She shrugged. “I see her eyelids fluttering a little. I guess your uncle Al had to wake you up to play.”
Alfred looked down at Mom with his big blue eyes. “Uh oh, Alfred in trouble?”
“No, honey. Come here, Big Al.” Mom stood up and held out her arms and he almost jumped into them. “How can anyone be mad at such a sweet and handsome boy?” She kissed him on the top of his head and he rested his head against her shoulder. His white hair and red cheeks looked even brighter next to Mom’s almost carrot-red locks and pale face and, as always, I couldn’t help wondering what people thought when they saw us together. We were like the Motley crew—Dad and his dark brown curly hair and brown eyes; Mom and I with our bright red hair and green eyes; little Ava with almost-black curls and dark hazelnut eyes; and little chubby Alfred, the oddball baby, with bright blond hair and blue eyes.
“Twins?” people often asked, glancing at Alfred and Ava, who looked nothing alike. Born only four weeks apart, they didn’t even look the same age.
“It’s a long and rather complicated story,” I would always say, even though it was not that long or complicated. Alfred is my son, Ava is my sister.
Mom and I had become pregnant at almost the exact same time. It was a shock on both accounts. For Mom, it was a dream come true after years of back-to-back miscarriages and years of yearning. For me, it was a result of my first crush, on an extremely handsome and symmetric German exchange student named Hans—the reason I was dreading going to Berlin. He was also my first and only one-night stand, and he had left the next day on a red-eye flight to Europe. One-way ticket. He didn’t know he had a little almost three-year-old mini-me in Seattle. It’s not that I had deliberately kept it from him, I just didn’t know where to find him. Maybe that was only half the truth. I did look for him on the internet, Facebook, old yearbooks from official Berlin school photos, and inquired about him at UW. But only knowing his first name and a description that sounded too good to be true (he was the best-looking guy I had ever met), either they couldn’t find him, or they didn’t want to give out any personal information to someone not related or who didn’t even know his last name. (On Alfred’s birth certificate, it simply says that the father is Hans from Germany. Nothing more.)
As the baby grew bigger and bigger inside of me and I felt him kick, I suddenly realized that I hadn’t thought about what I was supposed to say when or if I finally found Hans. “Hey, I know we only knew each other for, like, half a New York minute … but here’s your baby. One-two-three, your youth is over, dude!” What was he supposed to do then? Move back to Seattle with me and Alfred? Or would I have to move there and learn how to speak German, wear leather hosen and start yodeling with his three big sisters? Would I have to leave Mom and Dad and my entire life to go live in a country with my son’s dad? In the search for my perfect German crush, I found the answers to my own questions. It was a mission that was doomed an unhappy ending. I was not going to hunt down some nineteen-year-old boy only to turn his world upside down. He would end up resenting me, or possibly Alfred, for the rest of his life. Besides, with Mom and Dad as parents and grandparents (and with Mom being pregnant too, and already building a perfect baby nest in our house, like Martha Stewart on speed—painting supersized Winnie The Pooh characters all over the walls) it all made perfect sense: Alfred didn’t need a German dad, who probably didn’t want him. We would all raise Alfred and Ava together in one big, happy, modern family. After all, I was still only seventeen, almost eighteen, and Mom and Dad were two old hippies who had spent their first years together living in different communes or in Grandma’s crowded, dusty basement.
But, this was all before Alfred came down one morning and sat on Dad’s lap. With his big blue eyes, he looked up at him and said, “I love you, Dad.” I know he was just copying Ava or that he had meant to say ‘Granddad,’ but it really got to me. And in a heartbeat, it had me second-guessing what I had been telling myself these last three years. Should I go to Berlin and try to find Hans?
And when Dad came home beaming with pride that same evening, and announced that we were all going to Europe, I was sure it had all been meticulously planned by Mother Universe. And the name of the plan was: “Let’s go find Alfred’s daddy.” Gib hier, gib schnell.
