A Holland and a Fighter Read online

  “Yes?” He smiles graciously, standing up straight. Willow assumes a position behind her uncle’s leg, holding on to his jeans. He has his hand on her back, comforting her. She’s been shy with strangers since she was a toddler, and always prefers to stay close to the men of the family if there’s one around.

  “Can I have your autograph?” She tries to hand him a Sharpie and a special edition vinyl of the latest album he contributed his guitar skills to.

  “And can we get a picture?” the guy asks, already poised to take one.

  “Listen, what are your names?” Will says, his hands making their way into his pockets–a deliberate move.

  The woman speaks again. “I’m Jennifer. This is my friend, Jennifer, too, and he’s Richard.”

  “Jennifer, Jennifer two… Richard, it’s really nice to meet you,” he says, charming as ever. “I’m really flattered, and I appreciate your support and enthusiasm, but I’m just out shopping with my niece and sister-in-law.” He nods to me, and I wave.

  “I know! It’s Livvy Holland!”

  “Scott,” he corrects them. I nod to say hello.

  “I’m trying to make this day about the birthday girl,” he continues, looking behind him at Willow, “and I don’t want to make this day about me. Hope you understand and respect when I politely decline autographs and pictures today.”

  “She’s so cute!” the second Jennifer says.

  “That’s so sweet, of course,” the first Jennifer chimes in. “I’m sorry for bothering you.”

  “It’s no bother. Thanks,” Will says. The lingering crowd begins to disperse, but a few start snapping pictures before leaving. “None of the little one, please.”

  All the phones drop at his request. He waves, and we return to the checkout line.

  “You handled that nicely,” I tell him, patting him on the back.

  “Not my first circus,” he says, nudging me. “So, Dubskie, where are we going after this? Cupcakes? That crazy doughnut place you like?”

  “I want astronaut ice cream!” she exclaims.

  Will and I both shake our heads as he pays for the books. “Dubs, you hated it last time.”

  “I loved it!” she says, not remembering the experience clearly like we do.

  “You took two bites and wanted to wash it down with water. You don’t remember that?” he asks her.

  “No. I want it, Uncle Will. Please?”

  The eyes. She uses her puppy dog eyes on Will. He looks over at me. “We’ll go there first and just stop for actual ice cream on the way back to your place. Okay?”

  “Yay!” Willow says, skipping beside me.

  “Well, now we have to,” I respond. “And can you tell me why you’re calling my daughter ‘Dubskie?’”

  She grins. “It’s my aviator call sign.”

  “Oh, it is?”

  “When I become a pilot, I’ll have to have one.”

  Like Maverick and Goose. “Sweetie, you’re not joining the military.”

  “But I have to learn to fly!” she says.

  “You can do that without joining the military.”

  “But I want to go to NASA!”

  “You can do that, too, without the military.”

  “But… I like my call sign,” she says with a pouty lip. “Uncle Will gave it to me.”

  “And what exactly does it mean?”

  “She said,” Will begins, “that when she becomes an astronaut, she wants to go by W. Skye Scott–again with the Skye,” he says as an aside to me. “So… Dub is from the W. The rest is self-explanatory, really.”

  I smile at them both. “That’s actually very cute.”

  “Captain W. Skye Scott,” Willow says.

  “Commander,” Will corrects her, helping her into the awaiting town car.

  An hour and a half later, the car drops Willow and me off at our building. Will lets her have one of her books early but keeps the others to wrap for her actual party. When we get up to the 55th floor, Jon is waiting at the door for us.

  “Daddy! Look what I got!” Jon wipes his hands on a dishtowel before taking the items our youngest daughter hands him.

  “I Am Stardust,” he says, reading the cover, “and half-eaten freeze-dried ice cream.”

  “That’s for you,” she says.

  “Yum,” he says sarcastically, giving me a kiss on the way in. “Did you have fun? By the looks of your hair, you did.” Her long hair, whipped around by the wind, is now intermingled with the cheap tiara. I hope it’s not knotted in there.

