by Lily Foster
There are times when I’m plagued by anxiety over things that truly should worry me, and other times when I know I’m worrying over nothing. Last night I kept waking up breathless, thinking the baby was in bed with me and I’d rolled over onto him and he’d suffocated. He was safely in his co-sleeper each and every time. There are other nights when I lie awake fearful that he’ll die in his sleep—that the operation didn’t work and his poor little heart can’t pump blood the way it needs to keep him alive. I worry that he won’t be able to run around and play sports when he’s older, making mental notes at four in the morning to sign him up for lessons so he can learn to play a musical instrument. I worry that I’m not producing enough breastmilk, even though I’m leaking like a damn faucet and Ethan’s gaining weight at a healthy rate. I worry that we’re too far away from a decent hospital if and when something does go wrong. I worry that I’ll drop him. I just worry.
It’s days like today that I thank the Lord above for Janelle. I’m convinced she’s my fairy godmother. We are a team taking care of Ethan together. Since I’m breastfeeding I have the night shifts, but she makes sure to give me plenty of opportunities to rest throughout the day and she takes care of basically everything else. I feel bad when I see her hauling the laundry downstairs or cleaning out the diaper pail, but the guilt is offset by the delight I feel every time I see her rocking Ethan in the comfy glider chair she bought for us. Janelle looks blissed out and content when he is in her arms, looking up at her smiling.
Just a few more minutes. That’s all I need to recharge before I go back in there. Sitting up, I see my name and think back to the day I etched it into the surface with my pocket knife. I was mad as hell that afternoon. For the most part I was completely ignored during my short stint at Franklin Murphy Memorial High, but that day some girl yelled out the word slut as she passed me in the crowded hallway. I was never a fighter to begin with, but you really can’t throw down when you’re sporting a baby bump. I held my chin up and kept on walking, silently cursing the heat and color creeping up my neck and across my face as her friends and a few other morons laughed.
I wasn’t angry at her as I stabbed at the stone, doing a messy job of scratching a C into the surface. My fury was directed at him. He should be here. He should be enduring this shit storm alongside me. There I sat, wearing the ultimate mom jeans: faded blue denim with an elastic panel that pretty much stretched from my waist down to my crotch—so hot—topped off with a baggy flannel button-down of Janelle’s because my boobs now looked obscene in my own shirts. I never cared much about how I dressed or looked before, but maybe that was because I never had to. It takes carrying a watermelon around every day to appreciate how rocking your body was before pregnancy. And though I really wasn’t looking to make friends in this new town, the loneliness had been getting to me. Back then, Janelle and I were still feeling each other out. We weren’t relaxed around one another the way we are now. I remember feeling so alone that day. Simon was more than just a boyfriend, more than the first boy I’ve ever loved—he was my friend. I missed him, but the longing quickly morphed into anger and resentment.
What is he doing today? It’s a game I play now and then. Is he at the library studying? On his way to catch dinner at Mike and Brandon’s place? As I make my way back across the yard towards the house, I think about how tragic and wild and awful this whole state of affairs is. He’s oblivious. He’s going to classes, study sessions and parties, ignorant to the fact that he is the father of a beautiful seven month-old boy. A fighter who braved five weeks in the hospital after his momma was discharged. A brave little peanut who lets doctors and nurses hook him up to machines that beep and buzz on a fairly regular basis. A sweet little trooper who laughs, coos, farts, burps and smiles his way through each and every day.
Janelle is singing James Taylor’s You are My Only One as she rocks from side to side holding Ethan in one arm while she stirs a heavenly smelling venison stew with the other. The storm has passed. Ethan is content, holding her long braid in both of his chubby fists. He stares at her face as she sings those sweet words to him, studying her.
