by Jill G. Hall
When she came out of the restroom, Barnaby was chatting up the lululemon girl.
Anne wandered back to the table and sat down. “Sorry.”
“You look horrible.”
“I’m not feeling well. I think I’m coming down with something.” She clutched a tissue from her backpack and blew her nose.
“I’d better go.” He stood.
“I thought we might have a chat.”
“Some other time. I’ll message you.”
“But . . .”
He turned and slunk out.
What a jerk. He hadn’t even thrown away his cup. A teenage worker with a buzz cut and bad zits came by with a trash bag and reached for it.
Anne wiggled her hands over it. “Wait! I’m saving cups to use in art projects.”
“Whatever.” The boy shrugged and walked away.
With a fresh napkin, she carefully slipped Barnaby’s cup into her backpack.
Later, at home, she put on surgical gloves she had for working with toxic art materials, ripped open the sealed paper covering the Q-tips, and extracted them. Hoping this would work, she ran the first one carefully along the coffee cup rim and placed it inside the sample envelope. She repeated the process three more times.
She closed her eyes and prayed: Please, God, don’t let him be the father.
The tiny print at the bottom of the sample envelope was so small she could barely make it out, but it seemed to be some kind of disclaimer saying that she’d read, understood, and agreed to the terms and conditions. There wasn’t a space to sign it, though—just some information to fill in. So she wouldn’t be doing anything illegal, would she?
The form asked for first and last names, and birthday. She realized she didn’t even know Barnaby’s last name. She could probably find it on Facebook, but she didn’t want to have his name on her baby’s birth certificate anyway. She scribbled in “Barnaby Cowboy” and a birth date. “Alleged father” was one of the boxes to tick. “Alleged”—such an intense word. She checked it and the box for Caucasian, then slid the forms and samples inside the first-class return package and sealed it securely.
She called a Lyft and rushed to the post office before it closed. Tomorrow she’d have the blood sample drawn and sent directly to the DNA company. If Barnaby was the father, her decision would be easier.
On pins and needles, she checked for online results several times a day. She worked at the museum on Wednesday and Saturday, did her yoga practice, and added more paint to the Southwest sky piece. Sometimes the best way to dispel her anxiety was to just lie on the daybed, play soft music, and rub her belly.
A week later, she still had no DNA results. Darn it!
She studied the sky piece sitting on the easel and felt the canvas needed something more. She gathered the pile of printed nature photos from her Southwest trip, sat at the kitchen table, and cut around the images—deer, boulders, ponderosa pine, oak, meadow. She carried the canvas to the table, laid it flat, and adhered the photos on top of the sky in a collage. Afterward, she washed her hands and took a nap.
When she got up, she logged back in to the paternity-testing site. Finally, there was a response. We’re sorry, but no DNA results were able to be determined from your recent sample.
Oh my God! She had known it was a long shot, but she had hoped upon hope it would work.
Anne texted Fay: SOS
Fay called back right away. “What’s up?”
“No DNA found on the cup. What do I do next?” Anne knew the answer but didn’t want to hear it. She looked at the sky piece, wishing she were back in peaceful northern Arizona.
“Bloody hell. I’m sorry. You go to Barnaby again, or Sergio, and get a real sample.”
“I guess I’ll ask Sergio.” They hadn’t spoken in a few weeks. He’d sent her a few funny gifs and texted, but she’d been avoiding a full conversation. Was there a way she could tell him without revealing the whole truth?
She hung up the phone, picked up her journal, and started writing:
How have you been feeling? I’ve got the Ebola virus. You know how contagious it is. You should get tested too. I have the chicken flu, rotgut, scurvy, the heebie-jeebies.
Maybe she could send him an anonymous letter, as if it were from the DNA company.
Dear Sir:
Due to unforeseen circumstances, a sample of your DNA is requested.
Anne crossed out “requested” and wrote:
Urgently needed. Read the directions below and submit back to us in the addressed envelope. Have a good day.
Nope—she crossed out that last sentence.
Best regards,
Dr. Daniel No-Nonsense Andrews, DNA
She was losing it. No way Sergio would send his DNA to some crank letter.
She swallowed and called him, trying to keep the panic out of her voice. “I have good news and bad news.”
“What?”
“I’m pregnant.”
He laughed. “You’re kidding.”
“No.”
“I’m FaceTiming you.”
“No, no, I’m not decent.” She didn’t want to see his face when she told him.
“I’ve seen you indecent before! Come on—this is too important.”
She answered his call.
His blurry face came into view. “But it was only that one night.”
“That’s all it takes.”
“But still.” He raised his voice. His face showed disbelief.
She felt like he’d thrown a can of paint on her. “Don’t worry. I’m thinking of having an abortion anyway.”
He raised his voice even louder. “You can’t make that decision. I’m part of this too!”
“That’s where the bad news comes in.” She brushed the hair out of her eyes.
“That’s not the bad news?”
“No.”
“What?”
There might have been a thousand things she could have said to smooth over the shock, but she couldn’t think of any. She turned her face from the screen. “I need a DNA sample from you.”
“What? Why?”
She turned back to the screen; she couldn’t get any more words out and just stared at him.
