All the Difference (17 page)

Scott stood in place, distracted now by the peeling blue label on the bottle he held. Molly knew he was right. She hadn't considered how having the baby was going to play into her job search, and she found herself shaking her head in disbelief. The doorbell buzzed, and Scott walked out of the kitchen to answer it, patting her on the shoulder as he went.

Molly suddenly felt very, very tired. She rubbed her hand over the bump in her belly, feeling the baby move around, knocking against the space under her hand. Molly pursed her lips and gazed around the kitchen, the bare dining room, the inviting living area. She tried to imagine the rooms filled with a baby swing and play crib and activity mat and all the other myriad baby gear she kept seeing on parenting websites and in the magazines she'd been reading. This place was about to change mighty quickly, and she couldn't slow it down, or make it stop, even if she really wanted to.

It was such a very strange feeling to know that she was about to join her life—her entire
life
—with two people, and yet still feel like no one would come running if she needed help. There was so much happiness she was supposed to be feeling right now, but she couldn't quite touch it sometimes. It seemed like it was just past her fingertips, and she had to reach through a haze of uncertainty to
get there, a fog so thick and unwieldy she was afraid it would never quite dissipate. And then she'd be stuck. Molly felt the baby kick again, as if in agreement—this baby who would soon enough need her to get her shit together already and focus on being its mom.

Molly thought about the parents she knew, parents she saw on the sidewalks, in the stores, and she realized something: nobody ever has her shit together. But some people do an excellent job of trying.

Molly could hear the deep rumble of Scott's voice as he talked with whomever was at the front door. The sound of his chuckle rolled back through the house to the kitchen, and she fought back the tears forming at the corners of her eyes. She felt like she was staring at her life from the outside, hands to the windowpane. She was just silent, watching the whirlwind of people—in utero and out—clamoring for attention, vying for the lead, tugging her along behind them. And for some reason, Molly had let herself get so out of control that she was listening to them instead of to herself.

“You okay there, Mol?” Scott was walking back into the kitchen with an armful of wrapped gifts, and Molly looked up to see his mother on his heels, floating on a cloud of Chanel No. 5 and hair spray, a camel-colored Birkin bag slung over her arm. Monica's grin was radiant, her white veneers flashing against the carefully lipsticked edges of her mouth. She dropped a large pastel-covered bag filled with tissue paper on the floor and reached for her future daughter-in-law.

“Molly! I just heard the news.” Monica kissed the air beside both of Molly's cheeks and
tut-tut
ted Molly's gesture to stand up, motioning that she stay seated on the bar stool. She towered beside Molly in a pair of nude snakeskin stilettos.

“Your future father-in-law was driving me up the wall,” she was saying, “hollering at that dreadful Phillies game on TV—”

“Oh, crap! I forgot that was on,” Scott sputtered. He reached for his phone.

“Anyway,” Monica continued, “he was hooting and hollering and driving me battier than usual—you'd think he was a physician for them and not the Eagles—so I decided it was a perfect time to run some errands. I was just coming through the neighborhood to do a little shopping for the baby and thought I would swing by to see if you two would like to join me for lunch, and then Scott tells me you're not working anymore, and I thought, ‘Well! Now we have a reason to celebrate!'”

She looked back and forth between Scott and Molly, beaming. No one else seemed to notice that the air in the room had grown stifling. Molly felt queasy as the odor of Monica's perfume mixed with the smell of alcohol seeping from Scott's pores and wafted to her nostrils. They'd finally told Scott's parents about the baby one evening after Monica had made a comment on Molly's appetite at dinner. Monica had taken the news like a child being told she was going to Disney World. She came into the city now every few days with excuses of dropping off a gift or checking in to see how Molly was feeling.

Molly managed a small smile. “I'm not sure if your son told you the whole story, Monica.” She glanced at Scott, who was picking at something in between his back teeth with a fingernail, clearly assuming no one would notice. Molly cringed. He wasn't going to be much help.

