Finding Yvonne

by Brandy Colbert

  But I don’t see any faded signs declaring it the number one anything when we walk in, and the menu offers the average diner fare. We both order coffee. I get a basket of waffle fries, and Warren asks for a slice of banana cream pie.

  “This was my first job,” he says, looking around at the scuffed walls. They’re covered in framed, faded headshots autographed with thick black marker by celebrities. I don’t recognize most of them.

  “You worked here?”

  He nods. “As a fry cook. When I was in high school. From sophomore year to when I graduated. I staged at Lou’s restaurant, then I got a job with your dad.”

  “Did you like it?” It feels strange making small talk with Warren, but the only alternative is to dive right into what we didn’t finish the other night, and I’m not looking forward to that.

  “It was a job. People didn’t care about food here like they do where I am now. But they were nice. And I consider it part of my training…. I just never thought at the time that I’d be where I am now.”

  “You like where you are now?”

  “I love working with Sinclair. I’m sure I’ll want to open up my own place someday, but for now, this feels right.” He pauses, his eyes on the table. “I’ve been thinking a lot about where I am lately, and I don’t know if I’m ready for a baby, Yvonne.”

  I let out a long breath. I’m glad he said it right away. At least now I don’t have to suffer through the rest of the afternoon harboring this immense dread.

  The server drops off our food. Neither of us moves until he leaves, and we don’t touch our food, either.

  “I’m not gonna lie—I was really pissed that you slept with that other guy,” Warren says in a careful voice. “I know I fucked up, and I know that we weren’t together together. But… God, it was like my heart hurt when you told me. It felt physical.”

  I fold down a corner of the parchment paper that lines the fry basket, making a tiny triangle. “I’m not sorry for sleeping with him, because I didn’t do anything wrong. But I’m sorry I hurt you. And… I’m sorry that I don’t know whose it is. I know that complicates this whole thing.”

  “I love you.” He’s looking right at me now. “You are one of my favorite people in the world. If I thought I could be a good dad right now, I’d want to have a baby with you. Like, no questions asked. Hell, I’d probably even raise some other guy’s kid if it meant I could be with you.”

  I want to look away, because his words are creating a storm of emotions inside me and I want it to stop. I know that where he’s going with this won’t necessarily be what I want to hear, but he’s being honest with me. Speaking from the heart. I can’t fault him for that, so I keep staring into his tea-colored eyes.

  “Ever since you told me, I’ve been thinking of all the ways we could make it work. And maybe we could. I don’t want anyone but you.” He sighs. “But then I think… what if I end up being a shitty father like my dad was?”

  “You’d never run off like that, Warren.”

  “No, but there are other ways to be a bad father. I’m worried I wouldn’t know how to be a good one since I’ve never had one. And… I guess I can’t help wondering how I’d really feel if we found out the kid wasn’t mine. I’d still love them, but what if I never stopped resenting the fact that I wasn’t the biological dad?”

  “You wouldn’t do that, either,” I say softly.

  He shakes his head. “I think people believe there are a lot of things they wouldn’t do, and then they surprise themselves when shit gets tough. Maybe that was my dad’s problem—your mom’s, too.”

  I think of last night, how my father never answered my question.

  Warren slides his pie plate out of the way, then my fries and coffee cup. He reaches across the table for my hands. I give them to him.

  “I’m not telling you what to do,” he says. “If you want to keep it, you should. I’m not going to disappear on you as a friend. I can at least be here for you that way. And maybe more—who knows? But I wanted to be honest with you about how I’m feeling. I just think… love isn’t always enough, you know?”

  “I told my dad. He knows it could be yours.”

  Warren’s face pales, then deepens to a bright shade of pink. “Is he going to murder me?”

  “Murder might be a bit extreme. Anyway, I think I’m the one he’s really pissed at. He wants me to get an abortion, and he wouldn’t entertain any other options.”

  “You know Sinclair. He’s so sure he’s always right, but he comes around eventually.”

  “I don’t think so, Warren.” I swallow. “He was about some serious tough love. I don’t think he’d let me stay in the house if I kept it. He’s so goddamn worried about what people would think.”

  “It doesn’t matter what he thinks,” Warren says. “Or anyone else. It’s your decision. You have to do what’s right for you.”

  I stare down at my lap. Trying to have a baby on my own would be too hard. People do it, but what if I couldn’t handle it? And what if I’m still so fucked up from my mother that I’d be a terrible parent, like Warren thinks he might be? I’d try my best, I know it, but I’m not sure I’m ready for that kind of pressure. If I have a baby, I’m not giving it up to anyone else, and if I have an abortion… My father says he doesn’t dwell on the past, but I don’t know if I have that gene. What if I always wish I’d had the baby instead?