CHAPTER 2
Beats me
“Look! It’s Dad coming home from work? Wave, Ava.” Mom was sitting on the kitchen counter, balancing Ava and a big bowl of apples in her lap, her eye on the oregano-induced pasta sauce on the stove. “Aw, poor guy looks cold. He’s shivering.”
I looked out the window just in time to see Dad hurrying across the driveway. “Or maybe he’s just constipated,” I suggested, looking at the weird strained expression on Dad’s face.
“Not everything is about poop, you know.”
“Tell that to Alfred.” With the mentioning of his name, Alfred looked up from his small train track on the floor. “Yes, I’m talking about you,” I told him. “Why can’t you just get rid of those stinky diapers like your sweet cuzzi?”
“He’s a boy,” Mom said, like it explained everything. “Boys are slower with diapers.”
“With everything,” I added when I heard Dad trying, once again, to push the sliding open with his foot—a mission impossible.
“Speaking of…” Mom jumped off the table and handed Ava to me. “Frank, it’s a sliding door,” she yelled, heading for the door. “For the umpteenth time, you can’t kick it open.” She slid the door open and found Dad standing on the outside, looking at the sliding door like it was a big mystery.
“I swear—”
“—Tha de’ door open the wong way,” Ava shouted across the room, with her little sweet voice echoing the exact same words Dad would say every time he came home tired from work. “Dada.” She got up and started running toward him.
“Even your three-year-old daughter knows how to work the door by now.” Mom shook her head and placed a loud kiss on Dad’s head.
Ignoring Mom’s comment, Dad got down on his knees and encircled Ava with his arms. “Who gets a kiss?”
“You do,” she said a little too loud, beaming at him.
“And what about Alfie?” Dad looked past Ava’s shoulder and glanced at Alfred. “No kisses today.”
“A minute. Thomas need help Gordon. Gordon is in touble. He stuck.” Alfred pushed Thomas the Tank engine into Gordon and made a roaring sound. “Now, all better.” He stood up and stretched his arms over his head then leaped across the kitchen floor like a frog toward Dad and Ava. “My turn.” He leaned closer to Dad with his pouted lips, and we all laughed.
“Come here, cowboy.” Dad tussled his hair and gave him a kiss. “You two had a fun day?”
“Uh-huh.” Alfred and Ava said in unison. They both grabbed one of Dad’s hands and walked with him over to the dining table.
“Did you have a nice day, sir?” Alfred pulled out a chair for Dad, and Ava sat him down like he was one of her dolls.
“I did. And I have some excellent news.” He looked up at me and Mom. “It’s been confirmed. We are going to Europe. I got the official word today.”
Mom looked at me, puzzled. “I thought it was official?”
“Well, there were still a few loose ends, but not anymore.”
Mom leaned against the fridge, her arms crossed over her breasts. “Are you saying I got all excited for a maybe?” She tried to hide the irritation but wasn't very good at it.
“Semantics. Semantics. We are going.” He looked up at me and winked. “Did you think more about what we talked about last night?”
“Last night?” Mom looked back and forth between me and Dad.
“Maybe.” I sat down next to Alfred on the floor, not really wanting to talk about it.
“Hey, best friend,” Alfred bumped Thomas the Tank Engine into Percy.
“Hey,” I said, feeling Mom’s eyes burning holes in the back of my sweater. I moved Percy along the little wooden track, with Thomas attached behind him. “You do know
that Percy is my favorite train, right?”
Alfred nodded. “You like him.”
“I do.” I was not just saying that, like when an adult is trying to strike up some comradely toddler-talk. Ever since I watched the first episode of Thomas the Tank engine, Percy had always been my favorite train, with his deep green color and friendly but insecure personality. Maybe that’s why I liked him? He reminded me of me.
“What did you two talk about last night?” Mom crossed the floor in two long strides and grabbed the chair next to Dad.
“We, um…” Dad ran a hand through his fuzzy hair and looked at me for permission. “I made a deal with her. I told her that if she went with us, I would get her a brand-new laptop to bring on the trip.”
“And the new iPhone,” I reminded him.
“Um, yes that too.” He looked at Mom and shrugged.
