The Art of Saying Goodbye - Ellyn Bache [92]
Iona brought the Amoias a nice bottle of wine. She drank most of it.
Now, when Jeff calls, she can barely open her eyes enough to see the numbers on the digital clock that say it’s 5:04 in the morning. Outside, the sky is dead dark. The bedroom is cold. Iona’s mouth is so dry from the aftermath of wine that when she picks up the phone, her hello comes out as a rasp.
“We’re on our way to the hospital,” Jeff says. “I know it’s early, but I thought you’d want to know.”
Yes, well, certainly, but did she need to know right now? Does he think the kid is going to pop out on the spot? “Lori’s in labor?” she grunts.
“Yes. We’ll be at the hospital in about ten minutes. You can meet us there.”
“How do you know it isn’t Braxton Hicks? How do you know it isn’t another false alarm?” she asks, waking up a little.
“Her water broke,” Jeff says.
“Oh.” Iona’s heart does a little flip-flop, which she tells herself is the result of the wine.
“It was a mess.”
“You know, Jeff, I could have done without that particular piece of information.”
“So you’ll come? To the hospital?”
“Of course,” she says, because what else do you say to someone driving across town at five in the morning with a laboring wife? “Are the labor pains . . . how are the labor pains?”
“Okay, but not too close together yet. So far, so good.” Jeff sounds unnaturally hearty, as if he’s trying to reassure himself. He sounds very young.
“Okay. Drive safely. Good luck.” Iona hangs up the phone, shuffles into the bathroom, and drinks about a gallon of water.
No point hurrying to get dressed. She’ll probably end up sitting in the waiting room all day. Still, she’s out the door before she knows it. There’s no traffic yet. A couple of hours and the streets will be full of Christmas shoppers. Christmas tree stands adorn every corner, though why some families feel compelled to put up a tree the moment Thanksgiving is over, Iona doesn’t know. Why give the thing a chance to dry out, shed its needles, and spark into flames the first time someone lights a match? She and Richard never got a tree before the middle of December—though who knows, if they’d had kids, it might have been different. By the time Jeff came to her, he wasn’t little enough for it to matter.
Nobody stops her as she walks into the hospital and takes the elevator to the fourth floor. She could be a terrorist carrying a bomb. The waiting room at the end of the hall is empty. Inside, she dials Jeff’s cell to tell him she’s arrived. “Is Lori settled? What’s going on?”
“Come down the hall to 3-B and see for yourself.” He sounds maniacally jolly.
“I’ll wait here.” The last thing she plans to do is watch Jeff’s wife huff and puff and pant her way through labor while Jeff tries to humor her. “Tell Lori hello. If something happens, call me.” Iona supposes it’s more a matter of when than if.
The nondescript brown couch is more comfortable than it looks. She forgot to bring a book. As she leafs through the magazines on the coffee table, a man who resembles Jeff comes through the swinging doors.
It is Jeff. Or is it? She stares at him a moment longer. “You got your hair cut.”
Jeff grins.
“I hardly recognized you,” Iona tells him.
“What do you think?” Jeff’s ponytail, his signature fashion statement since he was fifteen, is gone. The new style is neither long nor short, just . . . ordinary. Except that his newly shorn hair seems thicker than it did pulled back in a rubber band, Jeff looks like a thousand other nice-looking, brown-haired young men with white-collar jobs. He could manage a clothing store. He could be a banker.
“You look—” Iona is at a loss to complete the sentence.
“Handsome. Impressive. I know.” Jeff turns his head,