Page 34 of Cascade

Opal nods. “She was talking all about you. Just…airing your secrets.”

“There are no secrets in Oak Creek, Precious. Seriously, though, she says all that because she cares.” I give Opal’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “That’s her way of making sure I know she thinks I work too hard. And maybe she worries that I’m smoking my sister’s products in my downtime, although if that were the case I wouldn’t be running around outside naked. I’d be passed out on the couch.” I keep hoping that my jokes will lighten up Opal’s mood, and maybe they do.

“You seem to have learned a lot about human psychology and communication,” Opal says. But she gets quiet as we get closer to my parents’ house.

She gives a shy smile as my mother envelopes her in a hug at the door and shoves a glass of wine in her hand. As I take Opal’s coat, I lift the wine from her hand, remembering that she doesn’t drink alcohol very often. The gesture seems to make her feel better and she smiles. My father is barely visible behind a mountain of squash on the counter. “Brought in the rest of the butternut today,” he says above the roar of his immersion blender. “I’m working on freezing it all.”

“He’s nesting,” Ma says, rolling her eyes. “Pre-making all sorts of baby food for Abigail and Hunter. He shredded zucchini yesterday.”

Hunter escorts Abigail through the back door, massaging her lower back even as she swats him away. “Jesus, Hunter. Enough.”

Opal grins. “So he read the pain relief links I sent him?” Abigail sinks into a chair and puts her feet up on Opal’s lap.

“I think it’s possible he has massaged my back tooooo much,” she sighs.

“Oh! Abigail!” My father peeks around the squash. “I made you that tea.”

Hunter leans in and whispers that the raspberry leaf tea is supposed to “tone Abigail’s uterus,” but evidently she thinks it tastes like feet.

“Every single thing about this is fascinating,” I say, kissing Abigail on the cheek and cracking open one of Diana’s autumn IPAs. “Where’s Asa and D?”

My mother points down the hall toward the bedrooms, which she and my dad redid with various nature themes so they can host visiting international students and investors Ma wants to woo at the college. I hear a growl and a crash and then my brother-in-law jogs into the kitchen, skidding across the floor in his socks.

“Hey!” He says, seeing Opal. “You wouldn’t want to go in there and offer any advice would you? Diana is trying to make a scrap book or something for the shower…and she’s yelling.”

Opal seems relieved at the excuse to get away from the noise in the kitchen as my dad keeps running the immersion blender and Ma and Hunter start shouting above the noise, arguing about which brand of diapers is best for Baby Crawford’s unborn, delicate skin.

I break out the cheese from the fridge and rock back in my chair, settling in to the buzz around me. I like the chaos. Growing up as one of four kids, I got used to constant noise. Someone is always moving, yelling, ducking when Diana throws shit.

I start to think about how this chaos differs so drastically from what Opal described about her life growing up. I mean, this is distracting and loud, but even when my sister is beating her husband over the head with a breadstick, it’s still safe.

Opal has never known anything like this, but she works so hard to make sure all the babies and families she works with can launch into family life more secure than she ever could. I start to understand a little more why she feels so out of place and nervous about me bringing her here, too. I feel something strange and unfamiliar throbbing in my chest. Inspiration. Awe.

But also an overwhelming urge to protect her and share this sense of security. I slip out of the kitchen and head down the hall, in search of the woman I suddenly need to be near.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Opal

I’M SO EAGER to get away from the pressure cooker of family and normalcy that I react more strongly than intended to Diana’s scrap book. “It’s just beautiful,” I assure her, looking at the spread of messages she is trying to piece together into a book of affirmations for Abigail’s shower. “Look how many women you heard from!”

I encouraged Diana to reach out to the important women in Abigail’s and Hunter’s lives to share positive memories from their childbirth experiences. Indigo and Sara wrote a very long and detailed, illustrated guide that makes me chuckle. Rose’s story includes citations from research journals.

Abigail’s mother included a picture of a newborn Abigail in the hospital, pink-cheeked and perfect.

“It looks like a preschooler put it together,” Diana pouts, pointing out the uneven lines from cutting out the notes and pasting them on sturdy paper.

“Nobody cares about that. Really. Abigail just wants to hear these messages. To know that she’s in a loving circle of people who have shared this journey.”

I look over toward Diana and am stunned to see a tear roll slowly down her cheek. “Hey!” I crouch next to her. “Can I help?”

She shakes her head rapidly and flicks the tear away. “It’s nothing.” She sighs and begins to put away the glue, adding the scrap book to the pile of decorations that have taken over the bedroom.

I recognize what Diana is doing—dismissing something that’s making her upset because, I assume, she is telling herself she’s making a big deal out of nothing. The past few months working with Pam, I’m learning more about how all those little nothings I keep inside start to pile up until there’s a great big something making me hyperventilate. “I know a little bit aboutnothing,”I say, “If you ever want to talk about it.”

I hold my breath, waiting for Diana to tell me to fuck off, but she closes her eyes. “I’m just never going to get anything like this,” she says. “This flood of women wanting to help me through this big shared thing.”

“What makes you say that?” I think about all the people in her parents’ kitchen who seem to love each other so much they don’t bat an eye when one of them calls another one names or panics about blood pressure. Even as I sift through this thought, I’m overcome by her verbalizing the same sentiment I’ve thought a thousand times as I’ve watched warm circles of women embracing my clients when they’re birthing.

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