protect her heart.
“I’m so hungry,” she groans.
“Do you want me to make some broth or toast? Or tea?” I wrack my brain for things Mom makes when we have stomach bugs.
“Did you get Bavarian cream?”
She rubs her cheek on my jeans.
“Of course. Won’t it make you throw up again?”
I push her hair back from her forehead.
“Maybe. But there’s nothing in my stomach now anyway. If I’m gonna puke, it might as well be for a good reason.”
She pushes herself into a sitting position, and is about to stand when I bound over her legs and run for the dining room. I scoop up a Bavarian cream donut and the quickly-cooling coffee and bring them over. She takes a bite with her eyes closed and licks the cream off of her lips.
“Mmm. This must have been baked this morning. Amazing.”
I breathe in the smell of pine and Bavarian crème and the vanilla candles half-melted all over the little apartment and watch my best friend in the world lick powdered sugar off her fingers. I know I should say something to prove that I’m pro-baby to keep the vibe going, but I’m not sure what to say that won’t smack of sucking up. So I just ask something I’m genuinely curious about.
“What will you name her?”
I put my feet up on the coffee table and watch the snowflakes out the window, now as big as birds’ wings.
“Dani. Dani Eileen.”
Her voice is powder soft, but with a hard edge. Like the sledding snow when it freezes over.
I open my mouth to point out that that might be sad for Georgia, to be reminded every single minute of so much loss. And I’m going to ask what the biological father’s name is.
Instead I count until the urge to logicize everything subsides.
I make it to fourteen, take a deep breath, and say, “That’s a beautiful name. It sounds Italian.”
That’s all it takes to earn me a sugar-laced kiss and squealy hug. Georgia presses her teary eyes my shoulder, leaves two little half-moon black smudges, and sighs.
“I was so scared to talk to you about this. I’m really glad we did, you know? Now I’m ready to tell my brother and your sister and mom.”
“Your office is closed for the holidays, right? Stay at our house for a few days,” I plead. “You can eat and rest and just hang. Mom will love running around, taking care of you.”
Her hug is so tight around my neck it crushes my windpipe a little.
“I’ll pack.”
She does, and I convince her to get in my mom’s big old car before the snow makes the road treacherously slick. I text Mom to let her know we’re both on the way and that Georgia is staying. She’s ecstatic, of course. Georgia and I pick up sour cream and pickled herring, which is the weird food she’s craving. Strange, but it kind of makes the whole pregnancy thing feel official. We pile back in the car and sing along to old Christmas songs blaring on the radio.
“Hello!” Mom calls when we walk in, backed by an icy blast of snow. “Girls? Come get some hot chocolate. I put a candy cane in yours, Georgie, just how you like it.”
Georgia looks around my mom’s little house, crushed under two tons of Christmas decorations collected over a few decades, and her limbs relax, wet-noodle limp. The smile on her face is so soft and sweet, she glows.
“I have to talk to Mom,” she whispers, squeezing my arm.
“Do you need moral support?” But she’s already headed into the kitchen.
She half turns, shaking her head. “Nah. It took guts to tell you, but Mom? She’ll take one look and just know. Plus that, she’s a sucker for babies.”
She’s gone in a whiff of vanilla and a spring of curls.
I take the gray plastic Home Depot bag to the tree and pull out the bulbs. I’m going to change the ones that are out, but the tree looks so gorgeous, and I’ve hardly had a minute to really soak it in. I sit down next to it, but there’s something about the glow that I want to tangle myself in. I lie down on the carpet, just outside the circle of glowing
“I’m so hungry,” she groans.
“Do you want me to make some broth or toast? Or tea?” I wrack my brain for things Mom makes when we have stomach bugs.
“Did you get Bavarian cream?”
She rubs her cheek on my jeans.
“Of course. Won’t it make you throw up again?”
I push her hair back from her forehead.
“Maybe. But there’s nothing in my stomach now anyway. If I’m gonna puke, it might as well be for a good reason.”
She pushes herself into a sitting position, and is about to stand when I bound over her legs and run for the dining room. I scoop up a Bavarian cream donut and the quickly-cooling coffee and bring them over. She takes a bite with her eyes closed and licks the cream off of her lips.
“Mmm. This must have been baked this morning. Amazing.”
I breathe in the smell of pine and Bavarian crème and the vanilla candles half-melted all over the little apartment and watch my best friend in the world lick powdered sugar off her fingers. I know I should say something to prove that I’m pro-baby to keep the vibe going, but I’m not sure what to say that won’t smack of sucking up. So I just ask something I’m genuinely curious about.
“What will you name her?”
I put my feet up on the coffee table and watch the snowflakes out the window, now as big as birds’ wings.
“Dani. Dani Eileen.”
Her voice is powder soft, but with a hard edge. Like the sledding snow when it freezes over.
I open my mouth to point out that that might be sad for Georgia, to be reminded every single minute of so much loss. And I’m going to ask what the biological father’s name is.
Instead I count until the urge to logicize everything subsides.
I make it to fourteen, take a deep breath, and say, “That’s a beautiful name. It sounds Italian.”
That’s all it takes to earn me a sugar-laced kiss and squealy hug. Georgia presses her teary eyes my shoulder, leaves two little half-moon black smudges, and sighs.
“I was so scared to talk to you about this. I’m really glad we did, you know? Now I’m ready to tell my brother and your sister and mom.”
“Your office is closed for the holidays, right? Stay at our house for a few days,” I plead. “You can eat and rest and just hang. Mom will love running around, taking care of you.”
Her hug is so tight around my neck it crushes my windpipe a little.
“I’ll pack.”
She does, and I convince her to get in my mom’s big old car before the snow makes the road treacherously slick. I text Mom to let her know we’re both on the way and that Georgia is staying. She’s ecstatic, of course. Georgia and I pick up sour cream and pickled herring, which is the weird food she’s craving. Strange, but it kind of makes the whole pregnancy thing feel official. We pile back in the car and sing along to old Christmas songs blaring on the radio.
“Hello!” Mom calls when we walk in, backed by an icy blast of snow. “Girls? Come get some hot chocolate. I put a candy cane in yours, Georgie, just how you like it.”
Georgia looks around my mom’s little house, crushed under two tons of Christmas decorations collected over a few decades, and her limbs relax, wet-noodle limp. The smile on her face is so soft and sweet, she glows.
“I have to talk to Mom,” she whispers, squeezing my arm.
“Do you need moral support?” But she’s already headed into the kitchen.
She half turns, shaking her head. “Nah. It took guts to tell you, but Mom? She’ll take one look and just know. Plus that, she’s a sucker for babies.”
She’s gone in a whiff of vanilla and a spring of curls.
I take the gray plastic Home Depot bag to the tree and pull out the bulbs. I’m going to change the ones that are out, but the tree looks so gorgeous, and I’ve hardly had a minute to really soak it in. I sit down next to it, but there’s something about the glow that I want to tangle myself in. I lie down on the carpet, just outside the circle of glowing
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