I put my name and date in the upper righthand corner and turn the paper face down. This is the first time I’ve ever even thought about how things might be for the baby inside me.
The minute class is over I check my phone messages. There’s one from Krystal, which I’ll return later. Nothing from Jason. The first thing I do when I get home is check my email. There’s nothing from Jason there, either. I try again.
Hey Jason—Not that I want to bug you or anything, but I really, really need to talk to you.—Autumn
Next I email Danni and ask if she has a new number for Jason. I call Krystal, but her phone, as always, is busy.
Finally, Tuesday afternoon, there is a message from Jason.
Autumn—There’s someone else in my life now—someone who truly loves me. I’ll always remember our good times as kids, and I’ll try to forget how much you hurt me. I’m looking forward now, not back, and I’d rather not talk with you.
I’m sure you can understand that.— Jason
I read the message over and over, trying to take in what it says, what it means. Jason’s finally stopped wanting to be with me. Why doesn’t that feel like a wish come true? Why do I feel like crying?
Jason—Okay. I get it. You don’t want to talk to me. But there’s something you need to know.
I go to the kitchen and take an orange from the bowl of fruit Penny keeps on the counter. While I stand at the sink, peeling the orange, images of other times race through my head—Jason and Danni and me in the third grade, with our award-winning Native American village. Penny’s laughter as she reassembled the baby crib. Jason’s birthday and all that went with it. Underneath it all, like always, are fleeting glimpses of Dad, and Grams, and Casper.
The orange is sweet and juicy and the scent of orange peel fills the kitchen. I rinse my hands, go back to the computer and continue my message to Jason. I’m determined to sit here until I’ve sent him the whole story. Maybe it’s best to be blunt.
I’m pregnant. The baby is due in February. It’s a girl. I didn’t tell you at first because I planned to have an abortion and I was afraid you’d try to stop me. Then there was all of that time after the accident when I was not thinking straight. When I sort of woke up from that, it was too late to get an abortion. No way do I want a baby right now, and even if I did, I couldn’t possibly give it a good life. I’ve already signed the adoption release forms. Right now, I’m staying with the people who will be adopting the baby. They’re very nice people. Some time today or tomorrow you’ll get some information from the adoption consultant, and there will be a release form for you to sign. I wanted you to hear about all of this from me, before the letter gets to you. I’m sorry I hurt you. I never meant to. Your friend—Autumn
Minutes after I press “send” my cell phone rings. It’s Jason.
“This is totally bizarre,” he says. “I don’t believe it!”
“It’s true!”
“Well it can’t be mine! The only time we ever did anything was clear back in May. I saw you in September and you weren’t pregnant then!”
“I was, too! You just didn’t notice!”
“You were playing volleyball! How could you have been pregnant? I’m not buying it.”
“So don’t then! Just sign the paper that says you deny paternity!”
“So whose is it, anyway? I’m just curious.”
I hang up. The phone rings again. I turn it off. Gad I wish I could go for a run—run off anger, and hurt, and frustration and loss! Instead I walk over to the park where Nikki and I went the other day.
I watch from a distance as a woman, the mom I guess, helps her little kid into one of the baby swings and straps her in. I decide it’s “her” because she’s wearing a pink stocking cap and a pink sweater. The mom squats down in front of the baby and gently pushes her back and forth. Every time the swing comes forward, close to the mom, the baby reaches out and laughs, which gets the mom laughing, too.
At school I hardly notice the babies at the infant center. I sort of keep to myself and get as much work done as possible, so even if I’m out of school for a few weeks when the baby’s born, I’ll still have enough credits to graduate on time. I can’t help noticing now, though, that this mom is pretty happy with her baby. And I think about Gavin and Barry, how happy they seemed with little Dalton. But Gavin and Barry aren’t kids. The mom over at the baby swings isn’t a kid. I’m still a kid. I wouldn’t be happy with a baby. Nikki and Penny will be happy with Nancy. I remind myself she’s their baby.
Cold out?” Penny asks as I walk into the warm kitchen.
“A little,” I admit, rubbing my hands together to warm them up.
She’s washing a whole stack of Christmas plates and cups and saucers. The cups and saucers are white, with green and red trim around the edges. The plates have the same trim, but they also have big green Christmas trees in the middle.
Penny hands me a dishtowel.
“When I was home for Thanksgiving, my mother packed these up in an extra suitcase and sent them back with me as an early Christmas present,” she says, rinsing a plate and putting it on the counter for me to dry.
“Growing up, I used to love seeing her get these dishes out in December. It meant Christmas was coming . . . You can just stack them on the table and I’ll put them away later.”
I dry carefully, looking at the perfectly balanced green tree centered in the middle of the plate, remembering the straggly tree Dad chose last year because he said it needed a home.
“I talked to Jason this afternoon,” I say, picking up a cup to dry.
Penny puts another clean cup on the counter.
“You told him?”
“I told him everything except who I’m staying with and who the adoptive parents will be.”
