He Gets That from Me

by Jacqueline Friedland

  The comments continue in that vein, each one making me more nervous about what the next one might say. I finally click on the hazy photo Fiona posted. It’s a picture from a newspaper, I can’t see which one, but the article is titled “Music Instructor Fired from Elite Private School for Student Abuse.” The words of the article are blurry, and I have to bring my face close to the screen in order to decipher them. I can’t believe my eyes as I read that Trent Whitestone was fired before the start of the school year in 2002. The article says that a student’s parents came to the school alleging an inappropriate relationship existed between the adult music teacher and their minor daughter. Although they were unable to substantiate their allegations with any proof, Whitestone admitted to initiating a romantic encounter with one of the school’s then-seniors. Trent insisted the relationship did not progress beyond one encounter, but the school terminated its relationship with Whitestone. Although the administration encouraged the parents of the student to press charges, the parents declared that their innocent daughter had been through enough, and they were simply relieved to see the situation handled in a swift and efficient manner by the school.

  I don’t know how long I sit there after finishing the article, just staring at the screen. I’m stunned. All these years, I thought my parents blamed me, that they wanted no part in defending me, that they possibly even questioned whether I’d made the whole thing up. I think back now to the nights I spent living in the front room of Anne-Marie’s apartment. She was the first friend I made when I reached Long Beach; she had three other roommates and a significant drug problem, and I lay there night after night on her ratty velour sofa, half-conscious, thinking that I was better off amongst those wayward deadbeats than I was living with adults who didn’t believe in me. I was so full of anger, at my mom especially, for not having my back. The way she railed at me . . . it was a big explosion of emotion, even for someone as volatile as she always was. And then they just let me go. That was the most upsetting part of it all. When I finally called home after a few weeks of being on my own, there were no pleas from my mother to return home, no apologies. I can still hear her exact words before she hung up: “Figure it out. Or don’t.”

  Reading this article now, I don’t understand. I can’t work out why they would let me think we were on opposite teams and then go to bat on my behalf without ever telling me. It doesn’t make any sense.

  A flash of light illuminates the back wall of the kitchen, and I know it must be Nick pulling into the driveway. I drain the last sip of wine from my glass before going to the front door to greet him.

  “You’re still up,” he says, clearly surprised.

  I glance at my watch. It’s 1:27 a.m. “Yeah, I was waiting for you and then I got sucked into the internet.”

  As he kisses me on my cheek, I take a deep breath, searching for floral or musky scents, anything that might provide evidence of another woman in his night. All I catch is garlic and something a little bit earthier, like mushrooms.

  “What kept you?” I try to sound like I’m chill, casual, rather than a caricature of a jealous wife, the foil from a sitcom.

  “Oh. Nothing. Just a busy night.” He doesn’t meet my eyes as he walks toward the kitchen carrying a brown bag full of leftovers. “Hungry?” he asks as he sets the bag on the counter. He lifts the round containers out, one by one, and a pleasant aroma of grilled herbs fills the air.

  I shake my head and study him, trying to decide whether to push him about the fact that he’s been unusually late getting home three times in the past two weeks.

  “What?” he asks as he stops arranging the containers and his shoulders straighten. He’s bracing for a fight, but not the one I thought. “You want me to tell you again that the damage was definitely from the car accident? Fine, it was from the accident.”

  “No, nothing.” I don’t think I want to go there.

  We found out yesterday that I have scarring in my uterus. It’s possible that we’ll be able to have another child anyway. Or not.

  “Look,” he says after a breath, “it wasn’t a conclusive diagnosis, just a theory. We can keep trying.”

  “We can keep trying,” I repeat.

  The scarring, the doctor told us, appears to be a result of the trauma I sustained when that car hit me in LA. There’s a chance, though, that the tissue damage could be a consequence of carrying twins. The physical stress of gestating multiples can leave a woman’s body unable support future pregnancies.

