Vegas Baby

by Winter Renshaw

  I stare up at him through my lashes, my fingers tight around the leather strap of the bag hanging from my shoulder. My palm aches. I can feel the indentation of the leather digging into my flesh.

  My subconscious, the part of me who wants to go, go, go and abandon this place like a burning building, whispers into my ear that this won’t last. Love never does, at least not the kind of love I’ve known.

  “Did you mean what you said earlier?” I ask. “When you said you liked me?”

  His face brightens just enough. He hoists Emmy in his arm and flashes a half-second smile.

  “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it,” he says.

  “Because you shouldn’t.” I’m doing what I do best. Pushing, pushing, pushing. Keep everyone at an arm’s length. It’s safer that way. I think about that first kiss. I think about the words I uttered to him that night. “Don’t make this complicated . . .”

  He should’ve listened.

  Now I’m stuck having to choose between following my dreams and following my heart. It’s not fair for them to be at odds. I resent it.

  And I resent Crew for falling for me.

  “What are you talking about?” Crew’s nose wrinkles.

  “Neither one of us are in a position to entertain . . .”—I motion between the two of us—“any of this. And you hardly know me. You shouldn’t go around telling people you like them when you just met.”

  Crew smirks. “You’re the first I ever said that to.”

  What, is that supposed to make me want him even more? It kind of works. I scoff.

  “Our lives are headed in completely different directions.” I realize I’ve taken a step back. My gaze fixes on the back of Emme’s head; a dark tuft of troll hair blows in a light breeze. I have to look away because my chest burns.

  “I would never keep you from your dreams,” he says. His perfect lips part. He’s going to say more, but I won’t let him.

  “Good. Then it’s settled.”

  “Calypso—”

  I raise my palms, walking backward.

  He says something, his words getting lost in the wind as the distance between us grows further. I think he says something like, “You can’t run every time life gets too real for you.”

  Is that what it is? Am I running? I didn’t run from Shiloh Springs. I abandoned it in favor of something better.

  Elijah’s words echo in my mind, “Life is so much better when it’s real.”

  Of all the wise words to pull from in the archives of my busy brain, I grab onto his?

  Elijah can’t be right. This feels awful, and it’s one of the realest moments of my life. For a fraction of a millisecond, I almost understand why people were drawn to Shiloh Springs. Corruption aside, it was a shelter from the shit storm that is life.

  I gulp a lungful of air and blink away the wetness clouding my vision.

  My body feels lighter, my heart heavier, but I’m inside now. Behind a closed, locked door.

  Alone with the decision I just made.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Crew

  I let her go.

  Not because I want to, but because this isn’t the kind of conversation you have on a chipped sidewalk with a baby in your arms.

  Stopping past the mail center on the way to the apartment, I grab a fat stack of week-old mail and rifle through it as best I can with one hand.

  A white security envelope with a California postmark and the names: Cleary, Hawthorne, and Randallman in the corner grabs my attention. I tear the end and pull out a small stack of stapled paper. Sticky neon arrows with “sign here” on them mark blank lines on each page.

  A cursory glance tells me this is Ava’s parental rights termination paperwork. Emme reaches for the paper with drool-covered fists and I pull it away. Our eyes meet and she smiles.

  This paperwork seals Emme’s future. Her motherless future.

  I shove the mail under my arm and carry the baby back to my apartment, where Noelle paces my living room.

  “What are you doing here?” I set the mail on the kitchen table and brace myself for the spiel my sister’s about to give me.

  Her fingernails dig against the side of her scalp, her dark hair unusually messy.

  “Where have you been?” she asks.

  I put Emme in her swing and buckle the seatbelt.

  “Checking out one of the flip houses.” I watch her from the corner of my eye.

  “I’ve been trying to call you all morning. Your phone goes to voicemail every time. I needed you. I needed to get a hold of you. Why was your phone off?” Noelle’s eyes burn into me. She’s not crying, but her voice is strained.

