Page 69 of Townshipped
“It’s fine,” I say. Then I correct myself. It’s not really exactly fine. “I mean, I chose to do all those things. I’m trying to push past the discomfort. Sometimes, though, I feel a panic rise up. Today I was more focused on comforting Aiden. My concern for him was a good distraction from my fear of automobiles. The idea of driving again …” I shake my head. “It’s too much.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry about that until you’re ready,” Lexi assures me.
A comfortable silence settles between us. I’ve noticed that about Lexi. She knows when to speak and when to let things rest. If I stay in Bordeaux, I think she and I could become good friends.
I can’t really afford the daydreams I’ve been entertaining—ones where I make Bordeaux my forever home. I picture Aiden professing how he fell in love with me and waited for the right moment to tell me his true feelings. I mostly imagine us married with our own family on the farm. Then Lexi would be even more than a good friend. She’d be my sister-in-law.
I realize there’s a snowflake’s chance in August any of that’s about to happen. More than likely my memories will return like they increasingly have been and I’ll go back wherever I came from. Aiden will throw himself into the farm and fatherhood. He’ll be the gold standard against which I measure all men, and I’ll be this woman who once crashed into a tree in front of his property.
The sound of hydraulic brakes typical of a bus carries up from the parking lot. Face it, the acoustics in our room make this a far more open-air experience.
We could literally be in the parking lot with as clearly as we hear every engine, rustle, or shutting of car doors right now. Noises carry through the closed window—teenagers milling around, garbled excited chatter and laughter, followed by the sound of the bus luggage compartments sliding open.
The commanding voice of someone who must be a chaperone of sorts rises above the rest of the commotion. “Okay, everyone! Grab your instruments and duffles and head inside. Stand in the lobby in clusters with your room assignments and I will call names to distribute keys.”
I look over at Lexi whose eyes are wide. She keeps glancing at Poppy who’s sleeping peacefully as if we weren’t plunked down in the middle of a high school assembly after nine at night.
“Noise doesn’t usually bother babies, especially indistinct noise,” she says calmly. “The womb conditions them to it.”
I smile. “I wish we could say the same for how it affects us.”
“I have a feeling it may get worse before it gets better,” Lexi says with a grimace.
She’s right. The marching band descends on the hotel like a swarm of locusts—noisy locusts with large instruments, raucous laughter, and acne. The walls may actually be constructed of cardboard. Even after the throng of teens all seem to have occupied their rooms, we hear every word and movement with amplified clarity. When I say everything, I mean we hear ev-er-y-thing.
I now know that Steph has a crush on Derrick but Derrick really likes Lola. Lola flirts too much. And this makes sense because Lola plays clarinet. And according to Morgan, all clarinet players are play-uhs.
Lexi and I stifle laughs.
People shout across the hall things like, “Anyone have soap?” Someone else answers, “There’s soap already in your bathroom. It’s a hotel, dude.”
Finally, at ten the bandmaster, bless his heart, materializes in the hallway and blows an actual whistle, Von Trapp-style.
The sound would be awful if the chatter weren’t loud enough to warrant it. The stillness that follows feels like the rapture happened, and Lexi and I were the only ones left behind. That is until Poppy’s shrill cry fills the quiet.
“Apparently the womb doesn’t provide conditioning for sudden whistle blows,” I say.
Lexi looks slightly defeated, but she rouses herself and takes Poppy from her crib. I join her.
“Does she need to nurse?”
“No. It’s only been a little over an hour. She just needs to settle.”
“May I?” I ask.
Lexi asks if I’m sure. I am. So very sure. Her phone buzzes as she passes the bundle of blankets containing her daughter over to me. I move Poppy around until we find a position she seems to like. Her plump lower lip juts out. She lets out a shiver of a cry as I bounce her. The longer I sway and hum, the more she succumbs to the urge to fall back asleep.
We settle Poppy back in her portable crib and climb into our beds.
Before we fall asleep, Lexi says, “That text was Trevor checking on us after the whistle.”
I smile. It must be reassuring to have someone like Trevor—someone to watch over you.
I don’t know when I fall asleep, but the next thing I’m aware of is Lexi standing next to my bed, shaking my shoulder.
“Em, wake up. Are you alright?”
I pat across my covers absentmindedly, rub sand out of the corner of my eye and look around.