  Nick has always wanted a big family. If I didn’t serve as a gestational carrier, it’s possible that he would have a house packed with kids, like he always dreamed. But the fact is, there’s just no way to know. I don’t want to talk about it with him anymore. I suppose that means I’m a coward, but I’m not ready to face the fact that I might never have another child, that I’ll never again feel myself growing round with life or give Wyatt the sibling he’s always wanted. I’m not ready to start with the second and third opinions, the exploration of potential alternatives, the idea that this might possibly be my fault, another consequence of my choices.

  “You have to see what I found on the internet,” I say instead.

  His face changes at my response. “Ha.” He’s suddenly all light-hearted, glad I’ve chosen not to rehash everything we discussed last night. “You sound like half the guys I know when you talk like that.” His eyes crinkle at the corners, and I’m reminded that I love him and the life we’ve built together.

  “No, you perv.” I motion toward the open laptop, matching his tone. “I joined Facebook and found an article about Trent Whitestone. Look.”

  Nick moves to the desk and bends to read the small print on the screen as I lean against the island, watching him. I can hear the ticking of the analog wall clock behind me as I watch his eyes scanning the words.

  Finally, he straightens and looks up at me. “At least they fired the asshole. Those parents should have pressed charges.”

  He’s missed the whole point.

  “Nick! Those parents are my parents!”

  “They are?” His eyes dart from me to the screen and back to me. “How do you know?”

  “The timeline and description of events. It’s completely obvious.”

  “Huh.” The corners of his mouth turn down as he processes what I’ve said. “Well, now that you know the school was aware of what happened, maybe you should press charges against the teacher, like they said. The guy shouldn’t get away with what he did. Or you could press charges against the school.”

  “Stop, no. I don’t want to press charges. It’s probably been too many years anyway. But none of that is the point. The point is—my parents. They went to bat for me. They went after him. All this time, I thought my mom maybe didn’t even believe me.” I shake my head, as if the movement might clear the confusion I’m feeling.

  Nick doesn’t answer; he just looks back at the screen, as if he’s reading the article a second time. “You should go to bed,” I tell him as I move toward the entryway, where I’ve left my cell phone. “I’m calling my mom.”

  “Now? It’s like four in the morning in New York.”

  “Yeah, well, I think it’s been too long already.” I wait, challenging him, but he just shrugs and starts toward our bedroom, kissing my head as he passes me.

  “Just be quiet when you come to bed,” he says over his shoulder. “I’m beat.”

  I wait a moment, watching his broad back retreat down the hallway toward our room. It would have been nice if, just once, he could have condescended to engage in a deeper conversation about my family drama, but he still keeps it all at arm’s length. My sordid history from before he materialized and saved me. It’s like he doesn’t want the stains of my past to bleed onto him.

  I shift my focus to the phone, dialing my parents’ home number and marveling at the things we never forget. I haven’t dialed this number since Wyatt was born almost four years ago. Delusional from the post-partum wash of hormones, I let Tess convince me to cal
l them, to tell them they had a grandson. To my mom’s credit, she did ask if she could come and visit. I said I’d call back when I was ready, and now, somehow, years have passed since that conversation.

  I put the phone to my ear and wait. After four rings, the answering machine picks up and I hear my dad’s voice telling me that the Fishers can’t come to the phone right now, but then I hear shuffling and the sound of the receiver being lifted clumsily off its base.

  “Hello?” My mother’s voice is thick with sleep.

  “Mom.”

  “Maggie.” She’s suddenly alert. I imagine she’s just sat up in bed. “What is it?”

  “How come you didn’t tell me that you went to the administration about Trent Whitestone?”

  She lets out a long sigh on the other end of the phone.

  “This is what you’re calling about at 4:00 a.m.? It couldn’t wait until after sunrise?”

  “You said it was all my fault. That I deserved the negative consequences.”

