All the Better Part of Me

by Ringle, Molly

  Julie came over and gently took her from me. “How about a bath, huh, baby girl?”

  As she ran the water in the bathroom sink and talked in a high singsong to Verona, Daniel put an arm around me and guided me to the bed. “Have a lie-down, mate. You’ve got darker circles under your eyes than a raccoon.”

  I obeyed, flopped onto my side, and listened, half-awake, while they tended to Verona and stashed the food in the hotel fridge for me. I did at least manage to get up and thank them before they left.

  Then I got onto every social-media platform I had a login for and changed my bio to Sinter Blackwell. Actor. Bi. He/him.

  On one of the sites, I also posted a photo that until then had lived only on my phone and Andy’s, a picture of the two of us kissing on the mouth. We’d taken it back in February. It wasn’t a great shot, artistically speaking: the flash made our skin and hair look greasy, and I had a pimple on the side of my nose. But we’d been happy and turned on when we took it, making out on the couch while not exactly watching Sherlock. It was obviously me in the photo, but it wasn’t as easy to identify Andy, the way his face was tilted. He was, however, clearly male, given the sideburns and jawline and Adam’s apple.

  All these months, I’d worried about anyone discovering this photo, though I’d been unwilling to delete it. Now I was glad I’d kept it.

  As the caption, I posted: I’m bi. I’m certain of it. No more lying or hiding. Consider me out.

  I turned off commenting options. I didn’t want questions and discussion; I just wanted to say it publicly.

  Then I collapsed into a longer spell of sleep than Verona had allowed me so far since her birth. Upon awakening in the morning and realizing I hadn’t fed or changed her in almost four hours, let alone heard any news of Andy, I panicked. But she was wiggling vivaciously and gazing at me with curious eyes. I kissed her forehead, relieved. “Who’s the awesomest baby in the world?”

  She flailed all four limbs and emitted a chicken squawk.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Let’s feed you.”

  While heating up the formula, I texted Kelly, who answered that Andy’s condition continued to be stable. Unconscious. No news.

  Meanwhile, over on social media, fifty-six likes had popped up on my update, and I had six private messages from random people I’d known in theater or school, all congratulatory, three of them coming out to me on their part too. Huh. I thanked each one and sent virtual high-fives.

  When I texted Chelsea and Sebastian to let them know my best friend and sometimes-lover was in a coma, they each insisted on putting in baby-help hours.

  “I sang to her,” Sebastian informed me that afternoon after bringing Verona back from a walk. “Sex Pistols, mainly. She liked it.”

  “You like Uncle Sebastian’s voice, huh?” I said to Verona, lifting her out of the carrier.

  “Course she does. Nicer than yours, isn’t it?”

  The next day Fiona sent a message.

  Fiona: Oh god Sinter, Chelsea told me about Andy. How awful. I’m thinking of you all. xo

  How the world had changed. A couple of days earlier I was the one feeling sorry for her and hoping she’d be okay. Now she had to console me. I thanked her, grateful there were people who still cared about me even after I’d put them through torture.

  Andy’s mom and dad updated me regularly over the next couple of days, but there wasn’t much to say. The doctors kept him in the coma, monitoring the pressure in his skull. The injury was concerning enough to keep him under, but no complications had presented themselves so far. I googled subdural hematomas and induced comas and read more accounts than was good for me. Because while, yes, patients frequently came out of these comas with no lasting problems, it also wasn’t unheard of for them to wake up with some type of brain damage.

  Or to never wake up at all.

  I decided not to google anymore.

  Carlos and Kelly had learned more about the accident. Andy had been making an ill-advised dodge around a garbage truck at the same moment another driver made an ill-advised dash across from a side street. The other driver was all right, or at least better off than Andy. Their insurance companies judged them both equally at fault. And Celery was totaled, which I knew would pierce Andy’s heart if he woke up.

  When. When he woke up.

  As for the Tokyo project, his company was sending someone else in his place, but still hoped he could join them later. If—when—he recovered.

