A match.
We match.
Scarlett’s brows pinch in concern as I don’t speak a moment, staring down at the words once more. More relief floods my body, and I’m ready to howl at the moon myself.
“Just ki—” The word cuts off as my mouth falls on hers once again, drawing in her breath to feed my lungs. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding mine with every motion of removing the page until I read what I wanted to read. Not that it mattered. No lab result would change how I feel inside for a child not even officially born yet, but it’s still a relief to know Sprout belongs to me.
Scarlett and Sprout are both mine.
23
Working Mothers Work
Scarlett
As July bleeds into August, I reach six months and the start of my third trimester. When I take my monthly urine sample and the gestational diabetes test, I almost fail both. Bull couldn’t attend this visit with me as he had an auction to attend that only happened on this day. I would have rescheduled myself, but my visits are on a regimented calendar. I told him not to worry about missing this one. The tests were routine and he wouldn’t miss anything, like our second ultrasound, which we attended together last week. Measurements of the baby in utero during the ultrasounds determined I’m on schedule for the second week in December due date.
“I’m so fat. Like everywhere,” I groan.
“I am detecting an increase of protein in your urine sample,” the doctor informs me.
Cringing, I ask, “What does that mean?”
“It means you might have preeclampsia.” I’ve been reading up on all things pregnancy over thirty-five, and preeclampsia is a possible risk, but the odds seemed so low.
“How do I get rid of it?” I ask as if it’s a common cold.
“Preeclampsia is basically high blood pressure during pregnancy. If you continue to take care of yourself, it will go away once the baby is born. In the meantime, keep eating healthy, lots of fluids, and exercise but also rest more. Are you still working at the Busy Bean Café?”
“Yes.”
“Do you stand all day?” Her brows hitch, hinting that she knows I do.
“Typically. We’re busy, but I can take breaks.”
“You need more than a break, Scarlett. You need to sit and elevate your feet.”
“Are you suggesting bed rest?” I’ve read about that too, and I’d go stir-crazy confined to a bed for months.
“Not yet, but if it comes to that, I will prescribe it. I’m not trying to hammer home your age, but you need to take extra precautions.”
“Are you recommending I quit my job?”
“I’d never recommend such a thing, but I do think you need reduced hours. Less standing time.”
Audrey and Zara would accommodate anything I need, but a stool in the middle of our active counter area would be in the way. Even in the kitchen, a stool wouldn’t be ideal to sit on in the flow of baking.
“I’ll need to think about a few things.”
“Scarlett, this is important for the well-being of the baby and yourself.” A comforting hand comes to my arm, and deep down, I know what I need to do.
Tears pour down my face as Bull enters the house that evening. I’d been watching a movie I shouldn’t be watching, and a woman just lost her baby.
“Scarlett? Oh my God, are you hurt?” Bull falls to his knees before me as I lean back on the couch. I’m so big I don’t sit. I tip. His eyes roam my body as his hands rub down my arms and scan my belly, looking for damage. “What happened?”
“I need to quit my job,” I blubber, though, leaving the Bean isn’t the worst of my worries.
“What? Why?”
I explain the concerns of preeclampsia and my age. “It always comes down to my fricking age.”
“You aren’t old,” Bull admonishes, holding both my hands between his.
“I know, right? Forty is supposed to be the new twenty. Raised libido. Zero fucks given. How can I be this fragile? I take care of myself. I used to work out every day.” Since coming to Vermont, I hadn’t been as regimented, mainly because I didn’t have Shelton reminding me to exercise, citing it was good for my heart as well as those nasty fat cells developing as I age. It was a polite way of saying I’d be overweight one day if I didn’t keep up the routine.
Bull stares at me as if I have two heads. I’m uncomfortable as I move into the final stages of pregnancy. My body is bigger than it has ever been. I’m swollen. I’m tired, and I’m crabby.
“I can’t even bend my fingers.” I try to squeeze them into fists to prove my point, but it feels as if my skin is stretching. Bull takes my hands, lifting them for his lips and kissing over my puffy knuckles.
“You’re beautiful,” he says. I chuckle through the tears. “I’m sure Audrey and Zara could make accommodations for you, but I’ve also been thinking about this. You don’t need to work, Scarlett.”
“But I’ve always worked.” Bull nods, understanding what I mean. I haven’t done manual labor like him every day, but I’ve always had a job. I’d been working since I was sixteen.
“Would it be wrong to just be a mother?” His voice softens as he asks, and the question reminds me of a conversation with Rita.
Perhaps motherhood is your next great adventure. Your new purpose.
I stare at Bull as if he has two heads. “You sound like Rita.”
“I’ve always liked that woman.” He grins. “And you don’t have to work outside the home, Scarlett. You could stay here and be a mom. It’s a different kind of work, I know, but it’s still work.”
I’ve often heard motherhood referred to as a thankless job, and I’m well aware that it’s completely unpaid monetarily. The rewards are in the little things. Hugs and handholding. Homemade presents and contagious laughter.
“But . . .” I hadn’t considered it, which is what I remember thinking when Rita mentioned it. I had friends who worked outside their home because they knew they’d be a better mother if they worked rather than stayed home with their children. I also knew women who had to work because the second income or only family income rested on them. Plenty of families made a choice to allow for one parent, typically the mother, to remain home. Was that the future for me? “I don’t want to be an imposition.”
“Scarlett, not this again. You’re not a fucking imposition. You’re my—” Bull cuts himself short. His hands release mine and brace on the edge of the couch, curling into the cushions on either side of my legs. He turns his face away from me.
“I’m your what?” I ask. The first word that comes to mind is wife, but Bull would never call me that. We aren’t married and, according to him, never will be.
“What am I to you?” We haven’t put labels on ourselves like boyfriend or girlfriend, and I’ve felt a little silly suggesting such a thing. We aren’t teens. But what do two people living together, raising a child, who aren’t defined as a couple, call themselves?
“You’re everything to me,” Bull says, twisting to face me again.