Monica smoothed her hair over one ear and winked at her. “Of course he did, darling. But I'm just so
happy
to hear it. Now, I know it isn't exactly what you want right now.” Her words
quickened once she saw the grimace cross Molly's face. “But you'll see, Molly, this will be a good thing.”

Monica looked at Scott for affirmation. He nodded in obedience, tearing his eyes away from his phone to make brief eye contact with Molly. He offered her a shrug as an apology, and Molly felt herself take a shuddering breath. She might as well be alone in the room.

She no more wanted to be at home with a baby now than she did before she got pregnant. She wanted to be a Kelly Ripa, cute and perky with toned biceps, not a desperate housewife from some cable reality show. She wanted to emulate Ripa because she worked at a job she loved, made enough money to hire someone she trusted to care for her children while she was away, and then returned home to a tidy house to spend time with her little one. That's what Molly imagined as her future. Balance. Self-sufficiency. Control. It's what Monica herself had done for years, creating a legacy the likes of which Molly had kept in her sights for her own life. She closed her eyes for a moment.

Scott was speaking, having looked up from his phone long enough to join the conversation.

“You could always work part-time or at night, after I got home,” he was saying to her. “Freelance or something.”

“No, no, that won't do,” Monica interrupted. “Look at all those years I wasted toiling away while you were growing up, Scott. It's a wonder you turned out as well as you did, considering that your father and I were never home and left you with that Bernadette woman to take care of you. Molly should be here, with you and the baby.”

Molly shook her head in surprise. “Monica, I thought you loved your architecture work. Weren't you in school for years to do it?”

“I
did
, darling, and that was the problem.” Monica rapped her manicured hands against the countertop. “I loved it
too
much. I was trying to help Scott's father create a nice life for ourselves, but look! You don't need to. You have us.”

Scott moved to stand closer to Monica. Molly wondered why a mother's relationship with her son so often set up his partner to feel like the other woman, like a mistress tolerated as long as she didn't ruffle too many feathers.
Seriously, you two,
she thought. Monica was rubbing Scott's upper arm.
Get a room
.

“Monica,” Molly said, “I'm still paying off my student loans from grad school. I kind of wanted to use my education while I'm still spending money on it.” She paused to take a deep breath. She could feel her pulse racing, and she ran her hands over her hair again to push the stray strands away from her face.

“Well, then, don't worry about them.” Monica laughed. “Scott, dear, you never told us Molly had loans.”

Scott focused on his phone with a renewed, intense interest, and Monica turned her attention back to Molly. “Molly, consider them taken care of. We'll write you a check to cover the balance.”

“I'm sorry, what?” Molly looked back and forth between Monica and Scott before remembering to close her mouth.

“Oh, stop it, Molly,” Monica said. “You're going to have bigger fish to fry, darling. That baby's going to need his mommy. And now you've one less thing blocking your way to do just that.”

Molly felt her body sag. Years of work, of budgeting to make more than the minimum payment each month, and in one fell swoop Monica could clear the lot. She'd wanted so badly to get to a place where she could be like Monica—hardworking, secure, with years of relationships invested in colleagues and business partners—and here Monica was, offering her an early exit off that
same road. Molly sat where she was, breathing heavily, the muscles around her belly clenching with the effort. She should be happy, she told herself. Elated, to have less financial stress to worry over, to be joining a family capable of such generosity. But she felt the walls start rushing in on her again and struggled to fight off the feeling that an iron cage was clamping itself around her lungs, making her stay in place, struggling to breathe. She was supposed to feel grateful, Molly thought. She was supposed to be relieved.
Be relieved, Molly,
she told herself.
For God's sake, be RELIEVED.

Monica seemed to sense the change in the air. “Well,” she said, patting her bag with a flourish, “I want to talk wedding invitations. Who's coming to lunch with me? I was thinking either Tinto or the Fountain.”

Molly's mouth watered. Tinto had some of the best Spanish food in the city.

