the principal’s office afterwards.

  Sure enough, as I put on my coat, Alison approaches first. “Is everything okay? Did something happen?”

  I don’t feel like explaining the fight. How my dad called me the next morning to tell me I owed HIM an apology for the way I behaved. How I refused and ended up having Thanksgiving in Brooklyn at Tara’s Aunt Ethel’s house, squeezed on a couch between her massive cousins, watching football with a paper plate of turkey and stuffing on my lap. How I came back to school early only to find that no students were allowed on campus until Sunday so I had to spend the night in my grandparents’ empty house with no heat because no one remembered to have the oil tank filled.

  The only redeeming part of the weekend was that I got to watch Audrey get married. But even that was bittersweet – another reminder of how much better off she is than me.

  “It didn’t go as planned,” is all I say.

  I like that Alison doesn’t push. She allows me to leave without any further inquiry.

  Audrey, on the other hand, corners me in the parking lot. “How come you didn’t tell me on Saturday?”

  “It was your wedding day.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t have much of a chance to talk.”

  “It’s no big deal.”

  “I’ve got all the time in the world now, though. So tell me.”

  “Audrey,” I plead, “it’s not worth getting into.”

  “But how much longer can you wait?”

  “At the rate I’m going, maybe I’ll just let the baby do it.”

  ***

  The last three weeks of fall semester leave Colman looking like a ghost town, unless you are at the library, the hottest place on campus these days, which I avoid. Final papers, projects and tests loom in the not-so-distant future and the super-competitive student body is scared to death of falling behind, or worse. To fail is not an option in these parts.

  My biology teacher, Professor Stoker, calls to me after lab one afternoon. She is a round woman with a double chin but a pretty face. If she’d let the polyester pants rest in peace in the previous century, she might even come across as attractive. “I’d like to have a meeting with you this week. Look up my office hours online and schedule yourself in at a mutually convenient time.”

  “Okay.”

  As I weave past the lab stations and microscopes, I see her looking at my stomach. I glance down at my ever-burgeoning belly, which I thought was well concealed by an oversized shirt.

  Can she tell?

  Two days later I am facing her in her small, crowded office, waiting for her to get off the phone. It feels more like a closet without any windows in here. Her walls are covered with pictures of her kids, diplomas for college, her master’s degree and finally a doctorate. She’s won faculty member of the year awards twice and been named as one of New York State’s best professors. No wonder I like her class so much.

  “Don’t look so nervous.” She grins when she puts the phone down.

  I try to relax my shoulders.

  “I saw that you’ve signed up to take Plant Biology with me during J-term.”

  “I thought it sounded interesting.”

  “I’m glad. The problem is the J-term class I’m teaching is not supposed to be open to freshmen.”

  “It’s not?” That was the only class that sounded appealing, and there is no way I can spend the month of January in the city – especially after my father’s wedding. My plan is to get in for Christmas and get out by New Year’s.

  She interrupts my thoughts. “But I’m willing to make an exception after reviewing your class work this semester and looking at your high school transcript. You seem to excel in the sciences.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Being the only woman in the biology department, when I see a female student with the potential you have, I like to encourage it. We could use some more bright women in this field. Have you thought about a major yet?”

  “
I, um, haven’t yet. I don’t have to declare one until next year, though.”

  “No, but the sooner you know what direction you want to go in, the more classes you can get under your belt. If you ever want to discuss it with me, my door is open.”

  “Okay.”

  “Keep up the good work. I’ll send the override form to the registrar’s office. I’m looking forward to J-term. It’s a nice opportunity to work with a small group of people. We accomplish a lot in three weeks. I think you’ll get a lot out of it.”

  “Great.”

  When I stand and turn toward the door, I once again notice her peering at my middle. I pull my backpack around and duck out.

  I’ve gotten so used to hugging the walls and lurking in shadows as I make my way around campus I take it for granted now I can get from point A to point B without running into Mike. I’ve managed to do it all semester, after all. So when I take the side stairwell instead of the main staircase to get to my writing seminar – a regular tactic of mine – why should I be surprised that he practically barrels me over while he’s running down the stairs two steps at a time?

