Secret Language by Monica Wood

She couldn’t utter “I’m pregnant” any better than she had uttered “I do.”
    “Twelve weeks?” he says. He looks at her the way he does so often, as if he’s just figured out what he has on his hands. “You didn’t tell me for twelve weeks?”
    “I was embarrassed,” she whispers, pulling the covers over them. She feels safe in this bed, its rose-pink quilt shielding them from the world. “I didn’t want to turn it into a ceremony.”
    He shakes his head, smiling. She believes her lack of ceremony iswhat continues to draw him toward her; perhaps his choosing her was in part a respectful rebellion against his ceremonial family.
    She peels his hands from her belly and brings them to her face, hands a heady mix of sweat and soap and sugar. “I love you, Joe.” These are words he likes, and he seems satisfied, fitting himself around her like a coat.
    In the morning he’s ready to call his mother and father, his brothers, his friends, the newspaper, the president.
    “Please let’s wait,” Faith tells him.
    “But Faith,” he says, grabbing her hands and dancing her around the bedroom, “we’re going to have a baaay-yay-beee!”
    She smiles. “I don’t think I’m ready for the brass band.” Surely the Fullers have some automatic program for First Baby news: a party, a blizzard of presents, special teas, advice handed down like heirlooms.
    He laughs. “Okay.”
    “Besides, I think we should tell Connie first.”
    “Great. Let’s tell her now.”
    “Right this minute?”
    “Faith,” Joe says, still dancing, “you have to learn how to
move
.” He waltzes her out of their room and down the hall.
    “Joe …”
    He bangs on Connie’s door. “Open up! Big news!” he calls.
    He flings the door open. Connie lifts her head, her hair a yellow tangle. “What’s going on?” Joe tugs at her covers. “Time to get up, time to make plans.”
    “Joe …” Faith says.
    Connie is looking at her, half smiling. She sits up.
    “Prepare yourself,” Joe says. “The news is amazing.”
    Connie’s eyes are barely open. “What are you talking about?”
    Joe raises his hand with a flourish and brings it down gently on Faith’s stomach. “Connie Spaulding, your sister is going to be a mother.”
    Faith tightens her robe and looks at the floor. She can feel herself separating from her sister, a slow ache. This rending confuses her, for haven’t they always been separate?
    “Wow,” Connie says. “You must be happy.” It comes out woodenly,as if she’s reading a greeting card out loud. Her eyes are wide open now, looking into the chasm that divides them. “A mother. I can’t believe it.”
    Joe doesn’t see it; he’s grinning like a child, looking into his imagined future. He doesn’t see Connie’s decision. But Faith sees it; Connie is going to leave. “You can still live with us,” she says softly.
    Connie nods. “Thanks.”
    How big is a heart?
Faith wonders. The baby inside her is already carving out room. How can she hold all the things she never dared wish for?
    Connie’s eyes are resolute, fixed on the hard knot of Faith’s stomach.
There’s room for you
, Faith wants to say, but she is not at all sure.

FIVE
    It is a spring-yellow day. The three of them stand in the yard, Faith big as a walrus, Joe waiting by the car to drive Connie to the airport. Faith claims to be ill, vague pregnancy complaints, but in fact she cannot bear the thought of watching her sister’s plane recede into a silver dot of sky.
    “This is it,” she says, her voice catching. She lifts her arms to Connie, takes one awkward step. Their goodbye is tearless, quick, a clumsy hug in which their cheeks accidentally bump together, hard. Faith retreats into the house before the car moves, confounded by physical pain.
    Before Faith has time to see it coming, before she can maneuver herself to the window to watch the red Corvair disappear down the street, Connie’s stunning absence rains down on her. Connie is