“Huh? Oh, no, I’ll go. I mean, I’m dating him, right?”
“Yep, you are,” she says warmly. “And he’s a very nice boy. You look beautiful, London. Have fun tonight.”
I walk toward the kitchen doorway as if my feet are lead and continue down the small hallway leading to the entryway. I turn right, open the door, and there he is.
There… he… is.
Luke.
Tall but not too tall, trim but not buff, perfect hair, glorious eyes, looking comfortable in his simple black suit, even though I know from the notes that he’s more partial to rocker chic.
>Clearly adept at solving minibattles, Mr. Henry disappears and then emerges again with a box cutter, some packing tape, and a handful of markers. Ten minutes later, there are two equally wonderful cars, each ready to transport its twin to “the mall,” “Grandma’s,” or “school,” as she wishes.
Ella sits tall and holds tight to the sides, surveying the scenery in her imagination. Madelyn opts to lounge back in the car, making it more like a moving bed, which enables her to stare at the ceiling. As Luke scoots her by my feet, I giggle at her serene expression, and wonder what she could be thinking about while lying there staring up at the sky.
And then something happens. A piece snaps into place.
Luke stops his parade float and turns to face me.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
“Yes,” I say quickly. “Why?”
“You just jumped, like something scared you.”
“Go, GO!” Madelyn commands from inside the box, when she realizes that her chariot has stopped.
“Shhh,” Luke says gently to his sister. “Just a minute.” She does as he says, and Luke eases off the floor. He sits down next to me on the couch and takes my hand.
“Are you feeling all right?” he asks softly. “You look really pale.” He brushes a stray piece of hair out of my face, and I think I catch Mr. Henry grinning at us.
“I feel sick,” I say, louder than I mean to, grabbing the attention of two parents and twin toddlers. Now the whole Henry family is eyeing me, with varying degrees of curiosity and concern.
“Do you want to lie down, London?” Mrs. Henry says, in a way that makes me want to check my reflection. I can’t look that bad.
“No, I’m okay,” I reply. “I think I just need to go home.”
Luke stands, and the twins protest in unison. Mrs. Henry quiets the girls, while Mr. Henry walks us to the door. Outside, I take a deep breath of freezing air, and, though it burns my lungs, it helps. Luke holds open the door of the van for me and kisses my cheek before he closes it.
We spend the ride in silence, Luke glancing at me every so often with concern on his face. When we pull into my driveway, he offers to come in.
“Thanks, but I’m fine,” I say, wanting nothing more than to run inside.
“Is your mom home at least?” he asks, squinting toward the lighted window in the dining room.
“I’m sure she is,” I say, turning and adding, “thanks,” before slamming the door without so much as a kiss. I jog up the porch steps before Luke has the chance to get out of the car. Once inside the house, I go straight up to my bedroom, close the door, and get in bed fully clothed. Pulling the covers up to my neck, I squeeze my eyes shut and try to control my erratic breathing. I let my mind go to the damp cemetery; I let myself feel that I am there, standing in the midst of a sea of black.
I know from my notes that I’ve had some version of this funeral memory for a while. It has been building and growing in the depths of my brain, quietly reminding me that sometime, someone will die.
But until tonight, “someone” is all I knew.
Then Luke’s baby sister lying sweet and serene in a shipping box lit the fuse, and here I am seeing it plain as day: the smaller than usual hole in the ground before me, open wide and already swallowing a tiny coffin fit for the miniperson surely lying inside.
“Someone” is a child.
As if it couldn’t get worse, another thought punches me in the gut and beats me down to the point where I consider I might never get up again.
It’s hazy—a long time from now—but I do remember being pregnant.