  “Right. But then I said a lot of other things too. You only heard the parts you wanted to hear.”

  “But why?” I ask, still stunned. “Why would you let me think you were on his side, the school’s side, every side but mine?”

  “You had a lot to figure out back then. Maybe you still do if you’re waking your parents before the crack of dawn just to restart an eight-year-old argument. I wanted you to grow up, to take responsibility for yourself. I had hoped that was what you were doing.”

  “But you just let me leave.” I repeat the thought that has been tormenting me for years.

  “No, Maggie, I let you breathe. I gave you autonomy and agency. You think it was easy for your father and me? Sending you out into the world to figure everything out? We did it because we thought it was best for you, not because it was what we wanted. If you had stopped thinking about yourself for a minute and asked what we wanted, you would have heard a very different story than whatever it was you concocted inside your head. We wanted what was best for you. Plain and simple.”

  Hearing my mother’s decisive assertions takes me straight back to that day in our kitchen so many years ago, the last time I saw her. I remember the pain and humiliation I felt when she laid into me for my choices, my attitude that rules did not apply to me. I remember the sting of it, that instinct that I was just a kid and therefore she had to be the one in the wrong, for not taking better care of me. But now all I feel is that sense of need—that I needed my mother, and she let me down. I’m suddenly filled with a wave of homesickness so strong that it nearly knocks me over.

  “But it wasn’t best for me. I needed you.” My voice is small.

  “Are you sure about that?” she asks. It’s classic Gail Fisher, going Socratic during every argument, so sure she’s always standing on higher moral ground. I feel tears threatening, and I don’t want her to hear them, so I am silent.

  She huffs, like I’m testing her patience. “Look where you are now. Your husband, the up-and-coming chef; an adorable son—or so I’m told,” she needles. “Halfway to a college degree in a field that actually makes sense for you. You would have been happier in fashion?” She pushes, knowing the answer. “I was trying to be a good mother. If you love something, set it free and all that.”

  “I miss you.” I’m surprised I’ve said it out loud.

  “We miss you too.” Her voice is kinder now, intensifying the ache I feel.

  “I’m sorry I woke you.”

  “Phsst.” She dismisses the comment, and I can see her waving her hand in the air like it doesn’t matter to her at all. No bother.

  I’m struck now by the absurdity of my behavior. Eight years and less than a handful of phone calls. Keeping them away from their grandson. Wyatt’s never even met them. For what? Why? No matter their mistakes, I suddenly can’t justify the separation at all.

  “Can I come visit?” I ask.

  “Of course you can come. This is your home. And you’ll bring Wyatt.”

  I nod, even though she can’t see me.

  “Tess tells me you’re in the middle of your second semester. Don’t make things too difficult for yourself. We’ll be here after you finish your finals. Maybe you’ll call again in the meantime. During daylight hours.” She says it with a smile in her voice.

  We stay on the phone a few more minutes, catching up a little. It’s stilted and I feel awkward, but I’m ready to try to move forward. I don’t have to agree with all of her parenting decisions.

  When we hang up, I can still feel an echo of anger festering inside me, but the decision to forgive my parents has tamped it down, muted it to a place where I no longer feel that my bitterness should keep us apart. I’m disappointed in myself for failing to consider sooner that my mom’s behavior, and my father’s choice to follow along, might have been motivated by love and not anger. I’m suddenly running through my entire childhood, as if it’s a movie reel on fast-forward. We could have gotten along so much better if my mother had been more open with me, explained where she was coming from. She was propelled by such intense emotions that I often couldn’t find the logic in her outbursts, but maybe I didn’t try hard enough. Each time she went from zero to sixty without warning, I just blamed her. I listened to her bellow at me, each of her utterances landing like tangible embodiments of her unfair disappointment in me.

  In the morning, I’m going to tell Wyatt that we’re planning a trip to New York so he can finally meet his grandma and grandpa. Hopefully Nick will be able to join us on the trip as well, so he can meet his in-laws for the first time.