  “I don’t know what the right thing is, Warren.”

  He drops my hands and I look up at him, wounded. But he’s getting up from his seat and coming over to my side of the booth so he can sit with me. I lean my head on his shoulder and he puts his arms around me. We sit like that, together and saying nothing, long after our coffee gets cold.

  I’m in such a deep, deep sleep later that night that when my father shakes me awake, I sit straight up, gasping for air.

  “It’s just me, Yvonne,” he says. He’s standing in front of my nightstand, blocking most of the light from the lamp he turned on.

  I check the clock on the wall. A quarter past one. “What’s wrong?” I mumble.

  “She left because of me.”

  That shocks me into consciousness. “What?”

  “Your mother.” His voice is gruff. “She left because I told her to.”

  I stare at him, lips parted. “Why would you tell her to leave? Why would you do that? She was my mother.”

  “She didn’t love me,” he says. “Well, she did, at first. And then I started working too much. I wanted to provide for the two of you… my girls…. She said she’d rather be poor than never see me. I loved her. A lot. But I loved my work too much.”

  “So she just left?”

  “She threatened a few times, and finally, I told her if she was going to do it, she should just go.” His eyes are glassy in the lamplight. “One day I came home and she was gone. She didn’t leave a note, and her family wouldn’t talk to me. I’ve done everything short of hire a private detective to find her. I just want to know if she’s okay. But there’s no electronic footprint. She doesn’t want to be found.”

  I swallow. “So why didn’t she take me with her?”

  His face falls. “I can’t answer that, Yvonne. I… I suppose it was easier to disappear without a child in tow. I’ve always wondered….”

  “What?” I prompt him.

  He breathes in deeply through his nose. “I’ve always wondered if there was someone else… but it doesn’t matter. I didn’t treat her the way she deserved to be treated, and I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry for how it affected you.”

  I think about mentioning the man by the apple bins all those years ago, but as I look at my father’s sad, tired eyes, I stop myself. It wouldn’t change anything. She still left. She still didn’t care enough about her own child to take me with her.

  “There’s something I think you should have,” he says, and from behind his back, he pulls out a photo.

  I rub my eyes and take it from him. I’ve seen only a couple of pictures of my mot
her. Years ago, I asked why there weren’t more, and he said she didn’t like photos. That she preferred to live in the moment instead of documenting every second of her life.

  The picture is of me and her. I’m sitting in a high chair with a tiny cake in front of me. A giant candle in the shape of the number one is planted in the middle of the chocolate frosting. I’m cheesing for the camera with a halo of black curls on my head and drool running down my chin to my bib. She’s gazing at me. Her smile is subtle, but her eyes are aglow. With so much love, it makes my chest constrict. It makes my lungs feel as if they have collapsed, as if I can’t get any air.

  “I’ve kept this to myself all this time because I didn’t want you to feel any worse about her leaving,” he says. “She loved you more than anything in this world, Yvonne. Wholeheartedly.”

  And I know now, that at some point, she wanted me. Maybe it was the wrong decision to have me. Maybe she changed her mind a million times about what she wanted after she had me. But all my memories, vague as they are, are real. She did the best she could while she was here. She loved me.

  “I’ve spent all this time wishing she had never gone away,” I say. “It sucks growing up without a mom. I hate not knowing what that’s like.”

  “I know, Yvonne.” His face is so stricken, I wonder if he’s going to cry. I’ve never seen my father so much as shed one tear.

  “But… I don’t know. If she didn’t want to be a mother or wife anymore… maybe the best thing she ever did was leave me with you.”

  “Oh, baby girl,” he says, his voice thick.

  Baby girl. He never calls me that. I look up at him in wonder.

  “I know I don’t say it enough—maybe I’ve never said it—but I don’t know how I would have gone on if she’d taken you with her. I am so, so happy you’re here.” He runs a hand roughly over the top of my head, a rare display of affection. Then he clears his throat. “I still think you having a baby right now is a bad idea, but I’m not going to put you out on the streets if that’s what you choose. We’ll figure out a way to make things work. That’s what we’ve been doing all these years, right?”

  I sit up on my knees and reach out my arms to hug him—something even more rare in our relationship. He’s stiff at first. Not used to this. But he softens, more and more each second. Then he’s hugging me back, so tight I think he might never let me go.

  32.

  Sabina and Mama Jess flank me on either side as we walk up to the front door.

