Halo Violation: A Secret Baby Sports Romance

by Daphne Swan

  “Thanks, Jules. Thanks for everything.”

  She nods, and with that, she’s gone.

  I take her advice and turn on the television, but of course I’m unable to focus on anything. I flip from sitcom reruns to holiday flicks to news specials to reality shows to gritty cop dramas to sports programs. Needless to say, I switch the channel quicker than lightning when I land on the sports programs. God knows the last thing I need right now is to catch a glimpse of Eric’s face up there on the screen. I flip back and forth from How the Grinch Stole Christmas to Three’s Company until Jules returns.

  “I got a box that has three kits in it,” she says, kicking the snow off her boots on the rug by the door and then kneeling down to unlace them. “There was a line at Walgreens, so I went on Google to do a little research. Apparently, it’s really rare to get a false positive result, but false negatives aren’t all that unusual—especially early on.”

  She shrugs her coat off and comes over to sit next to me, setting that brown paper bag onto the floor between us.

  “So, here’s what I would do if I were you,” she continues. “I’d take two of them right now. If you get two negatives, then chances are you’re not pregnant; you’re just stressed about conference week. If you get two positives, well...that means you are pregnant. If you get one of each, it means that you probably are, but you should take the third test just to be sure.”

  “Okay.”

  We exchange a smile, and it’s impossible not to notice the pity in her eyes. I hate that. I mean I love Jules. She’s amazing—taking charge and keeping her cool and everything. But I hate that she pities me. I think she knows as well as I do what these tests are going to say.

  “How much do I owe you?” I ask. “I think I only have about fifteen bucks in my wallet, but I can write you a check for the rest.

  “Are you kidding me?” she laughs. “Don’t worry about that right now, Moll.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry.”

  I’m stalling. I know it and Jules knows it. And there’s no point in putting this off any longer. Best to get it over with. I open the box, grab two of the test kits as well as the instructions and take them into the bathroom, along with one of the plastic cups left over from a party we threw last month.

  A few minutes later, I open the bathroom door and go back down to the living room. Jules looks up at me with a hopeful smile.

  Checking the screen on my phone, I say, “One minute, forty-seven seconds to go.”

  She nods.

  “Want me to be there with you when you check the results?” she asks.

  “Would you?”

  “Of course!”

  She gets up and comes to stand next to me, and together we watch the stopwatch counting down the seconds. When the numbers hit zero, I power off my phone and toss it on the sofa.

  “You ready?” Jules asks.

  I nod.

  She takes my hand and we walk slowly back through the hall to the bathroom. I left the tests on the back of the toilet tank. Taking a deep breath, I step through the doorway and force myself to look at the tests.

  Both tests display two pink lines in the results window.

  Shit.

  Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

  Son of a bitch.

  I am so fucked.

  9. MOLLY

  I always thought I’d know exactly what to do if I ended up pregnant. I’d have an abortion, no question. Not that I thought it’d be an easy thing to go through or anything like that. I knew it’d be traumatic, which is why I’ve always been vigilant when it comes to safe sex.

  A lot of good that did me...

  But now that it’s happened, it’s a whole different story.

  Not for one second have I actually considered terminating the pregnancy. I know it’s only a cluster of cells at this point, but I already feel fiercely connected to it. Whatever happens, I know I’m going to see this through, at least as far as delivery. After that, I’m not so sure.

  Every instinct that I possess is telling me to keep the baby. Am I crazy? Sure, I always wanted to have kids someday, but that felt like a distant dream. I had loads of living to do in the meantime. I’d get my master’s, maybe even my PhD. I’d find work, maybe as a lecturer at a college. I’d travel. I’d have adventures. I’d live life to the fullest and then I’d settle down and start a family.

  If I keep this baby, I can kiss the adventurous life goodbye. Which totally sucks.

  But then again, being a mother is an adventure in itself. Nurturing and molding this little person you created is such a beautiful thing, and deep in my heart, I know without a doubt that I want the chance to raise my own child.

