All the Better Part of Me

by Ringle, Molly

  “Fourteen weeks gone now. But they count things strangely, so it actually means conception was twelve weeks ago, which …” Put it exactly in the vicinity of a certain Christmas party. I closed my eyes. “Anyway, yes, it’s yours,” she said. “There was no question of that, really. There hasn’t been anyone else in months.”

  “But we—we used—” Because arguing might change reality.

  “Yes, it would seem condoms can fail. Thinking back on it, that one was probably in my bag rather longer than it should have been, and …” She sighed. “I’m so sorry. It’s my own fault. I know it’s a shock, and I wish there were a gentler way to tell you.”

  I opened my eyes and blinked at the kitchen window. Rain was gathering on the glass, blurring the gray city. “No, don’t worry about that. How are you? How are you feeling? When did you find out? What …” I stopped, realizing I was firing too many questions at once.

  “I’ve felt rather dreadful. Sick nearly every day for about six weeks.”

  “Oh my God. Fiona …”

  “But better now that the first trimester’s over. I found out at the end of January. That’s when I asked you … well.”

  If there was any chance for us. I had tensed up so tight the back of my neck was aching. I rubbed at it. “God, I’m sorry. You could’ve said …”

  “I wanted to know the truth about how you felt. Didn’t want you to be influenced by this information.”

  Which surely I would have been. “So you’ve just been living with it all this time?”

  “Don’t feel bad.” She sounded brisk, a hint of the admirable director who could steer us all into line. “I’ve had Chelsea helping me out. She’s been brilliant. Sebastian, as well. And your answer helped me decide something. Having made the decision, I’m being a bulldog again.”

  Don’t think about Andy, don’t think about what I’m going to do, just think of her, find out what she needs …

  “What’s the decision? How can I help?”

  “I could raise a child—that is, I could afford to, better than many people. But I simply don’t want to, not in the slightest.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Something started easing up inside me, in a guilty way. This problem might … go away. Though I dreaded to think how. That fraught word, abortion … wait, she was fourteen weeks along? How did that work again? I’d never gotten anyone pregnant before. I had no experience there.

  “I considered abortion.” She seemed able to say it, at least. “But then I looked at Chelsea, with Mina. She adopted her, you know?”

  “No, I didn’t know.”

  “She chose to, as a single mum. Obviously Mina means the world to her. There are so many people who want a baby and can’t conceive. And I thought, well, at least I could benefit someone else. So if I got through the first trimester without a miscarriage—which is when it’s likeliest to happen—then I’d have the baby and give it up for adoption.”

  “Okay. So you’re through that. The first trimester.” I kept watching raindrops slide down the window. Told myself this wasn’t the end of my world, just a really hefty speed bump.

  “Yes, and since I don’t expect you would want the child either, I at least had to notify you, since you’d have to sign off on the adoption too. That is, I could do it all without telling you or naming you as the father, but that didn’t seem nice. I thought you should know.”

  At the mention that I even had the option of taking the child, as well as getting hit with the label “father,” all my muscles froze and my eyes widened. “Right, I see. Well … I never thought about, or at least I didn’t think anytime soon I’d … uh.”

  But I had thought of it, right? Every time my parents’ coldness and incomprehension stung me, some part of me had thought, When I have kids, I won’t be like that. I’ll be so much better.

  I hadn’t meant this year, though.

  “No, I understand,” she said. “So eventually, I’ll approach an adoption agency, tell them about the situation, and learn what needs to be done. I admit I’m dragging my heels on it, though. Sounds rather dreadful.”

  “I get that, yeah. Well, there’s time yet, isn’t there?”

  “There is. I’m not due until September, so no particular rush. But I’d rather sort it out within the next couple of months. I’ll feel more settled if I know what the plan’s going to be.”

  “That makes sense.”

  Andy. I’d have to tell Andy. Oh God. I hunched over the table, resting my face in my hand.

  “Also,” she said, “I don’t know if this is the hormones talking, or my having spent too much time looking at footage of you lately, or what. But if this knowledge does change your thoughts about being together … well. I still don’t think I want to be a mother, but if anyone could change my mind on that, it would be you.”

