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Cora
Hauling around a one-month pregnant body was easier than hauling around an eight-month pregnant body. If I could tell a newly-pregnant woman anything at all, it would be that simple fact. One month is like having an imaginary friend. I knew he was there and I knew one day he might become real, but it never really occurred to me how real he’d become: so real that I’d feel as if I was carrying around a belly full of water all day every day. But I forget about those concerns when I place my hand on him, feeling his kicking legs. That freaked me out the first time, but now I love the feeling. He’s desperate to get out and meet his parents.
I ride the elevator up to our apartment. I moved into Logan’s place after a month and I’ve lived with him ever since. But slowly it become our place, because living in a barren cell didn’t much appeal to me. Now it’s covered in Norse artwork—a picture of Odin on one wall, a carved replica shield hanging from another—with plush rugs and a homey feel. Maybe we’ll get a house one day. I don’t know.
I sing softly to myself as the elevator glides toward our floor. I’ve been singing a lot. It’s my intention to get right back into performing after our son is born. I can’t exactly perform right now, though. Having my waters break onstage isn’t exactly my idea of the rock ’n roll lifestyle.
I walk down the hallway feeling happy, the grocery bag under my arm. Logan is out of the club, working as a mechanic and training poor kids at the gym, teaching them to box and how to take care of themselves. All in all, this is the happiest I have ever been in my life, ever dreamed I could be as an angry, lonely teenager with no real friends.
And then I open the door and know that my happiness is only just beginning. Logan is in a suit, his hair tied back in a bun and his bushy brown beard combed neatly. He looks handsome, devastatingly so. His white eyes pierce me. He’s on one knee with a ring box in his hand. The diamond glints at me.
“Logan ...”
“Cora Ash,” he says, that wicked smile on his lips. “Will you marry me?”
I’m stunned for a moment, mouth hanging open. I kept expecting him to propose to me after we moved in together. There was a small part of me that feared he would use me for the will executor’s clause. But after living with him for almost a year, after making love and wasting away on lazy Sundays, I know that this proposal comes from love and nothing else.
As if reading my mind—and perhaps worried by my silence—he says, “We can get married after the baby is born, if you like.”
“Are you crazy?” I leap across the room and snatch the ring from the box.
He takes my trembling hand and slides the ring onto my finger. “Is that a yes?” he asks.
“Of course it’s a yes!”
He kisses me, lowering me in his arms, and then lifts me up and takes me to the couch, which is covered in rose petals. He’s laid out two glasses: one with champagne and another with orange juice. “I was gonna go with the chariot deal, but I reckoned that was a bit much.”
“I need to call Mr. Polly,” I say, smiling. “I can’t wait to hear his smug voice drop.”
“Let’s not think about that for a while.” Logan hands me my orange juice. “Oh, and one more thing. I know you’re this tough punk lady and all that. But you’re taking my name and that’s that.”
We clink glasses, and I snap off a mock-salute. “Sir, yes, sir.” A mock-salute, but I mean it.
I want to swap Ash for Birch.
Logan
“Is she next?” Mom asks, bobbing baby Thorne up and down on her knee. He smiles with his gummy teeth, reaching over to me and miming the word Dada, which he said a couple of weeks ago for the first time and now can’t stop saying.
I wipe my oil-stained hands on my work trousers and reach back to him, giving his hand a squeeze. “Relax, Ma.”
“Don’t tell me to relax. I’ve never seen her perform before. I’m excited.”
We sit near the front row of an upscale bar, hipster-looking types all around us, me and Mom sticking out like a pair of sore thumbs. But I don’t mind one bit. I’d much prefer to have her performing in joints like these rather than dive bars.
“Give him here.” I take my son as the announcer calls out Cora’s name, ’cause Mom is already getting to her feet to dance. I don’t stand up. I whisper in Thorne’s ear, “Do you really think Mommy would let me take you to a rock concert, little man? Look. There she is. This is just for you.”
Cora walks onto the stage in her Viking outfit, the one she wears for most of her performances now, a patterned tunic and trousers, leather boots and a metal wolf pendant at her neck, partially covering the snake’s mouth. She nods to the band, smiling over the crowd, and then smiling even wider when the band get up and walk offstage. Cora grins down at me, winking at Thorne, and I give Thorne a tickle. He giggles up at his mother.
Then Cora sings, and even if it’s not what these hipsters wanted, even if she’ll have to pay the club owner for pulling a stunt like this—maybe give a free performance in a couple of weeks’ time—it’s worth it.
“Hush little baby, don’t you cry ...”
THE END
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