I’m smiling as I reach for Ethan, but the sorrow is heavy as he wiggles his body towards me and stretches his little arms out. As I snuggle him in close, I pray that I haven’t made a colossal mess out of everything. Simon will find out someday. He won’t be able to turn back time, won’t ever get to experience this. He’ll never know what it’s like to have a newborn Ethan sleep in his arms, never look on in wonder like I do when he feeds at my breast. He’ll never feel the rush of emotion that comes when Ethan looks right at you and smiles.
I’m pretty sure Simon will never forgive me for this, even though everything I’ve done has been for him.
Tomorrow we head back to the apartment Janelle has leased for the year. It’s just a few miles away from the hospital. We stayed there after I was discharged, visiting Ethan daily while waiting for him to get the green light to come home with us. Janelle says it makes sense to keep it for a while, as we have to be at the hospital every few months to meet with Ethan’s specialists. His echocardiograms have come back clear at every check-up so far, and his doctors use the phrase cautiously optimistic when they discuss his long-term prognosis. But I know he’s not out of the woods. There’s always the chance of a setback, so I pray for him nightly with the fervor of a zealot. And I’m like the germ gestapo, barring anyone from our home that so much as sniffles. The parish sponsored mommy-and-me group one town over? Over my dead body. There are so many things that are out of my control, like whether or not his aortic stenosis will rear its ugly head again and require some difficult, risky procedure. So anything that I can control, like keeping Ethan from getting some random infection, I’m going to do my best.
During those first few months in Ann Arbor, especially right after Ethan was born, I’d cue up the driving distance between Evanston and Ann Arbor on my phone. I wanted to see how close they were on the map, to study the line connecting us.
I used to think that time would lessen the pull he had on me. And maybe if there wasn’t a child involved that would have been the case, I would have moved on. But every time I look at Ethan I see Simon, and I’m not sad about that. Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment, but I don’t ever want to forget him.
Chapter Twenty
Simon
“You’re like a machine.” Finished with the meal, Professor Westfield lays his linen napkin back on the table. “And I’m not sure this is a good thing. What’s the rush? You have a four-year scholarship. I’d advise you to slow down and take the four years.” When I don’t answer, he adds, “Law school’s not going anywhere. It will still be there waiting for you.”
I was asking for suggestions on prep courses for the LSAT. And really, I should have turned it off for tonight. The topic wasn’t fitting for a holiday dinner, when normal people are feeling all sentimental and joy to the world-ish, but I’m not like them.
Yeah, I was already prepping for the LSAT because I was on track to earn my undergraduate in three years. Maybe other kids my age could stop and smell the roses, but I need to kill it on that test. No scholarship, no law school—it’s that simple.
“I’ll talk to you about it some other time.”
Brett raises an eyebrow and smiles at me as if to say: Nice going. He’s only a year older than me but acts like he already has the keys to the kingdom. He’s of the fake it ‘til you make it school of success. His “vintage” beamer and the upscale castoffs he wears from the thrift shops he trolls in Lake Forest don’t fool me—he’s another kid from the wrong side of tracks. Westfield seems to pick one golden child from each incoming class. We’re his lab rats, his nature versus nurture thesis project.
Across from me sits the freshman pet, an insanely smart girl from West Virginia who is only half-listening to the conversation as she studies Samantha. I can’t figure out if she has a thing for Samantha or if she’s looking to emulate her. I imagine she’s beating herself up over the mis
step she’s made tonight. Everyone is in decked out in stylish holiday-themed threads, while West Virginia, dressed in black pants, a black button down and black sensible shoes, could easily be mistaken for a member of the catering staff. She’s a transplant, a gatecrasher just like me, whereas Samantha so obviously belongs in this room. Her sense of style, her cultured mannerisms and the easy way she navigates social situations leave no doubt that she was born into this. I want to lean over and whisper to the new girl: Don’t worry, you’ll get there. I know how intimidating this world can be to a newcomer.
“Samantha, are you still thinking of doing a semester abroad?”
“I’m considering it.”
“You should. I got so much out of studying in London this summer.”
“I know, you told me…That’s great.”
