“Dad, I’m nervous. What if things don’t go as planned?” Saying anything more specific than that feels like a bad omen. Still, I crave reassurance.
“Everything will be fine, even if things don’t go exactly as planned,” he says simply. “Want me to prove it?”
“Yes!” I exclaim, though I can’t imagine how he canprovesomething in the future.
He leans his elbows on his knees and folds his hands like he’s narrating in front of a campfire audience.
“Let me take you back to August of the previous century. There was a heatwave that put your mom in a fit. That’s saying a lot, considering she grew up in the Philippines. The fact that this American hospital failed to provide adequate air conditioning was unimaginable.”
“Was there no electricity?”
“It was a freaky hot summer. Fans on the maternity floor were snuck in from home.”
Experiencing heat as a pregnant woman is another level of hell. I couldn’t imagine how miserable she must have been.
“My responsibilities were easy compared to hers,” he continues. “Stay calm, count her contractions, and hand her ice chips. That was it. Except halfway through the night, I got hungry. I thought I could sneak out for a quick sandwich from the vending machine. When I came back—” He pauses, shaking his head at the memory. “Your mother had progressed three centimeters in the time it took me to unwrap a ham and cheese.”
I laugh, a short, sharp burst. “You left your laboring wife for a sandwich?”
“The nurse was timing contractions in my place, and your mother was yelling, ‘Where is he? He’s eating!’ Every time I eat a sandwich in front of her, thirty years later, she still mutters, ‘Ham and cheese.’”
He leans closer, voice dropping for effect. “And then you made your grand entrance and no one else could get a word in. You were loud! The doctor actually said, ‘Well, she inherited her mother’s lungs.’”
I wipe at my eyes, though I’m laughing more than crying.
“Here’s the thing, Ligaya,” he adds, quieter now. “Your mom forgave me for the sandwich. She forgot the heatwave. She didn’t mind the crying. All she cared about was you. Tiny, fierce, healthy. Giving birth feels chaotic while you’re in it, but once those babies are in your arms, the rest fades into background noise. I can’t guarantee that things will goexactlyas planned, but you yourself are proof of things working out in the end.”
“Come to think about it, you rarely eat sandwiches,” I say.
He shrugs. “I’d rather eat your mom’s cooking.”
“Good point.”
He pats my hand, eyes crinkling. “But hey, if I smuggle in sandwiches this time, I’ll bring you one, too.”
My phone rings. It’s Tristan’s nightly call. My dad closes the door behind him to give us privacy.
“Hi,” I answer. He’s probably just showered after practice. I dreamily indulge in the image of Tristan toweling off and smelling all clean and yummy.
“Hey, how did it go today?”
“All good. Just resting.”
“I wish I was there.”
“You’re doing your job,” I remind him. “Somebody has to score all the goals.”
In the sports channels, he has been lauded as “the comeback kid” because of his contribution to the post season wins: one goal to wrap up the Toronto series and two goals at home during the first game against Seattle. Even when he isn’t scoring, Tristan is the most versatile player on the ice, usually playing with different lines depending on what’s needed. It’s as if he turned the disadvantage of being the new guy on the team into a strength. Not being set with the usual linemates, he’s the surprise factor when the Mavericks want to make a push. No one is faster than Tristan—that’s a fact.
“Every one of them is for you,” he declares.
“Well, your children just did somersaults, so that must mean they approve.”
I settle back against the cushions, palm resting on my belly.
“Are they still bothering Mama by moving all night?”
“Yup. Sometimes I get these zings low down. I read somewhere they’re called lightning crotch. Isn’t that funny?”
