Giftchild

by Janci Patterson

  Raise a child. Me, in my mother's house. With a baby I'd intended for her.

  My skin prickled. Married even younger than her. A doomed high school marriage.

  Rodney moved closer to me, so our arms touched. His skin was cool from the wind. "I didn't mean to say you're the only one involved, here. I did this, too. I'll take responsibility, if you'll let me."

  My heart pounded. This was what I wanted, wasn't it? For Rodney to forgive me, to keep him forever. It's what I'd always wanted. It was more than I deserved.

  But bile still rose in my throat. Not like this. This would just be another way to cover up for the things I'd done. A commitment to a lifetime of ignoring my lies. Our relationship, warped as it was, wouldn't survive it.

  "No," I said. "I can't marry you."

  From the look Rodney gave me, I could tell he knew I meant it. I could also tell I would have hurt him less by slapping him in the face.

  "Say something," I said. "Is this the end? I don't want it to be. I'll do anything."

  Anything except be honest with him. Anything except think about his feelings first. Anything except marry him.

  Even I couldn't believe me.

  Rodney closed his eyes, like he was trying to hear something very, very faint. I held my breath, afraid the slightest movement would tip us off balance, and we'd fall.

  I put a hand on his arm, and he stared down at it, like he didn't know what it was. I held my breath, waiting for him to pull away. Waiting for him to tell me it was all over.

  "Do you remember our first kiss?" he asked.

  I blinked at him. Of course I remembered, though it had been years, and we'd never talked about it. No one forgets their first kiss, and our first was also the first, for both of us. We were still in middle school. Rodney had just gotten his first SLR for his birthday—a camera way nicer than the point-and-shoots we'd been using to take pictures after school. We'd walked to the gas station and bought fudgesicles from the freezer section, and then went to the park. I'd told him to get out his camera to take pictures of some kids feeding the ducks.

  "You wouldn't touch your camera until our popsicles were gone," I said. "You didn't want to get chocolate on it."

  Rodney nodded. He focused on something far away in the outfield, or maybe something invisible, far back in his memory. No doubt he remembered every detail of that day at the park, as I did. We'd finished our popsicles, and thrown away the sticks, but still he wouldn't get his camera out.

  "You have chocolate on your face," he'd said. Then he'd stepped close to me, and wiped my lower lip with his thumb. He had the slightest smudge of chocolate at the corner of his mouth. I don't know if it was the sugar buzz or the soft brush of his thumb to my lip, but in a rush of electric bravery I leaned in, brushing it with my lower lip. He turned into the kiss at the last moment, and our mouths collided. We stood there in the park, in full view of the pond and the ducks and the bread-wielding children, kissing each other with limp lips, making it crystal clear that neither of us knew what the hell we were doing.

  Rodney shook his head slowly, like the memory offended him. "I should have told you then how I felt."

  Then? I blinked away dizziness. That's how long this had been for him? How could I not have realized?

  I stuttered. "Why—why didn't you tell me?"

  Rodney gave me a regretful look. "I didn't want to scare you off."

  I hadn't thought it possible to regret the past more than I had already. "You were right," I said. "I would have been scared."

  "I should have said it anyway."

  I gripped his hand. "You're saying it now."

  Rodney's eyes turned hard. "Too late."

  My chest burned. I wanted to go back and be that girl again, kissing her best friend and giggling over it. I wished I knew the right thing to say now, the magic words that would transform us back into who we used to be, to give us a do-over.

  "Don't get the wrong idea," he said. "I wasn't in love with you then. Just hopeful."

  My mouth went dry. I didn't miss the implication, the admission that he was, in fact, in love with me now. It didn't make it better that he wasn't back then. The hope of a thirteen-year-old boy felt like a delicate thing. And what had I done? I'd squashed it.

  I spoke quietly, hoping to push him toward happier memories—the ones that would convince him our relationship was worth salvaging. "When, then?" I asked.

