Rescue (7 page)

He stroked her arm from the shoulder to the wrist. He wanted
to wake her. He liked to see her eyes flutter open, the moment of pleasure when she saw him. Sometimes, she smiled. He had
the water glass ready. She would prop herself up on an arm and drink it down, and eventually, after they’d had sex, he’d get
her another and a couple of Excedrin.

That morning, however, she woke as if reluctant to enter the world. Webster enjoyed the anticipation. But then she bolted
up in bed, putting her fingers to her nostrils.

“What’s that awful smell?” she asked.

Webster sniffed the air. “Coffee? I used the coffeemaker on the bureau. It’s terrible, but I didn’t want to walk out naked
in search of a coffee shop.” He ran his fingers from the base of her spine to the nape of her neck.

“Webster,” she said, bowing her head.

He didn’t like the way she’d said his name. He waited. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Fuck.”

She can’t do this anymore, and she’s going to say it. He shut his eyes. He couldn’t stop her.

“You want it straight out?” she asked.

“Always.”

“I’m pregnant.”

The word stunned him. Pregnancy had never crossed his mind.

“You sure?” he asked.

She brushed the hair off her face and turned to look at him. “Very.”

“How far along?”

“Ten weeks.”

“Have you seen a doctor?”

“Yes.”

A dialogue repeated, he imagined, thousands of times between thousands of couples. Only this time it was unique, as if he
were the first man ever knocked out by a single word.

Under the .9 moon, he’d asked her if she was on the pill, and she’d nodded. Then later, she said she preferred a diaphragm.
Had she really nodded? Had he been mistaken?

Fucking biology. It didn’t give a shit what Mother Nature was doing on the outside.

He almost said, “How can you be sure it’s mine?” but stopped himself just in time.

Don’t go there.

“I don’t know what happened,” she said. “I was on the pill, and then I started getting these bleeds and I switched to a diaphragm.
They’re both supposed to work.”

He studied the quilt. A blur of colors slowly came into focus. He noted red flowers on an ivory background, whole squares
of blue, knots of thread in the corners of the patches. For a moment, he imagined Sheila happy, the happiness infectious.
Then he pictured her wanting an abortion, and supporting her decision. Finally, he saw her as frightened, at least as confused
as he was.

“I’ll be such a good mother,” she said, and Webster was surprised a second time. She turned and stared at him, as if she knew
she might have pushed him too far, as if he might still be in shock.

“How will you know what to do?”

She kissed him. “We’ll figure it out together, Webster.”

She was not going to ask him how he felt about the pregnancy.

Again, Webster imagined Sheila happy. He tried to see past the sheet to the flat of her belly. His child was lodged somewhere
just below the runway scar.

All he had to do was let go, let it happen.

If he asked another question, she’d see his uncertainty, and once the baby came, she’d never forget that waffling and would
always wonder. Webster would regret that. He loved Sheila, of that he was certain. The idea of not being with her hurt. Besides,
he was just as responsible for the seed inside her as she was. More so. He was the guy, for Christ’s sake. He was an EMT!
Why hadn’t he just used a condom?

He stroked her hair where it fell against her back. He liked the way the two sides curled toward each other. He imagined other
women paying big bucks over the years to achieve what Sheila came by naturally.

A baby. Settling down. Maybe a place of their own. And he’d be with her every step of the way. As much as he could. He thought
about the long nights he’d be gone, and for just a second, he had an image of Sheila with a baby sleeping in her lap, a glass
of Bacardi under the sofa. He made the image vanish as quickly as it had come.

He thought about how much she’d had to drink the night before and felt a little sick. Why had Sheila done it? She’d known.
A last hurrah?

He told himself to flatline his anger.

This was risk. Risk of the most dangerous and wonderful kind. To bet your life on something as tiny as a sprout.

“I’m in,” he said.

W
ebster, in a clean shirt and a pair of khakis, fresh from his day’s nap after a Friday-night call, found his father, two Rolling
Rocks in hand, in the kitchen.

“OK if I join you?” Webster asked. Occasionally, during the last year, Webster had been invited to have a drink during his
parents’ hour together. Sometimes he would. Sometimes not.

