Give Me Reason (The Reason Series)

by Zoey Derrick

  But there is also the fact that I reacted so quickly to his insistence on helping me that I don’t even know what his offer to help entails. This doesn’t help me feel any better about my reaction to him. Is he really trying to help, no stings attached? Just being generous? Would he have done this with anyone else, or is it just me? Is his help a long-term thing, or only until the baby is born?

  For the first time since I told Riley I was pregnant, I consciously touch the pouch between my hips. Chills of delight dance across my skin. I switch hands, placing my right across my belly, and pick up my spoon to take another sip of broth.

  Considering it’s hospital food, it's really not half bad. But then again, cardboard would probably taste good to me right now. I meant to eat something earlier, when Mikah was here, but I kept falling asleep. I plow through the soup, bread roll, fruit and crackers in what feels like less than five minutes. I still feel hungry, but I don't want to overdo it.

  I sit back and pick up the book that Dr. Alston left for me, What to Expect When You're Expecting. The cover has a picture of a pregnant woman standing against a blue background, and the back jacket promises that the book will help me understand my body and my baby throughout the various stages of pregnancy. It looks very...clinical.

  I open it and start to read. I was right — it is quite clinical — but there are some really cool things in here. Now I understand why my breasts hurt so much. I also learn that the vomiting and exhaustion should start to ease soon. The prospect of this is exciting on so many levels.

  Eventually Amanda returns to my room. Once she’s satisfied that I ate everything, she pulls me from my bed to walk around the hallway. I’d rather not walk — I’m feeling sleepy again — but she lures me out with the prospect of removing my IV, and I can't resist.

  It turns out that I am in the maternity ward. A couple of other women walk the halls, too. Every so often they stop and groan. They must be in labor. I shudder. I'm still trying to come to grips with the fact that I'm pregnant, never mind the prospect of labor or — I shudder again — delivery.

  Once we are back in my room, Amanda removes my IV. Another nurse, Jackie, comes in and introduces herself as the nurse on duty tonight. I'm told to push the button if I need anything. She will be back in a few hours to check on me, but for the most part, she'll leave me to sleep.

  I say thank you and goodnight to Amanda, who reassures me she'll be back in the morning even if Dr. Alston can't make it.

  Once they're gone, I roll onto my side, gently placing my hand upon the small mound. Lying in this position again reminds me of when Mikah was here, his eyes bright green with wonder. I can no longer ignore the fact that I feel horrible for kicking him out. The more I think about it, the more I am convinced he was just trying to help.

  I've never had someone willingly want to take care of me the way that Mikah does, and it makes it hard for me to accept without suspecting there is more to it than meets the eye. Riley always paid for everything and I never worked, but I was expected to do things to him and for him in return. But somehow I can’t believe can’t believe Mikah operates that way. But if I'm going to consider accepting his help, Mikah needs to back off from pushing me to do things.

  What’s more, since that ultrasound and reading some of the stuff Dr. Alston left me, I'm finally beginning to see that this is far bigger than I've allowed myself to realize.

  I slowly rub my hand across my tummy. "You give me reason," I whisper, and then I fall asleep.

  THIRTEEN

  Around ten the next morning, I'm in a cab driven by Chuck - a nice man who’s old enough to be my grandfather and who says he’s a native of Minneapolis – ready to head back to my apartment. As we’re leaving the hospital campus, a really nice, sleek black Mercedes drives into the lot next to us. I can't be certain, but I think it’s the same one I saw in my neighborhood on Thursday night. And I'm pretty sure it’s Mikah driving.

  I toss the thought aside. I don't want to hope that maybe he was coming back to see me. Or that it was even really him to start with.

  Fifteen minutes later, we are pulling up in front of my apartment. I reach into my bag to pay Chuck, but he stops me. "The hospital takes care of it," he says, smiling warmly. I try to tip him and he refuses that, too. Instead he helps me from the car and stays standing near the rear passenger door until I'm inside my building.

