by Amy Hatvany
Just do it, she thought, and finally, she lifted her hand and rapped on the door lightly, three times. She’d never asked for a key to his place, and he had never offered one.
Ryan opened the door and grabbed Brooke, hugging her close. He buried his face in her neck. “I missed you, babe,” he said.
“I missed you, too,” she said, clinging to him. She relished the hard lines of his body, the safety she felt in his embrace. He moved his head so he could kiss her, and she let him, feeling his hands roam up and down her sides, over her ass, cupping her to him. He gave a little groan and scooped her up, carrying her down the hall toward his bedroom. She wanted to stop him—she knew that what she needed to tell him should come first. But still, she let him lay her on the bed and slip off her clothes. She let him kiss her and touch her and take her to the edge. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured as he entered her.
At least she couldn’t get pregnant, Brooke thought, and then she turned her head, stuffing the heel of her palm in her mouth, resisting a half-hysterical urge to laugh.
It was over quickly, quicker than usual, and when Ryan rolled off of her, they both lay on their backs on his king-size bed, fingers laced together. “God, I needed that,” Ryan said, trying to catch his breath. He moved his hand to rub the curve of her hip. “You okay? You seem quiet.”
She curled to her side and faced him, tucking one bent arm under her face. “Just a lot on my mind,” she said.
“Oh yeah?” he said. His tone was light, which Brooke took to mean that he couldn’t fathom that she, with her small apartment and simple job, could have anything too worrisome with which to deal.
“Yeah,” she said. She swallowed and reached out her free hand to caress the length of his arm. “I need to talk to you about something.”
“Okay,” Ryan said, with more than a hint of wariness. Brooke sat up and leaned against the pillows. With a puzzled, slightly apprehensive look, Ryan did the same. “What’s up?”
Brooke decided that the best option was just to get the truth out as quickly as possible. It was only two words. “I’m pregnant,” she said, staring at the now-wrinkled steel-gray comforter. “I didn’t have the flu. It was morning sickness.”
Ryan was silent, and Brooke made herself look at him. “Ryan?” she said, after a moment. “Can you say something? Please?”
“You’re sure it’s mine?” he asked. He didn’t look at her.
She gasped, and her eyes filled with tears. “Of course it’s yours. Jesus.” She pulled at the comforter, covering her nakedness, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She felt his eyes on her back.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I had to ask.”
She whipped her head around and shot him an angry look over her shoulder. “You had to? You think I’ve been sleeping with someone else?” A thought struck her then, and what felt like a hard stone sank inside her belly. “Are you?”
“No,” Ryan said. “I just . . . I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” He sighed and put one of his callused hands on her back. She jerked away. “Brooke, don’t. I said I’m sorry. You surprised me, that’s all. I thought you had all of that taken care of.”
“All of what?” she asked, and he shrugged. “Birth control, you mean?”
He nodded. “I mean, we’ve been sleeping together for a year, and this is just happening now?”
“So this is my fault,” she said, unable to keep the hostility from her words.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Yeah. You did.” Brooke stood up and yanked on her underwear and jeans, which Ryan had tossed on the floor. He didn’t want this, she thought. He didn’t want her. She should have known he’d react this way. She’d been a fool to think anything else. She bent over, looking for her bra, and when she found it, she put it on, followed by her white T-shirt.
“Brooke, stop. Let’s talk about this.” Ryan rose from the bed, pulled on his boxers, and came around to where she stood. He grabbed her arm, and again, she tugged away. He stared at her with dark clouds in his eyes. “Please. Tell me the truth. Did you . . . was this . . . something you planned?”
“No! I’m on the Pill, but apparently, it didn’t work. No birth control is a hundred percent.” She shook her head in disbelief. “You think I would do that?”
“I don’t know.” He raked his thick fingers through his hair and looked away, out the window to the sparkling lights of downtown. “I’ve seen it happen. A friend of mine got divorced, and his mistress poked holes in her diaphragm to trap him into marrying her.”