“Sure,” his father said, clearly happy to have his son spend time with the old man. He nudged the fridge open with his elbow.

“I’ll get that,” Webster said.

His own beer in hand, Webster followed his father into the living room. If his father had looked happy, his mother was delighted.
Webster winced. If either of them detected a summit, they didn’t let on.

A cheese ball, studded with chopped walnuts, had been placed on a dinner plate, surrounded by saltines. “We hardly ever see
you,” his mother said, patting her hair. She plumped the cushions next to her with something like giddiness. “You must be
working all the hours of the day.”

His mother drank beer in a wineglass. Webster sat next to her and fingered the condensation on his Kelly green bottle.

“In another few weeks,” said his mother, “we’ll be sitting on
the porch this time of night. I really have to clear out all that winter dirt.”

“How’s the job going?” his father asked. “You save anyone I know?”

His father knew almost everyone in Hartstone.

“Asa Bennet had a fall yesterday,” Webster said, forgoing the “Mr.” as he wouldn’t have just two months earlier. Crazy how
a single word could signal a change in a father-son relationship. “Broke his hip.”

“What will the poor man do?” his mother asked. “He’s how old now?”

“Eighty-four.”

“And Alice passed away, oh, at least two years now.”

Three, Webster knew from the patient report. “I don’t know what he’ll do after he recovers,” Webster said. “I see them only
as far as the hospital. Sometimes I know what happens after that, but most of the time I don’t.”

“What a job you have!” she exclaimed, not for the first time. Webster was never sure if she meant, “What a horrible job you
have,” or “You have such a wonderful chance to help people.” As far as being an EMT went, both were true.

Webster cleared his throat. “I’ve been seeing someone,” he announced.

His mother coughed on her beer. Webster patted her back. “That’s nice,” she said when she could speak, her voice scratchy.

“Who is she?” His father sat in the upholstered wing chair, always known, since Webster was a boy, as “Dad’s chair.”

“Her name is Sheila Arsenault. She’s from Boston but is in the process of settling in Vermont.”

“I used to know some Arsenaults,” his mother mused, “but they were from Quebec.”

“How long have you been seeing her?” his father asked.

“About four months,” Webster replied, exaggerating a bit.

“What does she do?” his mother asked.

“Right now, she’s working as a waitress, but she’s looking for a better job.”

“Where does she work?” his mother continued.

Webster wished he could name a better place. “Keezer’s. But that’s just temporary. For now.”

“I see,” his mother said, more curious than concerned. “Tell me what she looks like.”

“She’s tall and slim. Beautiful brown hair. Blue eyes. Pretty.”

“And where did you meet?” his father asked.

“I met her in the diner,” Webster lied, knowing that the truth would steer their thoughts in an unfortunate direction.

Webster knew that his father had picked up on something. He was staring at Webster, as if searching for a tell. When had Webster
ever told his parents he was seeing someone?

“You should bring her to dinner,” his mother offered, probably already thinking about a menu.

“Thanks. I will. But there’s one other thing.” Webster bent forward and held the nearly full Rolling Rock between his knees.
“Sheila’s pregnant.”

Both parents froze, their arms in midair. In other circumstances, it would have been comical.

Webster had to remind himself to breathe. The house sounded the way it did when he was alone in it. Silent except for the
clock and the fridge and the heating system.

His mother lowered her drink. His father finished off his and set the bottle down hard.

“It’s mine,” Webster said, short-stopping the inevitable.

His father rolled his head back in disbelief. “How can you be sure?”

His father asking the question the son had stopped himself from asking the girlfriend.

“I’m sure,” Webster said.

“Peter,” his mother moaned. “You’re only twenty-one!”

“Almost twenty-two,” Webster said.

“How far along is she?” his father, persistent, asked. His mother looked as though she might cry.

“Three months,” Webster said.

It was simple math.

His father looked away. Webster thought his dad would get up from the wing chair and leave the room and then the house and
maybe not come back for a couple of hours.

“You’re only twenty-one,” his mother repeated, seemingly unable to move beyond that thought.

