“I’m about to take these down to the City Mission. They’ve got a fall buffet tonight, and would love to have some.”
“Well, good. That’s five less jugs to have in our house.”
“You don’t like it?”
“Yes, but, Brayden, I am gonna get diarrhea if I drink another glass of apple anything.”
He laughs. “You need to just shore up your colon a little bit. It’s good for you.”
“You sound like somebody’s grandpa.”
Silence falls between us. We have these awkward moments where we both end up thinking about Quincy. Of course we’re never going to be grandparents. Quincy’s gone, and my shattered pelvis can’t support a pregnancy.
Luckily, the awkward moments are fewer and fewer.
He even stopped mentioning the breast milk when I found an organization to donate it to. There is a huge need for breast milk for moms who can’t produce milk and want their babies to have the best nutrition.
I hear Brayden’s car pull out of the garage and feel myself relax. I love him being here, but I have to get used to him always being here.
I heat up yet another mug of apple cider and curl into a ball on the couch in our TV room. This is the most comfortable sectional ever. Makes me want to fall right asleep, every time I sit on it.
Kara has got me using social media and following celebrity pages. They actually are kind of entertaining. I can see why she is so obsessed with it. I don’t mind looking at other people’s pages. As long as the bloggers aren’t posting pictures of me and Brayden on Facebook.
I see a little number in the upper right corner of my screen. It says “2.’ I guess that means I have two notifications.
I click on the little red button to see what comes up, and there are two messages. One is from an African man that starts, “Hello beautiful lady.”
Delete.
Then I open the second one, and on first glance, I think it’s a chain message, because it’s so long. I get ready to delete it, because I’m not going to forward any messages to seven people including the one who sent it to me.
But right before I delete, I see Brayden’s name in the message.
So I start from the beginning and read.
Hello, Chenille,
My best friend, Tia Somerfield, an inmate at the Northfield prison in Washington, wanted me to reach out to you. She was briefly an associate of your husband, Brayden Carpenter. She saw the news of him retiring from the NFL on television, and she would like to have you meet her in person about an urgent matter regarding your husband.
Please call me at 804-778-9879 for more details and instructions.
Regards,
Nicole R.
I scroll over to Nicole’s profile to see if I can make her picture bigger. She looks like a regular girl, nothing strange about her. She’s got a picture up where she’s posing with what look like her two children.
I slide off the couch and into the downstairs office, where I boot up the computer. After I log in, I open up Google search and type “Tia Somerfield” in quotes. A social media page pops up, but when I click on it, there’s no profile picture.
The second is the link to a registered inmate directory. Maybe the girl really is in prison. I click on it.
A website with an olive green background opens, and right in the middle of the page is the picture, name, and inmate number of Tia Somerfield. She’s got chunky box braids in her hair and she’s extremely pretty. Like model pretty. Perfect facial bone structure. Smooth skin. Beautiful eyes.
Why in the world is this girl in prison? The charges on the page say “Manslaughter, and Endangering of a Minor,” but she looks like she could be any college freshman on the campus of a historically black college.
Now I’m curious. So I call the number.
“Hello?” says a raspy voice on the other side of the call.
“Hello, may I speak to Nicole?”
“This is Nicole.”
“This is Chenille Carpenter. You messaged me about your friend Tia.”
There is a long pause on the other end.
“Hello?” I ask. “Are you there?”
“Yes. I didn’t think you would call. I told Tia you wouldn’t answer.”
“Well, you were wrong. What is all this about?”
“Tia wanted to meet you at the prison.”
“Do you really think that I’m going to get on a plane and fly to Washington, to a prison, to see a stranger?”
“It’s safe.”
“Tell me what this is about, and maybe I’ll be open to meeting her.”
“I will say this part. She slept with your husband one time in Portland. She met him in a support group, never saw him after that first time.”
Okay, this corresponds with Brayden’s recollection of events.
“So, I already knew that she had sex with him. What is it that she wants to see me face-to-face about?”
“That part I can’t say,” Nicole replies. “You’ll have to go and see for yourself.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then it won’t matter. Like I said, I never expected you to call. I didn’t think that you would.”
“Well, thank you for the information.”
“You’re welcome.”
Calling Nicole just made me even more confused. She was too secretive, so now I’m worried about what Tia might have to say to me. Did something bad happen to her while she was with Brayden? Did he hurt her?
Awww. . . what the hell? I type in the website for plane tickets and start searching for flights to the Portland area.
I need to see what this girl is talking about. Although I believe that finding out whatever I find out about Tia will probably be shocking, I’d rather know than not know.
Guess I’m flying to Washington.
Chapter 62
The visiting room at the Northside Prison is cold and dreary. The walls look like they used to be yellow, but now they’re a pale color between yellow and off-white. The linoleum on the floor also used to be some color other than the greenish-gray that is under my feet.
I didn’t tell anyone I was coming here. Not Kara, not Brayden. I left him a note saying that I was going to Atlanta for a couple of days to transition my remaining clients over to a new Atlanta makeup artist.
