With Child Page 8

  That had been the worst part—packing up Dean’s clothes, remembering a day when he’d been wearing this jacket, the sight of him grinning at her from behind the wheel of the Camaro wearing that shirt. Their first date, their first kiss, his proposal, she could track in his wardrobe.

  At first, she set aside some garments to keep. But the pile grew, and finally she chose not to keep any. Tears had dripped onto the cardboard as she’d taped shut the boxes.

  Her back ached and she gently rubbed her belly as she walked through the kitchen and paused at the French doors looking out on the patio. The baby somersaulted in an unusual display of daytime acrobatics. Usually he or she rested quietly during the day. Bedtime was playtime. But perhaps her distress had flowed with her bloodstream into her unborn baby, agitating him. Her, she amended, as always reminding herself. Which would Dean have preferred? A boy or a girl? Or would he have cared at all?

  Her eyes were wet again when she turned away from the patio and the roses that now, in August, were looking parched.

  She laid her house keys on the kitchen counter beside the appliance manuals she’d found neatly filed away and had set out for the new owners. Then, almost steadily, she walked straight out, locking the front door behind her.

  Even the act of walking down the driveway and getting into her car was different than it used to be. Already, at five and a half months pregnant, she felt unbalanced by her protruding belly. Awkward.

  Dean would have thought she was beautiful. She blinked away the moisture in her eyes and gave an unladylike snuffle. She fumbled for a tissue and blew her nose and mopped her cheeks. She wasn’t beautiful at her best, and she sure as heck wasn’t anything approaching it right now. Her face looked puffy and any semblance of a waist had disappeared. Her belly button had popped out! Just that morning she’d taken out the tiny gold ring she wore in it. Why a belly-button ring still looked cute on Kate Hudson when she was pregnant but not on her, Mindy couldn’t guess. But it didn’t. She’d wondered if she would ever put it back in. Did mothers wear belly-button rings?

  “Okay,” she told herself. “Time to go.” She turned the semi-functional air-conditioning up, because she was already sweating, and backed out of the driveway.

  She had rented an apartment on Beacon Hill a few blocks above Rainier. It wasn’t the best part of Seattle, but the small houses in the neighborhood looked cared for, and rents were cheaper than around the university or in West Seattle or any other part of the city she’d lived before. And she wanted to save as much money as she could. She’d have to draw on what she had to get started—even for the small basement apartment she was moving into, she’d had to write a hefty check for first and last months’ rent. She didn’t know if she’d earn enough from the job she’d found as a barista to pay for rent and utilities and food. She hoped she would, because she didn’t have health insurance and would be facing doctor and hospital bills for the birth. Plus, she wanted desperately to take two or three months off work after her baby was born. Just to get to know her.

  That was as far as Mindy’s plans had gone. Paying child care out of minimum wage was going to be impossible. So she’d have to keep drawing on the money Dean had left. Someday there would be ballet lessons or Little League sign-ups and a bike would have to be under the tree some Christmas morning. And college. She gave a small laugh. Already she was worrying about tuition!

  She hoped that somehow she could go back to woodworking once the baby was born. Right before she got pregnant, she’d had what she thought was a good idea… But then she didn’t have the energy, and now she’d decided that she shouldn’t be inhaling either sawdust or paint and polyurethane fumes. And even if her idea was good, she wouldn’t be able to make any kind of living, not at first. Since she’d rather live in a mission than beg for help from her mother, she had to take a job.

  She’d decided that, after the baby was born, she would have to tell Quinn. Maybe she’d softened a little, after a peaceful two months without him. As annoying as he was, he had loved Dean. The two men had considered themselves brothers. Maybe playing godfather or uncle or whatever would give him comfort.

  She left West Seattle, crossed I-5 on Columbia Way and circled the steep side of Beacon Hill. After almost two months of drought, the neighborhood looked more run-down than she’d last seen it, the small yard of the house where she was to live brown and weedy. Half-hysterically, she wondered what Quinn would think of this lawn, left to wander into abandoned flower beds and tangle with the trunks of lilacs and leafless trees before, unwatered, it had died.

