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The baby’s clothes swirl around in the third washer from the left. Thalassa takes a bite of her candy bar, following the mix of dainty pastels with her eyes.
The baby somersaults—at least, that’s what it feels like. She strokes her thumb over her bump, but they refuse to settle down. They’ve always been more active at night.
Just like that, Jove’s by her side, running his fingers through her ponytail. “How are you feeling?”
“Pregnant.” She drops her head onto his shoulder. “Tired.”
He presses a little kiss into her hair. “We’ll be out of here soon. Just waitin’ on the baby clothes.”
The trip to the thrift store was fruitful, but her back and feet ache with a vengeance. The shabby plastic fan oscillating in the corner does little more than blow around hot air; a thin film of sweat glistens on her skin, clinging to her sundress. The din of the fluorescent lights worms its way between her ears. She takes another bite of candy. It’s her favorite—chocolate and praline and caramel—but she chews for so long it tastes like nothing.
“It’s more like…tired in general,” she says.
“I know it’s hard, but you’re doing great.” Jove skims his hand up and down her back. “Everything’s gonna be fine, babe. I know it.”
The tenderness in his voice brings tears to her eyes. The hormones aren’t helping. She hides her face in her hands, crinkling the half-melted candy bar in the wrapper.
“What’s the matter, Thal?” Jove asks. She pictures the way his eyebrows knit together.
They’re alone in the laundromat. One look at him and she will dissolve into a sobbing, snotty mess. She watches the suds slide around the washing machine and shakes her head.
“Talk to me,” he says, taking her hand.
In two short months, she and Jo will be sent away from the hospital with a living, breathing baby entrusted to them. She doesn’t know where that hospital is yet. She sees parents in trains and buses and parks and stores all over the world, and they all seem to know so much. This is the cry my baby makes when she’s hungry. This is what I need to do when he starts teething. This is how I get her to fall asleep. She wonders if it will all make sense to them one day.
She leans her head back against the wall, trying to catch her breath as she cries. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Jo.”
“That’s why we’re figuring it out together, right?” Jove says, nodding until she mirrors him. He swipes a tear off her cheek with his thumb. “You’re so strong, Thal. You’re gonna be an amazing mom. I know you will.”
If the troupe taught her anything, it’s that confidence, real or artificial, is key to good showmanship. The life of a performer is a precarious one, and they can’t afford to dwell on what could happen if they don’t stick the landing. It’s a means of survival. With her father, there was always a thinly veiled threat: I know you can do it, so you better do it. Her husband gives her reassurance, but she needs to trust herself more.
Jove’s leg bounces on the tile, brow furrowed in thought. “Maybe, uh…maybe we can go to the library tomorrow and check out some more of those baby books before the gig. Do you want to do that?”
She sniffles. “Yeah.”
“Okay. So we’ll do that.” He smooths back the flyaway hairs stuck to her forehead. “I’m gonna get you some water.”
He strides across the room to the vending machine, idly tapping out a rhythm on the glass while he waits. When he thinks she’s not looking, he quickly wipes some sweat off his brow with the collar of his t-shirt. A single drink rattles down into the dispenser, and guilt wells up in her chest. The bottle’s cold enough. As she takes the first sip, a thought crosses her mind: her father would have never done this for her mother. Any of this. She drapes a hand over her belly and closes her eyes, wishing the thought away.
Jove watches her carefully. “Better?”
“Mhm. Thank you,” she says, sealed with a kiss. She tastes salt. “You have some.”
“Nah. You need it more than me.”
Her tote bag is shoved underneath the bench. She nudges it out with the toe of her sneaker. “I think I have some more quarters…”
“Save ‘em. We’re gonna be doing way more laundry once the baby’s here.”
She hums in amusement. “Fine. But one sip won’t hurt.”
So he takes one. And he finishes the candy bar. And they sit still together, listening to the hum of the fan and the sloshing of the laundry. The vending machine drones on. Jove leaps to his feet as soon as the washing’s done (“You stay put, Thal, doctor’s orders”); one by one, he passes the teeny-tiny clothes along to the dryer.
“I wish I could ask my mom what this was like for her,” she muses aloud. She studies her stretch marks in motel mirrors and wonders if they’re genetic. Did her mother feel the same doubts, the same tears, the same joys? If she did, shouldn't it have been harder to leave her behind?
(If Jove is surprised by the rare mention of her mother, he doesn’t let on. He curves a hand around her waist and listens intently.)
“My parents didn't love each other,” she says plainly. “They'd say such horrible things when they fought, then act like nothing happened. And they never apologized. They never thought about how it'd make me feel, hearing stuff like that all the time."
Lest she be caught in the crossfire, she’d tuck herself away in hidden corners of the grounds, lost in sketchbooks and paperbacks when she could get her hands on them. She grew up surrounded by other children, and it was still a terribly lonely existence.
“Our kids will never feel that way," Jove says, his face solemn.
“Never." Thalassa smiles down at their baby with watery eyes. “Jo, they were never this happy. They couldn't have been. Because once you know what this feels like…how could you ever lose sight of it?”
“...I don’t know. But I made a vow to you, Thalassa,” Jove says. His eyes glisten. “I love you now, I’ll love you tomorrow, and I’ll love you forever. No matter what.”
“I love you, too,” she says. She’s never been more certain of anything in her life.