by Jane Lark
Declan stood up when we walked into the office with Portia behind us. He glared at me but he didn’t look so confident.
If he hadn’t already known we were the ones who’d snitched on him, he knew it now.
Jason let go of my hand, undid his jacket zipper halfway, and pulled out the envelope containing the papers. “Any judge,” he said, “who sees the psychiatric reports for Rachel will know that with the support of others, who’ll make sure she takes her medication, she’s going to be a great mom. But that same judge is going to look at reports on you being arrested for buying cocaine,” Jason pulled the papers out of the envelope, “and he’ll know that you’re unfit to be a father. So just give up and sign these, and then we’ll happily stay out of your life.” Jason put the papers down flat on Declan’s desk. “Your PA is here to witness you sign it.”
Declan looked at Portia. He didn’t like her being in the room. He looked at Jason. Declan had stuff he wanted to say, accusations maybe—rants, threats—but he didn’t say them because Portia was there.
“You can have him. I never wanted the brat.” He sat down, pulled the paperwork over, and flicked to the end of it. My heart pulsed into a rapid flaring beat, and my mood shot up, fizzing through my nerves, flaring high.
Declan scrawled his signature across the page, then pushed the papers away. Jason leaned down and his fingers turned the page around so it faced Portia. He looked at her. “Now you need to sign it as a witness.”
She came over, picked up a pen from Declan’s desk, and wrote her name and her details, then signed it too.
It was done, Saint was ours—Jason’s son.
Jason glanced at me and I saw the look in his eyes that said he wanted to whoop with victory, but he held it in and looked back at Declan as he picked up the papers and slid them back into the envelope.
I wanted to start happy-dancing around the room.
Neither of us said anything as Jason turned and took my hand, but with his back to Declan he gave me a massive smile before he pulled me out of the office. Then we were both smiling.
“Portia, stay in here,” Declan ordered behind us.
Justin was watching the office door when we walked out. He must have seen the outcome from our smiles. He smiled too.
Jason walked quickly when we crossed the office, a pace ahead of me, pulling me on, the grip on my hand tighter than it’d been before.
When we were out into the hall, he stopped and turned and his lips compressed, holding in a whoop, as his eyes widened.
I didn’t hold mine in. “Ahhhhhhh!” I squealed with excitement, jumped at him and wrapped my arms around his neck.
He gripped me, lifting me off my feet. “Yay,” he breathed into my ear.
We didn’t go down in the elevator, we ran down the stairs, like kids, and then we ran out into the street. I stopped, opened my arms wide, and spun around, looking up at the sky. Thank you.
We went back to the hotel and faxed the signed documents to our lawyer so he could start finalizing everything. Then we went to the Bronx Zoo to celebrate.
Jason had taken me to the Bronx Zoo the day he’d proposed, then he’d taken me to Times Square and gotten down on one knee.
“One day we’re gonna bring Saint here and we’ll show him the Brooklyn Bridge Park and take him to Times Square, and then I’ll say, Daddy proposed to me here.”
Jason smiled at me as his hands embraced my cheeks, then he pulled my mouth to his. “I love you,” he said over my lips just before he kissed me.
“Ahh!” I shouted, stepping away from him and laughing, as the sea lion in the pond beside us splashed the water up and over the side, soaking us.
“Saint would be laughing at that,” Jason said as he wiped the water off his face.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Rachel
My fingers clasped the arms of the chair tightly.
“Rachel, it’s true, you needn’t always be on medication…” The psychologist smiled at me while his words pierced into my soul, a blade of hope. His elbows rested on his desk as I sat on the other side of it with Jason. “It’s about understanding what triggers your most extreme swings and recognizing the signs when episodes begin, then balancing your medication while managing your lifestyle.”
It sounded so simple, but I’d lived with bipolar for years—nothing about bipolar was simple. It was a complex, hideous monster that lived inside me.
“What I’d suggest you do, is go back to your psychologist in Portland and go on to a support plan. They can work with you intensely for six months or so. You’ll need to see someone at least weekly, maybe twice-weekly. They’ll monitor and review your medication and help you identify the risks and learn to spot the signs you need to be aware of, and look at what triggers episodes, and what steps to take when you feel episodes commencing and set a balance, and then perhaps you’ll find in time that you’ll only need medication at a point that episodes occur.”
He sounded like he really believed my condition was manageable. The hope inside flowered, but then I was at the higher end of my scale of moods. I’d have come in here and told the guy that I was fine, that everything was awesome and super-cool. But Jason had taken control of the conversation from the moment we’d gotten in and he’d stripped the facts bare. He’d told the guy everything from the point of view of an onlooker, not from the skewed perspective I had in my head. He’d brought me here, not just to get me some more help, but to get himself help.
The guy looked at Jason. “You’ll make sure she goes.”
He nodded.
If I’d been higher than I was I’d have probably taken this all really badly, but at my current level I could still understand that Jason needed help—and that I needed help—even when I was happy.
Jason had gripped my hand at various points through the discussion, as though he knew I could be hurt by it, the hold trying to tell me that it was not intended to hurt me.
“Well then, there’s probably no more I can do for you here. But I’ll send my report to you and to your psychologist in Portland.”