  Once inside my apartment, I start to feel tired again and consider resting for a bit. But as much as I want to lie around all day, I have laundry – and now grocery shopping – to do. Better to stick to my routine.

  I gather up my laundry bag and empty the contents of my hospital bag into it. I’m wearing a pretty cool pair of light purple scrubs Amanda found for me. The top is huge, but the pants are really comfortable. I leave the pants on and swap the shirt for a white t-shirt that used to say meh across the chest but has since faded. After taking a good look at my tummy during the ultrasound yesterday, I’ve realized that I'm going to start needing clothes here really soon. Most of the bottoms I own are pajamas or sweatpants with an elastic waistband, so those I know can wait to be replaced, but shirts are going to become a problem.

  Once my laundry bag is packed, I grab a small envelope off of the fridge. It is addressed to my landlord and already has a stamp on it. I place the four money orders of a hundred dollars each inside — I got them when I cashed my check at the bank, like I do every payday — seal it, and throw it into my bag.

  I pull out the wad of cash from my wallet. All in all, there are about two hundred and thirty dollars here, but I don't need to be walking around these streets with this much cash. I pull out forty dollars, place the rest between the pages of my journal and put it back under my bed. I also grab the food stamps and the list of approved foods to look over while doing laundry and head out the door.

  As I step outside, I throw my laundry bag sling-style across my back, over my purse. I look like Rambo with bag straps instead of belts full of bullets.

  It’s a little cloudy out today, and there is a fall chill in the air. I pull my hood up over my head and start walking the two blocks to the Laundromat. This time of day is nice. Sometimes people even say hi. No one says hi today, but I get some nods and smiles — which I return — from some of the people sitting or standing around outside their homes or shops.

  I get to the Laundromat and head over to load my card with enough for wash and dry, plus detergent. Find a washer, load it, start it and sit back to wait.

  My stomach grumbles. I pat my tummy. Having eaten so much in the last day or so is going to make it hard to not eat. It's only eleven in the morning and I just ate breakfast three hours ago, but I’m hungry again. I let out a sigh and decide that I can afford something from the coffee shop next door, so I get up and head over there.

  "Hi, Ms. Wilson," I say to the elderly woman coming in the door. She is here this time every Saturday. Most mornings we talk - about nothing really, but the company is nice in a boring old Laundromat. Ironically enough, she reminds me of Mrs. Wilson from those Dennis The Menace cartoons.

  "Hello, Vivienne. How are you today?" she asks.

  "Better, thanks. I was going to go next door for a bagel. Would you like something?"

  "Oh, no, dear. I have toast. Go have fun. Are you using your usual machine?" I nod. "I'll keep an eye on it."

  I smile because I can't even begin to imagine the things she would do if someone was trying to steal my clothes. "Thanks, Ms. Wilson."

  The coffee shop is decorated like a junkyard. There are tons of eclectic metal objects, from sculptures to wheels and old hubcaps. The furniture and tables are all mismatched, too, but in some strange way, it all works. There are a couple of computers lined up along the wall with a sign overhead that says, Up to 1 hour free.

  The girl behind the counter is wearing a spiked dog collar, short jean shorts with pink-and-black striped leggings underneath, and a black fishnet shirt over a thin white t-shirt. The fishnet on her arms is ripped, and her black b
ra is visible beneath the t-shirt. It’s a look that I thought had died about ten years ago, but she manages to pull it off spectacularly. It compliments the massive, six-inch-long Mohawk she's sporting.

  "Hi, there, what can I get for you?" she asks in an overly friendly tone. The black lipstick she's wearing cracks when she smiles.

  "Hi. Just a bagel, plain."

  "Sure thing. Anything else?"

  "A large glass of ice water."

  She rings it up and grabs my order.

  "Can anyone use those computers?" I ask as she hands me my change. I don't want to be told to get up if I sit down.

  "Absolutely. You have one hour, but unless we get really busy, take as long as you like."

