Page 69 of Wall

“That’s our babies’ tree?”

“That’s their tree.” John wraps his arms around me. The wind gusts, and snow crystals sting my cheeks. I sniff. My nose is running from the cold.

It’s lonely out here now, but I’ve been here in the summer. John brought me on one of our early dates. Our first long bike ride together. My thighs ached afterwards for days. It was gorgeous that day. A bright blue sky. No humidity. All the leaves rustling, and the birds so busy, sailing overhead from tree to tree.

A perfect day.

“How long ago did you have it planted?”

“Come this spring, it’ll be two years.”

“It’s doing okay so far?”

“It’s grown a good bit. It’s holding its own.”

We’re quiet a long time.

“I’m scared, John.”

“Me, too, babe.”

I lean back into him, let his strength take my weight.

“It’s a good tree,” I say.

John drops a kiss on the top of my head. “We’ll come back in spring. It’s got great leaves.”

“You picked a good one.”

“I know I did.” He draws me closer. “I’d pick you again. Every time.”

I look up at his dark brown eyes. He tightens his grip around my waist. I tilt up my head. He takes my mouth, hungry and warm and sweet as home.

“Can I take you home, Mrs. Wall?” he asks between kisses.

“Yes, please, Mr. Wall,” I reply.

EPILOGUE

WALL

Pitocin is a son of a bitch.

At the class the hospital makes you take, they have you put your fingers in a cup of ice and hold them there. And that’s supposed to be like the pain of contractions. And then you take your fingers out and warm ‘em up, and a minute or whatever later, you stick ‘em back in.

But Pitocin contractions are different. They’re comin’ so close together, Mona don’t have a chance to catch her breath. It ain’t no frozen fingers, either. She’s pasty white, sweating bullets, and I don’t like the way the machines are beeping.

My girl was tryin’ to do it without meds—somehow her mother got in her ear about epidurals bein’ for pussies or something—and now that the pain’s too bad, she’s agreed to do meds, but they got to hydrate her before they can do the spinal tap.

This is bullshit. She’s hurtin’ so bad for no reason. And she don’t look good.

“How you doin’, baby?”

She can’t really talk no more; she’s mostly hyperventilating and grittin’ her teeth, but I can’t help but ask.

Mona grunts.

“You’re doin’ great.”

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