“Of course we will,” Murray answered.
“Is it...is it gonna die?” I could barely get the words out, but I had to ask.
“No, Moses.” Yael held my face with firm hands. “No. That’s not going to happen.”
“Okay.” Thick breath fell out of me. “Okay. I can deal with anything else. It’ll be okay.”
“I know that. I’m glad you do too,” Yael said. “Hey, did I tell you how advanced that kid is?”
Later, when I was back home, I did a little reading. The scary kind, the my-baby’s-potential-diagnosis kind. It did nothing to set my mind at ease, but I also couldn’t wait two weeks while making up scenarios in my head. I tried to only read facts, not look at pictures or message boards.
But I hated myself enough not to be able to resist the scary stuff. I spent hours traveling down rabbit holes, reading about surgeries and recoveries. In the end, I had to run to the bathroom and vomit my lungs out.
My phone vibrated with a text around ten p.m.
Michaela:Hey, I’m on the bus. Did Yael tell you about the ultrasound?
Me:Yeah, she did. I’m so fucking sick I wasn’t there. Are you okay?
Michaela:No, I’m not. I’m terrified.
Me:I wish I could hold you. Tell me your next stop. I’ll fly out there.
Michaela:No, that’s the last thing I want. I need to work and not think about this. I’m probably going to go radio silent, because when I see your name on my phone, I get really angry, and that’s not good for anyone. I texted Yael the time and date for the specialist appointment. She’s going to accompany me. Obviously you can too if you feel up for it.
Me:Of course I’ll be there. Mic, I fucked up today, but that was an anomaly. I know it was a massive mistake, but I won’t do it again.
Michaela:I’m tired. I don’t want to fight with you.
Me:I love our baby, Mic. You know that, right?
Michaela:Goodnight. I’ll let you know if there are any updates with the bump. Otherwise, I’d rather not talk to you until I get back from the tour in two weeks.
Me:I’ll give you the space you need, but I’m here.
Michaela:Okay.
Worry about both Michaela and the baby consumed me. When I wasn’t working out, I was writing with Santi. Every damn song was about the two of them. My mind would not steer to a different topic.
“You need sleep, man,” Santi said.
“Can’t sleep. I need to get this album finished so when the baby comes...if it needs surgery, or whatever, I can be there.” This was the first time I’d said that out loud, and the words had barely made it out of my mouth. A rock had been lodged in my chest for a week now.
Santi was sitting on the other side of my dining room table, scribbling in a notebook, but he pushed it aside and let out a heavy sigh.
“We don’t have to put another album out right now. It’s been less than a year since our last one released. All we do is tour and record, tour and record. Maybe this isn’t where your focus should be.”
Santiago was this huge guy who grew up rough, and he looked it, all scars and pen-scratched tattoos. His outside didn’t reflect his inside, though. Not by half. He was gruff, but a really fucking decent guy. If I told him I needed to borrow a dollar, he’d empty his wallet and tell me not to worry about paying him back. He was five years older than me, but decades wiser. Maybe I should’ve been listening to him.
I tossed my pencil onto the table and shoved a hand through my hair. “I don’t know what else to do. If I’m not writing lyrics, I’m going to start obsessing over what could be wrong with the baby. And if not that, then I’ll be driving myself crazy over Michaela.”
He chewed on the end of his pen, contemplating. “How about you obsess over the baby in a different way. You’ve done jack to prepare for your kid’s arrival.”
“True.” I nodded. “First, I have to clear out one of the bedrooms.”
Santi pushed back from the table. “Let’s do it.”
Maeve and Yael showed up soon after, mostly directing us. Yael had organized a truck to come by and take away the furniture I wouldn’t need anymore. They also decided on a paint color—creamy yellow—and discussed things like drapes and art.