“You’ve been with someone else.” He looked like she’d slapped him.
“Are you saying you’ve never been with anyone else?” Anne asked.
“I’m not saying that . . .”
“Double standard?”
He winced. “It just drives me crazy to think of you with another man.”
“How do you think it makes me feel to know you’ve been with someone else too?”
His voice softened. “I’m sorry. I’m just surprised. You must have been with him close to the time I was there. When are you due?”
“Mid-January.”
“But I’m scheduled for a ski vacation in St. Moritz then.”
“Boo-hoo. How shallow.”
He hung his head. “Sorry.”
“Will you take the test?”
“Of course. What do I need to do?”
“I’ll have a kit mailed to you. All you do is scrape four Q-tips inside your cheek and send them back to the lab. I’ll check the results online and let you know. I’m so sorry.”
He smiled. “No, I’m sorry to have overreacted. You’re the one going through this.”
“Thanks.” He was so sweet.
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you too.”
She ordered the kit to be sent to him. If it was his baby, she’d need to keep it.
Anne played the waiting game again. Sergio called every day, and she kept checking for the test results.
Finally, a week later, the fifth time she checked that day, she got a message from the DNA company. She paused and put her hand on her stomach. God, please let this be Sergio’s. She inhaled and clicked the link.
36
Relief washed over Anne. Now she knew for sure she would keep the baby, but she needed to speak with Sergio bef
ore she made her final decision.
She FaceTimed him. “Ready?”
“No matter what, I’m behind you.”
That was exactly what she’d longed to hear; she took a deep breath, let it out and read, “DNA results confirm Sergio Parmeggianno is the father.”
He didn’t even smile. “I know it wasn’t planned, but we’ll work it out.” His voice was flat. “You can move to New York and live in the condo. I’ll hire an au pair.”
Anne had been afraid of this. Would he even propose again? She glanced at the engagement ring on the altar and then back at him. “Hold your horses.”
“What? You aren’t still thinking of having an abortion, are you? Don’t I have prenatal paternal rights?”
“Of course you do. I just don’t want to move to New York. I tried before, and it didn’t work, remember?”
“How could I forget? But everything’s different now, and we still love each other, don’t we?”
Anne hoped the baby would have his dark brown eyes. “Of course. But just because you’re the father doesn’t mean I’ve changed my mind about New York, or even about whether we should get back together.” She couldn’t do that East Coast–West Coast back-and-forth thing again, especially with a baby.
“But I’ll need to be part of your lives. A child needs a father.” She’d never heard him whine before, and it wasn’t pretty.
“You can. You have a right to, but I also have a right to stay here in San Francisco. Besides, if I moved there, you’d be gone most of the time for work, anyway.”
“You can’t raise a baby there alone.”
“I won’t be. I have a support system.” She smiled—a confident front.
He squinted. “I’ll come to town soon, and we’ll talk it out further. Please consider moving here.”
“Okay. I’ll think about it.”
“Please do. Arrivederci.”
The call ended. What a mess. He might be right that it made more sense for her to move there.
She stepped through the kitchen door and out onto the deck. The fall sky was foggy and gray. Her residency started next week. She was excited about her project but had a lot of trepidation concerning Karl. Outside her Michigan bedroom window, the maple leaves had probably turned and started to drift toward the ground.
Time to break the news to her mom, but Anne didn’t want to crush her heart like those fallen leaves. She’d be hurt Anne was having a baby without being married. In small-town Oscoda, rumors flew fast as wildfire, and Anne didn’t want her mom to be embarrassed, either. It would be best to tell her with the whole family around for moral support.
Back inside Anne texted her cousin Pootie: I’ve got news. Need favor, have Brian hook up a computer to Mom’s TV so we can Skype all at once.
Of course, Anne’s phone rang right away. Pootie would try to get the news out of her. Knowing her, Anne figured Pootie might even guess the moment she heard Anne’s voice, then blab it all around town.
Anne let it ring through, then checked Pootie’s voice mail. “What’s up, buttercup? Call me right away.”
Anne ignored the message. After a few minutes, Pootie texted again:
Are you pregnant?
Anne lied: No.
Pootie: Cancer.
Anne: NO.
Pootie: Really getting married this time?
Anne: No. Just set up the call, and I’ll tell you all then.
Pootie: Tell me now.
Anne: Just set it up for 6:30 your time.
Later that afternoon, she brushed her hair, put it up in a scrunchie, and added Avon lipstick. She set up her laptop, held her lucky key in her hand, and dialed the number.
On the plaid couch, Baby Brian perched on Pootie’s lap. “Hi, Annie!” he squealed, and waved.
Anne waved back. He sure had grown since the last time she’d seen him, a few months earlier. Aunt Tootie sat beside Pootie, and Big Brian stood behind her in his heating-and-air-conditioning company’s T-shirt.
“Mom, where are you? Move over so I can see you!” Anne yelled.
Her mom moved closer to Tootie. “Can you see me now? What’s going on?”
It felt comforting to see her. She’d curled her hair and had put on full makeup. “Yes.” Anne hesitated and put a hand on her stomach. “I’m having a baby.”