  I asked his parents to send a picture of him. Carlos said he wasn’t sure it was a good idea. I begged, and he relented.

  I slapped my hand over my mouth when the photo came in. A ventilator covered half of Andy’s face. Rows of tiny bandages crossed his cheekbone and nose, and climbed up his forehead, covering the stitches. Dark bruises had bloomed on half his face. His left arm was in a cast. Tubes led to the other side of his head. Carlos had, prudently, opted not to take the photo from that side, so I couldn’t see it in detail. I focused on the few unblemished features: the lashes on his closed eyes. His ear. His hair. His neck, which I’d kissed a thousand times. Then I deleted the photo, never wishing to see it again. I looked at other photos instead: us kissing, him smiling, him making ridiculous faces. He would want me to smile, not sit there smelling his T-shirt and crying. I told myself to at least try to stop crying, because I was tired of walking around with sore eyes.

  For the next week, I devoted my energy to adoring Verona and thanking my friends for their ongoing help. I spent long hours gazing at my daughter, snuggling her, kissing her, and telling her I was so, so grateful for her, because having her with me was a thousand times better than facing this unknown future alone. At the same time, fear consumed me constantly, because if Andy died or stayed in a coma forever or woke up severely brain damaged, how was I going to do this? Raise her alone, without his love, without his help?

  Still. I was absolutely keeping her, and more than once I touched my nose to hers and whispered, “We’ll get through this. I’ll help you, and you’ll help me.”

  I let myself send one text message a day to Andy, even though he wouldn’t read them yet, maybe ever. Some were about Verona: V is apparently a Goth child. She screeches in protest whenever I bring her out into bright sunlight. So proud. Some were about London, with the occasional photo attachment: Saw this cool Empress Miyoko poster in a window. I hope you still get to work on it. You would give the tie-in the proper love. And a few were more emotional: I know it’s weird to keep sending these, but it comforts me. I think about how you’d answer. I can hear your voice so clearly. I need you to wake up and tell me to stop spamming you, please. I love you.

  Even in my anguish, I recognized that Verona and I weren’t completely without help. In London we had Daniel, Julie, Chelsea, and Sebastian, and at home we had Andy’s family, who made it clear they truly did consider her their granddaughter, no matter what happened. They asked after her daily, requesting photos and updates.

  You have no idea how much these pics cheer us up, Kelly texted to me. Please keep sending them!!

  I had blocked my parents’ numbers, so if they tried to call or text, I didn’t know about it.

  My mom emailed one day instead.

  Dear Joel,

  I’m trying this route since you aren’t answering calls. We’re very concerned and wish you would talk to us. A baby is a huge responsibility, as is changing your lifestyle the way you’re claiming, and we think you haven’t given enough thought to either. Also, we suspect you’re just concerned and sympathetic for Andy, and are confused. You’ve had girlfriends, and if you could stick to that, it would be so much easier for you and for everyone, especially the baby, who needs a mother. But this is all just a shock to us, and there’s a lot you haven’t been telling us. We really ought to talk.

  Mom

  Fuck that noise.

  I was holding out for way more: support for my relationship with Andy, congratulations and pleasure about Verona’s existence, an expressed wish for reconciliation�
��not just “talks,” as if I were a belligerent foreign government. Until they delivered those goods, I wasn’t answering.

  I felt okay about it, too. Cutting free that baggage had lightened my load.

  After examining DNA swabbed from the inside of my cheek and Verona’s, the US Embassy declared me her father and helped me acquire her passport and Certificate of Birth Abroad. By the time I had all those, it had been eleven days since Andy’s accident. While I was looking up plane tickets, Kelly texted me.

  Kelly: Good news, or so we hope. They are planning to take him off the sedation tomorrow and let him wake up!

  My heart leaped, though fear tailed the joy. He could fail to wake up, or wake up and not remember any of us, or …

  But I had no control over that.