  “God, Noelle, what’s wrong with you? What happened?”

  “Dad’s in the hospital. He had another heart attack.”

  “Another? Heart attack? It wasn’t an episode; it was a—”

  “Heart attack. Yes. He’s in surgery right now.” Noelle crosses her trembling arms, refusing to look at me now. Her gaze falls on Emme and softens just a tad. “We have to go. We have to go see him. We have to go now.”

  Emme’s chubby hands are busy flicking and twisting the toys on her swing with the uncoordinated finesse of an almost five-month-old.

  “What about Emme?” I ask.

  “Calypso’s going to have to watch her.”

  I shake my head. Timing couldn’t be worse.

  “Not going to happen,” I say. “She’s . . . going through some things right now. And we didn’t exactly leave off at a good place.”

  “What the fuck did you do now, Crew? God, you’re always screwing things up.”

  “Jesus, Noelle. Calm the hell down. I know you’re upset, but fuck.”

  “Stop swearing in front of your baby,” she snips.

  Hypocrite.

  “You too,” I snip back. I pull my shoulders back and inhale. “We’ll have to take turns. Go in shifts.”

  “Mom’s going to wonder why we’re not there together. You know we’ll get hell for it.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ll deal with Mom. Not about to walk into Dad’s hospital room with a baby on my hip when he’s fresh out of surgery. Surprise! You’re a grandpa! Your biggest wish has come true!”

  Noelle laughs, her eyes watering. “Don’t make me laugh, Crew. This is a serious conversation.”

  “Can you imagine the look on Mom’s face if I showed up with Emme today?”

  “You’re awful.” Noelle covers her mouth, fighting a grin. “Promise me I can be there when you finally break the news.”

  “Oh, you’ll be there with fucking bells on. You’re guilty by association. Mom’s going to freak out when she knows you were hiding this with me. If I’m going down, you’re going down with me. Plus, you owe me.”

  “For what?” Her dark brows angle in.

  “Remember that tattooed doctor you shacked up with during your last semester of nursing school? He was twice your age, thrice divorced, and a father of four.”

  “How could I forget. Eduardo Villanueva was sex on legs. I almost missed my nursing finals because we hopped on his bike and road tripped it to SoCal and broke down on the way back.”

  “Yeah, well, Mom wanted to stop by your apartment that weekend. I knew you were gone. I told her you were at a study retreat with your phone off. She didn’t believe me at first. Wouldn’t drop it. So I spent the day with her instead, doing mother-son things. Lunch at a French café where everyone kept looking at us like she was some cougar and I was her cub. A three-hour documentary on Thailand with fucking subtitles. I took her antique shopping at the Grand Village. I spent an entire Sunday hung over as hell with our mother doing everything she could possibly want to do all so that she wouldn’t find out you were living with Dr. McMotorcycle.”

  Noelle tugs her bottom lip between her fingers. “Huh. Never knew you did that.”

  “You’re welcome,” I tease.

  “Go,” she says. “I’ll stay with Emme. But don’t be gone long. I want to be there when Dad wakes u
p from surgery. I don’t want him to think I didn’t care.”

  I almost give her shit for being such a Daddy’s Girl. Our dad isn’t perfect. He can be extreme at times. Passive-aggressive. A fucking asshole. But then I think of Emme. I can only hope she loves me half as much as Noelle loves our Dad, faults and all.

  ***

  My father recovers in a hospital bed in the best Coronary Care Unit in town. His face winces and flickers, but his eyes remain shut. I don’t know if he’s dreaming or trying to wake up.

  I keep a careful distance. I’ve never liked hospitals. Don’t know many people who do besides Noelle and the rest of the gentle-hearted humans who make a career out of caring for the sick.

  It’s not my intention to wake him, so I linger in the doorway, shoulder butted up against a tiled wall. I don’t even care if he knows I came or not. Mom will tell him anyway.