  “We did. He bought me books and took me for ice cream, and we went to the park and I made 17 dollars!”

  “Willow!” I say through gritted teeth, admonishing her for telling on her uncle–and me.

  “Seventeen?

  “It was your brother,” I say, shrugging.

  “Mama paid me six.”

  “He’s a bad influence. Linguistically. You know this.”

  “I worry about his own children.”

  “Charlie may be a free-thinker. Maybe he’ll be the one to make everyone realize words are words,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  “You’re starting to sound like Coley,” Jon says. Our soon-to-be-sister-in-law poet has always been an advocate for the importance and equality of all words. ‘They all have their time and place,’ she always says.

  “She’s a smart woman.”

  “Are you ladies hungry?” he asks. “Or did you spoil your appetites on this god forsaken, sorry-excuse for a treat?”

  “I didn’t eat anything, so this lady and tiny gentleman are starving.”

  “Uncle Will just bought me a big sundae shake with a little cupcake through the straw!” She puts her hand on her tummy. “I can’t eat anything more now! Maybe later, Daddy.”

  “I worry about his own children,” Jon says again, looking at his watch to denote the time of day that his brother chose to feed our daughter dessert–right smack in the middle of dinner time. “And you didn’t stop him,” he whispers to me, touching me lightly on the nose.

  “It’s for her birthday…” I say weakly. “Where’s Eeds?”

  “Painting upstairs… so you may want to hang out down here for a while. I told her she had to stop at dinner time.”

  “The watercolors don’t bother me,” I tell him, linking my elbow through his. “Now, what can I do to help get dinner ready?”

  Chapter 4

  My mom thumbs through a magazine in the chair next to the hospital bed, being far more patient than I am today. She’d probably be less patient if she had to wear nothing more than a thin sheet in this freezing cold room.

  “Remind me to bring a blanket next time,” I say softly.

  “Does that mean I get to come again?”

  “You can always come, Mom.”

  “It’s the first time you’ve asked.”

  “Well, the invitation’s always there.”

  Jon is putting in extra hours at work in an effort to complete a major city project two months ahead of schedule, so he’ll be able to take time off when the baby comes. As one of the senior partners, he doesn’t have to go into the office much anyway, and could take whatever time off he wanted, but this particular project is a renovation of the city block of his childhood apartment building, so it holds some personal significance to him. He came to the last sonogram, and every single one I had with the girls, so he’s not really missing much. I’ll take him pictures; that’s what he asked for.

  “Do you think Dad’s doing okay with the girls?” I ask her.

  “I’m sure he’s fine. He’s probably prepping the homemade mac and cheese right this very second.”

  “Should I call him and check?”

  “Liv, would you please just relax and enjoy this time with Auggie?”

  I grin when she calls him that. “Auggie doesn’t do a whole lot yet, Mom. He’s growing hair now… I hope. I figure it’s best if I just let him do his thing.”

  “He hasn’t moved yet?”

  “Barely,”
I tell her. “Nothing anyone else could feel.”

  “Maybe you should ask Dr. Northam about that.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t make me worry, Mom. He’s fine.”

  “I’m sure he’s fine, Liv. And the sonogram will tell us that.”

  Both of the girls were very active by now. Jon had been able to feel slight movements with both of them by this time in their pregnancies if he was patient enough. But nothing about this pregnancy is like theirs, so I’ve stopped comparing them at this point.

  “Livvy,” Dr. Northam says, finally coming into the room. “I am so sorry we’re running late today.”

  “It’s not a problem,” I say, smiling politely. “It’s just really cold in here.”

  “Jody,” she says to the ultrasound technician, “can you grab a blanket for Mrs. Scott before we begin?”

  “Of course.” She reaches into a cabinet three feet away, then places the fleece over my torso.

  “Thank you so much.”

  “You look flushed today, Livvy. Are you feeling okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I tell her. She rolls a device over and puts my arm in the cuff. I stay still while it takes my vitals, watching Jody as she gets ready to do the sonogram.