  Her landlords, an older Hispanic couple, didn’t seem to be home. She wished they were. A cheerful greeting might have made the tiny basement apartment more welcoming. She backed as close to the cement steps as she could get, then went down and unlocked.

  Even now, in August, sunlight barely came through the narrow high windows. Most were painted shut, so she couldn’t open them to let in fresh air. With the shrubbery overgrown, pressing against the windows, the basement felt claustrophobic. It also had a distinctly musty smell despite the hot, dry weather.

  This apartment was cheap, she reminded herself, and felt safe, with the nice landlords up above. There was room in the driveway for her car, so she wouldn’t have to hunt for a spot every day, and Mrs. Sanchez had even hinted that she might be interested in babysitting when the time came.

  Mindy carried in a fan and plugged it in before she went back out to her car to begin unloading. The sooner she’d made up the bed and had her own towels in the bathroom, the sooner she’d feel at home.

  A bleak thought crept in. Really, what choice did she have?

  TWO MONTHS LATER, she was coping. Barely.

  This was one of the moments that fell in the “barely” category. It was eleven-thirty at night, she was alone closing the business, her back ached, her head swam, and she wanted to cry.

  Damn. She was forty-five cents off. Mindy stared down at the rolls of nickels and dimes and quarters. She should count them again.

  If only she wasn’t so tired! Nobody had ever told her that pregnancy was exhausting. Maybe it wouldn’t be if… She put a brake on her wistful thought. If Dean hadn’t been killed. If she weren’t working forty-hour weeks and sometimes more, mostly on her feet. If she were pampered and loved and able to be lazy.

  Mindy squared her shoulders. Well, she wasn’t, and she couldn’t be. Don’t even think about it, she ordered herself. She’d made it this far. She was seven and a half months along now. With a flutter of anxiety, she turned the timetable around: she had only six weeks to go.

  Tonight, she was too weary to count the wretched change again. Without hesitation, she scooped a quarter, a nickel and a dime out of the cup that held her tips for the evening and added them to the take that she was bagging to put in the safe.

  She didn’t really like closing. Although she’d locked the front door at eleven, she kept stealing uneasy glances at the glass door and front windows. A group of young men had been hanging out on the sidewalk for the past hour, rap music from a boom box seeming to thud through the floorboards into her bones. Occasionally they laughed or shouted or a car would pull up to the curb so that friends could exchange a few words.

  She wasn’t exactly afraid of this particular crowd; they were often around, and had never paid her much attention. As pregnant as she was now, she didn’t even merit a flirtation. She was more nervous about going out the back door to the alley, where she’d parked her car. There, sometimes shadows moved behind a Dumpster or she’d hear a murmur of voices. She always stuck her head out the door like a turtle peering out of its shell, checked to be sure that she was alone, then slammed the metal door and rushed to her car with her key already in her hand. She’d timed herself; she could make it in twenty seconds. But maybe she should start parking in front instead, even if it was a block or two away.

  Every day she debated, and every day she ended up parking in back. She didn’t like the idea of going out the front, obviously locki
ng up, then having to walk two blocks so late at night.

  This evening’s tips were meager. She counted: $24.75. Three dollars an hour, on top of her minimum wage. She’d done lots better than that when she’d started two months ago. She guessed she’d been prettier then, maybe more animated and likely to chat and tease and laugh. Now she was too tired to do more than prepare a double mocha latte and say, “Six-fifty, please.” And then, to the next customer, “What can I get you?”

  Tonight, she’d just closed the back door and checked to be sure it was locked when she heard a clang and then a shout so close by, her heart bounded and she ran to her car. Her hand was shaking, and it took her extra seconds to get the key in the lock. She fell in and hit the lock, her heart drumming and her vision blurred. She started the car, turned on the headlights and rocketed forward without even fastening her seat belt.