  He sighed. "You called me in the middle of the night," he said. "After your mother had her last miscarriage. Your parents had a big fight—"

  "I remember." The fight had been about in vitro. Mom wanted to try again; Dad wanted to stop. "You stayed on the phone with me for hours. Even after I had nothing left to say." We'd both fallen asleep on the phone; I wasn't sure who had disconnected first. That had been two years ago, in the fall of our freshman year.

  "I wished I could drive," Rodney said. "So I could come over to be with you. You sounded so sad, and all I wanted to do was make it better."

  "You did make it better," I said.

  "And the next day I got sent to the office for sleeping through class."

  I scrunched my eyebrows. "I don't remember that."

  Rodney breathed out a long, slow sigh. "That's because I didn't tell you. I didn't want it to stop you from calling me again, if you needed to. Because I cared more about what you needed than I did about me."

  No. No, no, no. I saw this knife coming. I could have dodged. But instead I sat there. Waiting.

  "That's how I know you don't love me," he said.

  I hugged my waist. I deserved that. If it hadn't been true, it wouldn't have cut. But it wasn't as if he'd given me the chance to be there for him like that. He didn't call me in the night crying. Rodney didn't cry; he didn't fall apart. He just strode through life with a steady balance.

  Rodney shuffled his feet on the metal bench. That sounded a lot like the end of the conversation, but I couldn't let it be.

  "I want to," I said. "Does that count for anything?"

  He looked at me, considering. I held my breath. I didn't deserve another chance, but I wanted one.

  "I don't know," he said. "I need time to think."

  I squeezed my eyes shut. The last thing I wanted was to be away from him. But time was a chance. Time was not the end.

  Not yet.

  He put me first. If that's what love looked like to him, that's what I needed to give him.

  "What do you want?" I asked. "And don't say it's to get married and have a kid, because I know you."

  Rodney was quiet for a long moment. "Honest truth?" he asked.

  "Yes," I said.

  He turned and looked me right in the eye. I'd never seen him so intent, so focused. My heart pounded, and my head spun, and I wished I could melt into him and hold on tight.

  "I want to be with my best friend forever," he said, "and take millions of pictures and be stupidly happy. She's the most beautiful thing in my life. Everyone in the world would wish they were us."

  That picture slammed into me like a speeding truck. And for a moment, I could see it—the life he described. But it felt like a dream, or a wish. Something far, far away that I once knew, but then forgot.

  I leaned closer to him. "We could get through this," I said. "And still have that. Couldn't we?"

  Rodney shook his head slowly, the way I imagined a doctor might when asked to give a diagnosis for a dying family member. "That's not us," he said. "Maybe it could have been, but it's not."

  If I hadn't been sitting, my knees might have buckled. This was the status of our relationship: dead on arrival. I should have known that. I'd killed it myself.

  I shivered. Like a relative in denial, I couldn't accept the prognosis. I reached out for his arm. "Don't you want anything I can give you now?"

  Rodney's hand slid slowly out from under mine. "If I think of something," he said, "I'll let you know."

  I bent over my knees. I really was going to retch. Be cool, I thought. Be cool, be cool. Do not l
et him see you hurl.

  Rodney stood, his boots echoing on the bleachers. "You need a ride home?"

  "No," I croaked. Breathe in, breathe out. My head started to clear.

  "Penny?" he asked. "Are you okay?"

  I looked up at him, at his brow etched with genuine concern. Only Rodney would offer to help me after a blow like that. I wanted to hang on to every minute I had left with him. But he wanted time to think, and the sooner I gave that to him, the faster he'd be able to figure things out.

  "I'll be fine," I said. "Are you going to call me?"

  He looked past me. "I don't know," he said. "I don't know anything."

  And then he turned and walked away. The aluminum bench rattled under him with each step. The sides of my eyes tingled like I was going to cry, but instead they just burned.

  Rodney never looked back.

  Chapter Ten

  Week Five

  I sat on the bleachers for what felt like hours, my arms wrapped around myself. What I'd done was awful. But the worst part was, I'd done it to Rodney, who was willing to stand by me even now, if I was just willing to do the same for him.