The whole family clapped and hollered, including Baby Brian.
Her mom had the biggest smile she’d ever seen. “That’s wonderful, dear. I didn’t know you were back with Sergio. When’re you getting married?”
“We’re not. He’s staying in New York.”
“I don’t understand. If you’re broken up, how did . . .” Her mom paused. “Are you not getting along?”
“We’re great friends”—Friends with benefits?—“and are in contact all the time. We’ll probably coparent or something. Sorry to disappoint you again.” Her mother had been so disheartened when Anne had left Michigan and never moved back.
Aunt Tootie hooted, “Don’t fret. Your mother never tied the knot with your father, either.”
“What?” Anne put her hand to her chest.
Her mom pouted at her not-quite-sister-in-law. “In my heart, we were married. The wedding was planned for when he returned from overseas. He just never came back was all.” Her mom wept, and Tootie handed her a tissue.
“Why did you lie to me all this time?” Anne reached for a Kleenex too.
“Times were different then. A woman was disgraced if she had a baby out of wedlock, so I added the wedding band on my finger with the engagement ring your father had given me, and I never looked back.”
“I’m the only other one in town who knew,” Aunt Tootie said. “We pretended they’d had a quick ceremony before he left.”
“I can’t believe it.” Anne felt her mouth gaping.
“Nowadays, plenty of women have babies without a husband. I raised you okay, didn’t I?”
Anne wished she could reach through the screen and give her mother a big hug. “Yes, you did. You were—you are—the best mom ever.”
“I always meant to tell you, but the moment just never seemed right.”
“What about Sergio? Did you miss your chance to marry him?” Baby Brian wiggled on Pootie’s lap, and she handed him over to Tootie.
“Not really. It’s complicated.” Anne didn’t feel like explaining it all to them. They probably wouldn’t understand, anyway.
“When are you due?” Tootie asked.
“Mid-January.”
“I’ll book a flight right away.” Her mom smiled.
“You mean you’ll come out here for the birth?”
“Of course I will!”
Anne felt relief for the second time that day. “Mom, that means the world to me. I know how you hate to travel.”
“I won’t miss the birth of my grandchild.”
Tootie put an arm around her and asked Anne, “What do you plan to do? You can’t raise a child out there all alone.”
Anne didn’t like the way everyone kept saying she was alone. “I’m not sure.”
Her mom’s eyes lit up. “Move home, and we’ll all raise her together.”
“I don’t think so.” Anne didn’t want to move there any more than she wanted to move to New York.
“It’ll be so much fun.”
“Over and out.” Anne said goodbye.
Small-town Michigan had been a great place to grow up and continued to be a good place to raise children. What if her mother’s suggestion wasn’t the worst idea after all?
The next afternoon, the buzzer rang. Anne spoke into the intercom. “Yes.”
“UPS delivery.”
She ran down the stairs, and the man handed her a big box addressed to Bigfoot. It reminded her of the time Sergio had sent her the Ferragamos right after they’d met. He could be so romantic. He must be feeling bad about his reaction. Going up the stairs, she gently pushed Thai out of the way and pictured stylish maternity clothes or sweet baby outfits.
In the
apartment she pried the package open with scissors. Inside were three jars labeled GIVE, SAVE, SPEND in Sergio’s all-caps writing. What the heck? She sifted through the box and at the bottom found a thin paperback book, The Opposite of Spoiled: Raising Kids Who Are Grounded, Generous, and Smart About Money. The cover had a photo of jars with labels like the ones he’d sent.
She tried not to cry. Was this some kind of joke? Was he alluding to the fact that she’d never been good with money?
She texted Sergio: I got the package. Thank you. I think?
Sergio: The author is from the New York Times. It’s based on research. The hottest new thing.
Anne: But the baby won’t even be getting an allowance for years yet.
Sergio: I know, but it’s never too early to start planning.
Anne didn’t reply. She tossed the book across the room, picked up one of the jars to smash in the sink, and paused. What a disaster it would be to clean up. She put the jar back in the box. Sergio didn’t have a clue what she was dealing with here. She never wanted to see him again.
37
In the morning, sun streamed through the window, waking Sally Sue. She heard a rustling and quickly rolled over. Cliff, in dungarees and boots, stood shirtless in front of the looking glass. The cabin was warm, even though he hadn’t lit a fire. The blankets and long johns were folded neatly on the cot.
His back muscles rippled as he dipped a bristle brush in the water bowl, twisted it in a mug, and swirled the lather on his cheeks in a figure-eight pattern up his sideburns and down his neck. Pursing his lips, he slid foam across his upper lip too. The scent of nutmeg, orange, and anise filled the air.
“Morning glory.” He caught her watching him in the mirror.
“Morning.” She sat up with a yawn, pulled the blankets up to her chin, and glanced at her clothes piled on the floor. Oh. She’d taken them off again in the night. She’d really need to cease that bad habit now.
Cliff’s razor seemed sharp as he moved it across the foam; one false move, and it could kill him. She should have had the urge to jump out of bed and give it a try. Instead, she continued to admire his face as it reappeared, smooth and fresh, from under the froth.