the pain for a breath. My first effort is more of a wheeze than anything else. I am trying to follow along and not stand out from the group, who are deep-breathing as though their lives depend on it. But as hard as I try and as deep down in my lungs as I reach, there is no force to my breath. There is no conviction, no strength, no faith that this is going to save me from anything. “Hee-hee-hoo.”
AFTER CLASS I am tempted to go home, change back into my pajamas, and climb into bed. But there is a party later, and I have vowed to take action and not spend all my time in the house, so instead I stop home just long enough to pick up the white iced cake and then continue on to my parents’. I drive slowly these days because I don’t feel entirely confident sitting as far away from the steering wheel as my belly demands. I can’t reach well enough to wrap my hands around the wheel, only the tops of my fingers.
I think of Gram giving up driving, and wonder if this is how she felt before she handed over her keys, just barely in control. The thought of Gram makes my back ache and I have to work to stay upright and in contact with the wheel. You’ll see her this afternoon, I tell myself. She is the reason you didn’t fight the idea of this ridiculous shower. This will mean something to Gram. She will want to give the baby a gift. It might be money.
I pull into my parents’ driveway and park behind my mother’s convertible. I get out of the car and then lean back in for the homemade cake. When I am upright with my purse looped around my elbow and the cake balanced on my palms, I notice how humid and sticky the day is. The sky is overcast and after two minutes I feel sweat run down my back between my shoulder blades. I am not dressed for the party yet, thank goodness. I am wearing shorts and a huge T-shirt. I have set aside my one maternity sundress for the event. It is light blue and clean, so I figure it should make my mother happy and keep Meggy quiet and kill Angel’s last hopes. Not that I should be scared of them anymore. For God’s sake, I am getting married. I will be giving this child a mother and a father, and that is all I need in order to fight my family off, right?
I walk around to the back of the house with cautious steps, wondering how to break the news to my mother. Remember Grayson? He’s one of my ex-boyfriends who you did know about, remember? Well, he’s asked me to marry him and I’ve said yes.
I think she will be happy. This is good, solid, presentable news that she can share with her women’s group and her family. I think this should go all right. I open the back door and then pause to kick off my flip-flops. I leave them on the tile floor next to my mother’s favorite sandals and a pair of my father’s shoes that I’ve never seen before. I place the cake on the kitchen counter and then, out of habit, look in their refrigerator. There is not much normal food to pick at, because the space is filled with plastic catering platters filled with crudités and bite-size sandwiches and three different kinds of cookies. I grab a bottle of water off the door of the refrigerator and walk into the hall. I am just about to call out my mother’s name when I see movement and a flash of color from the corner of my eye. I unscrew the water bottle as I look into the living room. I expect to see my mother walking toward me, or to see her reading in one of the chairs. I take a deep breath, and tell myself that I can have an adult conversation with her. I can do this.
But what I see is my mother standing in the middle of the living room pressed up against a man who is not my father. This man is shorter than my father, and he is overweight with dark slicked-back hair. My mother’s hands are on the nape of this man’s neck; she has her fingers in his hair. As I watch, she lifts her face off