Becca's Baby

School would be starting soon. She knew he was busy. But too busy to talk to his wife?

“So,” Randi said slowly, “you planning to sleep on the couch for the rest of your life?”

Becca lowered herself beside her sister-in-law, unhappier than she’d ever been, but determined to hold on. “If I have to.”

“You, uh, think this is permanent, then?” Randi asked, picking at the pillow.

Becca heard the sorrow in Randi’s voice. Felt an answering pain in her own heart. “I don’t know.”

EXHAUSTED AND FEELING every day of his forty-two years, Will dragged his aching body in from a game of racquetball. It was his first Saturday afternoon of living alone, and he wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep for…well, forever, maybe. He should never have challenged the head of the Math Department to a game. The man was ten years younger than he was.

But what had hurt worse than the killing he’d taken on the court had been the pitying glances the other man had sent his way when he thought Will wasn’t looking. God, he hated pity.

Almost as much as he hated living in Randi’s house.

The answering-machine light was blinking as he rounded the corner into the kitchen. Pushing the button out of duty—he owed it to Randi to get her messages to her—he listened with half an ear as he filled a tall glass with ice from the bag in the freezer, then topped it with water from the jug in his sister’s refrigerator.

Good thing he wasn’t hungry. Water and ice were about all Randi had plenty of. Unless you counted the wheaty, grainy bar things his sister seemed to live on. She had a whole cupboardful of those. And fifteen boxes of cereal. His sister was a nut.

Four messages later Will was sitting at the kitchen table, leaning back in his chair, the water almost gone. He was going to have to get up and get some more. Eventually. When his thirst won out over his exhaustion.

“Will? It’s Becca.”

He sat up straight. Set his glass on the table. She’d introduced herself. He knew her voice, dammit.

“We’ve left it pretty late for childbirth classes, but we can still get into one if we start this week. There’s an opening at the clinic here. Call me if you’re interested.” Click.

In two seconds flat, Will had speed-dialed his home number. He paced the kitchen floor as the phone rang, stomach tense. He was only slightly disappointed when he got his own answering machine. Maybe that was best for now. He and Becca using machines to do their conversing.

He agreed to her suggestion and hung up.

THE FOLLOWING SATURDAY Martha called to invite Becca to attend the Little League state championships being held right there in Shelter Valley. For the fourth year in a row Shelter Valley’s preteens had made it to the final rounds. Martha’s youngest son, Tim, was pitching for his team of nine-and ten-year-olds.

Still recuperating from her first childbirth class two evenings before, Becca wasn’t inclined to accept. She was exhausted, physically, but spiritually, too. She’d thought the classes would bring her and Will closer. That being there with him would rekindle the silent closeness they’d shared all summer. Instead, they’d been like strangers. Polite. Distant.

Aside from the conversation necessitated by what they were doing, they didn’t speak at all.

By the time she’d been asked to lie down, her big belly almost reaching Will’s shoulder when he sat on the floor beside her, she’d been wallowing in humiliation.

“The game starts at five-thirty. How about if I pick you up at five?” Martha said. “We can get a hot dog before play starts.”

Catching a glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror as she walked past, mobile phone in hand, Becca reconsidered her decision. Her hair was a mess, sticking up at odd angles, she wore no makeup and had on a pair of her husband’s sweats, cut off into shorts, with a balloon of a T-shirt on top. The colors didn’t even match.

?

?I’ll be ready,” she told her well-meaning friend.

Martha knew what she was going through. Had probably even guessed that ever since Randi left that morning, Becca had been wandering listlessly around the house, wondering where she’d gone wrong. She’d spent the greater part of the morning in her bedroom, lying on her bed, wetting Will’s pillow with tears she’d promised herself she wouldn’t shed.

BECCA RAN INTO Phyllis Langford at the Little League game. She’d spent no small amount of time with Phyllis over the past couple of weeks, since it was a traditional responsibility of the president’s wife to help introduce new hires and their families into Shelter Valley life. And regardless of whether she and Will were living in the same house, she was still his wife.

Due to Becca’s precarious situation, she and Phyllis had grown close more quickly than would ordinarily have happened. Whether it was her training or simply a natural sensitivity, Phyllis was a good listener. A caring, objective, sensible listener.

She, too, was still aching for her ex-husband and could understand Becca’s own circumstances without being told too much about them.

“Phyllis! What are you doing here?” Becca asked as the woman opened a lawn chair next to Becca and Martha’s. Martha was currently making a run for more bottled water for the team, but would be returning shortly. Her oldest daughter, Ellen, was manning the snack truck, and her two other kids, both girls, were at an end-of-summer swim and slumber party.

“You can’t go anywhere this week without hearing about Shelter Valley’s chances in the playoffs,” Phyllis was saying. “I figured, what better way to jump into town life? I grew up watching my brothers play Little League. I’ve always loved it. Besides,” she added in an undertone, “I love the little house you helped me find, but the walls don’t make great company. I can’t wait until Christine arrives.”