My cell phone is playing a song; it’s singing me awake.
I turn over in bed, my left hand finding the phone on my night-table. I don’t check the caller-ID, just answer.
“We have news,” I hear. “Jess and I. Big news.” Cal’s voice is loud and bright.
I’m sitting up now, looking out the bedroom window at a pale black sky gently ending the day. It’s probably 8:30 at night, I think, which means I’ve been sleeping for hours. I immediately feel awake.
“Hey, Cal,” I say. “Good to hear from you. News? Great. What is it?”
“Jess is pregnant!”
The words are like starbursts of light in my head. I stand up.
“Wow!” I say. “Double wow!” I pace the bedroom, then run down the stairs, looking for space. I need space.
“How far along?” I’m cradling the phone, in the sunroom, then stepping into our backyard and onto our patio. The dark sky is soft, welcoming.
“We wanted to wait until the doctor told us everything is okay. She’s about eleven and a half weeks. We’re really happy, Mom.”
Tears well up. But I’m grinning, too—and somehow enabled, ready to accept myself as mother, grandmother, gender-neutral or gendered enough. I sit on a webbed lawn chair. Jake has come through his dog door and is standing beside me. I put my hand down, stroke his back; he wags his tail.
“You there, Mom?” I hear.
“Yes. I’m totally here. Just happy. No, thrilled. Really thrilled.” I feel a shift. Continents have drifted apart, then together. Time has stopped. A breeze passes, lifting the branches of our weeping cherry.
“Where are you?” I ask.
“I’m walking to the pizza place. Jess is at home.”
We chat about his work—he has a new client in Connecticut, and he’ll be able to visit his uncle and grandmother while he’s there. He’ll tell them the news in person, he says, “So don’t you tell them.”
“I won’t,” I promise as I drift from tears and memories of my own pregnancies to incredible presence. The earth stops shifting for a moment, and I’m mindfully attentive. A new baby. A first grandchild. A reason to forgive, a reason to continue.
“Well, I got to go, Mom. Can you tell Dad to call me? Give him the news. But I want to talk to him myself. Soon. Please.”
“I love you so much, Cal. And Jess. Give her my love.”
“You coming up to Boston before school starts, right?”
“That’s the plan. A quick trip when Dad gets back. Probably next month. Can’t wait.”
“Jess and I will call again. Wanted to give you our news as soon as possible. Love you, Mom. Oh, tell Will for us. And Sonya. Everyone but Grandma and Uncle John can know.”
“Okay, sweetheart. This is fabulous. I love you so much.”
“Bye, Mom. Love you, too. Got to go.”
“Bye, Cal. Love you.” I hit the screen’s end-call button. But as soon as I do, the phone rings again, and this time, it’s Nick.
“Well hello,” I say. “How are you?”
“Where have you been? I was worried. Been trying to reach you for days. You okay?”
“Great,” I answer, standing up, walking up the back steps to enter the sunroom, where I sit down on a comfortable chair, put my feet up on the coffee table.
“I can’t talk for long. Just wanted to check in, make sure you’re okay. I’ve been calling and couldn’t get you. Where have you been?” Nick’s words spill out. I can’t tell if he’s angry or just concerned.
“Look,” I say. “I’m great now. I wasn’t, but I am now. I have big news.”
“Okay,” he says. “What’s up?”
“Jess is pregnant. Cal just called a minute ago.”
“Wow. You’re kidding!” his words are so present that I can feel him, as if he’s beside me, almost as if he is me. Nick loves me, I now recognize.
“Yeah,” I say. “No, not kidding. She’s about twelve weeks. We’re going to be grandparents.”
“I love you,” Nick says.
“I love you, too.” Tears again. For the millionth time. I wipe them with my hand.
“Look,” he says. “I’m coming home soon. Can’t wait to see you. Just another week.”
“Yes,” I say.
“I’ll call Cal and Jess tomorrow. But this is so good. So good.” I hear people in the background.
“Yes, call them. Also call Will. He wants to talk to you about his truck. And tell him the news. But go now. Enjoy.”
“Speak with you tomorrow. Yes? And I’ll call Will.”
“Yes. Bye.”
“Bye.”
Then I’m off the phone, and alone again with Jake in the sunroom. I look out at the black sky and notice a half moon sitting low, illuminating the eastern horizon. I hear cicadas. And I’m hungry.
But as I rise to enter the house, I see Dennis’s shadow—his young face, his mad-glad face—beside me.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” I tell him.
“I know,” he whispers. “Do you forgive me?”
But as I turn toward him, finally ready to say “yes,” his shadow dissipates and steps aside.