  Sinter: So good to hear, thank you. Then we are flying home tomorrow

  Verona and I spent the afternoon bidding farewell to London and our friends there until our next visit. Because there would totally be a next visit. My half-English baby needed to know her mother country. And imagining the possibility of future visits with an older daughter gave me something to hold onto—whether we got to bring Andy or not.

  Fiona and I didn’t meet up. I doubted she wanted to see Verona in person yet, and probably not me either. But we did exchange messages.

  Sinter: I’m a mess right now, but even with everything going on, I haven’t forgotten how much I owe you and how amazing you are. I can never, ever repay you for giving me V. You are a complete hero. Thank you for going through it all just so she could live and I could have her. When she learns how to use words she’ll thank you too

  Fiona: Reading that is more than enough. Oh lovely Sinter I hope everything turns out wonderful for you. Please keep me updated. Best of luck and love to you and V :)

  The morning of our flight, my mom sent me another email.

  Joel,

  We’re still trying to sort this out. I wanted to say I’m sorry about what’s happened to Andy, and I hope he’ll be all right. I talked to his family to let them know we’re thinking of them. They tell me Verona is doing well too.

  I have one more question. Was there anything we did that compelled you to become like this? Resistance to church or other rules? Did we have any influence on you turning out this way?

  Mom

  It was the kind of question that could really offend a person. But she didn’t understand, and it looked as if maybe she was trying to. So I answered as factually and briefly as I could:

  No. The only choice you have in the matter is whether to accept it or reject me for it.

  Mom wrote back, I see. Thank you for answering.

  We left it at that.

  CHAPTER 42: OUR HOUSE

  SO, FLYING WITH A NEWBORN: NOT THE MOST TRANQUIL UNDERTAKING. VERONA HAD BECOME SOPHISTICATED enough to endure socks and baths, but was also getting pickier about falling asleep, only doing so when I walked her around and bounced her up and down, and had become louder when crying in complaint. When the seat-belt signs were on and we weren’t allowed to walk around, I did what I could (i.e., sweat, beg her to understand, try to buy a few minutes with pacifiers, and apologize to everyone around us). When we were free to get up, I went to the end of the aisle and swayed her in the front carrier, gaining sympathetic conversation from the flight attendants.

  Before switching my phone to airplane mode, I’d sent a few more texts to Andy.

  Sinter: V and I are on our way back to you. I’m still scared but calmer. I hope you still want me and that we can pick up where we should have left off. I’m so so so sorry I didn’t ask you to stay. I’ve been torturing myself for it ever since. Please stay with me, or let me come with you wherever you go. V and me both.

  Sinter: I told my parents everything. They’re being exactly as horrible as expected. I’m tuning them out. I choose you. You and V, over everyone.

  Sinter: I love you, I love you, I love you. Please answer when you can, or I’ll see you soon, whichever comes first

  During the flight, I had to rely on emails. Kelly sent only one, about four hours before we were to arrive at Sea-Tac.

  He’s woken up!!! But he’s confused and scared, and they say we need some time for the sedation to fully wear off. They want to do tests for memory and brain function, etc. But come as soon as you can!!! With baby!!!

  Standing at the back of the plane with my cranky baby, I felt anxiety prickle through my whole body, a wave of pins and needles. His mind could be gone. He could be “confused and scared” forever, not himself anymore, never himself again …

  It wasn’t helping to think like this. But until I knew more, there was no way I could relax.

  I thumbed back a message.

  Oh wow, keeping fingers crossed. Tell him we’re on our way and give him my love. And send me updates please.

  I checked every thirty seconds, but she didn’t answer. I told myself not to push with more messages; they were busy, they had hospital tests to run, and they probably couldn’t be sure how he was doing for a while yet. Meanwhile, Verona was taking forever to stop fussing and go to sleep, which at least gave me something to do while I waited in agony.

  She fell asleep in the front carrier just in time for me to sit back down and fasten my seatbelt for landing at Sea-Tac.

  On the ground, I switched my phone out of airplane mode and found several texts waiting.

  From Andy.

  My lower body turned to liquid.