  “Your blood pressure is 150 over 97, sweetie,” the doctor tells me.

  “Okay.”

  “Liv, that’s high,” Mom says.

  “Are you sure you’re feeling alright? Nothing’s stressing you out?”

  “I mean… I was cold, and you guys were running a little late is all. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  “And she hasn’t been able to paint,” my mother adds. “The smell makes her nauseous.”

  “That’s true,” I admit. “That centers me, and I don’t have that right now. So maybe I’m just a little anxious because I can’t do that… and I want to.

  “I’ve tried other outlets–drawing, watercolors–but nothing quite fills the void of painting my murals. I did sketch one out a few nights ago–one for Charlie’s nursery. I think I’ll actually have time to paint it after Auggie’s born, but before Charlie’s born–you know, as long as the nausea is gone.”

  “Slow down, Livvy,” Mom says. “You’re putting far too much pressure on yourself.”

  Dr. Northam is flipping through my files. “I’m looking back at your pregnancy with Willow. I remember the paints made you sick then, too. But we didn’t have any problems with your blood pressure then. Nothing at all.”

  “It’s nothing now. I’ll meditate or something when I get home.”

  “Dr. Northam,” my mother interrupts. “I think it might be worth mentioning that Livvy’s biological father had two heart episodes in the last year. He passed away in February from the second one.” I look down and twist my wedding ring around my finger, feeling the hole in my heart that he left when he died. “Just something you should probably add to her medical history.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that, Livvy,” she says, taking my right hand into hers. “That must have been hard.” I shake my head, hoping we can start the ultrasound soon. It breaks my heart to think of what little time I got with my father on this planet. He didn’t know who I was until I was 21, and we didn’t really begin to have a relationship until five years later.

  So, nine years. I got nine years with him. I’m grateful those nine years were when his granddaughters were here, and that he had a chance to know them. He loved them so much. I’m crying before I can stop myself.

  “I’m sorry, sweetie,” Mom says, handing me a tissue. “I just felt like she needed all the information.”

  “I know, Mom. I’m fine.”

  “I need you all to keep an eye on the blood pressure. You can buy a device to measure it.”

  “We’ll get one on the way home,” my mother vows.

  “One-twenty over 80 is ideal,” the doctor says. “If you’re not seeing it closer to that range in a couple of days, I want you to call me.”

  “Okay,” I say, wiping my eyes.

  “Now. Who wants to see this little boy?”

  “We both do,” I tell her assuredly. “And Jon wants pictures.”

  “Has he warmed up to ‘Auggie’ yet?”

  “Oh, hell, no. It’s just going to have to catch on at home… or he’ll have to wear earplugs all the time.” The doctor laughs.

  I inhale sharply at the cold gel on my belly but am quickly distracted by the image on the display next to me. “There he is, Mom. There’s your first grandson.”

  “Ooohhh,” she sighs, gripping my hand. “Look at him!”

  “His heartbeat is strong,” Jody says. “It looks like he’s waving at you.”

  “Hi, Auggie,” I say softly. “We see you in there.”

  After reviewing the ultrasound, they tell me he’s still progressing normally.

  “Now, Livvy, have you had any headaches or light sensitivity lately?”

  “No.”

  “Has your vision been okay?”

  “It’s been fine. I’m feeling fine.”

  “Okay. Before you leave, I’m going to give you a kit to take home,” she says. “I want you to collect some urine samples.”

  “Fun… what are we testing for?”

  “We’re looking for protein.”

  “Preeclampsia,” my mother says.

  “You’re definitely not a high-risk candidate, Livvy,” Dr. Northam explains. “We just don’t want to take any chances with this precious baby, do we?”

  “Of course not.”

  I settle into my favorite side of the sofa recliner in the media room at my parent’s house after dumping my bag and the large, plastic container and instructions outside the door to the guest room–my old bedroom. With my phone in hand, I start to compose a text to Shea, but think better of it. I’d rather talk to her in person, and maybe after her next visit to the doctor. After all, I’m trying not to worry–I don’t need her to worry… then there’s no peace between the two of us.