  My books fly out of my hands, with my loose-leaf binder, filled with a term’s worth of writing notes, taking the brunt of the collision. The rings snap open, and papers fly everywhere.

  His eyes shift back from me to the mess on the floor. I sense he’s debating whether to flee or stay and help. Neither one of us says a thing or moves and the silence between us grows increasingly uncomfortable. I finally yield and begin picking up the pieces of my notebook. He bends down, too, grabbing papers off the floor.

  We work like this until every last page is collected. He hands me a stack to add to the disorganized heap in my hands. “Thanks,” I say.

  “Sure.”

  He gazes down at me kneeling on the floor and trying to get everything back in order. It dawns on me that I’m no better off than the last time we were together.

  “How are you doing?” he asks, and I watch his long, narrow feet shift his weight from one sneaker to the other.

  I will myself to look up, to make eye contact, to be brave. “I’m okay,” I answer when I meet those hazel eyes.

  To my surprise, he lowers himself to sit on the steps across from me, and our eyes remain locked. “You’re handling everything okay?” His voice is even-keeled and warm, but I can’t tell if he genuinely cares, or if he feels he needs to pretend to since he’s here. I mean, if he really was wondering how I’m doing, I only live two flights away from him. Where’s he been the past couple months?

  “I am. I’m okay, Mike.”

  I can tell he’s struggling with what to say. “What’s new?”

  I can’t help but crack a smile. Where to begin?

  He brushes the hair away from his eyes. “Why are you laughing?”

  “I’m not, I mean, I am but it’s just kind of a funny question to ask a pregnant Colman girl.”

  He smiles. “Yeah, I guess. Well, what should I ask you, then?”

  I feel the muscles in my back tensing up. “You don’t have to ask me anything. Don’t worry about me.” I don’t know why it comes out of my mouth the way it does. Sharp and cutting. He’s just trying to be nice, after all. But what will I do if he wants to start hanging around me again?

  I can tell he’s bothered by my tone. He nods his head, and his eyes seem to focus on the empty space in the air between us, not on me. “Okay.”

  I snap my binder shut and stand. “Well, I’m late for class now.”

  He stays seated and looks up at me, not saying anything.

  “If I don’t see you, have a good Christmas.”

  He continues watching me, not saying anything, not moving, and I suddenly feel very aware of my pregnant body, the extra weight I’ve added to my face and butt and stomach, and all around how different I must appear now compared to just a few months back when we were devouring each other on my bed. I cringe and push it out of my head.

  “I’ve got to go, Mike.” And I dart, leaving him in his unnerving silence.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  My ultrasound is scheduled for the same day as my last final. Thankfully, Professor Stoker offered enough review sessions that I zip through the questions with ease.

  When I hand her my exam, she smiles. “That was quick.”

  “I went over everything twice.”

  “Well, then I’m sure you did fine. I’ll see you back here January 3rd.”

  I drive the hour to Rochester while chugging down a liter of water. I’m supposed to have a full bladder for this test, but a liter seems excessive. By the time I’m parked and inside, I feel like I’m going to lose it. To my dismay, the radiology department is packed with pregnant women and people with limbs wrapped in splints or on crutches.

  I’m practically doing a dance to keep all the water in while I check in, but still can’t ignore stares from both the receptionists and onlookers sitting close enough to watch me count out $1200. There’s got to be a better way.

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” I whisper to the woman behind the glass, who is distracted by all the cash. “Will it be a long wait?”

  “It shouldn’t be too bad,” she finally answers, but when I look around at the throngs of people, I am not encouraged. I slip into the last available chair and unbutton my coat. The heat and humidity is stifling.

  In search for some kind of diversion, I pull out my phone, like almost everyone else in the room, and start checking email. Tara has taken to keeping me apprised of all the stages of pregnancy in regular updates. I think she’s more in tune with where my baby is at now than I am. There are close to a dozen from her with links to various pregnancy websites. I’m glad to have her on my side.