  “Are you okay?” Mama Jess says before we go in, smiling at me.

  After that night at Sabina’s, I started thinking about the abortion doula. And how Mama Jess said she and Cora were there for me if I ever needed anything. I didn’t want a stranger to be with me during the procedure, but I wanted to be with people I trust.

  I spent the night at their house, and the three of us rode over together to the clinic this morning. Cora had to go into the office but she gave me a big hug and a kiss before she left and told me she loved me. I haven’t said much since I got up and showered. Mama Jess set out a light breakfast of fresh fruit and yogurt and croissants. I wasn’t supposed to eat anything from midnight on, but I wasn’t hungry anyway.

  “I think so,” I answer Mama Jess, focusing on her fingers wrapped around the door handle.

  “Do you need anything before we go in?” she asks gently. “We can take a few minutes, if you want.”

  “No, I’m okay,” I say, trying to return her smile.

  I check in at the front desk and then we sit down to wait, again with me between the two of them. Sabina hasn’t said much this morning, either, but she’s never once looked like she doesn’t want to be here with me.

  I glance quickly around the waiting room, averting my eyes before they can meet anyone else’s. It’s pretty early, so there are a just a couple of other women in here. One looks a few years older than me, and the other is older than that, closer to Mama Jess’s age. The younger one has a guy with her; the older woman is alone. Neither of them looks as nervous as I feel.

  I know this is the right choice, one that I made myself. Yet I feel like I should be more upset about it. Like I should be mourning a baby I’ll never know. But the truth is that I don’t feel attached to what’s in me right now. It doesn’t feel like anything more than a bunch of undeveloped cells.

  The front door opens. I don’t look over until Sabina touches my arm and quietly says, “Yvonne.”

  I look up to find myself staring at my father.

  He says hello to Mama Jess and Sabina as he walks over. Mama Jess moves to give him her seat, and he and I are still looking at each other, silent.

  Finally, I speak. “What are you doing here?”

  “I, ah, thought I’d just… come down here and be with you. If that’s okay,” he says quickly, pressing his hands against his knees. He looks over at Mama Jess. “I know you have support, but…”

  “I am so, so happy you’re here,” I say, repeating his words from the other night.

  He looks relieved. And a little touched.

  When the nurse comes out and calls my name, I feel all of their eyes on me.

  “Ready?” Mama Jess says, her kind eyes searching mine.

  “Yes.” I punctuate it with a nod, just to be clear.

  Sabina is leaning forward. She smiles and mouths I love you.

  My father looks at me, then back at the nurse before he meets my eyes again. “I’ll be here when you get out, Yvonne.”

  “Okay,” I say softly.

  “I’ll be right here,” he says again.

  This is just one morning, one gesture. But it feels solid and fresh. Like the start to something new between us. And I think maybe my father and I are going to be okay.

  Maybe I’ll always wonder what if. Maybe everyone does, no matter what choice they make. But I hope I never regret doing what was right for me at the time.

  I hope I’ll always be proud of listening to myself.

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  Acknowledgments

  I am grateful to all the people behind the scenes who help me publish books that I’m proud of.

  Immense gratitude to my editor Alvina Ling for letting me write the story that was in my heart, and for offering encouragement and guidance that refined it for the page. And to my editor Nikki Garcia, you are a force: Thank you for instantly understanding Yvonne and her world, and for your insightful notes during edits.

  I am indebted to the entire team at Little, Brown Books for Young Readers. In particular, thank you to Kheryn Callender, Victoria Stapleton, Jenny Choy, Kristina Pisciotta, Jane Lee, Elizabeth Rosenbaum, Marisa Finkelstein, and Marcie Lawrence for your kindness, dedication, and support through every stage of publication.

  To my treasured literary agent, Tina Wexler: Thank you for being my voice of reason, nonstop advocate, trusted friend, and one of the hardest working people in the biz. I admire you greatly.

  Jen Simone! I’m eternally grateful to you for letting me pick your brain about the world of violin. You are such a talent and inspiration in your field.

  So much love and gratitude to the friends who support and listen to me, read early drafts, and cheer me on through the good times: Kristen Kittscher, Corey Ann Haydu, Lauren Strasnick, Robin Benway, Maurene Goo, Stephanie Kuehn, Sarah McCarry, Lesley Arimah, Elissa Sussman, and Courtney Summers. You all make this solitary writing life a little less lonely and a lot more fun; I appreciate you all.

  Also by Brandy Colbert

  Pointe

  Little & Lion

  ndy Colbert, Finding Yvonne