Page 20 of Secondhand Soul

“Not if she’s smart. But... Twenty-two weeks out of forty? That’s... That’s barely halfway done! What will you do if she comes like... tomorrow?” I gasp.

“Turn around and drive back,” Manny laughs. “If it weren’t for you, son, we’d have to close the shop after she comes. We’ll have to go to Ohio and take care of her in the NICU, however much they let us.”

“Mhm. But... The lady could still change her mind?”

“It’s her baby. It’s her right,” Rhea says, mouth crinkling, trying not to lose her smile. “Even after we adopt, we hope she’ll always be around with letters and visits so she gets to see her child grow up healthy and happy.”

I hug her tight, too tight, an impulse I can’t control. “She won’t change her mind. She’d be an idiot to do that, Rhea. You’re the best mom anyone could have, and Manny is the best dad. She won’t change her mind.” I repeat it like a prayer, even though I don’t pray. Sometimes I get the urge, but then things just feel hollow.

I think praying comes from the soul, and mine is missing, after all.

“If she did, that’s okay. We’d keep trying,” Manny says, wrapping his Buick-sized arms around us both. “The main thing we can do is hope and pray that the baby stays put until closer to thirty weeks. The doctors give her almost no chance of going past that, even on bed rest.”

I want to ask why; what does she have? And can it hurt the kid? Can it take her away from Manny and Rhea? Can they get stuck with all of the bills, and then the lady takes the baby away after they’ve stood like guardian angels over her in the NICU?

“Is thirty weeks better?” I ask, mouth dry. How much better? Does the baby definitely survive? Without problems?

No baby gets a guarantee like that, and come to think of it, neither do humans. How many healthy young men are now dead men, pieced together to make the abomination I see when I look in the mirror?

“Much better, Laz. She’d still need supplemental oxygen at that age, especially since a baby’s lungs are some of the last organs to fully develop. There are risks with many of her organs not being fully developed for life outside, but it’s the lungs that are the big deal.”

“Oh. Okay.” I nod, like I know what to say, but I don’t. My brain is in a frozen fog of worry and a tiny, sick kernel of a selfish monster that wishes they’d just keep me, that I wouldn’t have to compete.

“Rhea, do you want to come and add some seasonings to these yams? I have the cinnamon and ginger standing by,” Gloria floats into our midst with an apologetic style. “We’re about to carve the turkey and ham.”

“Oh, yes, good idea!” Rhea hurries off with Gloria, and I stand next to Manny, wanting to ask a dozen questions—and wanting to leave.

“Let’s go get seats. Hmm. Do you see Sera over there?”

I turn and see a tall, dark-haired brunette, with skin that’s almost translucent, wearing jeans and a blue sweater that highlights the eerily electric blue of her irises. “She works at the funeral parlor, right?” I ask.

“Moray Memorials and More. She’s a morrigan. A collector of the souls who’ve fallen in battle.”

“Like soldiers?"

“Like soldiers. Cancer. Addiction. There are so many kinds of battles. If you’re worried about someone understanding you for what you are—how you can be alive and yet not feel quite alive at the same time,” Manny says with his normal quiet, calm perception, “she might be just your cup of tea, Laz. She’s a beauty, too, and not to be crass, but I hear the Morays do a very substantial business, even in a small town. Lots of money in funerals.”

“And cars,” I say, one eyebrow arching. “You trying to get me to find a sugar mama?”

“No! But you’ve been here a while, and you don’t socialize much. This is a big event with lots of members of the paranormal community drifting in and out. There are a few single ladies I could introduce you to. Sera Moray, for one. She strikes me as your type.”

“Type?”

“Pale brunettes,” Manny chuckles.

Oh, set me on fire. I don’t know how he knows. I don’t want to know how he knows.

“Every time Sophie Smith pumps gas, you stare.”

“She’s married!” I hiss, wondering if gray skin reveals blushes.

“That’s why you just stare, and then you get on with your work. But trust me. I know what it’s like being lonely. It eats at you. And it’s no fun. I’m not saying I want you to whip out the wedding bells, but she’s a nice girl, Sera. You could ask her to sit at our table. Her parents are in California for a long weekend, visiting relatives.”

“Yeah, I could.” But I don’t. I cross my arms, making it clear that I’m not moving.

“Or... Or we could join Mr. Minegold? What about Bryce Frobisher and Ian Fenclan? Or the Kane brothers?”

“You sound like a dad, trying to find a bunch of kids on the playground who’ll take me into their little group and let me play.” My jaw hitches, breaking off half a smile. “You don’t have to. I’m a big boy. I do what I want, with who I want. I don’t need people to be palsy-walsy with. Not a ‘person,’ remember?”