I nodded.
“It was because we wanted to, right?”
I nodded again.
“Was it because we had been wanting to, or was it a result of the happenings of the evening or the alien event that made us do it?”
“I think you’re getting much too analytical about this.”
“No, Rita. You don’t get it. It is a big deal to have a kiss like that with someone. Someone that I care about. Is the coffee ready? Caffeine helps me think.”
I pointed at the cup I had just poured for him.
Someone I care about. It made me feel warm and happy.
“Thanks so much for being with me,” I said. “For going to the field. Dealing with the alien. Going to the hospital. All that.”
Derek looked at me for a moment, then gave a wry smile. “I could say my pleasure, and it would be half true. The hospital part was a bit unsettling.”
He sat down at the table and put his head in his hands, smoothing his hair back. I felt like there were many things we both could have said right then, but we both were silent.
“I’m worried about you and Rudy,” he said finally.
“We feel fine.”
“But you didn’t last night. After the chocolate. What do you think that was about?”
“Could have been a psychosomatic something or other. You know how when the seed is planted for something to happen, sometimes it happens? That sometimes happens to me anyway. And I wanted to feel that tingling. I could have made that happen.”
“Do you think you should talk to someone, like a medical person, about that?”
“You do want Rudy to be born in an asylum, don’t you? Or worse yet, in a government detainment center for those who have experienced close encounters? Did you see that movie, E.T? And, I do have a follow up with the doctor today,” I added.
Derek just looked at me.
“Oh, my God. You mean talk to a medical person shrink, don’t you?” I said.
“Or perhaps a person who knows something about psychic phenomena. Just to get a second opinion. Your medical doctor said things were all right, right?”
“As far as she could tell.”
“I can ask around and see if there is anyone we could trust to give us the benefit of their knowledge.”
“What would we even do if that person told us to do something?” I heard myself getting strident. “What are they going to say? In the absence of a clear course of action, I think it’s better to wait this out. You know, if you ask the question, you have to abide by the answer.”
“But we have to consider Rudy,” Derek said quietly but firmly.
“We don’t have to consider anything,” I bristled. “I am the one responsible for Rudy.”
Derek had gotten up to pour more coffee. His back stiffened.
“Yes, well then,” he said.
I don’t want to say my words hung in the air, but they did. I walked to the window, hugged myself and looked out. I felt Derek’s eyes boring into my back, just like I had at Caroline’s party last year. It was not a good feeling then, and it wasn’t now. I couldn’t turn around.
“Well, then,” Derek said again. He snatched his car keys from the table in the foyer and left.
It wasn’t like me to be unable to make decisions. I felt I needed to make one here, but I didn’t know why. I felt I should do something. Something had just happened. I had missed an opportunity for something important.
For the first time since Derek and I were at the zoo, I really, really cried.
Chapter Eighteen
The Prodigal
Of course, in the soap opera my life rapidly was becoming, what would happen now is that the wandering father, the other man, would return. That afternoon, I had gone to the library where I always went when I needed to escape, and when I got home, I saw the voice mail message light blinking. I made a mad dash for the message. I just knew it had to be Derek saying everything was all right. But it was Fergie’s voice, telling me that he’d be in Bridgefield for a few days starting Friday. Didn’t ask how Rudy was. How I was. Just a statement that he would be here.
I really didn’t care. I already saw myself and Rudy on our own. I sat down immediately and, more with a reporter’s curiosity than anything else, made note of a few interview questions I would ask him when we saw each other, since that seemed inevitable.
On Monday, Derek didn’t call and I wrote about the cornfield, and the piece was good. I knew it was good, and then I did a bad thing, possibly an unethical thing, since I was employed by and therefore attached to the Sentinel-Post. Through the miracle of email, I pitched the story to a big paper in Albany, a member of a nationwide newspaper conglomerate. Why? A need to see if I could snag a national byline? Subconscious competition with Fergie for national exposure? A validation of my career choice? An employment death wish? Whatever it was, on Tuesday, Derek still didn’t call and I got word that the conglomerate paper would publish it. My first and joyful inclination was to call Derek and tell him, but I didn’t.
The conglomerate wanted to print it with a photo of course, and I needed one for the paper’s story anyway. Which meant that on Wednesday, when I was starting to wonder why I should even think Derek would call me after the hurtful remark I had made, I had to go to the cornfield once again, this time with permission of the family and with a photographer. I went out, thinking about the shot and chose a view through the cornstalks toward their house, toward the deck, toward the sliding glass door as though I were someone or something looking at their home. It was eerie being there again, even in the daytime, and I had picked the photographer because she had no knowledge of this whole thing. I made a few suggestions for the shot and she liked my ideas. Also she was fascinated by the corn smashed down in a perfect circular pattern. I kept looking over my shoulder for a young boy in a baseball uniform but he never showed. And nothing tingled. Better yet, Rudy did not kick or act in any way like she was familiar with where we were. Still, I wished Derek were with me.