  She didn’t see a soul in the alley. Somebody had probably been yelling at a dog beyond the fence. She sometimes heard a deep, snarling bark there.

  Somehow she drove safely the half mile to her apartment. There, she parked, went in, and sank down on the couch as if her legs couldn’t hold her for another second.

  Her ankles were so swollen, she saw in dismay. She was due to see the doctor this week. She’d have to ask about the swelling. She’d gained an awful lot of weight this month, too, if the scale in the bathroom was anywhere close to accurate. And she didn’t eat that much! She didn’t. She’d already given up drinking soda at all, since she’d read that could make your ankles swell. She didn’t have anything with caffeine, and she tried to eat lots of fruits and vegetables and whole grains and all the things she’d never thought about before. All she wanted was for her baby to be healthy.

  Thank goodness she had tomorrow and Monday off. Then she had her doctor appointment Tuesday morning before she went to work at two-thirty. She’d feel more rested by then.

  Usually Mindy did her housecleaning on Sunday afternoon. This Sunday, she had breakfast, read the newspaper that she shared with the Sanchezes, then felt so tired she went back to bed for a nap. A knock on her door woke her.

  Her dazed eyes found the clock. Oh, no! It was almost three. She’d wasted the day. Thank goodness she’d gotten dressed this morning, at least. She heaved herself off the bed, finger-combed her hair and went to see who was knocking.

  On the doorstep was her mother, wearing a sweater that had to be cashmere with a deep V-neck that showed cleavage. She gave an exaggerated shiver. “Aren’t you going to let me in?”

  “Yes, I…” Mindy gave her head a shake. “Of course. But…what on earth are you doing here?”

  “Visiting, what else?” Passing her, Cheri Walker peeked into the tiny kitchen and wrinkled her nose. “This place is nasty! How can you bear it?”

  Feeling huge and sullen, Mindy gestured at the couch. “Would you like to sit down?”

  Her mother studied it as if a cockroach might be lurking in the crack between the cushions. Finally, she perched on the very edge, without leaning back.

  Mindy flopped into the easy chair.

  “You hardly return my phone calls,” her mother said.

  Knowing she sounded sulky, Mindy couldn’t help herself. “I most often work nights. And you’re at work in the mornings when I’m free.”

  “You must have days off,” her mother pointed out, unanswerably. When Mindy didn’t respond, she swept her with a gaze. “Honey, you look awful.”

  Mindy gritted her teeth. “Gee, thanks.”

  “You shouldn’t be working.”

  “I can’t afford not to be.” Her mother didn’t want to hear unpalatable reality. “Dean’s money won’t go that far. I know I’ll need to take time off after the baby is born.”

  “You’re planning to bring a baby to live here?” Cheri Walker made it sound as if the apartment was a cell at the state penitentiary.

  “I can’t afford…”

  “Oh, for gracious sakes!” Her mother stood. “You’re just being a martyr! What do you want me to say? You can come home to live with me?”

  Mindy would rather stand at a freeway exit with a sign begging for money than go live with her mother.

  “I know you’re far too busy to want me home again.” Oh, how civil she could be! “Are you seeing anyone right now, Mom?”

  A smug smile curved her mother’s mouth. “Yes, and he’s such a doll! Mark is manager at QFC…”

  Or maybe it was Safeway. Or Albertsons. Mindy quit listening. Her mother always had some fabulous man around. The strange men wandering into the kitchen first thing in the morning had been one of the reasons Mindy had left home the day after she’d graduated from high school.

  Her mother was nearly fifty, but she had kept a slim figure. Although she hadn’t admitted to a face-lift, Mindy suspected she’d gotten one a couple of years ago. Now, no more than the tiniest lines beside her eyes hinted that she was over thirty-five. Her golden hair had more life and shine than her pregnant daughter’s, and she had a delighted, warm smile that gave men two left feet and a sudden desire to treasure her for all eternity.