“You're kind, Monica, but I'm actually not feeling very well,” she demurred, avoiding the surprised look from Scott.

“Oh, you poor darling,” Monica said, and took a step back from her. “Is it this heat?”

“I think so,” Molly said. “I was going to lie down for a while.”

“Oh, that's a shame. I was really looking forward to some mommy chitchat, too.” Monica pouted.

Scott was still watching Molly, a frown creasing his forehead between his eyes. It disappeared as Monica turned to him in expectation.

“Scott, then? Shall we?”

“Um, yeah.” Scott gave Molly a sidelong look. “Though I was starting to think you liked my fiancée more than you like me.”

“Well, she is prettier,” Monica replied, and patted the side of his face with her hand. “I'm kidding. Your fiancée just reminds me
of me when I was her age.” Monica smiled at Molly, then turned her attention to her son's attire. She took in the stains on his clothes.

“I'll pull the car around while you get changed.” She kissed the air around Molly's cheeks again and stepped to the door.

Molly looked up at Scott. She felt the question on her face before she had to speak a word.

“I know what you're going to say, Molly. But you heard what my mother said.” He leaned against the island where she sat. “Think about how much our baby is going to love seeing you every day, knowing you'll be there to take care of him. I can't imagine you'd be okay denying him that because you like your job.”

“Well,” Molly said, “at least I make my own money.”

For a long moment, they stared each other down. Scott's face had taken on the hue of a raspberry, but when he spoke, his voice was soft.

“Molly. I can't have some stranger coming in here to raise
my
kid. We're not hiring a substitute mom,” he said. “That's what I went though, and it can't be the same for him. I won't let
my
child grow up thinking he's not good enough.” Scott's voice faltered. “I can't have him, or her—whatever—wondering what he did wrong to have to sit in an empty house, waiting for his family to remember he exists. It messes with a kid's brain, Mol. Do you really want that for our child?”

The gentle voice became a growl when Molly started to respond. Scott cut her off before she could say a word.

“You can't have it all, Molly,” he said. It felt like he'd slapped her in the face. “You're smart enough to know that.”

He strode out of the kitchen, looking straight ahead as he walked past her, and Molly could hear his heavy footsteps climbing the stairs to her bedroom. She struggled to allow her racing pulse to
settle down so she could catch an even breath. Tears fell singularly from her eyes, taking their time carving salty paths down her cheeks.

Molly looked down at her hands. Her fingers were shaking. The light from the ceiling bounced around on her diamond ring, throwing splashes of white and yellow onto her pale skin. She saw how the huge ring overpowered her finger, making her hand look too small, too fragile. For a brief, quick moment, she allowed herself to imagine what a ring from Liam would've looked like. Its stone would've been small, the setting plain. It would've shone, though, and she could imagine the flashes of light throwing themselves out with abandon from the modest diamond. She would've been proud to wear it.

Molly felt a swift kick from the inside of her stomach and looked down at her belly. Tears rose up in her eyes with purpose now, before she could prepare herself for them. She hoped Scott wouldn't walk back into the kitchen to find her still sitting there, sobbing into her hands.

“Poor baby,” she whispered. “I'm sorry Mommy and Daddy are fighting so much. We're just trying to figure out what's best for you. I swear to you, we'll be better by the time you come. We're really going to try, okay?” She took another shaky breath. “I'm going to try.”

Molly stood up to refill her glass with water and glanced out the window at the darkening sky. There was a storm rolling in. She could smell the moist air coming in through the open window. She checked the clock on her phone and slid her keys from the counter. She heard heavy footfalls again as Scott came running down the stairs, and she blew a breath deep from her lungs as the front door slammed behind him. She waited a moment before going to the door herself. As she walked out of the house, Fleetwood Mac was still singing from the speakers, so
determined in their harmonies on “The Chain,” even though no one was there to listen.
Let Scott turn it off when he gets back,
Molly thought, closing the door. It was about time he realized that a world of music existed outside of Whitesnake anyway.