  As I continue to scroll and skim through the information she’s sent, I notice an address that I don’t recognize with nothing but “Hey!” written in the subject line. I click it open, and my face immediately flushes when I see who it’s from.

  What’s up, stranger?

  Long time no talk, or see, or text. Your dad was out here dry docking the boat. It got me thinking. How the hell are you? Do you like Colman? Let’s catch up. Give me a call or write. BTW, notice the new email. Other one was getting spammed.

  Best,

  -D

  The room spins, and a wave of nausea rises in my stomach. Do I write back? My hand starts shaking. What would I say?

  In my hasty confusion, I press delete instead of save and stuff the phone into the bottom of my bag as far as it will go. I’ve practically chewed off every fingernail, bladder bursting, when I’m finally led into a room with a technician, who has me lay back on a table.

  “How far along are you?” the woman asks. Her voice breaks the spool of racing thoughts flooding my brain.

  “Twenty weeks.” Halfway through now.

  “We should get some nice pictures, then.” She smiles. She has a dark and delicate face. “Do you want to find out the baby’s sex?”

  I push the email and the pangs of guilt out of my head. “Can you do that?”

  “We can try. It’s not always easy to see.”

  “I’m not sure if I want to know.”

  “You can think about it and tell me in a little while. Did you drink your water?”

  “I’m dying!”

  She puts the cold gel on my stomach and moves the probe. The baby’s head is the first thing to appear on the screen. “It’s so big!” I gasp. She takes detailed measurements of the head, the hands and the feet, pointing them all out to me along the way, including the beating heart and several organs. When she’s done, she asks, “Have you decided?”

  “Do you know?” I ask.

  “I do.”

  I close my eyes. “Okay, tell me.”

  “You’re having a girl.”

  I reopen them and gaze at the screen. “You’re sure about that?”

  “The baby was in a good position, so, yes.” She presses a button on the computer, and a black- and-white photo prints out like
the one Dr. Adler gave me at my first visit, only this time the baby looks like a baby, not a bean. Her profile reveals a small nose, an ear, and an eye, and her little hand is floating above her head in a fist with her thumb sticking up. A girl. I always assumed I was having a boy for some reason.

  Driving back to Colman, sneaking peeks at the picture, I try my hardest to ignore my conscience and the smothering feelings of remorse.

  What are you doing, Laurel?

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Everyone needs to be out of the residence halls by noon on Monday, but I’ll be gone way before then because I have a 9am appointment with Dr. Adler that day, and then my flight home at one.

  Dad and I haven’t spoken since Thanksgiving, but we have communicated via terse texts. Did you make your flight arrangements for the holidays? Yes. When are you getting in? Monday at 2:15. Did you get the invitation to the wedding Sheryl sent you? Yes. Are you coming? Yes, Dad. I’m coming to your wedding. And the last one that I got this morning: When you get in on Monday, Sheryl would like to talk to you. Please come to our apartment. She’ll be home.

  I guess she’s all moved in now.

  Our last pregnancy support meeting of the year has been moved up to accommodate final exams and holidays. It’s a potluck dinner. Since I don’t have a kitchen, I buy a box of fried chicken and I’m put to shame by all the nice dishes everyone else has made.

  We set up a long table and put down red plastic cloths with festive paper plates and cups, and sit around gabbing about this and that. Now there are two new moms because Yolanda had her baby boy in early December. We are dropping like flies. Alison begins the structured part of the meeting over dessert.

  “The holidays can be stressful for everyone, but especially if you’re pregnant or just had a baby. As you leave here tonight and deal with potentially difficult people or situations over the holidays, I want you to focus on acceptance. In other words, don’t try to control the uncontrollable, and don’t try to change a person who can’t be changed. People are who they are. With acceptance comes forgiveness, and with forgiveness comes inner peace, and we can all use some of that.”