  I could text him right now. He might let me change my mind and marry him.

  I closed my eyes. We had almost two years of high school left. Neither of us had a job. Getting married had to be the worst possible plan. But an ache throbbed in my chest. If I didn't, would he ever forgive me?

  The wind blew stronger as the sun dipped lower in the sky. Finally, I stood up. I couldn't sit here forever.

  Next I had to face my mother.

  Mom was going to yell, of course. She was going to be upset. How could she not be, when her teenage daughter was pregnant? But she'd have to see reason. I had something she needed, and after what I'd done to Rodney to get it, she had to see how important it was to me that she have the child.

  But I couldn't tell her about that, could I? If she knew I'd done this on purpose, she might feel bad, like she pressured me into it. And she didn't—this was my choice. Better to let her think it was an accident. Things like this happened all the time. Why shouldn't it happen to her, at the exact time she most needed it? A fortunate accident. A mishap, even. As soon as she adjusted to the idea, everything would be fine.

  My stomach knotted. Between her and me, anyway.

  Rodney was another story.

  I couldn't bring myself to actually call Mom for a ride; she might hear the ache in my voice and drag the truth out of me over the phone. So I texted her instead. She texted back immediately: On my way.

  I sat down on the planter in front of the school while I waited. My hands shook, whether from exhaustion or hunger or anticipation of the conversation to come, I wasn't sure.

  It must have been written on my face as well, because Mom took one look at me as I was climbing in the car, and started with the questions.

  "What's wrong?" she asked. "Did you skip lunch?"

  "Yeah," I said. "But that's not it."

  Mom started the car and pulled away from the curb. "What is it?"

  "I have some good news, and some bad news," I said. "Actually, they're both the same news."

  Mom didn't look pleased about that. "And?"

  Deep breath. "I'm pregnant."

  Mom blew right through a stop sign.

  "Um," I said.

  Mom's voice was shrill. "You're pregnant?"

  I winced. "Yeah."

  Mom looked at me, taking her eyes off the road for a dangerously long moment. "How can you be pregnant?"

  "Um," I said again.

  She turned back to the road. "Not how," Mom said. "I know how. How could you be having sex, is what I mean. Didn't your dad talk to you about that?"

  "Uh," I said. "I, uh . . ."

  "You and Rodney haven't been together that long." Mom pressed her hand to her forehead and shut her eyes, ignoring the road again. I squeezed the armrest. She was doing the math in her head—math she'd done for herself a million times.

  "Stop sign," I said.

  She swore and stepped on the brake. "That day I saw you two kissing in the car," she said. "That day."

  "No," I said. "Jeez."

  "When then?"

  I flailed my arms around. "Before that. But that's not the point—"

  "Before that? Before that you said you weren't even together!"

  I did. Crap.

  "No," Mom said. "Here's the point. Did you even try to use protection? Do we need to have you tested for diseases?"

  I could not answer that. "Mom," I said. "It's Rodney. He doesn't have diseases."

  Mom gave me a look like I was the biggest idiot in the world. Which I was, but still.

  "Are you absolutely sure you're pregnant?" she asked.

  "I had a positive test."

  "A home test."

  "Yeah."

  "Could be a false positive."

  "I took two of them in the bathroom at school. They were both positive."

  Mom missed the turn for our street, and swore again as she drove around the block. "What were you thinking? Your father talked to you about being careful. But it was too late because you and Rodney were already—"

  "Mom!" I said. "Can we focus for a second?"

  Mom gave me a warning look, her forehead wrinkling as her eyebrows rose. "Focus on what?"

  "The positive side of this," I said. "The good news part."

  Mom looked incredulous. "And this is good news why?"

  I sighed. "It's good news because you can finally adopt a baby."

  Mom drove down the exact center of our street, parked cars ticking by on either side.

  "Mom?" I asked.