  Of course, her relationships all petered out. Mindy thought that usually her mother was the one to lose interest. She’d never figured out why her mother had married her father, or stayed with him for fifteen years until his shocking death of a heart attack when he was barely over forty. If she’d been deeply in love with him, she wouldn’t have had a new man in his bed within weeks.

  Mindy tuned in to hear, “Now, if he were as good-looking as that friend of Dean’s…”

  She did not want to hear what a hottie Quinn was. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” Mindy interrupted.

  Her mother glanced toward the kitchen. Her nostrils quivered. “Thank you, but no. I don’t dare stay that long.”

  Or imbibe anything that came out of that kitchen, apparently.

  “I should have spent today housecleaning,” Mindy admitted. “But I’m so tired. When you were pregnant, were you…”

  Her mother made a moue. “Pregnancy is horrible. Why do you think you don’t have a younger brother or sister?”

  Maybe because you discovered you hated being a mother?

  “Of course I was tired! I made your father get me housecleaning help.”

  Not an option for Mindy.

  “You are seeing the doctor?” her mother asked.

  “Yes, of course. I’m not stupid.” Even to Mindy, that sounded childish. She sighed. “Actually, I have an appointment Tuesday.”

  “Oh, good.” Her mother surveyed her once again. “Because you really do look…”

  She rolled her eyes. “Like hell. I know.”

  “I wasn’t going to say that. It’s just…” Tiny lines furrowed her brow. Genuine concern—could it be?—battling Botox. “You’re too pale. And puffy. I’d hoped to see you blooming.”

  “I’m sure I’m fine.” Did anybody bloom at seven and a half months pregnant? “It’s been a long week, and I just got up from a nap.”

  Her mother glanced at her watch and stood. “Oh, dear! I didn’t mean to stay so long. I just wanted to see where you’re living, since you’ve been so evasive.”

  “I haven’t been evasive.” Mindy began levering herself forward so that she could rise, too.

  “Oh, you just haven’t invited me over?” The tiny snap in her voice silenced Mindy. She gave one last, disdainful glance around. “Spend his money, Mindy. Don’t keep feeling as if you have to keep it in some sort of trust for the baby. You’re entitled.”

  She swept out, leaving Mindy still struggling to stand.

  At the sound of the door closing, Mindy gave up the battle and sank back into the chair.

  Entitled! Her mother made marriage sound like legal prostitution! She’d given him sex, and therefore now had the right to run through his money as fast as she could? Mindy fumed.

  And people wondered why she wasn’t closer to her mother! Mindy had seen it in Quinn’s eyes. He just couldn’t imagine why she hadn’t wanted to c
all her mother to come comfort her.

  Gee, could it be because after her own husband had died, Cheri Walker had been so busy screwing other men she hadn’t noticed how her fourteen-year-old daughter grieved?

  Mindy had never forgiven her mother, and she never intended to. Her father had loved her mother, and she’d apparently been desperate to be single and giddy again. If she’d just waited a few months…!

  Mindy squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath, trying to will away the familiar resentment. She couldn’t change the past, and fortunately she didn’t need to depend on her mother.

  She just wished…oh, that she had someone who would go with her to the doctor on Tuesday, someone to give her back rubs and make her cups of herbal tea and maybe pamper her just a little bit. Someone she could depend on.

  QUINN HAD GIVEN UP the battle one day in late September and driven by the house. Not in the Camaro, of course; he’d have jumped from the observation deck on the Space Needle before he took a chance of Mindy seeing him hovering.

  He felt like an idiot. What would a quick glance at the house tell him? But he told himself he still owed it to Dean to keep an eye on her. He wasn’t absolved of responsibility just because she’d become petulant.

  He’d barely turned the corner when he saw the real-estate sign planted out front. Then he spotted the Sold sign.

  Despite himself, his foot lifted from the gas. She’d sold the house already? Then, stunned, he saw the bike lying on the lawn and the shiny green Toyota SUV parked in the driveway. A planter, filled with rust and orange mums, had been added to the front porch.