I want to tell Brett to save his breath, that Samantha wants no part of him. She’s not showing any interest in the senior who has Professor Westfield’s ear at the moment either, and unlike Brett, he is a genuinely good guy. No, Samantha is still dogged in her pursuit of me.
When we first met, I swear she got a gleam in her eye whenever she’d catch me leaving for my warehouse job wearing battered carpenter’s pants and my old, worn thermal shirts. She liked the uniform of hardship that I wore, liked that I was rugged in comparison to the boys she grew up with—the ones who played squash and got their first Brooks Brothers suit at age fourteen. Both of my hands clench into fists when I think back to that one night when she casually asked if I had any tattoos. Sorry to break it to you, sweetheart, got no tattoos or dick piercings to entertain you. Instead of saying what was on my mind, I just stared her down for a moment and shook my head. “Sorry to disappoint.”
She looked truly embarrassed and has since gone out of her way to make certain that she does absolutely nothing that might offend me. She doesn’t challenge my opinions, she adopts my point of view in political discussions, and she praises me, both to my face and to others.
I can’t take it.
I decided that hooking up with some other girl is the only way I’ll be able to get rid of her. So next to me sits Diana, a pre-med student from Akron, Ohio. She’ll be leaving after finals are over next week for winter break. She asked me to come, knowing I have no home to return to, but of course I declined. She’s a nice person, but I’m not even remotely smitten. Diana puts an insane amount of pressure on herself, which leads to a schedule packed with study sessions and research. As a result, she makes very few demands on me. It’s perfect. We got together about six weeks ago at a party. Samantha was there. I don’t know if it was the shots or Samantha’s excessive fawning that led me to dance with Diana and then make out with her in full view of everyone in the room.
Samantha studies Diana at the table, and I can tell from her expression that she sees herself as superior to her competition in every way. Satisfied, she looks back to her own date and makes a show of interlacing her fingers with his and resting them on the table. I’m not even the slightest bit jealous.
As I’m helping my date with her coat, Samantha calls and then waves me over. “I’m so disappointed we won’t be here for Christmas.”
“Why? Kicking back on a beach sounds like a great way to spend break.”
“I know, but I had fun last year. I’ll miss the two of us hanging out.” When I don’t respond she plasters on a winning smile. “Here…It’s nothing. I just thought of you when I saw the post online.”
I shake my head. “Samantha, I didn’t—”
“Stop…I wasn’t expecting a gift, and like I said, it’s nothing.”
But it’s not, and suddenly I feel like a total shit. I feel the same way I did when I made a show of macking on some girl in the high school gym back when I wanted to shake Charlotte off.
It’s a small green envelope with my name written across the front in gold. The envelope holds two tickets to an Avett Brothers show. I knew they were coming to Chicago this February but never once entertained the idea of seeing them. Concerts, along with most other luxuries, are not in my budget.
I can’t look at her. “Samantha—”
“I know you like them. You listen to them all the time. I just wanted to do something for you.” When I go to speak, she cuts me off. “You can take Diana.”
That all but guts me. “I appreciate the thought you put into this. Do you like them?”
Her tone is cautious. “I’m a fan. My favorite of theirs is I and Love and You.”
It’s every non-fan’s favorite song, but whatever. “Then come with me. I wouldn’t feel right taking anyone else.”
She looks over at the front door where Diana is talking to Professor Westfield. “Will your girl be down with that?” She’s teasing me, knows I’m not hopelessly devoted.
Her mother, a woman who has welcomed me into their home and fed me more times than I can count, shoots a hopeful smile my way as I slip the tickets into my coat pocket. “It will be fine.”
When I get back to my place, I cue up I Wish I Was instead of Samantha’s pick. That song is everything—it’s my absence, my longing for Charlotte, and my desire to make sure she knows how sorry I am. Sometimes I play it on repeat, and when I do, I get lost in a familiar fantasy. It’s the one where me and Charlotte are together in our simple home, making a life. It’s not always easy, but every struggle is worth it because she’s everything to me.