  "Thanks."

  I grab my water and bagel and head toward the computer on the end. I'm not super familiar with computers, but I know how to search the internet, and that’s all I need to know today.

  I sit down and jiggle the mouse, and the screen flickers to life. Clicking on the browser icon opens up to Google. I type in two words: Mikah Blake.

  Thousands of results pop up in a matter of seconds. There's everything from his company to random news articles. I munch absently on the bagel as I start with the homepage for MSB Enterprises. Sure enough, there is a picture of Mikah. It’s a formal picture, and he’s not smiling. He’s barely recognizable this way. I read his bio.

  Born Mikah Shannon Blake, 1987, Dublin, Ireland. He’s a little younger than I thought. Well at least I was right about the subtle Irish accent. Mr. Blake moved to the Boston area in 1990— My jaw drops. He was in Boston the year I was born. —with his father and mother, who later had three additional children, two boys and one girl.

  I continue scanning the rest of the bio. I was right about the Ivy League education: Mr. Blake graduated from the MIT Sloan School of Management in 2009 with a Master of Finance (MFin). Holy crap, he was only twenty-one when he received his Master's degree. My age. Wow!

  The last sentence captures my attention. Mr. Blake is the youngest entrepreneur to make it into Forbes 500. This explains a lot. Mikah is a very driven individual; I have no doubt that he will stop at nothing when it comes to something he wants. I smile slightly at the events that led up to yesterday’s hospital visit.

  I hit the back button and move on to some more articles. I finally find one that captures my attention, dated April 16, 2011. CEO of MSB Enterprises, Mikah Blake, buries father, two brothers in Boston.

  "What in the world?" I click the link.

  Mikah Blake attended funeral services at St. Ambrose in Boston this afternoon for his father, Shannon, age 48, brother Shane, age 20, and brother Ronin, age 17. All three were killed when their vehicle was hit by a semi-truck going the wrong way down Highway 95 Tuesday last week....

  I can't read anymore; my eyes are swollen and tears are falling down my cheeks. I click the button to go back to the search results. The next two or three pages are filled with more articles about his father and two brothers. I finally come across one that says something about his sister, Victoria.

  Victoria Blake, younger sister to CEO Mikah Blake, was admitted to Boston Medical Center early yesterday morning after an apparent suicide attempt.

  I don't need to read any further. I click the back button again, but not before I catch the date on the article: April 11, 2011. Just before the funeral for his father and brothers.

  Bottom line in my research today: Holy crap. I never, ever expected to find that. My heart aches.

  I close the browser window, grab my water, pop what's left of my bagel into my mouth and place the plate on top of the garbage can.

  "Thanks for coming," the girl behind the counter says.

  "Thank you, have a good day."

  "You, too."

  After finishing up with my laundry, I decide to head back to my apartment to drop off my clean laundry so I don’t have to haul it around the grocery store, which is in the opposite direction from my apartment as the Laundromat.

  As I stomp up the stairs, I notice a piece of paper stuck in my doorjamb. I grab the note and go into my apartment, locking the door behind me. The handwriting is sloppy. So different from Mikah’s tidy penmanship.

  Vivienne,

  I stopped by just to make sure you made it home okay. Looking forward to seeing you in two weeks.

  Dr. Anne Alston

  Okay, this is getting a little bit creepy.

  Something on the floor catches my eye: another envelope. No address, and this one is thicker. Weird.

  I pop the seal. Inside are the ultrasound pictures that Dr. Alston took yesterday. The first one has a Post-it note attached to it: These were left in the emergency care ward by accident when we moved you.

  Odd that I hadn't even thought about them. Pulling them out, I look at them again. It is still so hard to believe that this little guy — or girl — is growing inside me. Flipping through the pictures, I notice that there are only seven of them.

  "What the hell?"

  I check the envelope again, but there is nothing else inside. One picture is missing.

  “Who would want someone's ultrasound picture?"