  “Give me that phone,” my mother says, handing me a teacup on a saucer.

  “Mom…”

  “This is the plan. You’re going to spend the next six hours over here doing whatever relaxes you. But I know messing around on your phone isn’t going to help you. WebMD’ing everything the doctor’s office just talked to us about isn’t going to ease your mind… so let’s spend the next six hours doing something you love. Do you want to read? Watch some old reruns? Nap? Draw? Take a walk? I’m at your disposal. I’ll be at your beck and call. Here,” she says, giving me one of the remote baby monitors. “If you need something while I’m upstairs, just call out for me.”

  “Oh, you’re gonna regret this,” I tease her.

  “My sweet daughter wouldn’t take advantage of me,” she says, patting me on the knee. “Would you like a blanket?”

  “That soft quilt that Grandma Hennigan made would be awesome. And maybe one of those foam pillows?” I ask.

  She goes into the other bedroom and grabs both, tucking them around me as if I were on my death bed. “How about some music?”

  “How about you fix yourself some chai and bring that box in here that I saw in the guest room?” I suggest instead. “Were those Trey’s baby things?”

  “They were,” she says, smiling wide. “Wouldn’t you rather some alone time to calm your nerves?”

  I shake my head. “I’d rather hang out with my mom. You calm my nerves.”

  “Awww. You didn’t always think that.”

  “Well, you didn’t always do that… but now, it’s always nice to be around you. I really appreciate how… calming you are.”

  “Thank you, Livvy,” she says, and I see her eyes get misty as she walks past me to the other room. I take a sip of the chamomile tea and breathe in its aroma.

  Mom sets the box in front of us on the coffee table and settles closely next to me with her own blanket. She takes out a handful of items and places them into her lap. “This is what we brought Trey home from the hospital in. Do you remember that?”


  “Only from the pictures. That thing swallowed him whole.” I pick up the tiny blue outfit that says it’s for newborns, but he was a preemie, and the smallest clothes didn’t fit him until he was a few months old. “He lived as a burrito for weeks, if I remember correctly.”

  She laughs. “He did. Your dad could swaddle him like no other. Mine always came loose, but anytime Jacks wrapped Trey up, he’d never come free unless we untucked the blanket ourselves. And he would sleep so well like that, too.”

  “Trey or Daddy?”

  “Both of them.” She smiles. “That little burrito would be centered on Jacks’ chest. I’d tuck a blanket around them both just to make sure Trey wouldn’t fall.”

  “Look at this silly baseball jersey!” I say, picking up a very small red, white and blue shirt with HOLLAND on the back in proportionately tiny letters. It has been perfectly preserved, wrapped in paper inside a sealed bag.

  “My brother bought him that. He was certain he’d be a baseball star.”

  “And there’s a hat!” I say, giggling. “It’s like it was never worn.”

  “It never was. He was too small when we got it, so we put it away… and then when I found it again, he’d already outgrown it. You should take it for Auggie.”

  “Oh! But it’s Trey’s, I shouldn’t do that. You should save it for his son. He’ll have the Holland kid, anyway,” I say, shrugging.

  “Auggie is every bit a Holland, Livvy,” she says, surprised.

  “I just meant his last name, Mom. That’s all I meant by it. Auggie’s a Scott, and Jon won’t have you forget it.”

  “Nor should he. We should get one made for him then–don’t you think?” Her eyes are wide with excitement. “Or what about a little onesie sleeper that looks like a baseball outfit with his name embroidered on it?”

  “That would be so cute!”

  “We should put Auggie,” she whispers, almost deviously.

  “Oh… you know I want to so badly! But how about SCOTT on the back and AUGGIE in cursive on the front?”

  “Perfect,” Mom says. “And what number should he be?”

  “I think… like, 3, right? He’s the third kid.”

  “This is going to be so cute! I cannot wait. I know a woman on the hospital volunteer board who can do this for us.”