Cherry Money Baby (34 page)

“I hate . . . damsels . . . in distress,” she whispered to him.

They crossed the road, and she felt the even rhythm of the stairs, and then the light and echoey music of the front foyer undulating around her. She closed her eyes and squeezed her arms around his neck, and suddenly she was back in their elm in Aubrey, between their trailers, her arms around the trunk, her body hidden by the waxy summer leaves. She pressed her cheek against the smooth bark. It was smooth where Lucas had once carved their names, but the names were somehow still there, beneath the surface, burning with life.

“We’re here,” a voice said, and she opened her eyes, and they were in the downstairs bathroom. There were three mirrors, three panels here, Lucas with his arms around her, Red Guy and Green Guy, and all over again he was saving her life.

“In and up,” she mumbled, and Lucas was there, helping her sit beside the toilet and holding back her hair. But she didn’t feel queasy. The blood began to return to her head. She was on the bathroom floor with her fiancé, and Ardelia and some strangers were crowded around the door, looking worried.

“I didn’t see how much she had to drink,” said Ardelia. “Did anybody?”

“She’s had nothing but seltzer,” said Eve.

“I’ll call an ambulance,” said Spanner.

“Let’s give her some space,” said Lucas, standing and spreading his arms, barring the crowd. When he got them through the door, he closed it, and they were alone.

Cherry pulled herself onto the toilet seat. The light-headedness was replaced by pounding. Light spots danced in her vision. “That was scary. God, my head.”

Lucas crouched in front of her. “Do you want aspirin? Not sure if that’s okay if you’re feeling faint. . . .”

She swallowed, still unsteady on her feet, and reached out for the counter. Lucas checked in the medicine cabinet. There were sanitary pads, some tile cleaner, and a blue-and-yellow box Cherry recognized, the Sure! test.

“Wait,” said Cherry.

Oh.

“What is it?” Lucas asked.

After a while, Cherry opened the door. Ardelia was sitting on the bottom step of the master staircase. Spanner stood by the window, and Maxwell was slumped against the wall. Ardelia stood, hands folded, looking worried. They waited for her to speak.

“Well?” said Ardelia. “Is everything all right?”

“I’m not sure,” said Cherry. “I think so.”

“What was it?” said Spanner.

Cherry put her hand over her stomach and laughed. She grinned at them.

It
was
pretty funny.

“Well,” she said, “I’m pregnant.”

Cherry’s hands ached from rolling burritos. She wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, took a long swig from her lemonade, and folded the last of thirty. Vi was propped on the counter. The girls had changed out of their commencement gowns — Vi into a tank and shorts, Cherry into a breezy sundress. Despite the two mini–oscillating fans, both were slick with sweat.

“They look
fine,
” Vi said. “Don’t . . . no! Don’t reroll!”

“This is a matter of personal pride.” Cherry redid the last burrito. “I can’t let people think I’ve lost my touch.”

“For burrito rolling?”

“It’s my stance — that’s the problem. I should be closer to the counter.” She rubbed her tummy. At eight weeks, there was a just-visible bulge. “Sorry, Baby Bump, but it’s true. You’re ruining the burritos.”

“Hey, don’t blame Bump.” Lucas came in through the side door with bags of ice in both arms. “You’ll hurt his feelings.”

“Or hers!” Vi corrected.

“Oh, those look
heavenly.
” Cherry hugged Lucas, pressing the bags of ice between them. “I love you, but you know this is just for the ice, right?”

He laughed. “I’ll try not to take it personally.”

“Cherry!” Pop bellowed from the yard. “Where are those damn burritos?”

It wasn’t much of a yard, just a few square feet of scrub grass, a patio table, and a George Foreman Grill, all secreted away behind the tenant house on Vernon Hill. They’d been calling it “Shangri-La.”

“Don’t rush the pregnant woman!” she shouted through the window.

Lucas hefted the bags of ice into the freezer. The rest of the fridge was stuffed with barbecue supplies. So far the kitchen was the only room in the tiny bottom-floor rental that looked lived-in. Everything else (there wasn’t much else, just a living room, bedroom, and bathroom) was piled high with half-unpacked cardboard boxes. The barbecue was doubling as a housewarming.

“What time are people getting here?” Vi asked.

Cherry hefted the burrito tray, balancing it on her tummy. “Any minute, so could you start setting out the chips? Oh, and call Stew. He was supposed to be here an hour ago with paper plates.”

Vi saluted, hopped off the counter, and squeezed past Cherry into the next room.

“I wish you’d take a break,” said Lucas.

“Just try to make me sit still. You think I’m bat-shit crazy
now
?”

She looked around at the chaotic kitchen, the spilled seasoning, the tortilla wrappers overflowing from the trash bin.

“Home, sweet home,” she said.

He kissed her forehead. “Heaven.”

“My feet are killing me.”

“We have mildew.”

She smiled. “Heaven.”

“Cherry!” Pop bellowed from the lawn.

“I told you I’m coming!”

“No, not that! I think . . . you’ve got a visitor.”

She hesitated, then handed Lucas the burrito tray and hurried down the stairs leading to the street, which in a few minutes would be lined with the cars of friends, extended family, even a few teachers Cherry’d invited, everyone from her old life she wanted to continue on into the new: the new home one town over; the new receptionist job at the fertility clinic up Vernon Hill; the new marriage after Labor Day; the new baby due in February.

Ardelia was paying the cabbie. She stepped out onto the sidewalk, and they hugged.

“I didn’t know Worcester
had
cabs.”

“I’m only in town for a day. Decided not to rent a car.”

“Oh,” said Cherry. She didn’t know where to put her hands. It was so strange to see her. It was like someone doing an Ardelia Deen impersonation. “What brings you to the States?”