“Thank you,” Jason acknowledged.
Coming back to New York had given us Saint back, but it had given me Jason back too. I had hope in the future, a future that hadn’t felt right when we’d left Oregon. He’d found the way to fix us, like he always did. I’d trust him more when we got home.
We stood up. I thanked the guy and shook his hand.
“Good luck, Rachel. Many people live well enough with bipolar, you mustn’t let it frighten you. The trick is to learn to be the master of it, rather than let it be the master of you.”
Prophetic words—but again, they were simple to say, but so difficult to do.
When we walked out of the office, Jason let go of my hand and wrapped an arm around me instead. “Shall we go back to the hotel and go for a last run in Prospect Park, then we’ll hang out near Brooklyn Bridge if you want, and walk alongside the river, or go over to Manhattan?”
We were leaving early tomorrow; this was our last day here. My heart ached to be home with Saint, and it was going to be his first Thanksgiving soon.
“I’d like to go running, yeah, and then why don’t we get a takeout and eat it in the Brooklyn Bridge Park, it can be our sort of anniversary dinner.” It had been a year ago this week that we’d met. We hadn’t celebrated it. “Then, after, can we go to Times Square and have coffee in the café where we drank after you proposed?”
He gave me a big wide smile and pulled me against him, to give me a squeeze. “I second all those ideas. We’re going to be okay, you know that. There’ll be another year to celebrate, and then another and before we know it, we’ll be eighty.”
I laughed. “I don’t wanna be eighty.”
The day was good, it brought back a hundred memories of when I’d fallen in love with him. We were friends again. He’d become like just a care-giver, looking out for me all the time. But today we ran and laughed together, and talked constantly.
My hand touche
d his cheek when we stood by the railing on the edge of the East River, in the Brooklyn Bridge Park. His looks knocked me in the chest with a sharp punch of acknowledgement, and for a moment I couldn’t get the air into my lungs when I looked into his dark-brown eyes, framed by the dark lashes that had fascinated me from the first evening I’d met him. It was dusk, and in the dusk his features had a whole out-of-this-world magnificence. Love dug deep into my bones. I’d never loved anyone before him. I’d never love anyone but him and Saint—named for his saintly father, Jason.
“I love you.” I’d said the words to him for the first time here, in the park, when he’d found out I was pregnant and the child wasn’t his. He hadn’t replied.
“I love you too, forever, no boundaries, Rach, and no restrictions, good and bad, in sickness and health.”
“But it isn’t sickness, is it? It’s in madness and in health…”
“In madness and in health, then. I still want you. I still love you.” He kissed my lips gently, and then properly, and our tongues danced around each other.
When he broke the kiss I rested my forehead on his shoulder and hung on to his leather jacket at his sides. I was always going to hang on to him, and love him. Always. I was keeping him and Saint.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Rachel
I picked up the turkey. It was heavy.
“Do you want me to carry it?” Jason said. He was holding Saint—he’d hardly put Saint down since we’d come back, and he hadn’t started back at the store yet. Although he’d caught up with the work on his online magazine.
“No, I wanna do it. Go and put Saint in his chair and sit down.”
I couldn’t believe how heavy the thing was, but it was important to me that it was me who presented it. This was my first family Thanksgiving.
The turkey looked good, all crispy and golden and it smelled amazing. I carried it into the dining room, a broad smile on my face. I was so proud that I’d cooked the bird, and I’d done loads of the rest of the dinner too, with Mom watching me and advising, but it was me who’d done the cooking.
I put it down on the table before Dad, so he could carve.
“This all looks lovely,” Dad complimented.
“Thank you.” Pride was the size of a mountain in me when I sat down. I’d proved to myself and the world I could cook a Thanksgiving dinner. It was another thing to tick off my I-can-be-a-good-mom list.
“Well, before we start let’s shut our eyes and thank God for all this food.”
“And I wanna be thankful for Jason and Saint, and you both,” I added.
Mom reached over and held my hand. “We are all thankful that you are here with us too, Rachel.”
I got up, hugged her, and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you for being such a wonderful mom.” She laughed when I let her go. “And you’d better have a kiss too, Dad. I can’t leave you out.” I walked around the table, wrapped my arms around his neck, then kissed his cheek.
I couldn’t leave my boys out either. I walked around and leaned down to kiss Jason. His head turned, so his lips pressed against mine. I let him go with a smile, then last of all, I kissed Saint’s soft cheek, my hand running over his wispy hair.
I was a little high today, and they all knew it, my drugs hadn’t quite brought me on to an even road yet, but I was enjoying myself and I didn’t care what tomorrow brought. It was Thanksgiving, I was grateful for everything I had.
Dad carved and I helped dish up, and Saint, who was sitting in his new highchair between Jason and me, had his own little bowl. I cut up the turkey into teeny, tiny pieces and mixed it up with mashed vegetables. These were Saint’s first proper solids, the only thing he’d had before was a little piece of white chocolate on Halloween. I’d wanted his first meal to be Thanksgiving.
Jason watched as I put a little on Saint’s spoon and lifted it to his lips. “Open up.”