  “It’s been two hours.” My mother’s grating voice trails down the hall. I passed her on my way by the nurses’ station a minute ago. She was giving someone an earful. Didn’t even see me. “Where is his doctor? Isn’t someone supposed to check on him by now?”

  “Ma’am, Dr. Stephens is making his rounds. Rest assured your husband’s nurses are monitoring him very closely.”

  “Last time we were here, there was a nurse by his side every minute of every hour for the first twenty-four!”

  My mother, The Queen of Embellishing. I can picture the nurses exchanging looks. They don’t have time for this drama. They’ve got real patients in real hospital beds needing real attention, not some spoiled, stuffy wife afraid to lose the one thing she truly holds any control over in her life.

  I don’t need to hear anymore. I move closer to my father, stealing the chair with my mother’s cashmere coat draped across the back. It smells like her perfume. If some Parisian perfumery bottled pretention and narcissism, it would smell like my mother.

  There’s a tickle in my throat. Hospital air is always so dry. I cough as quietly as possible and pour myself a glass of water from a pitcher by his bed.

  “That you, Crew?” Dad’s voice is froggy. He clears his throat; his eyes open to mere slits as he turns to face me.

  “How you feeling?” I lean back in Mom’s chair, crossing my legs wide and hooking my hands on the metal arms.

  “Like I was hit by a Mack Truck.” He tries to laugh, but it comes out in sputters and coughs. “Feels like an elephant stepped on my chest.”

  “Aw, you should be used to it by now,” I tease. “You’re an old pro.”

  The click-clicking of heels across the tile floor of his room pulls my attention to the door. My mother’s hands fly to her hips as her jaw falls slightly.

  “Crew, when did you get here? And why are you talking to your father? You know he needs his rest. Don’t be getting him all excited.”

  Before I have a chance to protest, we all see a white coat breeze past the door.

  “There’s that doctor. I’m going to go have a word with her.” My mom disappears from the room.

  “Mom.” I roll my eyes.

  “She means well.” Dad tries to lift his hand. For what, I’m not sure. There are too many cords and wires coming out of him. He may as well be chained with IV lines.

  Does she? I don’t believe it.

  “Listen,” he says, his voice scratchy and low. “I wanted to wait until I had you alone.”

  I lean in, elbows on my knees and hands folded.

  “Nothing is ever promised,” he says. “Not today. Not tomorrow.”

  Precisely why I’ve always lived for the moment.

  “If anything happens to me,” he says. “If I’m not so lucky next time . . .”

  “Dad, don’t say that.”

  “Just promise me one thing,” he says.

  I pull in a deep breath, grounding myself, preparing myself for some kind of profound truth or revelation. Something life changing. A father’s dying words, which may someday become my dying words.

  “Yeah, Dad?”

  “Whatever you do in life, make your mother proud.”

  Well. Those weren’t exactly the words I was expecting.

  “She’s a good woman,” he says. “She takes damn good care of me.”

  My father never swears. This is a big moment for him.

  “Haven’t I already made her proud?” I ask. I graduated top of my class at Brown, and for all intents and purposes, I’m teaching math at a private high school. I don’t do drugs. I live in Vegas and I’m not crawling with STDs. Not much else I can do at twenty-four to make her more proud of me.

  Dad winces. “Yes, Crew. But going forward. Just . . . promise me you’ll never let her down. I’m going to break her heart when I leave. I want it to be the last time her heart is broken.”

  So there I have it. My father’s dying wishes, already smashed into a million tiny pieces. Correction . . . just one piece. Named Emme.

  Nothing I can change about it now.

  “Dad, I have to tell you something,” I say.

  The beeping of his heart rate monitor picks up.

  “But not now,” I say. “Another time.”

  Mom returns with a very irritated Dr. White Coat in tow. The doctor pushes thick-black glasses up her nose and steps toward the computer system housing my father’s e-File.

  Mom looks over her shoulder, peering down her bifocals and reading God knows what.