“And?”
“And he doesn’t believe he’s the father. I think he’s going to sign that denial of paternity thing.”
Penny breaks into a huge smile.
“Perfect!”
She attacks the dishwashing task with new energy, then sets the table with three Christmas plates and puts the rest away. She gets out red napkins, and puts a ceramic Santa Claus in the middle of the table.
“Christmas already?” Nikki says as she steps through the back door.
Penny laughs.
“You wouldn’t be ready for Christmas until January if it weren’t for me.”
“I guess you’re right,” Nikki says, smiling.
At dinner I go through the whole Jason story again for Nikki. I tell her about the email, the telephone call, Jason’s reaction. She’s not as elated as Penny was.
“What if he changes his mind later? I’d rather have him admit he’s the father and sign the consent form.”
“What difference does it make?” Penny says. “Either way Baby Nancy is ours.”
“I don’t know. I want to talk to Audrey about it.”
When Danni and I meet again at Jamba Juice, we order our drinks and go straight to the car.
“This is definitely not going to be a conversation for public consumption,” I tell her.
I’m barely situated in the passenger seat with the door closed when Danni asks, “Who’s the father?”
I take a deep breath.
“Jason.”
“JASON!”
“Uh-huh.”
“JASON GARCIA???”
“Uh-huh.”
I tell her everything, starting with how he suddenly thought I was the one for him, and ending with how he doesn’t believe he got me pregnant. She sits there, wide-eyed, through the whole story. Then I start apologizing all over the place, for not telling her in the very beginning that he was after me, for just going along with her schemes to get him to like her, for not telling her I was pregnant as soon as I knew, for not telling her right away when I got my period, for hitting her for scribbling on my pictures of a tree . . .
She starts laughing.
“What?”
She laughs harder.<
br />
“Danni? What???”
She wipes her eyes, shakes her head helplessly, and shrieks with laughter. I have no idea what she’s laughing about but I dare anyone to witness one of Danni’s laughing fits and not join in. Once I get started laughing. I’m as bad as she is—worse because . . .
I run from the car into the Jamba Juice restroom, almost in time. I’m drying my thighs and blotting my underwear with paper towels, when there’s a loud banging on the door.
“Let me in!” Danni calls.
I open the door and she rushes to the toilet, which is the funniest thing ever. When our laughter finally subsides, and I’m as clean as I can get, we walk out of Jamba Juice, not looking at anyone at the tables, or the counter, and go straight down to Starbucks at the other end of the center.
“We can absolutely never go back to that place again,” Danni says.
Even though it’s chilly, we sit at an outside table. We want more privacy than we’d have inside where it’s crowded with people. Besides, we’re not buying anything.
“I was afraid . . . you know . . . when I told you about Jason, you’d hate me.”
Danni shakes her head.
“I’m too happy with Evan to be mad over Jason.”
“But if I’d told you months ago, before Evan? Like maybe I should have?”
“I don’t know. On the way home last week, I started wondering how we could still be friends—especially the almost-sister kind of friends. It was like there was a whole huge part of you that I didn’t even know—all of those secrets for so long. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got.”
The baby does one of those somersault things and I shift around in the hard, metal chair trying to get comfortable.
“By the time I picked Hannah up from soccer practice, I was fuming. But then she started talking about you, like she’d maybe sensed that you’d been in the car or something. Remember how she used to pretend she was a cat? And she could pick up our scent and follow us wherever we went?”
“Yeah, and she actually did find us once when we were trying to hide from her—like she’d sniffed us out.”
Danni nods.
“Anyway, she started saying again that she missed you, and it wasn’t as much fun having just one sister . . . so I told her maybe you weren’t much of an almost-sister to us because you’d kept a lot of important secrets from us. She made her eyes go all squinty, like she does when she’s mad, and she told me ‘That’s so stupid! She’s still our almost-sister! She’s still the essence of Autumn!’ That’s exactly what she said—the essence of Autumn.”
“She’s so cool. I really miss her.”
“Well . . . I didn’t admit it to her, but she was right. Whatever secrets you’ve had, you’re still you and we’re still almost-sisters.”
“You’re a better friend than I deserve,” I tell her.
“How about you email that to me a thousand times,” she laughs.
I stand and stretch my back.
“There’s still more I have to tell you, but it’s another really long story.”
“C’mon. You can’t just say that and then make me wait another week for the next installment!” she says, standing.
“No, really. It’s too complicated.”
We walk back to the car. On the way to the library she tells me more about Evan, how he used to be into drugs and then he found Christ. I glance at the picture of Jesus hanging from the mirror and wonder how Danni finds it so easy to believe and I don’t.
When I get out at the library, I say to Danni, “I’m glad we’re sure about being almost-sisters, but I don’t think we’ll ever share a mother again.”
“Don’t say that. I’m working on her.”
“How?” I say, leaning back into the car.
Danni gives me a sort of condescending smile.
“You’re not the only one with complicated stories,” she says. “See you next week!”