  But even as I ask myself that question, the image of one beautiful face comes to mind. Mikah Blake.

  FOURTEEN

  On Monday morning I meet with a really nice lady named Jessica at the W.I.C. office. She tells me that it usually takes weeks to get into their office, but because Dr. Alston had called, saying that it was an emergency, they were able to see me right away.

  She explains the program to me and I sit through an orientation class about the W.I.C. process. Every four weeks I can come back to pick up new vouchers for various foods. It seems like way too much food for one person. I know it’s not true, but I feel like I’m taking the food away from someone else who really needs it.

  On Tuesday I swing by the nursing home to see my mom. She's the same as ever: She just sits there staring out the window, seeing nothing. I ask myself why I go out of my way to visit her, and the only answer I can give myself is that she's my mom.

  We didn't have the best relationship — if you can even call it that — while I was growing up. She never saw fit to take care of me, and more often than not, I found myself taking care of her. I got up every day in time for school, went to school, came home, studied, made dinner, cleaned the house, studied some more, and went to bed, only to repeat the process the next day.

  Weekends often found me alone in whatever apartment we were staying in while Mom was off with God only knows who, doing God only knows what. Usually she’d stumble home late Sunday night or sometime during the day on Monday and pass out for a couple of days. Then she’d be right back at it again.

  I learned to steer clear of her when she ran out of money. She had a venomous temper and would storm around the house yelling and throwing things. Sometimes she would hit me just because I asked a question. At the time, I didn’t understand what I’d done to deserve it. I understand better now that she was unable to control her own anger, and her means of coping were always drugs or alcohol.

  On my way home from visiting my mother, I stop at the grocery store again, picking up some repeat things, and some new. I discovered very quickly after cooking up some chicken Saturday night that chicken does not sit well with me — I threw it up — so chicken’s out. I look at the store’s selection of red meat, and my stomach turns. Hm. Evidently all meat is out for now. I’ll talk to Dr. Alston next week about some alternative options.

  For the moment, macaroni and cheese, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and scrambled eggs seem to be my foods of choice, and I'm okay with that.

  Wednesday and Thursday pass quickly without incident; all I do is work, eat and sleep.

  But Friday night at the diner is strange. It’s extremely busy — which is nice because it passes the time quickly — but only a few of our regulars are here. The rest are classier, well-dressed and well-behaved people who look like they’d be more comfortable in a swank hotel bar than i
n Bertie’s shitty little diner. Laura chalks it up to something happening downtown. It still seems odd to me, but I can’t complain. I leave work at around twelve thirty with over three hundred dollars in tips — something that is completely out of the ordinary. Happy with the fact that I've managed to make more than half of my rent in one night, I head home.

  Once again, Al is behind the wheel. We have our typical conversation and I notice that I don't feel anywhere near as tired as I was just a week ago.

  "You're looking well," Al says when we’re almost to my stop.

  "Um, thanks," I say, confused.

  "No, I mean it. Have you gained some weight?"

  I think back to putting on my uniform before work and realize he must be right. "I'm trying," I say.

  "Keep it up."

  He drops me at my stop and lingers until I round the corner. As soon as the bus moves on, headlights appear behind me, casting my shadow across the pavement and illuminating my path. The vehicle isn't moving. I quicken my pace, my heart pounding.

  I push on the door to my building, and as I slip inside, the car drives by. A black Mercedes.

  Inside my apartment, I drop my mail on the counter, strip off my uniform and head toward the shower. I stop to check myself in the mirror – something I haven't really done since before the trip to the hospital – and I suddenly see what Al was talking about.

  My eyes are a lighter, brighter blue. My cheeks are still a little hollow, but they seem to be filling out a bit. And I don’t look quite so pale. Though my collarbones are still visible beneath my skin, they’re a little less pronounced. The biggest shocker are my breasts, which seem a lot fuller. Not bigger, just fuller. And my nipples are a few shades darker than they used to be.