All the Difference (6 page)

“How long has it been?” Molly asked.

“Almost a year.”

Molly's spine was so tense it felt like it could splinter apart.

“And each month that goes by has me riding on these huge hopes, and then they go crashing down just as quickly,” Jenny continued. “It's like we're stuck on a Tilt-A-Whirl gone bad.”

Molly cleared her throat. “Those things are awful.”

Jenny took a long swallow of her wine and looked over at the full glass resting on the table beside Molly's plate.

“Hey,” she said. “Why aren't you drinking?”

Molly stared at a spot of the red liquid that had fallen onto her goblet's stem and reached to wipe it away. Her glass had remained full while Jenny's was filled and emptied, filled and emptied again. All Jenny wanted was a simple drink, and here Molly sat, drowning in more than she'd wanted in the first place. She shook her head and stood up.

“I suddenly don't feel so well,” Molly told Jenny, and emptied her glass into the sink.

February

If She'd Said Yes

M
olly trudged up the stairs to her front door. She was panting a little despite her best efforts to muscle her way along, tugging the plastic grocery bags with a numb hand while she searched her coat pocket for keys with the other. Rittenhouse Market had been packed with office workers looking for comfort food for the bitter weekend ahead. Molly hadn't had the patience for them, the women shoving their carts down the narrow aisles like they were all on deadline, the men shouting into their cell phones with their bets for Sunday's Flyers game. It was all too chaotic. Confusion was swimming through her head like a school of angry fish, and she needed to contain it, needed a moment long enough to sort through it all.

Molly had been naked just two hours before. She'd been naked and shivering and mortified to be lying on a cold exam table while her new obstetrician inspected her insides and pushed around on her belly. All Molly wanted to do was announce that this wasn't
how she'd planned on having kids. She stifled the urge to insist that she had a good job and came from a solid family. She did mention, though, working it into casual conversation, that she had a fiancé who couldn't get out of work for the appointment, but he was supportive and excited and they were going to get married and really, it was all okay. It was all going to work out. And then she lay back, stared at the pockmarked ceiling, and winced.

The doctor had told her the baby was the size of a lime. It already had ears that were perfect miniature versions of what they would look like in adult form, and toes that curled. Molly couldn't stop thinking about those little toes. She was going to get to buy packs of tiny socks.
Socks,
she thought. A flood of joy surged up from Molly's chest, catching her off guard. The fear she felt at this adventure that was still unknown and unplanned seemed natural. The joy, though—the sheer thrill that bubbled like a fountain from the depths of her, the giddy awe that would spring up every time a weekly email from BabyCenter.com popped into her inbox—wasn't what she'd expected at all. Happiness over something so frightening was a tricky feeling, and more delicate. The happiness, she knew, could slip away.

Molly paused at the top of the staircase with one arm still in her coat pocket, shuddering in the cold wind that whipped down the narrow tunnel of her street. She remembered the call from her mother she'd ignored that morning and knew she couldn't put off talking to her parents much longer. She was thirty years old. She had a job, was independent, and had been living on her own for years. She knew she should be able to ignore the pit in her stomach when she thought about the conversation they needed to have. She just didn't know how to do it. Her parents had struggled so much to build a life for their children. There
had been nights of hot dogs and canned beans for dinner, hushed arguments over money, strict rules about her homework and summer jobs and research for college scholarships. They'd done their best to ensure her future while still being a part of her present. Molly brushed a pile of rotting leaves off the stoop with a little too much force. She couldn't bear the idea of looking her pop in the face and telling him she got knocked up.

She located her UPenn keychain deep in an open bag of chocolate drops and managed to push open the heavy wood door to her brownstone. In the dim light, Molly saw her fiancé sitting on the living room couch with a remote in his hand, fascinated by the din of shouts and lasers blasting from one of the cable movie channels.

“Um, Scott, can I have a hand here, please?” Molly dropped the bulky packages out of her right hand and slid the handbag off her shoulder. “I'm drowning in plastic and Hershey's Kisses.”