  Or at least, they were from Andy’s phone. My mind, in a fraction of a second, filled in the worst-case scenario: he was dead or severely damaged, and his parents were using his phone to try to get hold of me. Not that this made any sense, but …

  Shaking, holding Verona to my chest while everyone else got up and pulled their stuff from the overhead bins, I opened the messages.

  Andy: So … it’s really freaking scary to wake up in the hospital and be told you were out for almost two weeks. But I didn’t cry then

  Andy: It’s also scary to realize your arm’s in a cast and your ribs and nose hurt like fuck and you have scars on your face, but I didn’t cry then either

  Andy: I didn’t even cry when they told me Celery was totaled, though that was close

  Andy: Then they hand me my phone and I hear your voicemail and read your texts, and NOW I’m crying

  Andy: I love you I love you I love you too. I was a jerk, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have given you an ultimatum

  Andy: I want you with me!! Both of you!! Please come back. I mean if you can stand to look at me with these scars

  I drew in a trembling breath and read the messages over and over, even though the words were blurring.

  “Sir? Are you okay?”

  It was a woman from the row in front of us, who was standing in the aisle like everyone else, waiting to disembark. She was looking at me with concern.

  Because I guess when a guy’s sitting there clutching his baby and staring at his phone with tears running down his cheeks, you get concerned and ask if they’re okay.

  I wiped my face. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. It’s … good news. Someone I was worried about, they’re okay.”

  She beamed. “Oh, thank goodness. I hate waiting for news like that. That’s the worst.”

  “For real,” I said, tapping the “reply” button.

  “Especially when you’re stuck on a plane,” the woman next to me said.

  “With a baby,” her husband commiserated.

  We all laughed and agreed, and I wiped my eyes again and kissed Verona’s head while she slept. Then I texted Andy back.

  Sinter: Omg I love you so much. Thank god. Welcome back. I don’t care what you look like, you freakshow. I can’t wait to see you

  Sinter: P.S. V hates flying with an intense passion. Yay

  In the hospital hallway, I essentially lifted Verona out of the front carrier and handed her straight to Kelly, saying, “This is Nana!” Then, with no further greeting, I dashed into Andy’s room, flung myself onto hi
s bed, and hugged him.

  “Ow! Broken arm, dude.” But, sitting up, he held me as tightly as he could with his undamaged right arm.

  Even though he smelled like antiseptic soap rather than his tasty cologne, I pressed my face to his neck and breathed in and out deeply. I closed my eyes, tears seeping past my lashes and dripping onto his shoulder. My hand found the shaved patch and bandage on the side of his head. I slipped my fingers across it in a caress, then clasped my arm around him again. His bones felt sharp; he must have lost at least ten pounds. His breath flowed onto my neck, warm and shaky, and he sniffled.

  I pulled back, sitting almost in his lap.

  He dabbed the heel of his hand against his eyes. “I’m not crying; you’re crying.”

  I wiped my eyes with my sleeve. “Oh my God, dude. You scared the crap out of me.”

  “I’m so sorry. I was driving like a moron. I was distracted, with the trip and trying to decide what to say to you about Verona being born and …”

  “I knew it. See, I knew it wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for me.” I set my forehead on his shoulder.

  “No, no, I don’t mean that.” He stroked my back. “I shouldn’t have guilt-tripped you. We should have talked about all of it sooner.”

  “It’s me who should’ve talked about it sooner. You were completely right. I was dragging my heels. I was scared.”

  “But I was scared too. It’s okay to be scared.” He nestled his cheek against mine. “Plus, I was jealous. I mean, you were having a baby with someone else.”

  “I wasn’t really having a baby with her. I told you.”

  “Still. It could’ve turned out that way.”

  I shook my head, pulling back to look him in the eyes. “It was always you. I kept picturing you holding Verona, playing with her, being right in the middle of it with me. I wanted it so much. I just didn’t think you wanted it.”

  “Are you kidding? I want in on anything you’re doing. Yes, it freaked me out at first, but then I started thinking all those same things—I want kids with you, cats, hamsters, fake plants—everything, as long as it’s with you—”