Page 63 of Pregnant in Pennsylvania

11

Iget Aiden settled on the couch, the ACE bandage provided by the hospital unwrapped and carefully rewound into a neat coil, a towel and icepack on his ankle. I turn onTeenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and place a boxed set of a cartoon series my parents got him for his birthday last year on the coffee table in front of him.

I call my parents and update them on what happened with Aiden, and have to spend several minutes calming my mother down, reassuring her that Aiden is fine, I’m fine, we’re all fine.

And then…

I fly into Hurricane Elyse, cleaning the house at literal warp speed—dishes in the dishwasher, counters wiped off, mail and random papers stacked in a corner, Aiden’s LEGOs swept into a pile and scooped into the handcrafted wooden chest Dad and Aiden made together—it’s a four-by-two-foot replica of a LEGO brick, complete with hydraulic piston arms to keep it up and lower it down safely, a project Dad and Aiden did together over this past summer. Once I’ve got our rooms picked up, I run the vacuum over the place and sweep the kitchen and…

Aiden frowns at me as I vacuum the living room. “Mom, it’s Coach Trent coming over, not, like, God.”

“He’s a guest, Aiden, and our house was in bad shape. I want to make a good impression.”

“You never pick up for Aunt Cora.”

“Because she’s basically family,” I tell him.

“Well, I think you’ve already made a pretty good impression on Coach Trent.” Aiden goes back to watching his show once I’m done with the vacuum.

“Oh?” I ask, going for nonchalant and merely curious. “Why’s that?”

“He talked about you a lot on the way to the hospital.”

“What did he say?”

Aiden shrugs. “You know, just…stuff.” He’s a little too dismissive, and his eyes are locked a little too squarely on the TV.

“Aiden.”

He sighs. “He just was like asking questions, and talking about how he likes talking to you.”

“Asking questions? What kind of questions?”

“I dunno. Just…what kind of stuff you like to do, and…I don’t know. Just questions.”

I suppress a groan of irritation. Getting an eight-year-old boy to recount a conversation is like trying to herd cats in a dark room. “If he was asking questions, how do you know I’ve made a good impression?”

“I mean, if he wants to know stuff about you, doesn’t that mean he kind of…likes you? Notlikesyou likes you, but… you know. Likes you.”

I laugh. “Oh, Aiden.” I ruffle his hair as I put the vacuum away. “You’re cute.”

“Why? What’d I say?”

“Nothing. You just are.” I perch on the arm of the couch beside him. “How’s your ankle?”

He shrugs. “Hurts, and the ice is getting drippy, and it’s cold.”

I see headlights approaching our house, and rush into the bathroom: I’ve gotten all sweaty in my cleaning frenzy, so I change my top and rinse my face with cold water and dab it dry…but then I’ve messed up my already messy makeup, so I have to reapply at least my lipstick because I can’t face Jamie without lipstick at least, and I hear his truck door close and my hair is still a frizzy mess, so I yank it out of the updo I had it in and drag a brush through it…

I hear the doorbell, then.

“MOM! Coach Trent is here!” Aiden yells.

“I know, buddy, I heard.”

I grab the ponytail holder, stick it in my teeth, and work my hair into a ponytail as I head for the front door. I’m still gathering my hair back as I open the door. Jamie is on my front porch, two big paper bags in his hands. His eyes lance into me, and then rake down. And I realize, in my haste to get out of my sweaty top, I forgot my bra is leopard print, and the top I changed into is a thin white V-neck, so now my bra is visible. Great.

“Hi,” I breathe.