  I shut off the light in the kitchen and head for our bedroom, firmer in my new point of view that not every issue between family members needs to reach an actual resolution. Sometimes it’s best to just keep the peace.

  Chapter 17

  MAGGIE

  JULY 2018

  To his credit, Nick seems more baffled than angry. Ever since we hung up with the clinic, he’s been cycling through a host of emotions, from confusion to despair to guilt, but apparently, for once, not blame.

  “We literally gave our child up for adoption without even knowing it.” It’s the third time he has said this since hearing the news, like he simply can’t process the thought. After so many years of trying and failing to conceive a second baby, it turns out that our child has been out there all along.

  “So what now? Do we just go get him?” He’s asked me this several times already as well.

  I shake my head again. “I don’t know.” I’m sitting cross-legged on his side of the bed while he paces the floor. I fiddle with the pile of balled-up tissues beside me on the bedspread. “I think he has parents already. I mean, ten years, Nick.”

  We keep arguing opposite points, both of us playing devil’s advocate from alternate positions, then switching sides and battling in reverse.

  As we debate, I keep thinking about the things we give away in life that we can never get back, no matter how great the mistake. Virginity. A vote. Love. Every item I can add to this list is something a person would want to take back in order to save it for someone else, to give it away again, but differently. I’m having a hard time coming up with anything that a person might want to take back simply for her own self. I attempt to try on this perspective with regard to my son, Kai. Do I want him back just for me? Or do I want him back to give him to someone else? To Wyatt? To Nick? As consolation for the fertility struggles we’ve faced over the years? As much as I regret giving our own child away, I regret even more that I’m not sure I do want him back. I have a family already. Nick and Wyatt. Smaller than we had hoped, but our own little unit nonetheless. Bringing a ten-year-old child into this mix, ripping him from his own home and expecting him to blend right into ours—it doesn’t seem right. And yet after unknowingly abandoning my child, how can I continue to forsake him now that I’m fully aware of his existence?

  “But maybe we have a responsibility?” I ask.

  Nick shakes his head. “They’ve been raising him since
birth. It’s not exactly like they can exchange him, get a new kid in his place.” It feels like he’s agreeing with me, and yet we’ve been talking in circles for nearly two hours, trying to digest this news.

  “Just dial, already.” The uncertainty of the future is making the mistakes of the past all the more painful. Nick switches on the speakerphone, and we wait as ringing reverberates from somewhere in New York City.

  “Maggie.” It’s Donovan. I wonder if Chip is still working his banker’s hours, if my child has been raised by one dad significantly more than the other. I wonder if he’s been happy. Has a small part of him always known he was somewhere he didn’t belong?

  “It’s Nick. But you’re on speaker, Maggie’s here. We heard from the clinic.”

  Donovan doesn’t say anything on the other end—frightened, perhaps, of what Nick will say next.

  “Look, none of us expected this,” Nick says. “We don’t want to make problems. But we’d like to figure some of this out together, and to come meet him.”

  A loud breath transmits over the speaker, and I think maybe it’s the sound of relief. But then there’s silence, a moment too long, before Donovan responds.

  “Guys.” He says it like a stop sign. “The thing is . . .”

  I feel something changing in me at the sound of his hedging. I stand and walk over to where Nick is leaning over the dresser, looking at the phone.

  “Our attorney advised us that all communication should go through her,” Donovan says.

  “I don’t think that’s necessary,” I pipe in, leaning down toward the phone. “We’re not looking to uproot everyone’s lives here. We just want to meet him. This wasn’t the plan, Donny, and you know it.”

  There’s rustling in the background and muffled voices. Maybe Chip is home after all, standing next to Donovan, his eyes as wide as Nick’s are next to me.

  “Yeah, okay, we can figure this out,” Donovan says. “But look, I’m not sure if we’re going to tell him, so there’s that.”