Agnes's Arc

Chapter 6 of 10

Sunday came and Melissa did not. She called at seven. Her voice was thin. She said she'd been sick again. Three mornings in a row now. Agnes set the phone down and stood at the window a long time. Tom came in with his coat still on. "She's not coming?" "Sick." "Again." Agnes met his eyes. He knew what she was thinking. He did not say it. He put his coat back on the hook and went to make coffee. Agnes drove to the bakery alone. The windows were bright. Allan was behind the counter, sleeves rolled, flour on his forearms. He looked up when the bell rang, and his face did something Agnes had not seen before. It softened. "She's upstairs," he said. "She's alright. She's just —" He stopped. He wiped his hands on the apron. "She wanted me to tell you first." Agnes waited. "She's pregnant," Allan said. Plain. Like he was setting down a hot pan. "We found out yesterday." Agnes felt her hand go to the counter. She had not decided to put it there. Allan watched her. He did not smile. He did not push. "I know what you think of me," he said. "I know what Sundays are. I'm not asking you to change that." "Good," Agnes said. Her voice came out steadier than her hand. "I'm going to be better," Allan said. "I've been saying that. I know. But I mean it different now." "Everyone means it different when they have to." He nodded. He took the hit. He did not go still the way he used to. He stayed with her. Melissa came down the stairs then. She was in a robe. Her hair was up. She looked tired and washed out and her hand was already at her stomach, flat, protective, like she'd been practicing the gesture in the mirror. "Mom." Agnes crossed the shop. She put her arms around her daughter. Melissa was thinner than she should have been. Agnes felt the shape of her shoulder blades and the small warm weight of her breath. "You should have called me first," Agnes said into her hair. "I wanted him to say it," Melissa said. "I wanted to know if he could." Agnes held on. She felt the whole plan she had been building — the Sundays, the routing around, the slow careful pulling of her daughter back — sink under her ribs and settle somewhere heavier. She could not break them now. She would not. "Sit down," Agnes said. "You need to eat. Not bread. Something real." Melissa laughed, wet. "He said the same thing." Agnes looked over her daughter's shoulder at Allan. He was already reaching for his keys. Going to the market. Doing the thing without being told. It was not enough. It was a start. And a start was what she had now, whether she wanted it or not.