  “I … can’t promise anything like that. I don’t think it would be smart. For either of us. Any of us.”

  “No. All right.” She sounded sad and quiet. “Are you and Andy, then …”

  “Not exactly. I don’t know. There’s a lot I have to sort out.”

  “Bit of a mess, isn’t it?”

  I exhaled, as agreement. I slid my face up and down against my palm, my eyes shut. “I’m sorry, Fiona. Obviously it’s worse for you. I would never have wished this on you.”

  “I could have ended it. I chose not to. And it’s not as if I’m destitute. I have my work, my friends. I can look after myself.”

  “Good. That’s good.” Something about the word destitute, along with afford from earlier, sent a belated flash of obligation through me. I opened my eyes and blinked at the fridge. “I should help you. Financially. That’s … I ought to do that.”

  “One could sue for financial support during pregnancy.” She sounded dry. “But it’d be absurd in our situation. It’s considerate of you, but unnecessary.”

  Meaning the situation where she was wealthy, and I had depleted most of my savings through transatlantic plane tickets and London cost-of-living, and was leaping from one acting or barista job to another and occasionally living with cockroaches. “Yeah,” I said, deflated. “Still …”

  “I don’t need your money. Your moral support is really all I need.” Her voice caught.

  “You have that. We’ll … talk lots.”

  “Thank you. Well. I’ll let you go ponder this awhile. I’ve done quite enough to ruin your day.”

  “No, I … it’s an important thing to know.”

  “It’s good to hear your voice,” she said softly.

  I tried to smile. “Yours too. Take care, okay?”

  “I will. Bye.”

  We hung up.

  I set the phone on the table beside my half-eaten peanut butter sandwich. Stress had clenched up my stomach; there was no way I could eat that, or even look at it another second.

  I rose to get a glass of water instead, and nauseating chills shot down my legs and arms. I spun around and darted to the bathroom just in time to throw up.

  After chucking up every bite of my lunch, I slumped onto the bath rug, my back against the sink cabinets, my eyes watering. Great, now I had morning sickness.

  Yeah, feel real sorry for yourself. It’s only what she dealt with every day for six weeks while you were having fun recreating the Kama Sutra with Andy.

  I dragged myself to my feet and managed to swallow some water from the bathroom tap, then staggered back to where I’d left my phone. I brought up Andy’s name in the contacts, and almost tapped “call.” Then I stopped. Why subject him to my earliest freak-out and ruin his morning too?

  I had to think.

  I also had rehearsal. Damn it.

  On my weak-legged walk to the Green Sea Theatre downtown, I shot keen stares at every baby I passed in a stroller or backpack or one of those chest-pack things. I studied the parents too. Had they felt this unmoored when they found out they were going to have those kids? Some must have been trying for it; they’d have been happy. But probably some others had been as b
lindsided as me. Yet there they all went, carting pacifier-plugged babies along with their coffee cups as nonchalantly as other people walked their dogs.

  Yeah, so? I couldn’t do that. Fiona was prepared to adopt our baby out, and I would never have to deal with a single pacifier, and probably that was all for the best. I had enough to handle without something like that, given Andy, my always-temporary jobs, and my parents …

  Though really, I was probably set up better to raise a kid than a lot of people. No remaining student loans, no drug addictions or arrest records, a fairly stable living situation.

  Ugh, why even consider it? What was I thinking? This wasn’t the plan.

  Not that I’d exactly had a plan for my life. Or if I had, it’d been changing a lot lately anyway.

  There were no perfect solutions. There just weren’t.

  I was fully off my game in rehearsal. Our director, Dominic, chastised me for how unnaturally I was moving and talking: “Did you not sleep last night? What gives?” The other actors glanced at me in bemusement too.

  I apologized and said yeah, I was really tired. I’d grown fond of this cast and crew, had gotten to know them as I did with any production. But the middle of running a scene wasn’t the time or place to announce, Sorry, just found out this woman I slept with one time is pregnant. Plus I’ve become totally infatuated with my best friend. I have no idea what to do. Ha, crazy, right?