  She turned wide into our driveway, slammed on the brake, and turned off the key.

  "That," my mother said, "is the single most twisted sentence you have ever said in your life."

  I sat back in my seat, stunned. Yelling, I'd expected. Hyperventilating. Maybe even crying.

  Not being called twisted.

  Never that.

  "Um," I said again. "I'm still pregnant. And you want a baby, so . . ."

  "Penelope Overman," Mom said. "Do not even try to pin this on me."

  Pin this on her? I was trying to give it to her. "But—"

  "No," Mom said. "There is no way in hell I am adopting my daughter's baby. Do you not see how ridiculous that is?"

  My body seized up. She could not be saying that. I'd thought so long about what I was going to say to Rodney, but clearly this was the conversation I should have been rehearsing. She had to take this baby. She had to. I'd turned Rodney away for her. That's why I was in this mess in the first place.

  I struggled for air. I just needed to pitch it in the right way. Then she'd see. "People do this all the time, don't they?" I asked. "Grandparents take care of babies when teen moms can't. This will just be more . . . official."

  Official, yes. Her baby, not mine. That was the plan.

  But my arm tingled, like I could still feel Rodney's hand holding on. Offering to marry me. Offering to raise our child. I'd only thought I'd be giving up a baby, not a whole alternate future.

  I looked over at Mom, and found her shaking her head angrily at the steering wheel. When she spoke, her voice was a low growl. "Do you know what people will think? They'll think I asked you to do this. No one will believe that my own daughter would make a mistake this stupid on accident."

  For the first time in my life, I wanted to punch my mother in the face. "That's what you care about?" I asked. "What people will think?"

  "No," Mom said. "I just meant—" She shoved the tips of her fingers into her mouth and bit down on them.

  I stared at our front door. She said that because part of her knew what I'd done, and she just didn't want to believe it. "I didn't hear you tell Lily she was stupid," I said quietly. "You told her she was brave, and selfless and—"

  Mom gave me a dark look. "I didn't mean for you to take that as advice."

  I gripped the door handle. "So you'll accept help from a gir
l who burns you, but not from me."

  Mom held up her hands. "STOP."

  My mouth watered and my stomach rose. I cracked open the door, but my body didn't retch. She had to take this baby. She had to.

  I'd given up everything for her.

  But Mom didn't see it that way. And I couldn't tell her the whole truth. She already thought people would think I'd done this on purpose. How much more angry would she be if she knew that I had? Would she refuse to take the baby, just to punish me? If she did, what would I do then?

  "I'm calling your father," Mom said. And she got out of the car and stalked away.

  I shook myself, trying to loosen my locked muscles. Calling Dad was probably a good move. Maybe he could talk some sense into her.

  I trudged into the house. Mom had gone up to her room, so I sat at the kitchen table, my backpack slumping on the floor. Mom spoke so loudly that I could hear every word, even from downstairs.

  "Come home right now," she said. "You need to talk to your daughter. Yes, right now. I don't care what you're doing."

  She must have hung up on him after that, because she yelled down to me from the top of the stairs: "You're telling him. Not me." And then she slammed her door.

  I rested my head on my arms. She sure wasn't winning any awards for parental maturity today. I understood why she was upset, but couldn't she see that I'd done this for her? Couldn't she see all that I'd given up so that she could be happy?

  My heart sank as I thought about Rodney walking away from me. What was he doing, now? I checked my phone, but of course he hadn't texted me. I wondered if he'd gone straight home, or if he was out somewhere, wandering around, hating me.

  I'm sorry, I texted. But I deleted it without sending. He knew I was sorry. It didn't change how I'd hurt him.

  Dad's work truck flew into the driveway fifteen minutes later. I heard him slam on his squeaky brakes, and stomp up the front steps in his heavy boots.

  He opened the front door and rushed to the stairwell. When he spotted me sitting at the dining room table, he stopped. "Are you okay?" Dad asked. "Where's your mother?"

  "She's upstairs," I said. "You have to talk to her."