“In other words, a bribe.” Mom shook her head. “Well, did it work?” They both looked at me, a mix of excitement and dread painted on their winter-pale faces.
“I’m not sure. Not yet. But if you throw in a pair of Beats, as I mentioned...” I rolled over on my back and looked up at the ceiling. I didn’t really care about a new iPhone or a pair of Beats. I was just buying time here. Last night, in my bed watching TV and waiting for sleep to claim me, I had thought about Hans and the night Alfred was conceived. I had gone over every single detail, like that would help me come closer to a decision whether to track Hans down or not, whether I should go with Mom and Dad to Europe or not. It didn’t help. Far from it. And by the time I finally fell asleep, I was more confused than ever. But when I woke up, somehow my brain had made two mental Post-it notes, now transcribed to two physical notes taped inside my walk-in-closet—a yellow one with all the reasons why I shouldn’t find/tell him, and a pink one with why I should go. The yellow one had scribbles on both sides, the pink was only half filled out.
Yes, because it’s the right thing to do—Alfred deserves to know
Yes, because Alfred has a right to know his father
~
No, I might as well tell him his life is over
No, he totally forgot about me and has a German super-model girlfriend who would not like me showing up with Alfred—still in diapers ... sigh
No, will we be better off without him?
No, I’m afraid he will just turn his back on us and not believe me
No, he will look at me and see a pathetic failure—a too-young mom looking for her baby’s dad.
No, I can’t eat the mouth-watering bread anyway!
“Beats?” A frown fell on Mom’s lips as she looked over at Dad.
“Beats me.” Dad chuckled. “No, seriously, I had to look it up. It’s headphones. Fancy ones.”
“From this century,” I added, referring to the brown Sony retro headphones Mom had been wearing constantly the last two weeks—“a total score,” as she announced when she had returned from some estate sale. I swear they weighed more than her pretty head.
“Ha ha ha, very funny. I love my new headphones.” Mom shook her head slightly and looked down at me with her kind and forgiving eyes and, just like that, I felt a stab of bad conscience. Why was it so hard to talk with her, with them, about Hans when I knew I could talk with them about everything—that they would understand? They had always been nothing but supportive. They were the most forgiving, half-full parents on earth. Maybe that was exactly why I couldn’t talk with them about Hans. They were so bad at being parents—in the traditional sense—the parents that ground you for three weeks or forbid you to go to a friend’s party. They always said yes. No questions asked. They always just said what I wanted to hear. So, instead, I had turned to Maddie and Thomas—Maddie because she is my best friend and her mom was the strictest parent I had ever known (she once made Maddie walk home, in her wet polka-dot bathing suit, from a pool party because she had bragged about peeing in the water. She was nine at the time, and it was close to an eight-mile walk). So, I figured she could be a good counterpart to my ever-forgiving parents. She could tell me the truth. She could say no. Besides, she lived so far away that it never felt awkward or uncomfortable, talking about emotional stuff—stuff that I never liked to talk about.
I had also turned to Thomas because he was a single dad. I had watched him with Eleanor for almost four years and I thought that, next to Dad, he was the best dad a girl could ever have. Also, he was an expert in heartache, having lost his wife to breast cancer, and had spent the last two years back in the “turbulent dating game,” as he called it. If there was anything to know about potential heartbreaks or boyfriends, it would be him. I had babysat Eleanor plenty of times to see him come home, alone and exhausted, from yet another night of dating.
“I don’t know how you guys do it,” he had muttered under his breath, not too long ago, when he had returned from another one of his dates.
“Do what?”
He raked his hand though his thick black hair and let out a big sigh.
“Date.” He sat down on the couch and put his feet up on the little coffee table.
“I don’t, remember? I’m the other lost soul around here,” I had reminded him, echoing the words Martha had used to describe me and Thomas one night after she and Mom had watched the Bachelorette, in secret, when Dad was out playing squash.
Thomas had looked at me with an expression I couldn’t read.
“Well, you’re, you’re Ella, um, you’re—” He had stopped mid-sentence, his eyes darting to his feet.
