Chapter 4 - Keys on the Counter
The phone went quiet in my hand for a second after she told me to stay put, and the kitchen got too loud. The fridge hummed. The faucet dripped. My own breathing filled up the space where Blake's voice should have been.
My name is Claire. I was thirty-nine weeks and six days that morning, and I was still standing in the same spot where he'd left me.
I looked down at the counter because I needed something to do with my eyes. The laminate was cool under my palm, speckled gray where I'd wiped it that morning before the first real cramp hit. And there they were. His keys.
Small and dark, the house key scratched at the edge, the car fob with the cracked corner he'd said he'd replace. He'd been holding them when I told him, Blake, the contractions are six minutes apart. I remembered the jingle when he shifted them from one hand to the other. He must have set them down when he went to grab his jacket, or when his mom called from the entryway. He hadn't picked them back up.
I stared at them. For a stupid, hopeful second I thought, he can't have gone far without his keys.
Then I remembered the second engine sound I'd heard after the door slammed. His mom's old sedan. Of course. She'd driven over. He'd left with her.
I picked up the keys. They were warm from the sun coming through the window over the sink. My fingers closed around them so hard the metal bit in. Proof, I thought. He meant to be back fast. Nobody leaves without his keys unless he means to come right back.
I set them down next to my phone, lined them up straight. My hands were shaking.
I had to try him. I knew I had to try him.
I unlocked my phone with my thumb and hit his name. It rang once, twice, three times. I watched the duffel bag by the front door while I listened — gray and navy, packed for three days, the strap twisted. I could see it from the kitchen if I leaned left. It hadn't moved.
"Hey, it's Blake, leave it." His voicemail. Cheerful. Recorded two years ago on a road trip.
I hung up without leaving anything. I called again right away. This time it went almost straight to buzzing, like he'd hit ignore.
"He left his keys," I whispered out loud. I didn't know who I was telling. "He left his keys on the counter."
Another cramp started low then, different from the others. Not a tightening that came and went. A wave that rose up my back and grabbed. I bent forward over the counter, forehead almost to the laminate, gripping the edge with both hands. The keys clinked as my elbow knocked them. My knees gave a little and I went down hard on one knee on the tile, still holding on.
I breathed the way the class taught us. In through the nose for four. Out through the mouth for six. The tile was cold through my leggings. My sweater rode up in back. I stayed there and counted the seconds on the microwave clock until it eased.
Five minutes apart now. Maybe less. My app said to keep timing but my hands wouldn't work right.
When it passed, I didn't get all the way up. I stayed half-crouched, one hand on the counter, one hand on my belly. The baby moved, a hard roll under my ribs, and I laughed once, short and scared.
"Okay," I said. "Okay, baby."
I looked at the keys again from down there. From that angle they looked small and useless. Even if I'd had the car, what was I going to do? Haul myself into the driver's seat, hunched around my stomach, white-knuckling it down our street while another contraction hit at a red light? I couldn't. I knew I couldn't. My doctor had looked me straight in the eye at the last visit. Don't delay, don't drive yourself, I need you now — that's what I'd tried to tell Blake. Wait, my doctor said, don't delay, I need you now.
The keys weren't a way out. They were just what he'd left behind.
I pulled myself up using the cabinet handle and reached for my phone again. Missed call from my sister-in-law, two minutes ago. A text under it: almost to your street. porch light on? keep front unlocked.
Before I could answer, there was a knock. Sharp, twice, from the front. Not the blue door — that was still open a crack, letting in daylight and cold air. It was the storm door rattling in its frame.
"Claire?" A woman's voice. Mrs. Patel from next door. "Honey, your front door is wide open and your bag's in the doorway. Are you okay in there?"
I froze with Blake's keys in one hand and my phone in the other. Another tightening started at the base of my spine. I gripped the counter again and didn't answer right away because I couldn't get air to speak.
May you like
The knock came again, softer. "Claire?"
I realized I was going to have to open my mouth and say it out loud to another person. That he was gone. That I couldn't drive myself. That I needed someone who wasn't him.