“Hmm?” Scott hopped up, his eyes still fixed on
The Empire Strikes Back
. He glanced at Molly, then at the bags at her feet. “Hey, what are you doing with groceries? I ended up getting out of work earlier than I thought and texted you. I could've gotten those.”

Scott moved toward the sacks of food piled up by the door, but was so focused on the movie he slowed to watch it. Molly, shivering, tried to scoot out of her heavy wool peacoat. The silver buttons popped from their enclosures as if relieved to be free of her bloated midsection. Her lime-baby took up more room than she would have expected.

“Just leave the bags there for now. Take a load off.” Scott nodded toward the couch, his eyes still on the AT-AT marching across the television screen. “I'll get them after this is over.”

“No, there're milk and eggs somewhere in there. I'll put them
in the fridge.” Molly sighed and opened the door to the entryway closet to hang up her coat, smoothing it before tucking it in between Scott's collection of wool coats and ski parkas. She hadn't seen Scott's text until she was in the checkout line, or she would've come home. She couldn't wait to unzip her pants.

She dragged a couple of the plastic bags into the kitchen. Scott followed her, all the remaining grocery bags bunched into one large hand. Chewbacca was still moaning from the living room. Molly was used to the way Scott would get sucked into a film, but today she was more bothered by the clutter she found on the countertop than his endearing obsession with lightsabers. She had to sweep an empty cereal box and beer caps to the recycling bin before she could place the groceries on the counter. The reusable bags she'd set out so she would remember them that morning still lay piled in a neat stack on the island. Scott set the groceries on top of them.

“Have you given any thought to dinner?” Molly asked. “All I want to do is take a shower and collapse on the couch, so tonight's got to be on you, if you don't mind.”

“I'm already on it.” Scott was peeking around the corner of the kitchen doorjamb, trying to see what was happening in the living room. His love of science fiction films was part of what drew Molly to him—it was an interest that didn't fit in with his cool-guy persona, and she felt like she'd been let in on a secret, something special that only she was privy to know.

“Oh, and hey, thanks for that cute note you put in my bag this morning. I needed that.” She was reaching into an upper cabinet and spoke over her shoulder. “Work killed me today. Ever since they doubled up on my accounts I barely have time to grab a sandwich in the afternoon. I swear, when Bill's not emailing me
with questions about this client, he's calling me to ask about another. And he needs me to stay late for a conference call tomorrow, so it's a good thing you already made plans with the guys.”

Molly paused in the midst of putting some boxes of Tastykakes on a shelf. There was silence behind her.

“Hello?” she said, turning around. Scott was mouthing along with a conversation Han was having with Luke. She laughed. She should've known. “Earth to Scott! I'm trying to have big, important conversations here. Like how I can't go to happy hour with you.”

“Sorry, babe.” Scott smiled at her and moved toward the living room. “It's been months since I've seen this.”

Molly heard the click of the TV as it shut off, and Scott walked back into the kitchen. He placed an empty beer bottle on the counter and sidled over behind Molly as she reached back into the cabinet above her. His long fingers spread themselves across her hip bones, pulling her waist to him before he wrapped his arms around her in a hug that made it impossible for her to do anything else but let him hold her.

“Hey, did Jenny happen to call?” Molly leaned her head back to rest for a moment on Scott's shoulder. “She's supposed to let me know how she likes that new temp job at the bank.”

“No, no word.” Scott kissed the back of Molly's head, then straightened up to open the refrigerator door, holding it wide while he stared at its contents. “Nothing on the voice mail when I got home, either.” He reached inside, pulled a container of Greek yogurt from the back of a shelf, looked at it, then put it back.

“I'm worried about her,” Molly said. She taped the bag of Kisses closed and shoved them to the back of a pantry shelf. “She loved her job.”

“Molly, you freak out too much.” Scott nudged her shoulder
with a loose fist until she allowed a smile. “Don't be weird. She'll be fine.”

Molly smirked. “I'm not freaking out. I'm just, you know, mildly concerned.” Scott shot her a look of doubt and yawned.