  I’m young, but I’m not that young. By the time it’s born, I’ll have earned my degree. Unless my parents decide to disown me and drain my bank accounts, I’ve got more than enough money to take care of the baby and be a full-time mom.

  Holy shit. I can’t believe I’m going to be a mom.

  Maybe.

  Even though I really want to keep the baby, I’m not sure it would be the best thing for the baby.

  Jules has been amazing and supportive, but when I asked for her advice on what I should do, she sounded like she was speaking from a political platform.

  “You should do whatever feels right for you, Molly,” she said. “It’s your body and only you know the answer. But I’ll support you in whatever you decide.”

  I texted Nina the news and after a whole lot of OMG messages and shocked emoticons, she texted me back with this:

  Hang tight, girl.

  Only a week til we’re home for Xmas.

  We’ll meet up and hash it out.

  Don’t worry. You’ll figure out what to do.

  xoxoxox

  Yeah, it’s my decision. And it’d probably only piss me off if they’d been really opinionated on the matter, but I can’t help but feel dissatisfied by their passive reaction when what I really crave is some kind of guidance.

  This is exactly the sort of thing I need my parents to weigh in on. But even though my mind is a discombobulated mess right now, I know I can’t talk to them about this. Not yet anyway.

  Still, I’m desperate for the help of an authority figure, and so here I am, sitting on a pew in the back of the beautiful old church I’ve seen a million times but never been inside. I showed up after the twelve o’clock mass and there were a few elderly people waiting for absolution. One by one, they went into the confessional and came back out. The numbers have dwindled down and the only one left waiting is me.

  The door of the confessional opens, and the little old lady shuffles out, giving me a kind smile as she passes me by.

  This is it.

  I slip noiselessly down the aisle, open the door to the confessional and step inside. After closing the door softly behind me, I fall to my knees and wait for the priest to speak.

  “Heavenly King, O Comforter, the Spirit of Truth, Who art in all places and fillest all things; Treasury of good things and Giver of life: Come and dwell in us and cleanse us from every stain, and save our souls, O gracious Lord.”

  “Amen.” I make the sign of the cross and clasp my hands together before my heart.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been three years since my last confession.”

  “Three years is quite a long time,” he says. “What brings you back to the Church, my Child?”

  I open my mouth to answer, but I can’t seem to find the courage to speak. My eyes fill with tears. With a shaky sob, I manage to force the words out.

  “I’m...I’m pr...I’m pregnant, Father.”

  “I see,” he says in a calm, reassuring voice.

  When I don’t respond, he goes on to say, “Am I correct to assume that this child was conceived out of wedlock?”

  “Yes,” I whisper as the tears roll down my cheeks.

  “And have you made any decisions yet about what you plan to do?”

  “I’ve decided to carr
y the child—I mean I’ll give birth to the baby. After that, I’m not sure.”

  “Will you consider marrying the father so that the child will be born into the sanctity of marriage?”

  I very nearly burst out in laughter at the very idea of marrying Eric Wenzel. Thank goodness I manage to hold it together, barely.

  “I’m sorry, Father, but that’s just not possible.”

  “Is this man an adulterer?”

  “No way!”

  My outburst is immediately followed by a wave of guilt. I can’t believe I just yelled at a priest. But then again, who can blame me? It’s bad enough having to expose myself as a hussy. To be accused of being a home-wrecker on top of that is just too much to handle.

  The priest doesn’t respond.

  “I’m sorry, Father. I’m just a little on edge right now. The baby’s father isn’t married, but he’s not someone I can be in a relationship with.”

  “And why is that?”

  Argh. I wish he’d stop grilling me. I don’t know if it’s this particular priest or just that I’ve never gone into the confessional with something this major before. Maybe it was a mistake to come here.