“What are we going to use? Airplanes or choo choo trains?” Jason joked.
Saint’s mouth opened, not because he knew there was food waiting, but in his usual speaking method of babbling sounds. I slipped the food in. It was like he tried to suck it, which pushed half of it out, while his eyes said, what is this? Jason laughed at Saint’s expression.
I put another little bit into Saint’s mouth. He looked at me and smiled as he sucked on it.
“He likes it. Doesn’t he?” I looked at Mom.
She smiled.
“He sure does,” Dad agreed.
“Don’t forget to eat yours while it’s hot, Rach.” Jason nodded at my forgotten dinner.
I took a mouthful of turkey and trimmings, it was gorgeous, every bit of flavor tingled on my tongue. I’d never once eaten a Thanksgiving dinner, the only comparison I had to this was the silent, awkward Christmas lunch I’d eaten here when I’d first met Jason’s parents.
I alternated then: a mouthful for me and a mouthful for Saint.
It was heaven, straight out of a fairytale and Prince Charming sat on the other side of Saint smiling at me.
When we’d finished the main course Jason stood to clear away the plates. “I’m giving Saint dessert,” he said eagerly, staking his claim like it was a race to call it.
I laughed at him.
We had pumpkin pie, and Jason gave Saint a taste, watching him intently. Jason’s eyes glowed with pride and pleasure.
This was my life. This was what I’d wanted my life to be. This would always be my vision of perfect. Whenever I became down I would think of this and try to recapture it.
When we’d finished eating Jason stood up and ran a hand over my hair. “You go sit down and give Saint a cuddle while he has his afternoon nap. The tradition in this house is that Dad and I do the dishes.”
“Thanks.”
Jason lifted Saint out of his highchair as I stood, then handed him to me. I stroked my little man’s head and carried him over to the sofa, cradled him on one arm, and lay down beside him.
We looked each other in the eyes as I talked to him and sang to him until he fell asleep. I was glad to be back in Oregon—home.
“And if that horse and cart fall down, you’ll still be the sweetest little baby in town…” I brushed the hair off his forehead gently as his shallow breaths caressed my skin.
Jason walked into the room, clutching a large envelope in his hand. “It’s here.”
We’d been waiting for it, and expecting it for two days.
My lips pulled apart in a wide smile, breaking through the heavy hold my meds had on me.
He lifted a hand and cupped my face, looking into my eyes.
His eyes said I love you.
Then he looked down and opened the envelope.
“My heart’s beating like mad,” I said.
“So’s mine,” he answered.
“Wait a minute,” Dad said. “Let’s get a picture of the moment.”
Jason looked up at him and laughed, it wasn’t quite like me screaming in the labor room, or Jason cutting the cord, but Jason waited while Dad found his camera.
“Okay, now then, Son. Ready? Go!”
“Action,” I breathed at Jason like we were cutting a film.
His eyes were wide and sparkly with tears when he pulled out the document. The court’s stamp was on the front of it. “It’s official,” he said as he slid it right out of the envelope and held it up. “Saint’s my son.”
I hugged his waist. The joy inside me defied my meds. “We’re a proper family.”
“We always were. But now it’s the law.” His arm came down and wrapped around me, but he still clutched the paper. It brushed against my back.
When he let me go, he gritted his teeth and shut his eyes. A tear escaped from the corner of one of his eyes. He turned away trying to hide it and dropped the document on to a low table by the wall, then walked out of the room. I looked at Mom and Dad smiling like the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland. Then I followed Jason.
He was in our room, looking down at Saint, who was asleep. He l
eaned down and picked Saint up.
Saint’s eyes opened and he smiled.
Jason lifted him up and held him in front of him, looking into Saint’s eyes. “I’ve got you now and I’m keeping you forever.” More tears, tears of love, filled Jason’s eyes and caught in his dark eyelashes.
No matter how low I got, I wasn’t ever going to doubt that he loved Saint and me, not anymore.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Jason
“Hey, Jason! How are you?” The call rang across the community hall that my support group met in.
I looked over. “Hey.” It was Roy, the guy who ran the group. He had a fifteen-year-old daughter with bipolar. He was always struggling to work out what was her being a typical teen and what was her bipolar.
I walked over.
Rachel had met all the people here and their families; we had social events, dinners and stuff, but once a month I drove over to these sessions on my own and spilled my guts out about how I felt. It had been hard to talk at first. Speaking to a bunch of strangers had felt weird. It wasn’t like me. But I’d learned that I had to do it, because unless I shared this stuff, I’d crack up just as bad as Rach could.
The first time I hadn’t said much, but because we all had one thing in common—loving someone with bipolar—they’d become friends by about my third session, and I learned from their problems as much as from what they had to say about my concerns.
“Roy,” I said, to get his attention back when I got over to him. “I have news.”
He turned around. “Sounds like good news too. What?”
“It’s official, I have a son. I got the paperwork this week.” Wow; the swell of emotion those words stirred. I hadn’t thought it would be any different, other than having a signature to wave at people. Saint had been christened Saint Macinlay, and he’d been born that. But… When I picked him up now I knew he was all mine, there was no risk of losing him. He was forever mine.