Page 42 of Pregnant in Plaid
Saturday morning, I wake to find her in the doorway of the spare bedroom—the one I cleared out two nights ago.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"Looking at the space." She touches her stomach. "It's a good size for a nursery."
"Yeah?" Hope flares in my chest. "You think so?"
"I mean—" She catches herself. "If someone were to use it for that. Hypothetically."
"Hypothetically," I agree.
She turns to look at me. "Do you have a crib?"
"No. But I could build one."
"You can build a crib?"
"I build furniture for a living, Patrice. A crib is just a very small bed with bars."
She grins. "When you put it that way..."
"Want to help me design it?"
The question hangs between us. Designing a crib together means planning. Planning means staying.
"Okay," she says quietly. "Yeah. Let's design a crib."
We spend the morning sketching plans at my kitchen table. She has strong opinions about height, slat spacing, drawers underneath.
"Safety standards," she explains. "The slats can't be more than two and three-eighths inches apart."
"You researched this."
"I've been pregnant for months. I've researched everything." She shows me her phone. "Do you know how many things can kill a baby? It's terrifying."
"We'll make it safe," I promise. "Safest crib in Alaska."
By lunch, we have a design. By dinner, I'm cutting wood in my workshop while she sits on a low, stable stool and watches.
"You're good at this," she says.
"Had a lot of practice."
"How long have you been doing carpentry?"
"Since I got out. Needed something to do with my hands that wasn't—" I stop.
"Wasn't what?"
"Violent," I admit. "Coming home, you have toretrain yourself. Figure out how to use those skills for something productive."
She's quiet. "That must have been hard."
"It was." I set down the saw. "But this helps. Building things. Creating instead of destroying. I learned from Gage."
Her eyes shine in the workshop light. "You're good at it."
"Thanks." I turn back to the wood. "The crib should be done in a few days if I work on it each night."