On Thursday, Derek and I still had had no contact. What was almost, but not quite, worse was that I had to explain to Bill and Boss why the story they had agreed I could write for the Sentinel-Post had appeared in a national newspaper, and I nearly ended up begging to keep my job. It’s funny. I think I knew that was a risk, and I half wanted to see what I would do. Single parent, journalist, woman of the world, soap opera star…what would I do? I made an effective case for needing national credentials for future career moves, which made them both nervous about my leaving the slave wages they paid, and I actually ended up with a raise. I wanted to tell Derek, but I didn’t call.
On Friday, I had an appointment with the doctor, and Derek knew it. He didn’t call me.
Enough was enough. I was dialing Derek’s office on my cell phone on my way out the newspaper office door, going to the doctor, when I bumped right into Fergie.
The first thing he looked at was my stomach, which was about seven and a half months big. The look on his face, I’ll never forget it. Wonder, fear, shame, curiosity, and possibly a tiny bit of pride, which he quickly hid. But nothing like happiness or joy. I had a strong feeling that I didn’t want Rudy to know that this man was her father.
Fergie did look good. Tall, weathered a bit, tan, with nicely tailored clothing, as opposed to the grunge look photographer image he had been cultivating. Blond hair shaped nicely, and a stubbly beard in the making.
He knew I was sizing him up.
“Five months can change a man,” he said.
“Oh, don’t give me that shit.”
“Well, this is a great start.” He smiled his quirky little smile, the smile he called up after that now life-changing kiss at Caroline’s under that mistletoe. I was unmoved.
“Start to what?”
“The start to talking about our futures. Look, can we go somewhere and talk?”
“I’m going to the doctor.”
He was clearly taken aback. I took a minute here once again to imagine myself
in a Jane Austen novel. Me, the heroine, badly used by the scheming photographer to satisfy his carnal needs, waiting to be saved by her one true love, in which role, I realized with surprise, I saw Derek.
“I have an appointment.”
“Oh.”
“Not, ‘Oh, I’d love to come? Not, ‘Oh, how’s the baby doing?’”
“Rita, I….”
“No, that’s all right. If you don’t want to be a part of this, don’t apologize. For God’s sake, don’t do that. It’s been clear from the start that you think this is my fault at an inconvenient time for you, so fine. Rudy and I will be just fine. We don’t want anyone with us who doesn’t want to be here.”
Fergie actually looked relieved, which pissed me off even more. People on the street who were walking by looked embarrassed and gave us a wide berth. I knew we should have gone somewhere and talked, but five months of words unsaid had made them tumble forth out of control and that’s how I felt, out of control.
“Rudy?” he said. His voice was questioning and I’m not sure if it was about the name or the sex of the baby and I really didn’t much care.
I turned on my heel and flounced down the street. Fergie was left to ponder whatever he was pondering. I knew he and I had more talking to do, but I also knew I didn’t want it to end in us having a relationship because of Rudy, or with him giving me money because of Rudy. She was mine, mine to decide many things for, not the least of which was who would be a father to her.
I was crying, walking down the street to the doctor’s. She was coming in on this Friday afternoon especially to see me and I cried in the waiting room and walking into the exam room and was stifling sobs by the time she walked in. She looked alarmed, but she didn’t ask me what was the matter. Remember, I was giggling uncontrollably the last time she saw me. She just sat down next to me on the plinth and looked concerned. We sat there for a while and I was getting those caring vibes and I couldn’t stifle any more. I started all over again. I told her all about Fergie. I went through everything: Fergie’s excitement about his future and disinterest about the baby, me feeling cheated by that and stupid for being with such a dolt, albeit a good-looking one, me feeling badly that once again I had made a wrong choice and now, this time I was not the only person who would pay. I told her how I hated mistletoe and how that’s basically where all my troubles began.
“And, what would you think if I said I thought I wanted a person of short stature to be the father for Rudy?” I ended, sniffing and blowing my nose.
Now that made her change her motherly affect to one of doctorly concern. “Excuse me?”
I didn’t feel like I could say any more, and I felt I might have said too much already.
I fumbled over words thanking her for listening. She helped me lie down and examined us, and with a smile said both Rudy and I were fine. She asked me about the emergency room visit, had I had anything other than the vomiting and fainting? Could I trace it to anything? Remembering the other night and Derek shaking his head, I said no to everything. Then she asked me about the man who was with me. A good friend, I found myself saying. Someone who really cares about Rudy and me. Happened to be with me at the time. She had some good words to say about Derek, how helpful he was, how concerned, a good friend.
“Is he the one you might want to be the baby’s father, however that develops?” she asked. She asked this slowly and carefully.
I nodded my head.
She nodded her head and smiled.
At home, I discovered Fergie had left a voicemail saying he still wanted to talk.
I called back and left him a message that I would meet him for lunch the next day. I suggested the location, a very public place.
I was ready. After all the men I had been involved with who got to break it off with me, it was going to be my turn this time. The “It’s not you, it’s me” line was going to be mine. We met at Chez Legumes, upscale vegetarian fare. I worried that I did not have that radiant look, but from the look on his face, maybe I did.
“Let’s start again, shall we?” Fergie said with his new mature voice, the self-confident voice of a man of the world, or at least of a man who had spent time in Australia and on the Galapagos Islands with tortoises.