  After rehearsal, I knew I shouldn’t attempt the mile-long uphill walk home with nothing but water in my stomach. I’d probably faint. Though I still wasn’t remotely hungry, I got a sandwich and a bottle of juice from a café downtown and sat with it on a bench in a plaza. Blossoming cherry trees filled the plaza, with daffodils growing under them, and all the flowers seemed to glow brighter than the gray sky, like the world had turned upside-down and light now came from the ground. Fitting, on a day when my world had certainly flipped itself onto its head.

  I drank the juice, managed a bite or two of sandwich, and watched white cherry petals blow past my boots. And thought, and thought, and thought.

  CHAPTER 25: HAPPY BIRTHDAY

  Andy: On my way! See you soon :)

  Beneath heavy clouds, a line of orange sunset glowed over the water. I was back at the apartment, pacing, sipping a cup of chamomile-and-other-stuff herbal tea I’d found in the kitchen cabinets, in a vain attempt to settle my guts.

  Sinter: Cool, see you soon

  I couldn’t even manage an emoji. It would have been a lie.

  I turned on the light over the stove, sat at the kitchen table, and waited.

  Andy’s key hit the lock. The apartment door opened. “Hey,” he called.

  “Hey.”

  I heard the thumps of him setting down his pack and taking off his shoes and coat. He came into the kitchen with a pink bakery box. “How’s it going?” He set the box on the counter and came over to kiss me.

  The warmth of the kiss sent me a temporary shot of comfort, but I kept my hands wrapped around the mug on the table.

  When he lifted his face again I said, as calmly as I could, “Fiona called today.”

  “Yeah?” He studied the mug of herbal tea and the surely haggard state of my face. “Um. Is something wrong?”

  I nodded, once. “She’s pregnant.”

  “Oh. Wow.” He sounded mildly sympathetic, the appropriate level for someone he’d never met. Then he put it together. He clutched the edge of the table. “It’s yours?”

  My gaze rested on his fingers. I nodded.

  He let go of the table and tottered toward the counter. “How? You said it was once, and you used a condom.”

  “It was, and we did. Apparently it failed.”

  “Well, shit.” He rubbed his face. “What’s she going to do?”

  “She doesn’t plan to keep it. She’s thinking adoption.”

  His shoulders relaxed a little. “Okay.”

  “That should be that. Except …”

  He turned to look at me. Maybe it was just the hue of the soft light over the stove, but his face seemed pale. “Except what?”

  I gazed at the chair across from me. My tongue touched my upper lip. “It’s my kid, is all. It’s a lot to think about.”

  He gripped the back of the chair and sank into it. His gaze slipped absently to the front of my sweatshirt. “Sure. Guess it would be.”

  “She called this morning, and I’ve been thinking about it all day, and I keep telling myself I should just say yes, fine, let the kid be adopted. Sign off on the whole deal, same way she plans to. But every time I try to commit to that, it’s like something tugs on my sleeve and says … ‘Wait.’”

  I met his gaze. He looked frozen in fascinated terror.

  “This is my child,” I tried to explain. “I don’t plan on having a lot of them. I kind of want to know the ones I do have.”

  He put down his glasses with a clatter and dropped his face into his hands. “Well, holy fuck.”

  “I haven’t decided anything yet. I’m obviously not going to decide today. There’s time.”

  “How much time?” he mumbled into his palms. “When’s she due? Nine months from, what, December?”

  “Yeah. Due in September. But I should make my decision sooner than that, so she can plan.”

  “Your decision. Right. Because …” He dropped his hands and stared at me, his hair all awry from his fingers digging into it. “I don’t understand. Are you talking about going back to her? Making it work between you? Which I guess, you’re bi and you do like her, so …”

  “No. Not that. She kind of floated the idea, but I couldn’t. It wouldn’t work.”

  His gaze moved away from my face again. “But you could,” he said softly. “I mean, you’re free to. If you want.”