  “It’s complicated,” I say. “He’s a got a very high-profile. He’s...I mean you’ve probably heard of him. He’s famous. There’s no way he’d ever marry me. He barely even knows me. We were only together that one time.”

  This is awful. I’m making myself sound more and more like a shameless harlot. I wipe the tears from my eyes and wait for the priest’s response.

  “I see. Tell me, my Child. Have you thought about giving the baby up for adoption?”

  “I’ve thought about it...”

  “And?” he prompts.

  “I don’t know if I could go through with that. It hasn’t even been three weeks yet, but I already feel such a strong connection with this baby. My baby. The thought of giving it away totally breaks my heart.”

  “I understand your devotion, my Child, but sometimes in life the right thing to do is the most difficult thing to do.”

  “But how can you be so sure that giving my baby away is the right thing to do?”

  “There are so many good and loving married couples who would be delighted to open their homes and their hearts to a newborn.”

  I frown. What does that have to do with me? I sympathize with those childless couples, of course, but it’s not my responsibility to complete their families by breaking up my own.

  And in a moment of revelation, I know. If this were a movie, a ray of light would shine down through the stained glass window above the altar to illuminate the confessional.

  “I’m going to keep the baby, Father,” I find myself saying. “I feel confident that I’ll be able to handle it on my own.”

  This is the first time I’ve come out and said it, and I’m surprised by how right it feels.

  “There’s no doubt in my mind that you feel this way now, my Child, but I would be remiss in my duties if I didn’t point out the hardships you’ll be facing as a young single mother.”

  “I’m not that young,” I point out. “I’m twenty-one years old, and by the time the baby’s born, I’ll have earned my college degree.”

  “How do you plan to support yourself and the baby?”

  “I’m very fortunate, Father. My family has plenty of money. I haven’t worked everything out yet, but I believe I’ll have the option of being a stay at home mom until the baby starts school.”

  “Be that as it may, it takes more than material wealth to raise a happy, healthy, well-balanced child. Wouldn’t you agree that every child needs both a mother and a father?”

  I don’t know how to respond. Sure, in a perfect world it’s best for a child to be born into a solid family unit, but I feel like the priest is dangerously close to dissing all single parents, some of whom have raised all sorts of happy, healthy, well-balanced children.

  And I, for one, intend to be one of those parents.

  Even though I know I’ve got a treacherous road ahead of me, it’s somewhat of a relief to have made the decision to keep the baby. I’m so ready to wrap things up and head back home to work on my conference project on Cicero’s Letters to Atticus.

  “My Child, you still have a great deal of time to weigh your options. If you would like to come in for counseling, you would be more than welcome to do so.”

  “Thank you, Father. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  After a moment’s pause he says, “Very well. I ask that you keep both your heart and your mind open in terms of your options and that you don’t rush into any decisions. But please do schedule an exam with an obstetrician within the next few weeks. In addition, I would like you to recite one Our Father and two Hail Marys.”

  Finally!

  I bow my head and say the only Act of Contrition I still have memorized. “My God, I am sorry for my sins with all my heart. In choosing to do wrong and failing to do good, I have sinned against you whom I should love above all things. I firmly intend, with your help, to do penance, to sin no more, and to avoid whatever leads me to sin. Our Savior Jesus Christ suffered and died for us. In his name, my God, have mercy.”

  Back outside, the sky is gray and gloomy, but the snow flurries give the atmosphere a magical touch. For the first time since I saw those tampon wrappers in the trash, I feel like myself again. Whatever happens, I will deal with it, and I’ll do my best.

  I’m glad I went to confession. Aside from gaining clarity in terms of what I want, it was beneficial to have shared the news with someone other than my two best girlfriends. Telling Father was good practice for telling Dad.

  I do not want to have to tell Dad about this, but it has to be done.

  God help me.

  10. MOLLY

  Stepping back, I take a critical look at the tree. There’s a spot near the top that’s looking a bit bare, and I can’t have that.