“I’m not your fucking mistress,” Brooke said, hoping he could hear the disgust in her tone. Even though technically speaking, since he was still married, she was his mistress, she hated the dark underbelly indications of the word. “And I’m not trying to trap you into anything. If you don’t know me well enough by now to know I would never do something like that, then maybe you don’t know me at all.”
He was silent for another moment, still staring out the window. “I do know you,” he finally said.
Brooke hesitated, his words serving as a temporary balm. Maybe she was being too hard on him. She’d had a week to get used to the idea of carrying his child; she should give him more than two minutes to do the same. She reached out and took both of his hands in hers. “I promise, I don’t have an agenda here. I just needed to tell you. That’s all. I needed you to know.”
“Of course,” Ryan said. “And I’m not going to leave you alone to deal with it. I’ll help.”
“Really?” she said, softening her voice. She allowed herself to feel another brief spark of hope, a softening around the edges of her heart, a place that had been hardened for years.
“Of course,” he said. He gathered her into his arms again. “I’ll pay for everything. Go with you to the appointment.”
The muscles surrounding Brooke’s stomach seized. The whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of her baby’s heartbeat played inside her head. “You want me to get rid of it,” she said, quietly.
“What else can we do? You know my situation. If Michelle found out I knocked you up—if she found out about you at all—she’d have the exact ammunition she needs to take everything she wants from me in court. I can’t have that, Brooke. I can’t have anything more involved than what we already have.”
Brooke cringed at his use of the phrase “knocked you up.” The crudeness of it; the total lack of heart. She broke out of his embrace and took a couple of steps back. He sounded like a selfish, irresponsible teenage boy, terrified of telling his parents what he’d done, focused only on how the situation affected him.
“And what do we have, exactly?” she asked him, lifting her trembling chin. She crossed her thin arms over her chest, curling her shoulders forward.
“We have this,” he said, gesturing toward the bed. “We have fun together. We laugh. We don’t take anything too seriously.”
“No responsibility, no commitment,” Brooke said, keeping her voice low. This was what she always had with men. What she wanted. And yet, with a baby on the way, couldn’t she want something more? Wasn’t she entitled to it?
“Yes,” Ryan said. “Which doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. But I thought you understood it. I thought you knew what not telling Michelle or the boys about you meant.”
“What does it mean?”
“It means you can’t get pregnant!” Ryan said, throwing his hands up in the air, and then letting them drop back to his sides. “It means you can’t keep it. I’m sorry, but why would you want to ruin a perfectly good thing?”
Brooke blinked back her tears and focused on saying her next words without crying. “I already made the appointment,” she said, but before she could continue, he cut her off.
“Oh.” The relief in his voice was tangible. “Good. You probably should have led with that.”
“No,” Brooke said, raising her eyes to meet his. She wondered if their baby would have her violet eyes or his brown—if they’d have a girl or a boy. “You d
on’t understand.” She kept her voice as calm and steady as she could. “I went to the appointment today. But I couldn’t go through with it. I want to keep the baby.”
Ryan put his hands on his hips, shifted his stance, and glared at her. “It’s not just up to you.”
“Yes,” Brooke said, feeling a grief so profound, so heavy, she worried it might sink her to the floor. “It is.”
And with that, she spun around and walked down the hall, making sure her car keys were still in her front pocket. Screw him, she thought as she waited for the elevator. It didn’t matter. Nothing had changed. She’d do this like she’d done everything else in her life. She’d find her way through it on her own.
Jennifer
Five days after getting out of jail, after seeing my mother, I was almost out of money. She had given me just over two hundred dollars, but the cost of the motel room alone took more than half of that, and I spent most of the rest on food and a few pairs of much-needed clean underwear and socks. I thought about her offer to get me more money if she could, but then rejected the idea, the same way my mother had rejected me. I didn’t think I could handle reaching out, only to have her turn me away again. I’d have to find a different way to make some cash.