“Come on. First not being able to have a baby, then getting laid off?” Molly said. “I'm not sure how much more Jenny can handle.”

There was a pause while Scott leaned against the counter, watching Molly organize her bottles of prenatal vitamins. “How was your appointment?”

“It went well.” Molly managed a chuckle. “I'm getting excited. My doctor's cool, but she's got this funny sort of hippie vibe going on. I haven't figured out yet if it'll be relaxing or the most irritating thing I've ever encountered. I can just hear her now when I'm pushing the baby out: ‘Heeey, mannn, I see the heeaaad. Whoooaa. It's sooo cool.' She'll be passing a joint around instead of a cigar.”

“Hey, I'd be down with that.” Scott fished an open box of Oreos out of a grocery bag and shoved one whole into his mouth. His evening stubble had begun to appear, darkening the sharp angles of his jawline. He was still wearing his button-front shirt from work that day, open now at the collar, tucked into his flat-front dress pants. He continued to talk around a mouthful of dark crumbs, not seeming to notice the pieces falling out as he spoke. “Anything to help me tune out all that nasty stuff.”

Molly looked at Scott from the side of her narrowed eyes. “I know you get weirded out, but it's okay to come to these appointments, you know. Nothing that disgusting happens.” She took a cookie from him. “I got to hear the heartbeat today. It's so fast it doesn't seem real. You should go next time.”

“No way, gorgeous, that stuff's not for me.” Scott grimaced. “I do not need to know what goes on down there.”

“Are you kidding me?” Molly snorted. “What are you going to do when I give birth? Hide in the bathroom? Or just wait out in the hall till you hear the baby cry?”

“I won't hide in the bathroom, as appealing as the idea sort of sounds.” Scott took a swig of a new beer he'd taken from the fridge. “Especially if your doc really is generous with her ganja.” He opened a drawer in the island and started digging through a stack of take-out menus. “But I'm staying up near your head. I don't want to see blood and stuff. Other dudes have warned me to steer clear. I've heard the stories.”

He looked up to grin at her. “It's your happy land, Mol!” he said. “Gotta keep it that way. Ignorance is bliss, you know?”

“Well, you have about seven and a half months to change your mind,” Molly said. Her voice was light. “Because if you keep up that attitude, my happy land's going to be revoking your visa.”

Scott rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.

Molly shoved the last of the bags into the recycling bin. “I've got to go shower. I feel gross.”

Scott dropped the stack of menus on the countertop and turned to Molly, cocking his head to one side. He jerked his head in the direction of the stairs, one side of his lips pulled up into a suggestive smirk.

“No, you're not coming with me.” Molly laughed. “I've been groped enough today. Besides, you're in charge of dinner, remember?” She gestured toward the pile of menus Scott had spread out before her.

“Well, what's baby Berkus in the mood for?”

Molly had been taking off her scarf and sweater as she moved out of the kitchen, but came to a stop. She turned to face Scott.

“Baby Berkus?” She laughed in surprise. Her hands were still clasping her scarf. “Don't you mean Baby
Sullivan
-Berkus?”

Scott moved his hand through his hair, and Molly marveled for a brief moment, as she always did, at the way his hair still managed to stay perfect after he did that. Then she noticed that there was a piece of Oreo filling clinging to one of the short hairs on his chin, and she dropped back into reality.

“What?” she asked.

“Baby Sullivan-Berkus? You're kidding me, right? You want to give our kid a hyphenated name?” Scott took a slow gulp from the bottle in his hand. “When did this happen?”

“I thought we'd agreed.” Molly felt the muscles in her face wrinkle up in confusion. “Back when we first started dating, we talked about it. I even remember the night—you'd taken me ice skating at Penn's Landing because I'd never been. You liked the thought of two becoming one, and all that. You said you were okay with me keeping my last name if we got married.”

“Yeah, I said I was okay with it,” Scott said, “not overjoyed. But our kids? I didn't think you'd want to hyphenate their names, too.”

He stopped and took a breath. “Look, I love all of your independent, I-am-woman-hear-me-roar spunk. But let's get real here.”