I’m sitting at a round table in a room full of round tables. About half of the tables have a person also sitting there. Visiting day at Northside doesn’t seem to be well attended.
The inmates were brought out one by one. I don’t know why I thought they’d be wearing orange. They all have on gray sweat suits. Maybe they want the girls to feel like they live at the gym and not in a minimum-security prison.
I gasp when they bring Tia out. She has the same box braids and the same pretty face as from the photo on the internet, but she has an additional accessory that I’m sure is the reason why she called me here.
Her stomach is huge with pregnancy. I don’t have to guess hard to figure out who the father must be.
She eases down in the seat in front of me and lets out a huge breath. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
“I’ m Tia.”
“Tia, I’m Chenille. Let’s dispense with the pleasantries. You wanted me to know that you’re pregnant with Brayden’s baby? Is that what you want? We could’ve done that over the phone.”
“Yes, that’s part of why I asked you to come here.”
“So, do you want me to write a check or something? You want money to keep quiet about this? Why didn’t you just reach out to Brayden? He’s the one you slept with. I bet you planned this from the start, and his stupid ass just fell right into your trap. I told him NFL players are targets.”
“Wait. I didn’t know he was an NFL player. I met him in the support group for losing children.”
“So, that’s where you find your marks? Grieving men?”
“Brayden wasn’t a mark. He was just a nice guy that I met, who was sad about losing his son. We connected that
day, but I never talked to him again.”
“Now all of a sudden you’re reaching out to his wife on social media. Wonder how that works. How. Much. Do. You. Want?”
“I don’t want money. That’s not what I need.”
“Well, what, then?”
“I wanted to ask you to take my baby and raise it. Closed adoption. You’ll never see me again.”
“What? Again, why didn’t you ask Brayden?”
“Don’t you understand? I could contact Brayden and let him know about this, and he would take our child, no questions asked. But you. You don’t have to be a part of it. You can say no. You can walk away from him and the baby. I’m asking you to say yes.”
“Why? Why do you want me to raise your baby?”
“Because you lost a child, just like I did. And I know you will love and care for her like she’s your own. I’m not a mistress. I’m not someone who was in a relationship with Brayden. There are no feelings. But there is this baby.”
I look down at her swelling belly, wondering how many months I have to make this choice. And I am considering it already. The idea of holding and nursing a fat infant in my lap fills me with a desire I didn’t think I still had inside.
But what if she’s some kind of crazy murderer? I don’t want to raise a child with mental illness.
“Why are you here?”
Tia looks down at the table. “It’s because of what happened to my first baby.”
“You hurt your baby?”
She looks up with tears in her eyes. “Yes, but not on purpose. I was an alcoholic. I got wasted one night. Pills, alcohol, and who knows what else. The next morning, I was still drunk. I got myself dressed, and the baby dressed. Drove to the day care, and passed right out in the parking lot. It was hot that day, record high temperatures. All of the windows were shut and the doors closed. Bella was too little to let herself out of the car.”
“Why didn’t someone from the day care come out and help?”
“It was Sunday. I didn’t even know what day it was. When the police found my car, I was severely dehydrated and on the verge of heat stroke. I had to be hospitalized. When I woke up, I was in handcuffs. My Bella was dead.”
Damn. I don’t even know how to react to this story. I don’t know how she continues to put one foot in front of the other every day. I couldn’t.
“How long are you in here for?”
“I got fifteen years for manslaughter and endangering a child. I don’t feel like the sentence is long enough. It should be longer.”
She’s got a life sentence in her mind and heart, though. No matter how much she tries to forget, it will always be there.
“God blessed me to get pregnant again. I don’t know why He did that. I don’t deserve the blessing. Then, when I saw Brayden on TV and realized he was a football player, I looked him up online.”
“Y’all got internet access in here?”
“It’s restricted. Can’t do much.”
“Oh.”
“Anyway, I researched and saw all the news clippings about what happened with your son. His heart condition. The accident. Then I knew why I got pregnant with this baby. The baby is God’s gift to you.”
“I’ll raise your baby. But it doesn’t need to be a closed adoption. You can see the baby when you get out. Do you know the sex?”
I hear the words rushing from my mouth, and I can’t believe I’m saying them. It’s like my heart is blurting before my logic has the chance to catch up.
“I don’t know, but I feel like it’s a girl. Would you like a daughter?”
I don’t even need to deliberate on this. The answer is yes and was yes from the moment she started telling her story. I’m surprised with my lack of animosity and anger. I have none. I don’t search myself trying to find it, either. There’s a reason it’s not there.
“So the answer is yes?”
“I mean, I have to ask Brayden, but I don’t see how he could say no.”
“I don’t want to see or talk to him. I’d like you to handle it all. This is not about me and him. There is no me and him. This is about my baby’s new mother.”
“Can I give you a hug?”
“Yes.”
I walk around to her side of the table as she struggles to stand. I wrap both my arms around her and kiss her cheeks.
