Yesterday I came home from the university around three o’clock in the afternoon. April said she would be home after class around one thirty. I unlocked the door to our apartment with one hand, rolled my bike into the apartment with the other, and after a flutter of helmet, keys, shoes and sweatshirt, found the apartment completely quiet.
“Hello?” I said.
No answer.
“April?”
Still no answer.
I walked to the office where her desk was—no April. I put my head in the kitchen—no April. I checked the den. No April.
I walked back through the apartment to our bedroom and opened the door. The covers lumped together around what I could only guess was a human-sized kidney bean.
I walked across the room without a sound and sat gently on the side of the bed. I rubbed the covers over April’s back.
Slowly, she came to life, wriggling a bit, then turning over and pulling the covers down over her chin. She rubbed her eyes.
“What?” she said. She squinted, looking at me, then at the alarm clock. She pulled the covers back over her head.
I couldn’t help it. I laughed.
“It’s okay if you take a nap,” I said. “You’re pregnant.”
She pulled the covers down just below her eyes and looked at me suspiciously.
“But I have to write my paper,” she said. I swear she was pouting.
“It’s okay if you take a nap.” I repeated myself, realizing then that these words were becoming a daily mantra.
She took a deep breath and sighed, staring angrily at the ceiling.
I kissed her on the cheek, leaned across the bed, and turned off the alarm clock. She will adjust along the way.
“I’ll check on you later,” I said. I left the bedroom and closed the door behind me.