I waited.
“You look good,” he said and looked at me, expecting a response. Getting none, he continued.
“I’m not sure how to say this without sounding, well, a way I don’t want to sound.” He offered a small smile.
I still waited.
“You know, I like you a lot, and I care about you.”
Oh, here it comes, I thought. I have heard these words before. You know I like you a lot. But not enough for a long-term commitment. To be my wife, or the mother of my daughter.
“And, it’s not that I wouldn’t marry you. There have been moments when I thought I was in love with you, and that hasn’t happened to me with other women I’ve been with. Not even with the woman I was married to,” he said.
I looked him straight in the eye.
“But, can you understand that now is my time? I’ve been waiting for this all my life. A validation of my art, my ability, of me. And I can’t give this up. I’ve thought about it for all the time I’ve been gone. And I can’t give it up. But I did want to share it with you—not with you and a baby.”
Wow, all the ways I could have responded to that sailed in front of my eyes. I had no frame of reference for this explanation. Me, Rita, with someone like Rudy, looking at her father, hearing him say he didn’t want to be part of us. The notion of family slipping away. I had been angry at him for months, but part of me felt always that if he saw me and felt her life, he would cave and get all mushy and start saving for a house in the suburbs. That was gone now and actually, it was a relief.
I closed my eyes and I saw the mistletoe photo he had given me with the candles glittering in the background, and then I saw my father and Mrs. Clark, ghostly figures swirling around underneath it. Then my father and his books. Then his purple chair with a sad little girl in it, reading a book.
“Maybe sometime in the future….”
“No,” I said. “You are such a broken record. No. This is where you choose. Here. Now. You feel her move, you come with to the doctor’s appointments like other fathers and when she is born, you are here, goddamnit, to have her look at your face and feel the connection. This is what you do. Those are my terms. If you don’t do this now, you don’t do it, ever.”
“Come on. There are no terms,” he said. “We are still in negotiation.”
“There are terms and they are all mine. Take them or leave them.”
“You’re being….”
“What? Unreasonable? Intractable? Maternal?”
Fergie looked angry. It was scaring me a little, but I was a mother protecting her young, so I was angry too.
“Not fair, Rita. Not fair.”
“Not fair for who, Fergie?”
“If you want me to say it, I will. For me, okay? For me. I am looking at a woman who means a lot to me, but who I can’t be with right now. It doesn’t mean I won’t want to be with you and the baby, sometime, but I can’t now. Just not now. I’m asking you to give me some time to experience the dream that was mine long before you came along.”
I should have seen it—the non-cuddling, the divorce, the not wanting children—and taken it seriously. And I got a cold chill thinking of the reason he had given me for why they divorced, her wanting kids, him not. Then, what had I been thinking? For as much as we all like to kid ourselves, people don’t change. Suddenly, all the self-involved men I’d ever known seemed to gang up on me and I found myself talking to all of them when I said, “But this is happening now. And sometimes we have to live in the present, dreams or no dreams.”
Fergie said softly but firmly, “I have options, paternal legal options, that I will use.”
“Your options be damned,” I said angrily. “You don’t want Rudy. I don’t love you. I won’t ever marry you. You’ll hav
e to get a damn good lawyer to exercise your options. That’s all I have to say. I’m done. ”
Chapter Nineteen
Still Hungry
Don’t ask me how, but during all this, we had ordered lunch, and I was trying to be civil each time the waiter was there, but when I am frustrated, I cry, and I was crying. Fergie had been eating his sandwich. I had picked at my veggie-filled croissant and had finished my raspberry tea. Rudy was kicking a lot. I had heartburn pretty badly and I felt flushed, like my blood pressure was soaring. Talk about being in a place where I never thought I would ever be. No wonder I couldn’t eat.
After I said, “I’m done,” Fergie stood up, threw some money on the table and left. It was dramatic and unexpected, but I was learning to expect that in my life.
I sat there for a long time, having a refill on tea and picking at my food. And wiping tears off my cheeks now and then. But they were tears of anger, not loss. I knew the difference well.
I got back to work late and everyone—Boss, Bill, Felicia—all wanted to know what had happened. I went directly to the ladies’ room where I washed my face and reapplied some make-up. I took a last look. Still not radiant.
I sat down at my desk and shuffled papers, booted up the computer like it was another normal afternoon at work. They all were looking at each other wondering who was going to ask me, when the phone rang. Thankful for the noise breaking the quiet, they all pounced on it. Boss won. Someone calling in about a news story, it sounded like.
“Felicia, take my car and head over to that yard sale on Oakman. Rumor has it someone from that TV show about antiques might show up,” Boss said.
“Derek called,” Felicia whispered to me as she grabbed the car keys and her laptop. “Thought you’d want to know.”
I nodded and continued typing the drivel I was pretending was actual writing. I couldn’t concentrate now at all. It had been a week since Derek had called me and I experienced that feeling of joy you get when something that you have been expecting will not happen, does.
I fiddled around at my desk for another few minutes and then stood up.
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