The baby kicks up a storm.
“The baby already knows you.”
Then Tia touches her belly.
“Your new mommy is here. Say hi, mommy.”
The baby kicks again, and I burst into tears.
“Hi, baby. I can’t wait to meet you.”
And I can’t.
Chapter 63
Brayden cautiously sat down at the dinner table. Chenille had cooked a huge feast: smothered chicken, macaroni and cheese, deviled eggs, collard greens, rice and gravy. Lots of southern comfort food.
But why? It was September and no holidays were in sight. So why was she cooking? Was something wrong?
He didn’t know if he could take another bomb dropping. Their marriage couldn’t survive another one.
“This looks good,” Brayden said as Chenille heaped food on the table. “Are we having company?”
“No. Not company. I don’t know why I made all of this. We’ll freeze some.”
“Maybe we can make boxes and take them downtown to feed homeless people.”
Chenille stared at Brayden for a moment.
“No cameras,” he said, reading her mind. “I don’t need any more media attention.”
“I’m so glad to hear you say that, and yes, I would love to go and feed homeless people today. Or any day.”
“Good.”
Brayden tried to read Chenille’s mood. She seemed nervous, but not. There was something joyful right under the surface. He could almost catch onto it, but it was right out of his reach.
“I have something to tell you,” she said.
“Oh?”
“It’s good news, so you can relax.”
He did relax, but not completely. He was the one who liked giving surprises, but he didn’t necessarily like receiving them.
“Do you remember Tia? The girl you met in Portland?”
Brayden’s stomach dropped. Appetite disappeared. He knew he could trust his gut about bombs dropping. He wished he could run for cover.
“What about her?”
“I met her a couple weeks ago. She’s pregnant with your baby.”
Brayden froze.
“That’s not possi . . .”
“How isn’t it possible, Brayden? Didn’t you say you had unprotected sex with her?”
“I did.”
“So it’s possible.”
Brayden felt like saying all the excuses a teenage boy would give for a baby not being his baby. It was only one time. He pulled out. All of the excuses expressed by boys who end up with a responsibility that they never intended on having.
“So, she wants child support. What else? Is she going to the blogs?”
“You don’t know what happened to her other baby, do you? I don’t know why I assumed that you knew.”
“We didn’t talk all that much.”
This struck Chenille as funny for some reason. She chuckled and then gave a full-bodied laugh.
“Well, babe, she’s in prison. She killed her other baby accidentally. She was drunk and left the baby in a hot car.”
“She’s in prison?”
“Yes, she asked me to raise her child. Your child.”
“Of course, I want custody if it’s mine.”
“You know, I thought about the possibility that the baby isn’t yours. I don’t think the girl is lying, but she could be. There is a slim chance that she is.”
“Yeah, I don’t know how many other men she was seeing at the time.”
Chenille lifted an eyebrow. There was a response on the tip of her tongue, he could tell. She held it back.
“Well, I’ve decided I will raise her baby even if it’s not yours. Eit
her way, that child will not go into the system. She wants to do a closed adoption. No contact with us after the baby is born.”
“She’s gonna flip the script. Watch. She’ll get money hungry and she’ll change.”
“Brayden, she didn’t even know you were a ballplayer. She just happened to see your media moment when you retired on TV. The fact that she didn’t reach out to you speaks volumes. She took the most difficult path. She asked me—the wife—to raise her baby.”
“And you said yes.”
“Without hesitation.”
Brayden was nothing short of stunned. She had said yes to raising a baby that could be his, but with his one-night stand.
“I’ll call my lawyer to draw up the paperwork, then. I want us to be protected.”
Chenille beamed a smile at Brayden, and he didn’t know if his wife was going crazy or finally finding herself and her purpose. He hoped it was the latter, because he was in it for the long haul.
He wondered what Marilyn would think about her new grandbaby.
Chapter 64
I can’t tell if Tia’s labor pains are bad, because she doesn’t cry out or even flinch when she has a contraction. The only reason I know she’s having contractions is because I see the little squiggles on the monitor rise every few minutes.
“You just talked through your whole contraction,” I say.
“I did?”
“Yeah, you did. I feel useless as a coach. Do you need ice chips or anything?”
Tia pokes out her bottom lip and shakes her head. “I don’t think so. Not yet.”
“Well, I have a whole list of what I’m supposed to be doing, and you haven’t needed any of it.”
“It does hurt, but I’ve been practicing my concentration techniques. When they start, I just picture myself on the beach.”
“Which beach? I hope not Galveston.”
Tia laughs. “Nah, girl. Miami Beach is my favorite. Have you been there?”
“Yes, but I don’t know how much I remember. I was a tad bit inebriated every time I went.”
“Inebriated? You mean drunk as hell.”
We both bust out laughing. This would almost feel normal, like one friend coaching another friend through labor and delivery if there wasn’t a prison guard standing in the corner of the room. Oh, and if this wasn’t Brayden’s one-night stand giving birth to his baby.
The Outside Child Page 25