His father wasn’t leaving, though. “Is she going…” He seemed unable to finish the sentence. Webster did it for him.

“To keep it? Yes.”

“Do you love her?” his mother asked.

Finally, an easy question. “I do,” he said. “Very much.” But even as he said it, and as sure as he was that he did, he wondered
if he really knew what love, in these circumstances, meant.

His father left the room and returned with three more Rolling Rocks. Medicinal, not celebratory.

“You going to marry this girl?” his father asked, his voice gruff. Man to man.

“She has a name,” Webster said.

“But we don’t know her!” his mother wailed before his father could tell him not to be fresh.

“How the hell…?” His father pressed his lips together hard and gave a short shake of the head.

“I think we’ll probably get married,” Webster said.

“You think?” his father asked.

“We’re taking it slow,” he said.

“I should say not!” his mother protested. “Slow? I should say not!”

“You’re an EMT, for Christ’s sakes,” his father said, referring, Webster guessed, to the failed contraception.

Webster set his jaw. He’d expected the conversation to take an ugly turn, but it was still hard to live through it.

“This whole thing has been rolling along, and we don’t even know her?” his mother asked. “This isn’t what we envisioned for
you.”

Webster was silent. He didn’t want this initial talk to end in more acrimony than it had to. In five minutes—no, less, maybe
three—his mother had gone from delighted to curious to shocked to angry and now was quickly moving to disappointed. His father
remained disgusted.

“You know we love you,” his mother said. “We want only the best for you.”

Webster wished he’d told his father first.

“I’m a grown man, Mom. I know how to save people’s lives. I’m working hard. I sometimes volunteer for twenty-four-hour shifts.”

“You’ve never even seen the world!” his father said, gesturing with his arm to take in all the places his son might never
see.

“Did you?” Webster asked.

His father narrowed his eyes.

“Look,” Webster said. “I’m going to start studying to be a paramedic, the next step after EMT. Once I’m a medic, I’m pretty
sure I can make enough money to support us.”

His father drank the rest of his Rolling Rock in one go. Webster waited for the belch.

“What’s she like?” Webster’s mother asked.

Webster thought. “She’s strong. Strong-willed. She’s funny. Very pretty. I said that.” He paused. “She likes to travel to
other parts of Vermont to see them, so we sometimes take long drives.”

“Wanderlust,” his father said, with all that that implied. Webster remembered Sheila’s quick retort in the cruiser.

“She’s got a Boston accent. I think you’ll like her.” Though he didn’t think so. Not one tiny bit. “Obviously, we’ll have
to get our own place. A small apartment. I was thinking of renting something in town. Closer to Rescue.”

“Can you afford that?” his father asked.

“Just.”

“Well,” said his mother, sitting up straight and smoothing her legs as if she had an apron on. “When would you like us to
have her over for dinner?”

Ever the peacekeeping, let’s-move-on mother. For which Webster was grateful.

“I’m theoretically home next weekend,” he said. “We could do it Saturday night.”

“Settled,” his mother said, and she might as well have had a gavel.

*    *    *

“Did you do it? How did it go?”

Sheila had her arms crossed over her chest.

Webster moved into the kitchen and looked around. He was hungry. A meal at home hadn’t been possible. “Peachy,” he said.

Sheila closed the door. “Well, it’s done.”

“I’m hungry,” Webster said. “Have you got anything here I could eat?” He snuck a look at her stomach. How could she not be
showing yet? Or was there stress on the belt? Yes, he thought maybe there was.

“Go sit in there,” she said, gesturing to the jalousie porch.

Webster, though he’d slept from nine to four thirty, felt exhausted. Bone-weary, mind-weary. He could hear Sheila moving around
in the kitchen. He could have used three more beers in quick succession, but he wouldn’t get them at Sheila’s. He hoped he
wouldn’t, anyway.

He supposed the announcement had gone as well as it could have. His father hadn’t stomped out. His mother hadn’t actually
wept. There would be yet another chapter to the new saga. He laid his head against the back of the wall and dozed until Sheila
came in with a tray. She set the food down.

“You think you can make it to the table?” she asked.