“I got an invite,” she said, “to an important event.” She removed a crumpled piece of paper from her purse. It was a printout from her e-mail account. In the body of the message was Cherry’s BBQ invite. But Cherry hadn’t sent it.

“Hello, Lucas,” Ardelia said. Cherry turned. Lucas stood on the porch, leaning against one of the supports.

“Hi, Ardelia. Glad you could make it.”

Cherry turned back. The starlet smiled weakly. “I hope . . . that’s okay.”

“Well . . .” said Cherry.

The mosquitoes hummed. She could feel her feet throbbing.

“Well,” said Ardelia.

Cherry sighed. “You better go around back before someone spots you and calls the press.”

It was eight thirty, and the sun-kissed, pork-saturated guests had all trailed away. The kitchen was a disaster area, the yard an atrocity. Pop, Stew, and Lucas were in the den watching television, and Cherry smiled to think of Lucas in the big easy chair, in
his
living room, the man of the house. A sunburned Vi was asleep on Cherry’s bed. The sun was still setting.

Cherry and her guest lounged on the front porch overlooking the street. Both girls were damp with sweat, holding cold glasses of lemonade to their temples. The day’s heat was just beginning to break, and there was electricity in the air. Late-night thunderstorms were expected.

“I can’t believe Olyvya Dunrey cried,” Cherry said, and they both laughed. Ardelia sighed.

“A lot of people claim to be my number-one fan, but I actually believed her.”

Cherry took a sip, cleared her throat. “I’m, uh, sorry we didn’t talk much.”

“You were a busy hostess,” Ardelia said.

“I mean, at all,” said Cherry. “After everything.”

“Oh, yes.” Ardelia considered her ice cubes. “There’s no reason for you to apologize for that.” She glanced at Cherry. “You received my letter?”

“Yeah. It was very thoughtful.”

“I meant it. All of it.”

“It’s okay,” said Cherry. “It’s . . . we’re past it now.”

Heat lightning turned the sky a living white. She’d have to run inside and close all the windows. Unless Lucas remembered to. Her brain felt foggy. She was so exhausted. The rain would feel so good.

“You’re working?” Ardelia asked.

“And going back to school,” Cherry said. Ardelia looked surprised. “I know, right? I’m training to be a counselor. They’ve got a service for young women up at the clinic. Sometimes they need someone to talk to.” She smiled. “I like to talk to them.”

“That sounds perfect.”

“What about you?”

“A new project. Science fiction, actually. Robots. I’m the villain. I thought you’d like that.”

Cherry chuckled. “And Spanner?”

Ardelia cleared her throat. “Spanner and I have parted ways. Temporarily.”

“You fired her?”

“No! No, I didn’t want her to go. But Spanner decided she needed some time on her own. Which I suppose is a good thing. She’s gone home to see her parents.” Ardelia did a little internal math. “This is the longest we’ve been apart in sixteen years.”

Cherry refilled their lemonades from the big pitcher. She liked the rattle of the ice. It was a cooling sound. She sat back, glass balanced on her tummy.

“I saw your pictures in
People
magazine,” she said. “We get it at the clinic. You know, for the waiting room.”

“Oh, yes.” Ardelia twirled her finger in her lemonade.

“So . . . you really went to a fertility clinic?”

“Yes, I really did.”

“You should have called me. I could have hooked you up.”

Ardelia laughed. “Yes, well.”

“And?”

“And I’m going to wait until I’m eight weeks to announce it but . . . I am officially, well and truly pregnant.” Ardelia raised her glass. “You think this would just be lemonade if I wasn’t?”

“That’s a change.”

“Spanner convinced me,” she said. “And you did.”

They were quiet a moment. More lightning.

“I just kept thinking what my daughter might think of me, if I did it the other way.” Ardelia set her glass on the table. It made a soft
clink.
“I wouldn’t want her thinking of me the way you do.”

“Hey, I don’t . . .” Cherry wasn’t sure what she thought of Ardelia. But she didn’t hate her. “It sounds like you’ve changed.”

Ardelia thought about this. Her eyes searched Cherry’s. “You haven’t.”

“Yes, I have.”

Cherry leaned back in the lounger, putting her swollen feet up on the porch railing. Ardelia looked down at her own stomach, resting her hand there.

“So, when are you due?” Cherry asked.

“March 24.”

Cherry thought. “That’s the day we met. March 24.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” The two girls looked up at the sky. “We should have a joint shower.”

Cherry looked over and smiled. “That sounds awesome.”

The sky was deepening to pink and lavender, the houses and trees turning to dark silhouettes against the sky. She could smell barbeque and her own sweat, and feel the mist of her breath off the cold, cold lemonade. Sprinklers were sputtering, and there were kids, brand-new kids, screaming somewhere, laughing, playing late-evening tag the way she and Stew used to, until they were called in —
five more minutes
becoming
one more minute
and then
right now!
Someone was playing music, and Cherry thought she could hear a train whistle, long and low, taking someone away, taking someone home.

Any second, it would rain. She could feel it.

“Everything’s going to be different now,” said Ardelia.

“It always is,” said Cherry.

To paraphrase one of my favorite authors, Cherry had a most difficult birth. She owes her existence to many people. First, to my agent and mentor, Scott Treimel, who suggested I write a book “about pregnancy” and who guided me through many versions of this story. If Cherry has a godfather, he is it. Second, to my superlative editor, Deb Noyes-Wayshak, who had the vision, patience, and fortitude to help me shape and refashion Cherry’s story until it was just right. She is undoubtedly Cherry’s godmother. Third, to all the folks at Candlewick Press and Walker who contributed their suggestions and insight, in particular my U.K. editor, Lucy Earley, who, among other things, honed my Britishisms.