I passed the hours sleeping and watching TV—shows I’d never seen before, like Greatest American Hero and Dynasty, and others I remembered watching with my mother before I moved out, like The Waltons and M*A*S*H. I lost myself in the silly plots and overdramatic dialogue, trying not to think about the way my mother had closed the door on me. How she’d chosen a man over helping her only child.
I’d left Gina three messages, and she hadn’t called me back. It wasn’t until Thursday—my sixth morning in the motel—that the black phone on the nightstand next to the bed finally rang. I’d been half-asleep, so the shrill sound startled me, and as I reached to answer it, I accidentally knocked the phone to the floor.
“Jennifer?” I heard Gina’s muffled voice say as I lunged over the side of the bed.
“Yes!” I called out, snatching up the receiver and putting it to my ear. “I’m here.” I struggled to right myself again, sitting up against the headboard. Sunlight edged the tattered curtains in a golden halo, and the red numbers on the clock radio told me it was almost ten. I was due to check out at noon, and I had no idea where I would go after that.
“I’m sorry it took me so long to call you back,” Gina said. “I’ve been busy with home visits this week.”
“That’s okay,” I said. Gina didn’t say more, so I forged ahead with the reason I’d called her. “They released me early from Skagit,” I said. “For good behavior. And I just . . . I can’t stop thinking about my girls.”
“I’m sure,” Gina said.
“I miss them so much,” I continued. “I was wondering . . . now that I’m out . . . is there any chance . . . any way I can get them back?”
“I’m sorry, Jennifer,” Gina said in a low, steady voice. “You signed away your rights. The girls are wards of the state now.”
“I know,” I said. A single tear rolled down my cheek, but I didn’t wipe it away. “I just feel like I made the wrong choice.”
“I understand that,” Gina said. “But the fact is, the decision was made. Papers were signed. If you wanted to regain custody, you’d have to hire a lawyer and file a petition with the court. It could take years, and you’d have to prove you were capable of taking care of them.” She paused. “Have your circumstances changed? Do you have a job? A place to live? Appropriate childcare?”
I glanced around the dark, dingy room where I’d spent the last several days. The only change to my circumstances was that they’d gotten worse. Not only did I not have a job or a place to live but I was a felon. “No,” I whispered into the phone, feeling stupid that I’d called. “Not yet.”
“Then there’s nothing you can do,” Gina said, softly.
“Can you at least tell me how they are . . . or who they’re with?”
“I’m sorry,” Gina said again. “I can’t. The terms of the arrangement are closed. You agreed to that, remember? To protect your anonymity and give your girls the freshest start you could?”
“I remember,” I said. “I just didn’t know it would feel like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like I tore out two big chunks of my heart.” My voice shook, and I tried to steady it. “I feel like I’m broken.”
“I’m sorry, Jennifer. I really am,” she said, and a few moments later, we hung up. I curled fetal under the covers, my back to the window, and I began to cry. It was final. There was no way I could have my daughters with me again. I didn’t have money for a lawyer, and even if I did, considering my current situation, there was no way a judge would rule in my favor. I was no better off than I’d been the day I gave them up. Who knew how long it would take me to find a decent job and a place to live? It could take years, and by then, the girls would have been with their new family long enough that my trying to regain custody would only disrupt their lives. It would only cause them pain.
Rolling over, I wiped away my tears and grabbed my notebook and a pen from the nightstand next to the bed, flipping to the next blank page. I wanted to get you back, I wrote. I swear I did. But when I tried, I was told it was better this way. Better for you both to have a new life with a new family instead of with me. I wish things were different. I wish I were a better mother to you both.
I wanted to say more. I wanted to come up with some reasonable explanation for the choices I’d made. Instead, I shut the notebook and pulled the covers over my head, escaping into a troubled sleep, dreaming of my daughters, dreaming that I heard them crying in another room, and I was unable to get to them. I pounded on the walls, desperate to reach my girls, and then woke to realize the hammering I heard was the motel manager’s fist on my room door.
