She knew there was a better solution, and she had an appointment for the third week in July. It wouldn’t be the first time. There was once in college, and then again, six months into her eighteen-month marriage. Being with the man had seemed like a great idea, the baby not so much, and then she realized maybe she could cut herself out of the marriage too.
The backyard wasn’t a yard so much as a meadow between the house and the woods. A large oak tree dominated the meadow at one end, and the other end swept past the south porch and down through poison ivy thickets, raspberries, and dead pines to the rocks of the shore. Gwen and Danny walked up the peak of the small hill behind the meadow. The water, busy with boats going in all directions, rolled away from them toward the neighboring island. Like a bustling intersection. Danny swung his bucket while he walked and hummed a tune in time with his steps. He walked ahead of her, up toward the tree line, where the blueberries grew thick and low.
Gwen believed in choice, in control, in self-sufficiency. She believed in any pagan ritual that brought women dancing naked around a fire. She did not believe in the sacrifice of the self. But there was the lowest whisper inside, something dim that pushed her to delay the appointment. Those other times, there had been no hesitation. It was just part of life, like getting strep or breaking a bone. No sexually active collegiate woman with an ounce of self-preservation could avoid it, at least no one like her with the impulsive nature of a blotto frat guy. But now she was uncertain, and that uncertainty felt weak. It embarrassed her.
Indecision was for people who didn’t really know themselves. Gwen did not linger over menus, in dressing rooms, or in relationships. She believed in first instincts and gut feelings. Only now her gut had been hijacked and, therefore, her instincts potentially skewed. Her hormones were pounding out some genetic rhythm, beating incessantly through her veins. Not telling Libby was a way of guarding against that feeling. Libby would say those words that held to the shadows inside her: “What if it’s your last chance?” And yet she hated that Libby didn’t know. She had never kept a secret from her sister.
The grass had grown knee high, and she pulled her boots through it instead of stepping over it.
“This always seems like such a good idea until we actually get out here,” Danny said as he began putting the first few tiny berries into his bucket. He took his phone out of his pocket, swiped a few times, and put it back.
“We’re doing as the original rusticators did. Just keep thinking: blueberry crumble, blueberry crumble.” It was Danny’s favorite, and the only thing Gwen felt like eating right now. That and lobster. Everything else made her feel tired and gray.
“Please, they had their servants do this shit,” said Danny. “They just sat on the porch under parasols drinking Chartreuse or something.”
That sounded like heaven to Gwen.
“Been keeping up with your Masterpiece Theater, I see.”
“There’s more to me than High Life and ramen, thank you very much.” He threw a berry at her.
Gwen tried to catch it in her mouth, missing, by a lot.
She worked quietly for a while, smelling the warmth of the grass and salt, the richness of pine tar. Nothing about a baby seemed practical to Gwen, even this simple act of plucking blueberries from their brittle stems. How does one even do this with a child? How do you keep them out of the poison ivy, out of the frigid sea that wants desperately to devour them? Their warm flesh must hold something more vital, more enticing, than the porous husks of adults. The gentle lapping waves always seeking to pull them from docks, from the sterns of boats, even from the pebbled shores of quiet coves. How could a life jacket hold back all that hungry ocean? She had seen the sea’s appetite all those years ago, when Libby lay blue-lipped and soft on the hard stones of a beach.
Gwen stood and stretched, looking out at the harbor. The boats on their moorings and the birds perched on the rocks all faced into the wind. The cormorants held their wings wide open to dry. Gulls jabbered over a slow-moving lobster boat. With crawling and crying, how do parents ever enjoy silence again?
“So, are we going to talk about it?” said Danny.
“Hmmm?” she said, mouth full of blueberries.
“Who’s the daddy? You’re gonna have it, right? ’Cause don’t get me all excited about this uncle crap if you’re just gonna flush it.”
Gwen sat down with a clunk of her pail and stared at Danny for a moment.
“Well, fuck.” She pushed his shoulder, trying to knock him over. “What gave it away?”
“You’ve been turning down booze. And you’re a fat cow, obviously.”
“So tough. You’re the kind of guy who’d run out and buy miniature high-tops before the thing’s even firmed up.”
“Everyone needs a pair of high-tops. Besides, the little bastard is going to need one sensitive man in his life. Wait, you did do this with a guy, right?”
“I realize it’s surprisingly traditional of me. We’ll leave the turkey baster to Bibs.”
“Have you told her? She’s going to be pissed you told me first. You told me first, right?”
“Dan, I really don’t see motherhood as the next step in my artistic development, okay? So can you just dial it back a little. Plus, you guessed, so I haven’t technically told anyone.”
“Guessed or saw the pregnancy test box in your recycling. Whateves. Either way, don’t go that route with her. She’ll kick your ass when it comes to technicalities. What about a name? The Executioner? Bonecrusher, maybe El Diablo?” he said, kneeling with his arms held high like Godzilla over Tokyo.
“No wrestlers, no hair bands, no serial killers. If I were to have a baby, in the distant future”—she pinched her thumb and forefinger together and pointed at him, as if to pull any sense of excitement from him—“I would not let you chose the name. If it were a boy? Maybe Robert.” Their father’s name.
Danny sat back on his heels, his bucket dangling from one hand, and began to cry. Gwen took his bucket and set it on the ground. She scootched toward him until they were hip to hip, and she rubbed his back for a second.
“For now you can drink for two, okay?” she said. He nodded, gave a short chuckle between sniffs. She hugged him and passed him his bucket. He sighed. She hated to take this from him so quickly.
“How you feeling?” Danny asked. “Seeing your breakfast in reverse?”
Danny smiled at her and put three blueberries in his pail—plink, plank, plunk. She was only eight weeks pregnant, but she could feel his smile was not just for her. She felt both his love for her and his love for what she carried. It felt good and sad. In a few weeks, he would love her less.
“You gonna tell them?” Danny asked, checking the ground for a clear spot and moving to a different bush.
“Soon there will be nothing to tell, and I don’t want to hear it from Tom.” Gwen moved next to him, and they both looked down the slope toward the water. “Why tell them? So they can tell me I’m not getting any younger?”
“You might push Tom over the edge anyway. He seems like he’s hanging by a thread. That shit with the Windex in the car?”