Page 122 of Slap Shot Surprise
“That guy deserved it.”
Her comment, delivered with a venomous tone I rarely heard from her, made me smile a little. “Yeah. He did.”
“What’s the news on your shoulder?”
“I’m out for at least two weeks. I have to miss the All Star game.”
She gasped. “Oh no! I’m so sorry.”
“The biggest problem right now is my contract. Being old is hard enough. Being old and injured is two strikes against me.”
“Come on, this is just an unlucky streak. Your season got off to such a great start—you’ll find that groove again.”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’m past my prime.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Maybe I’m just fucking tired.” I kept thinking about what Tessier had said about moving to Canada and buying land, watching his kids grow up in the country. Something about that sounded so fucking good. I imagined sitting on a back porch, Mabel on my lap, Nicky running around with a dog or a buddy or a little sibling.
Was I crazy?
“You sound so sad,” Mabel said. “I wish I was there to watchThe Sandlotwith you and cheer you up.”
“That would definitely cheer me up.” I recalled sharing this couch with her the night she’d ended up in my bed, how closely I’d held her, how I’d felt my son moving beneath my palm. God, I wanted that again, and I’d never have it. She was never going to be mine again, not like that.
The pain in my shoulder moved into my chest.
“So the baby’s room is coming along,” she said with a new energy to her voice, probably because I was depressing her and she wanted to change the subject. “We painted, and the carpet is in. I’ll have to send you pictures.”
“I’d like that. How are you feeling?”
“Great. Officially in the third trimester.”
I glanced at the pregnancy book on the coffee table. I hadn’t looked at it much lately, because it just made me feelworse about everything I was missing. “Twenty-eight weeks, right?”
“Right. What’s the fruit this week?”
“I’m not sure. Sorry.” I closed my eyes.
“Oh. That’s okay. I know you’ve got a lot going on.” The disappointment in her voice was obvious.
Don’t excuse me, Mabel. Stop being so sweet.“I’ll look as soon as we hang up,” I promised.
“Don’t worry about it. I just want you to get better, okay?”
“Okay.”
“I’ll talk to you soon. Bye, Joe.”
“Bye.”
After ending the call, I checked the website with the fruit chart. At twenty-eight weeks, the baby was the size of an eggplant. Setting my phone aside, I picked upFrom Dude to Dadand caught up on the last couple weeks.
The baby was fifteen to sixteen inches long and weighed between two and three pounds. I tried to imagine carrying around a three pound eggplant in my belly and quickly shoved the thought from my brain. The book said Mabel’s stomach was getting cramped, and the baby’s movements probably felt less like sharp kicks and jabs and more like softer pokes and rolls.
The author talked about not letting his wife lift anything heavy or climb any ladders to change lightbulbs—he insisted on taking over any and all projects. He mentioned that his wife experienced sciatica at this time, and how he’d help her stretch and give her massages. He described painting the nursery and shopping for a rocking chair together, so that when she was exhausted, he could help get the baby back to sleep at three a.m.
My pulse quickened with concern. Who was makingsure Mabel didn’t lift anything heavy? Who would rub her back when it hurt? Was she shopping for furniture alone? Why hadn’t I asked any of these questions before? I hadn’t even inquired about the high blood pressure just now.