“Check out was an hour ago!” he yelled.
“Okay, sorry!” I said, blinking my swollen and scratchy eyes, wondering if I had it in me to invite him in and do whatever I had to to keep the room for another week. My stomach lurched at the thought, so I splashed some water on my face, got dressed, grabbed my backpack, shoving what was mine inside it before heading out into the warm August afternoon. The bright sunlight made me squint. Maybe I can find a good street corner and hold up a “will work for food” sign, I thought. Or maybe I should just find a park where I can camp out. The weather was warm enough that I could get away with it, as long as the cops didn’t show up and tell me I had to leave.
I counted the few bills I had left in my pocket—fifteen dollars and some change. Enough to take the bus to a nice suburban area where it was less likely a park would be patrolled at night. During the summer months, before I’d had Natalie, I used to take Brooke to Lincoln Park in West Seattle—we’d spend the afternoons playing on the jungle gym and splashing around in the wading pool, eating peanut butter sandwiches, and then spend the nights in our car. It was as good a destination as any, so I left the motel parking lot and hiked over to Third Avenue and Pike Street, where I knew the number 118 bus had a stop that would take me where I wanted to go.
A little over an hour later, I was there. The park was off Fauntleroy Way, near the Vashon ferry dock. It was heavily wooded but also had a large, brightly hued jungle gym, several sets of tall swings, and picnic tables scattered across the lush, vibrant lawns. I made my way to one of the empty benches that surrounded the playground and dropped down on it, my shoulders hunched. I felt lost. No one knows where I am. No one cares if I live or die. My daughters will grow up without me. I’m only twenty-one, and I’ve already ruined my life. I should have kept the phone number O’Brien gave me. At least then I’d have a way to make money.
A little girl’s voice jerked me out of my thoughts. “Mama!” she cried, and every hair on my body stood on end. I’d been so preoccupied, I had barely registered the other people in the park.
Oh my god. Brooke. My eyes shot like pinballs around the immediate area, looking for m
y daughter. For her mass of black curls.
“Mama, look!” the girl’s voice said, and I stood up, my heart thumping loudly enough that it echoed inside my head. I performed a frantic search of the children’s faces around me. It sounded just like her. Could she really be here?
“I see you, honey!” I looked over toward the swings and noticed a tall, dirty-blond-haired woman standing with a group of other mothers, and then back in the direction that she waved. A young girl with long, brown hair waved back, jumping up and down on the curved bridge that connected one part of the jungle gym to the other. She wore yellow Salt Water sandals and a black-and-white polka-dot sundress.
“Mama! I’m on the bridge! Do you see me?” She did a little dance, causing the bridge to jiggle. She looked to be about five years old.
“I do!” her mother called out. The woman made her way over to the climbing structure, and as she approached it, her daughter ran across the bridge to a platform, where she stood with her arms outstretched, bent at the knees, bouncing up and down.
“Catch me, Mama!” she cried, and her mother stood close to the platform’s edge. The little girl leapt with assurance, locking her tiny legs around her mother’s waist and her arms around her mother’s neck, the same way Brooke had often done with me.
My eyes blurred and my stomach heaved. I put my face in my palms, chest burning and shoulders shaking. Oh, god. My girls. Where are my girls? I hadn’t considered what it would feel like, seeing other children out in the world. In jail, I’d been protected from this particular brand of torture. What I felt in that moment was a prison all its own, with walls built out of shame, self-loathing, and blistering regret.
When I looked up again, I saw the blond-haired woman set her child on the ground and make her way back toward the group of parents she had been talking with at the swings. I watched as the little girl spun in circles, her head down, giggling as her dress whirled out from her body. She gave a small jump, and then did it again, spinning and spinning and spinning, only to finally stumble and fall over. Her head bounced on the black rubber mat of the playground.