  “Ashley, would you hand me that reindeer ornament with the red ribbon?” I ask my niece. “And also one of the sparkly silver bells, please.”

  “Sure!”

  I hang the two ornaments from the branches just so, and I step back again to take a look. Perfect.

  Not that it matters. The tree, as a whole, is decked out with the proverbial kitchen sink. There are garlands of popcorn and garlands of cranberries. Strings of white bulbs are in there with strings of multicoloured bulbs—some flashing and some not. Campy looking ornaments that have endured since Mom and Dad’s childhoods in the 1960s hang next to super high quality ones like that lead crystal angel. There are plenty of DIY ornaments that Tricia, Beth and I whipped up when we were kids, and there are a half dozen of these hideous handicraft things Mom picked up at a country fair in Vermont a few years ago.

  One thing’s for sure: our Christmas tree isn’t going to win any style awards, but the haphazard look of it is familiar and strangely comforting.

  “Watch out,” Beth says.

  I step aside so she can place yet another popcorn garland along the branches.

  “Aunt Molly, can you help me? I want this ornament to go up there,” Bridget says, pointing towards the top of the tree.

  Ah, a kindred spirit. I smile. It’s nice to know there’s someone else in the family who is particular when it comes to decorating the tree.

  “Of course.”

  I bend down to wrap my hands around her waist and then lift her up so she can place the little red velvet wreath in the exact spot she wants it. She takes her time arranging it just so, and as I’m lifting up my little niece, I find myself wondering how it’ll feel to hold my own child.

  I haven’t told the family yet. Even though I hope they’ll come around eventually, I know they’re going to be really upset when they first hear about the pregnancy—or at least Mom and Dad will. I’m going to wait until after Christmas to tell them.

  My sisters are both going to be with their in-laws this year. They tend to trade off Thanksgiving and Christmas, and since we were all together for Thanksgiving, it’
ll just be Mom and Dad and me for Christmas. I’ve got it all planned out. We’ll have a nice, relaxing holiday and then I’ll tell them. I’m not sure exactly when I’ll tell them. I haven’t got the details figured out yet, but it’ll definitely be after Christmas. No need to spoil everyone’s holiday.

  In the meantime, I’m having a nice time at the tree-trimming party, which is the O’Neil family celebration at the house in Brooklyn before Tricia heads down to Baltimore with her brood and Beth jets off to Georgia with hers.

  The tree is pretty much done, so I grab my mug of warm cider (non-alcoholic) from the mantle and go over to the sofa to sit down next to Dad.

  He smiles and puts an arm around me and I snuggle up next to him.

  “Great job on the tree, Molly. It’s looking good.”

  “Yeah, right.” I roll my eyes.

  “You’re such a hopeless perfectionist! Can’t you see the beauty in the chaos? Call me a boorish old pleb, but I actually prefer a slapdash tree, decorated with anything and everything, to a carefully coordinated, uniform kind of tree.”

  “Hmm.” I glance over at the tree and imagine what it would be like if it was wearing all white lights and crystal ornaments, for example, or if it was exclusively decked out in red velvet ribbons and porcelain ornaments. “I guess I can see what you mean.”

  He smiles.

  After a moment, Dad asks, “How did conference week go?”

  I groan. “Exhausting as always, but I think I pulled it off all right. Seemed like the faculty responded well when I presented my work.”

  “I’m sure they did,” he says, giving my arm a squeeze. “You’ve always managed to wow those stuffy academics. I hope you know how proud I am of you, my little angel.”

  Normally I’d respond with a cheeky, “Thanks, pop,” or even a “Thanks, old man,” if I was feeling a little goofy. But instead—and to my utter horror—my bottom lip starts to tremble and my eyes fill with tears.

  I don’t know if the pregnancy hormones are to blame, or if this is a result of the stress I’ve been under, or if it’s because of how much I’m dreading telling Mom and Dad about the pregnancy, but I am on the verge of losing it. Big time.