Page 90 of Pregnant in Pennsylvania

Dad snorts. “Not even close. A carburetor is a part in older cars and trucks. I’ll explain what it does while we fix it and put it back in.”

“Okay.” Aiden hugs me once more. “Be good for the doctors, Mom.”

I wobble a little, and Jamie catches me, his arm surreptitiously bracing my elbow. “I will. You be good for Grandma and Papa.”

“I will!”

“And don’t learn any more of Papa’s crabapple wisdom.”

Dad laughs. “I’ve been a crabapple my whole life. Ain’t about to stop now.”

I pat him on the arm. “I know it, Dad. And we love you that way. Just don’t turn my son into one.”

“Eh. Worse things’n bein’ a crabapple. Could be a no-good wussy.”

“Like my sperm donor?” Aiden asks.

I whirl on him. “Aiden Daniel Thomas! Where in the world did you hearthat?”

He pales. “I didn’t know it was bad! Carter said that’s what his dad said my dad is—nothing but a good-for-nothing sperm donor.”

“Ugh, my god” I sigh. “Do not repeat that, okay? Your father made his choices, but it doesn’t mean we get to say nasty or unkind things. We take the high road, Aiden.”

“Okay, Mama. I understand. I won’t say it again.”

Dad squeezes his shoulder. “Let’s go.” He shoots Jamie another glance. “Get her to the hospital and make sure my little girl is okay.”

Jamie’s nod is serious. “Yes, sir.”

Dad winks at me. “He’s respectful. I like that.”

“Dad,” I growl, my voice full of warning. “Don’t.”

He raises his hands. “Just sayin’.”

He helps Aiden into his truck; Aiden scoots behind the wheel and reaches for the gas pedal. “Can I drive?”

Dad snorts. “Not a chance. Now scoot.”

“But you—”

“Wouldneverlet an eight-year-old boy drive my truck,” Dad cuts in, a little too loudly.

I laugh. “You really think I don’t know you let him drive? You strapped blocks to my shoes and taught me to drive when I was six.”

“Never can start a kid too early, as long as you’re careful. We go way out in the north field where there ain’t so much as a stump for acres, and I let him toddle around in the grass. He’s a champ. He’ll be the best driver on the road by the time he’s got his license.”

“Just be careful, and don’t let him go too fast.”

Dad slides behind the wheel, makes sure Aiden is seated properly on his booster and is buckled in, and then he rattles away, waving at me through the open window.

Mrs. Emory and a few other teachers have taken over directing traffic and getting kids to their parents while Sheriff Johnson writes a ticket for the driver of the truck who rear-ended me. A flatbed tow truck rumbles up, waiting as the last few parents pick up their kids, rubbernecking, and then the flatbed backs up, beeping loudly, right up to the back of my car. He lowers his bed and sets about attaching the chain and hooks while Sheriff Johnson takes my statement.

And then, finally, Jamie escorts me to his truck, not letting go of me for a second. I slide up and in, slowly and carefully, my neck aching and protesting with each movement.

Once I’m alone in the truck, I allow myself a quick, quiet sob. And then Jamie is climbing behind the wheel and starting it up and heading out of the parking lot. An old Randy Travis song is playing on the radio, the volume down low.

“You don’t need to be strong right now, Elyse,” Jamie says.