Charlotte
“What do you say, little man? Think momma’s gonna do well on her big test today?”
“Are you serious? You’re going to ace this thing. Your score was nearly perfect on the other one.”
“That was the GED, Janelle, this is the college entrance exam…Apples and oranges.” I was starting to speak her fruit, vegetable and animal-based language. “And I’ve only been studying for one month. Most kids prep for the better part of a year.”
This whole plan is ridiculous and rushed and crazy.
The first person to greet me when we arrived at the hospital last month was my pitbull of a social worker, Mrs. Ryan. I’m reduced to a naughty kid sitting in detention when she approaches with purposeful strides and a smile that could only be described as borderline menacing.
“You haven’t answered my emails.”
“You were right…This motherhood thing takes up every minute of every day. But here’s Ethan.” I hold him up in front of me like a shield. “He’s doing great.”
She softens immediately, smiling at him. “He’s perfect.” With a generous pump of hand sanitizer from the wall dispenser, she rubs her hands together as if she’s prepping for surgery. “Can I?” she asks, reaching out for him.
“Sure.”
She closes her eyes and smiles as she breathes in his scent. He’s drowsy, thank goodness, otherwise he might not be cool with a stranger holding him. “He’s delicious, Charlotte, and it looks like he’s thriving. What are you here for today?”
“Routine check-up. They still want to see him every two months or so.”
“So how has it been?”
“Good, but hard like you said it would be. I honestly don’t know what I would have done without Aunt Janelle.”
“Where is she?”
“Just getting coffee downstairs.”
“Good. It’s important that you have someone here for support. I always say it’s good to have a second set of ears when you’re speaking with doctors.”
“My niece has read everything there is to know about aortic stenosis.” Janelle blows on her coffee before taking a sip. “Sometimes I have to remind myself that she’s not a cardiologist.”
“Good to see you, Janelle.”
“You too.”
I feel out of the loop when a look passes between the two of them.
“So,” Mrs. Ryan starts in as she passes Ethan back to me, “I have some things I’d like to discuss before they call you in.”
I sound ridiculous to my own ears when I pipe up, heavy on the enthusiasm. “I took the GED!”
Why oh wh
y do I feel this pathetic need to defend myself to her?
“And I’m sure you passed, so let’s move forward. University of Michigan’s admissions deadline is February first. That gives you a little less than three months to get your application together.”
“What?”
Mrs. Ryan shrugs her shoulders and shakes her head. “The GED is behind you, so now we take the next step.”
“I-I’m busy taking care of Ethan. I can’t do this right now.”
She rests a hand on my shoulder. “You won’t actually be doing anything right now, but you have to take care of some details if you’re going to be starting classes next September.”
I look back and forth between her and Janelle. “Here? This is like six hours from home. I can’t do that!”
“Take a breath,” Janelle says in a voice that calms me. “You haven’t made any concrete plans yet, and that’s fine. Mrs. Ryan is just suggesting that you meet some deadlines so that if you do decide to enroll in school next fall, you’ll be able to.”
“And wouldn’t that be impressive?” Mrs. Ryan beams. “You’d be starting your freshman year of college right on schedule.”
“And no pressure at all, Charlotte, but I want you to know that you have options. Ann Arbor has grown on me and I have the means to keep the apartment. I can care for Ethan while you’re in class and while you’re studying.” In response to the look of shock I’m sure I’m sporting, she adds, “Or you can go to community college up by us for a year or two before you enroll in school full-time. Nothing’s written in stone.”
“I could never ask you to do that for me.”
“Why not?”
“You’d be leaving your home, your friends. And what about Lawrence?”
She rolls her eyes. “You act like we’d be moving to Bora Bora. We would go home for weekends and school breaks. We’d spend the summers back up north. I already talked it over with Lawrence, and not that his opinion would dictate my decision, but he’s fine with it.”