parade on foot and meet up with us when it’s over. A carnival has been set up in the park directly across from the end of the parade route, and the kids are beyond excited about riding the Ferris wheel and Tilt-A-Whirl.
Elisa grabs a glass from the cupboard, pours some wine from an open bottle of sauvignon blanc that she pulls out of the fridge, and takes a drink.
“Did you take a test?” I ask when she plunks herself down on a stool next to me.
She shakes her head. “I didn’t have to. I got my period a day early.”
There’s no medical reason Elisa can’t get pregnant, so every month she holds out hope. Determined to have another child, she’s tried everything from in vitro to acupuncture to meditation. Skip tries to convince her not to stress about it and has suggested more than once that maybe this is God’s way of saying their family is complete. His words fall on deaf ears. If she’s lucky enough to get pregnant, she says she won’t care if it’s a boy or a girl, only that the baby is healthy, but her desire for a daughter is almost tangible, like you could reach out and touch it if you wanted. Feel the solid weight of it in your palm.
After we finish our drinks we drive to the park, setting up our chairs in the front row at the end of the parade route so we can collect the kids when they’re done marching. It’s hot, but not unbearably so, and there isn’t a cloud in the sky. Perfect parade weather.
Not much is happening, at least not yet. Two toddlers waving flags sit with their mothers on a blanket and a group of preteen girls walk by, their cheeks displaying temporary tattoos of red, white, and blue stars. The thumping music from the nearby carnival rides reach my ears, as does the smell of freshly popped popcorn.
Two police officers are leaning up against a squad car, talking. The tall, dark-haired one looks familiar. “Remember the police officer that pulled me over for that taillight last month?” I ask.
“The ridiculously good-looking one?” Elisa says.
“Yes,” I say. “I’m pretty sure that’s him over there. The one with the dark hair.”
She shields her eyes from the late afternoon sun and looks in their direction. “Wow, you weren’t kidding. He’s easy on the eyes.”
“I know. I can’t even imagine how many propositions he must field during a normal workday,” I say.
“I’m sure he’s heard it
all
.”
Maybe I’m mistaken, but the dark-haired officer appears to be looking over at us, squinting slightly as though he’s trying to place our faces.
“Who did you talk to at the police station when you called about the speed limit sign?” Elisa asks.
“I don’t know. The dispatcher, maybe?”
I’d called the police department about getting a speed limit sign after Bridget and I encountered a speeding car while we were on one of our walks. We’d barely made it onto the sidewalk when a car roared down the street, startling us both.
“Jesus,” Bridget yelled at the driver. “Slow down!”
The teenage boy behind the wheel flipped her off and we returned the salute, each of us jabbing the air with both of our middle fingers for emphasis.
“Well,” Bridget said, chuckling, “we showed him.” Rolling her eyes at the sheer absurdity and ineffectiveness of our actions, she said, “One of the kids is going to get hit crossing the street and then no one will be laughing.”
It was a sobering thought. “I told Elisa that we need one of those speed limit signs,” I replied. “I’ll make a few calls and see what we need to do.”
“They have one in my sister’s neighborhood,” Bridget said. “She says it helps.”
When I called the police department I found out that we weren’t the only ones who wanted one. Apparently there’s a bigger demand than they’re able to supply and we have to wait our turn. Who knows how long it will be before we get one?
“Do you think it would help if we talked to someone directly?” Elisa asks, motioning toward
Elisa grabs a glass from the cupboard, pours some wine from an open bottle of sauvignon blanc that she pulls out of the fridge, and takes a drink.
“Did you take a test?” I ask when she plunks herself down on a stool next to me.
She shakes her head. “I didn’t have to. I got my period a day early.”
There’s no medical reason Elisa can’t get pregnant, so every month she holds out hope. Determined to have another child, she’s tried everything from in vitro to acupuncture to meditation. Skip tries to convince her not to stress about it and has suggested more than once that maybe this is God’s way of saying their family is complete. His words fall on deaf ears. If she’s lucky enough to get pregnant, she says she won’t care if it’s a boy or a girl, only that the baby is healthy, but her desire for a daughter is almost tangible, like you could reach out and touch it if you wanted. Feel the solid weight of it in your palm.
After we finish our drinks we drive to the park, setting up our chairs in the front row at the end of the parade route so we can collect the kids when they’re done marching. It’s hot, but not unbearably so, and there isn’t a cloud in the sky. Perfect parade weather.
Not much is happening, at least not yet. Two toddlers waving flags sit with their mothers on a blanket and a group of preteen girls walk by, their cheeks displaying temporary tattoos of red, white, and blue stars. The thumping music from the nearby carnival rides reach my ears, as does the smell of freshly popped popcorn.
Two police officers are leaning up against a squad car, talking. The tall, dark-haired one looks familiar. “Remember the police officer that pulled me over for that taillight last month?” I ask.
“The ridiculously good-looking one?” Elisa says.
“Yes,” I say. “I’m pretty sure that’s him over there. The one with the dark hair.”
She shields her eyes from the late afternoon sun and looks in their direction. “Wow, you weren’t kidding. He’s easy on the eyes.”
“I know. I can’t even imagine how many propositions he must field during a normal workday,” I say.
“I’m sure he’s heard it
all
.”
Maybe I’m mistaken, but the dark-haired officer appears to be looking over at us, squinting slightly as though he’s trying to place our faces.
“Who did you talk to at the police station when you called about the speed limit sign?” Elisa asks.
“I don’t know. The dispatcher, maybe?”
I’d called the police department about getting a speed limit sign after Bridget and I encountered a speeding car while we were on one of our walks. We’d barely made it onto the sidewalk when a car roared down the street, startling us both.
“Jesus,” Bridget yelled at the driver. “Slow down!”
The teenage boy behind the wheel flipped her off and we returned the salute, each of us jabbing the air with both of our middle fingers for emphasis.
“Well,” Bridget said, chuckling, “we showed him.” Rolling her eyes at the sheer absurdity and ineffectiveness of our actions, she said, “One of the kids is going to get hit crossing the street and then no one will be laughing.”
It was a sobering thought. “I told Elisa that we need one of those speed limit signs,” I replied. “I’ll make a few calls and see what we need to do.”
“They have one in my sister’s neighborhood,” Bridget said. “She says it helps.”
When I called the police department I found out that we weren’t the only ones who wanted one. Apparently there’s a bigger demand than they’re able to supply and we have to wait our turn. Who knows how long it will be before we get one?
“Do you think it would help if we talked to someone directly?” Elisa asks, motioning toward
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