  “All right, Mr. Forrester, how are we feeling?”

  “Crew, you should leave,” Mom whispers, shooing me with her hands. “This room’s not big enough for all of us.”

  I was on my way out anyway.

  “Yep.” I turn to my father and give him a tight-lipped nod. “Noelle should be on her way soon.”

  With that I’m gone.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Calypso

  The cursor on my Word document blinks in time with the music fading in and out of my laptop speakers.

  I need to write.

  I haven’t written a damn word in months. The second I sent off my Havenhurst application, I was struck with a nasty case of writer’s block.

  Presley knocks on my office door.

  It’s my first day back, and I’m only here because I needed a distraction from Crew. I couldn’t stand another minute of being separated by nothing more than a thin wall. I tossed and turned all night, wondering what Crew and Emme were doing on the other side. If I had a Magic 8 ball, I would’ve consulted it.

  Thinking about what their life would be like after I’m gone.

  Cannot predict now.

  If Emme would remember me.

  Don’t count on it.

  How Crew would feel when he thinks of me years from now.

  Better not tell you now.

  If I was making the right decision.

  Results hazy. Try again later.

  “Come in,” I call to Presley.

  She stands in my doorway, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug with a navy blue tea bag tag hanging over the side.

  “I made you some Earl Grey.” She sets it three inches from my curled fist. It’s a broken hand. Won’t type for shit. Doesn’t work anymore. Don’t need it.

  “Thank you.” I look but don’t touch.

  The mug is warm amber brown with an artisan inspired glaze that fades to an ombré at the bottom. I’ve never seen it before. She must’ve brought it from home. It reminds me of the very same ones we used to make by hand at Shiloh Springs. Every Saturday we’d load up our handmade goods and travel two hours to the Bay City Bazaar to sell them.

  My stomach churns. This mug’s nearly identical to the ones Penelope used to give me when she was “taking care of me” during my pregnancies.

  My three pregnancies.

  All of which were viable.

  All of which were taken from me without my consent.

  They poisoned me.

  They killed my babies.

  My fists clench. I rise and slam the lid of my laptop, startling Presley. Her hand sails to h
er chest.

  “Maybe you should call it a day . . .” she steps out of my office, a mix of fear and concern swirling in her dark eyes. “You’re not ready to be back yet.”

  I haven’t mourned them yet. My babies.

  Not the way normal people mourn the things they love when they lose them. It was easier to stomach when it was Mother Nature I was angry with. When I thought it was utterly and completely beyond my control.

  The Shiloh Springs elders filled my head with things like, “The babies weren’t viable. They wouldn’t have been healthy. It wasn’t meant to be. They would’ve been sick, and that’s not fair to them.”

  All words to meant to simultaneously comfort and force me to accept the ugly hand I’d been dealt over and over again.

  I wonder, for a moment, if they all knew.

  Steam from the tea rises into a thin wisp before evaporating.

  “I have to go,” I say.

  “Good,” Presley says. “Go home, put your feet up, relax. Come back when you’re ready. Bryson and I can hold the fort down.”

  “No,” I say. “I have to go to Shiloh Springs.”

  Her mouth gapes before her hands wave frantically. “Are you crazy?”

  “I’m leaving in the morning. I should only be gone a day. I have to do this.” The calm that floods over me is almost creepy. I’m not sure where it comes from. Just the mere thought of telling off Father Nathaniel, spitting on Penelope’s grave, and confronting my parents for their roles, brings me peace. “I have to do this for my babies. I have to be their voice.”

  Presley speaks, but I don’t listen. I’m sure she’s trying to stop me, but her effort is in vain.

  I’m going to Shiloh Springs.

  I’m leaving in the morning.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Crew

  “Presley told me.” I lean against the hood of Calypso’s car just before dawn the next morning, Emme on my shoulders, smacking the top of my head with open palms.

  A packed duffle bag hangs off Calypso’s shoulder, her tasseled-leather purse on her other one.