“Socially awkward,” I suggested, feeling a smile tuck at the corner of my mouth.
“That was not what I was about to say,” he whispered.
“Then what?”
“That you’ve become such a a…” Slowly his gaze met mine across the living room and, for a moment, I think I forgot to breathe. He was looking at me the way he had looked at me the very first time we met—a mix of wonder and longing in his eyes. He looked like he was about to say something but then decided against it and, instead, he just pulled two ten dollar bills out of his pocket and handed them to me, muttering a low, “Thank you.” And I had left, thinking about the very first time I’d met him.
It had been almost four years since that day when I saw him standing in the yard with Eleanor. I had been very emotional that day, coming to see Martha for the first time, but when he grabbed my hand and looked me straight in the eyes, it awoke an army of butterflies in my stomach I didn’t even know existed. It was both weird and wonderful. I was both calm and nervous at the same time. And the next thing I knew, I was telling him I was pregnant. I didn’t try to explain, like I felt I needed to do when someone else asked. (“Yes, I’m almost eighteen, and no, the father is not involved.”) With him, it felt right. I felt right, and I smiled when, with a concerned look on his face, he had dragged an old wooden bench over to me and demanded I sit, like my water could break at any time.
We had sat down on the bench, so close our hands almost touched, and I remember thinking how his hands looked so… holdable—warm, tanned, not too big, not too small. He then surprised me when he told me he had read all the “forbidden letters” too. He said it was the most romantic thing he had ever read, but he had never told anyone about it, until now. I told him about our so-called book club and how I had learned about him from the letters. I told him that my heart jumped when I saw him outside, alive and well, and he looked at me as if he was already unfolding all my secrets, like he was able to feel what I was feeling, and it made me feel both startled and fuzzy inside. We stayed outside and talked some more until Mom came out and said hi, hugging him like he was an old lost friend; and, in a way, he was. He was Thomas, the scared little boy from the letters, the boy Martha had taken in as her son—her angel, she called him.
Mom informed us we were staying for lunch. And as it turned out, we stayed for dinner as well. I remember the fluttering in my stomach every time I looked across the table and met his eyes. But I also remember thinking that I was not allowed these feeling
s for a man who, for one, was so much older than me; but also a widower, and Martha’s boy from the letters—an almost fictional, magical person. And I remember thinking that maybe I was just confused. I was so infatuated with him because I had felt him in my heart for so long. I had lain awake at night thinking about what had happened to him—the sweet boy with the bluer-than-blue eyes—wondering if he was still alive. But that was the little boy Thomas, not the grown-up Thomas. Maybe I was just so shocked and happy that he was here, alive and well, that I couldn’t quite register my feelings. But something was definitely there, which, of course, was wrong on so many levels. So, I decided to turn my longing and thoughts back to Hans—the blond German symmetric hottie, my first love, a young man my own age, the father of my child—and not dark-haired Thomas, a widower, a father, almost old enough to be my dad (that is, if he had started having kids at seventeen like me).
And when he suddenly started going on all these crazy dates, I guess I put it to rest. We were just close friends who happened to like the same old movies and could talk for hours about our shared love of star constellations and the dislike of olives. He was Martha’s son, and I was Eleanor’s babysitter. End of story. So, as he talked about all the women he was dating, I slowly opened up about Hans, and my thoughts of whether I should be more persistent in tracking him down, if I should try to find him at all.
“You think I should go see him?” I asked again, the day after Dad had first aired the possibility of his summer project in Europe.
“Who?” Thomas was lying underneath the desk in Eleanor’s room, fixing a broken vent.
“Hans.”
With the mentioning of Hans, he pushed himself back and looked up from under the desk. “I thought you said you would never do it. Why now?” If I hadn’t known better, I would say he almost sounded upset.
“Because Dad has this opportunity to go to Europe and, I don’t know, I could go. Maybe it’s time to make a real effort to find him, and, once and for all find out if he wants to have something to do with us.”
Lost in Love (The Miss Apple Pants series Book 2) Page 2