  “I don’t.” My throat had tightened. “I don’t want to leave. I like it here.” With you.

  He brought up his interlaced fingers to his mouth and sighed into them. “Well. Okay. I’ve never had to think about getting anyone pregnant. But, um, I guess I always assumed, if the guy’s not with the woman anymore, or never properly was with her … shouldn’t he just go along with whatever she wants for the baby?”

  “Probably. Yes.”

  “I mean, she’s the one who has to put up with the whole pregnancy thing.” He frowned at me. “How is she? How’s she feeling?”

  “Awful, sounds like. But better lately. Which is all normal, she says.”

  “Jeez.” He lowered his hands to the table and twiddled his thumbs, his gaze roaming off across the kitchen floor.

  “And I did this. I did this to someone. And left her.”

  “But if you don’t want to go back to her, then what else can you do?”

  “Offer moral support, is what she said. And let her know if I have any other input. On what should happen.”

  “Such as you taking the kid? Is that what you mean?”

  I turned the mug between my hands. The ceramic was growing cold. “Maybe. Just if …” I shrugged. The idea was insane. But my weird, stubborn mind wouldn’t shut up, wouldn’t stop insisting it was an option.

  Andy sat up straighter. “Look, I think you’re still in shock. You need to take a few days, chill, get your head straight. Right now you’re just … processing.”

  Translation: You’re talking crazy talk and complicating everyone’s life. Which was true, of course.

  “I’m probably over-stressing,” I agreed. “I don’t know why I’m thinking like this. I mean …” I lowered my face to my hands. “If I took this kid, there’d be no way not to tell my parents about it. Picture that. In particular the whole ‘product of a one-night stand and I’m not going to marry the mother’ part.”

  “Yeeeeah.” He drew out the word in dry horror. We stayed quiet a minute, then he added, “But I mean, if having them adopted by someone else is what Fiona wants, that’s straightforward enough, right? Then your folks would never have to know.”

  “That would probably be the smart thing to do.” I couldn�
�t commit to a plan, though. Every single option looked impossible. “There’s … a lot to think about. Today’s a complete loss. I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry, Andy.”

  Sorry, I meant to say, that the mood had crashed down so far from last night’s beauty and enchantment, even if I didn’t know whether he had felt the same, or indeed how he felt at all.

  He shifted and took a few seconds to respond. “Best birthday ever, right?”

  With a groan, I slumped back in my chair and didn’t bother answering. Night had fallen; the raindrops on the window had each captured a little piece of colored light from the city.

  “Guessing you don’t want to go to Machiavelli’s after all,” Andy said, with a glance at my mug of herbal tea.

  I shook my head. “I’ve barely been able to eat since she told me.”

  “Well. Here. You don’t have to eat it, but you might as well admire it.”

  He got up, opened the pink bakery box, and took out a small chocolate cake. He brought it to the table, along with a candle and a book of matches.

  “It’s from Dilettante.” He placed the cake in front of me, scooting my mug aside. “They do good chocolate.”

  The cake, big enough for perhaps four generous slices, was a mound of glossy dark chocolate with a wreath of sliced strawberries on top. In what looked like white-chocolate calligraphy, some confectionary artisan had written “Happy birthday” in the center of the circle. It smelled like dark, rich heaven, enticing me even in my queasy state of health.

  “Wow,” I said. “That looks amazing.”

  “They gave me a candle.” He pierced the center of the cake with a slim green column of spiraled wax. He struck a match and lit it. Aglow with candlelight, he sat down again across from me. “Happy birthday. As you know, it’s best if I don’t sing.” He smiled wryly.

  I tried to smile back, then dropped my gaze when tears filled my eyes. The flame warped and swam as I stared at it.

  He was the best thing in my life. He’d brought me a birthday cake. Less than twenty-four hours earlier, I’d been snuggling him and looking forward to a wide-open, low-pressure future in which I could learn to be out and comfortable, embrace my new identity, explore what we had between us, if anything—all gradually, taking as much time as I needed.