She leans over, pulls the car door shut, and drives away with a wave. I call Penny to pick me up, then wait for her just inside the library doors, where it’s warm.
In the evening I tell Nikki I don’t want to keep any more secrets from Danni. I want to tell her where I’m living, and about our adoption plans.
“I’ve been thinking about that, too,” she says. “We’ve got all of the legal stuff taken care of now—official foster placement for you, and the pre-adoption papers are all in order. Jason FAXED his denial of paternity to Audrey’s office first thing this morning.”
“It’s a lie,” I say.
“Well . . . that’s between you and Jason, I guess. All it means to us is that he won’t be getting in the way of adoption plans.”
“What if he decides to tell the truth later on?”
“Yeah, I wondered about that, too. According to Audrey, he’d have to go through a big, expensive legal hassle to change things. He’s essentially rescinded any paternal rights.”
Nikki’s quiet for a while, then she grins at me and says, “So . . . I guess we’re getting a baby!”
“Does Penny know Jason sent the form in?”
“I left a message for her on her cell. She’s been stuck in meetings all afternoon and half the night, but we’ll probably be able to hear her shout for joy as soon as she picks up messages.”
“So is it okay for me to tell Danni now?”
Nikki nods.
“I don’t want to make a big announcement at school, but I’m sick of acting like we have something to be ashamed of. Tell whoever you want.”
The phone rings and Nikki rushes to pick up. I hear her soft laughter and then she says, “It’s true. We’re going to be mommies.”
She listens a while, then says “Love you, too,” and hangs up. Nikki comes back into the den and pulls a chair up next to where I sit working at the computer. She’s got the kind of broad, beaming smile she gets when we win an especially tough game.
“Any kicks?” she asks, reaching tentatively toward my belly.
I slide my chair back.
“She was pretty active a few minutes ago,” I say.
Nikki puts her hand gently on my belly.
“Come on, Nancy,” she says. “Give Mommy a kick!”
We sit very quietly for a while, waiting. Nothing happens.
“She already questions authority,” Nikki says with a grin. “Goodnight, Autumn. And thank you.”
It’s funny. All along it’s seemed like only Penny was interested in getting the baby, and Nikki was just doing it for Penny’s sake. But now I’m thinking Nikki was just holding back, afraid to hope. And now that everything’s signed, she can let herself be happy.
Chapter
23
Saturday Penny and Nikki and I go to a tree lot back behind the Safeway market. Nikki and I find one we like right away, but Penny says it’s too lopsided. We look up one row and down the next, looking at fir trees, pines, and spruces. I swear she’s trying to find one that’s as perfect as the picture on her plates. Finally, though, we settle on an almost perfect tree, tie it onto the Subaru, and drive it home at about fifteen miles an hour.
Nikki selects Christmas music from her iTunes library and hooks her iPod up to the living room speakers. Penny drags boxes of decorations from the hall closet, and we spend the afternoon decorating the tree, putting candles on every table, and draping garland over all the doorways. Nikki secures a giant red wreath to the front door and proclaims the task done.
“I think we need more lights on the tree,” Penny says. “Don’t you?”
“No! Stop!” Nikki says, smiling. “Already we’re going to double our electricity bill this month!”
Penny steps back and assesses the tree.
“Okay, but next Christmas, for Nancy, we’re going to have to
add a lot more lights. Babies love lights.”
“Okay, Mommy P,” Nikki says.
That’s what they’ve started calling each other. Mommy P and Mommy J.
On Sunday, we
decide to go to the big mall in Pasadena and get started on our Christmas shopping. Penny and Nikki give me $250.
“The state sends us a check each month to help pay for your food and clothing, and other necessities,” Nikki says. “But there’s always extra.”
“Thanks, but . . .”
“No buts,” Penny says.
At the mall we go our separate ways, deciding to meet up again in an hour. Penny goes into a decorator shop to look for something for her parents, and Nikki goes down to the other end, to a kitchen shop, to look for something for Ella and Sandy. They are both carrying long lists of people to buy for. Earlier this morning I started a list, too. Compared to last year’s, it’s not very long.
I sit on a bench in front of the fountain, watching the water rise and fall, trying to decide where to start.
I’ll get something for Danni, and Hannah, and Penny and Nikki. I’d like to get something for Madison, too, but what’s the use? She can’t keep anything personal.
Here are some of the people from last year’s list that I won’t be shopping for today. Carole and Donald—they’re not exactly part of my life anymore. And Jason? Nope—guess not. And I won’t need to buy a drawing gift for the party at Dad’s work. And, of course, I won’t be buying for Grams and Dad. I always got each of them something nice and something funny. Last year, for a funny gift, I got Dad a fake toupee because I always liked to tease him that he was going bald. “Just wait and see,” I’d say. “In two years you won’t have a single hair left on your head.” I wonder if that’s going to be true. I heard somewhere that your hair and fingernails keep growing after you’re dead, but . . . Shite! Why am I even thinking about that?
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