“You’re here now,” Cynthia says. “Please, tell me your story.”
Marla juts her chin out. “I would be a good mom.”
Cynthia leans forward and uses a conspiratorial tone. “And?”
Marla sighs. “I quit one of my jobs. And—like they probably told you—the baby was unplanned.”
“What about the father? How is your relationship with him?”
“We’re great. We just moved in together.”
Elise interjects. “They haven’t been dating very long. And he’s very busy.”
Cynthia pulls a pamphlet from one of many file folders in her desk drawer. “You might want to look at this.” The pamphlet is titled, “Co-Parenting Questionnaire.”
Marla scans the items: Are you and your partner committed to co-parenting for eighteen years and beyond? Have the two of you planned for who will be responsible for day-to-day parenting tasks such as feeding, bathing, and putting your child to sleep? Have you and your partner discussed parenting decisions such as religious education for your child, what kind of school your child will attend, and how you will deal with discipline? How will you and your partner maintain and continue to build your own relationship with the added stress of raising a child? A whole page of that. “There’s a lot of stuff on this list.”
Cynthia pours her voice on Marla as if it were hot tea with honey. “All parents need to address these issues, both before their child is born and as their child matures and changes. Have you and your partner talked about these things?”
“I live in the moment. I don’t really nail everything down.”
Dave nods, crossing his arms. “Marla needs help making decisions and planning for the future. She has FAS.”
Cynthia smiles at him. “That doesn’t mean Marla can’t be a good parent,” she says, and Marla does a silent cheer. “What you need to think about is how you are going to be the best parent you can be. Do you have a plan?”
It looked good for a second, but now this woman sounds like Elise. “Well, I just have to stay away from my drug addict ex-roommate, get my fiancé to pay for everything now that I have a ridiculously low income, and ask my deaf brother to watch the baby so I can get another job. It’s not like it’s impossible.”
Elise holds Marla’s hands. “A baby is forever.” For a moment, she looks like the Elise who used to wrap Marla’s knee when she sprained it playing volleyball or hold her when a boy dumped her. Marla tries to picture herself in her forties, her baby grown up, and can’t even get past the birth. She faces Elise.
“Here’s the stuff I think I would be good at: reading to him, snuggling and watching movies, playing outside, making fun food, teaching him to dance. Helping him be patient and kind.”
“What about the parts you’ll need help with?” Elise knows how to phrase it.
“It’ll be hard to keep up with his appointments, like for vaccines and doctors. And I don’t think his room would be spotless. I go on gut for everything, so anything logical will be hard. Math homework, but Liam could probably help with that.”
Dave says, “What about setting boundaries? Helping him navigate his relationships with others and make good decisions for himself?”
“Yeah. That’s hard. And knowing what’s a big mistake and what is just a normal one, keeping enough money in the bank to feed him, finding good people to be around him when I’m at work, teaching him to wait for the things he needs and how to control his feelings. All that stuff.” Marla turns to Cynthia. “What if I am interested, just a bit?”
Cynthia holds Marla’s gaze for a moment before she stands to embrace her, the baby between them. She pats Marla’s back, whispering, “You are a very courageous woman. Strong.”
Marla sits down, shaky. “You say it like other girls can’t do it.”
Cynthia holds her hands across the coffee table. “If you choose adoption, it will be the hardest thing you ever do. I can tell you that from my heart. I’ve been there myself.”
Marla tries to picture a shivering Cynthia handing over a baby in the hospital, her fingers clutching at the baby’s blanket. If she looks past the couch and the accent, Marla can see it. There is something milky in Cynthia’s eyes that tells Marla the truth.
“Do you see your kid?”
Dave clears his throat, but Marla needs the answer, leans forward to hear it.
Cynthia looks out the window. “Everywhere I go, I think I see him.” She turns back to Marla, inhaling, composing herself. “Open adoption wasn’t common then.”
Marla looks at the school pictures of other kids on Cynthia’s desk. “What do you do?”
“I wait.” Cynthia’s voice breaks. “On Mother’s Day, you know.”
Marla passes the tissue box, taking one for herself and handing another to Elise. “I’m sorry. I just like to know who’s legit.”
“Don’t be sorry. Sharing our stories is what makes us stronger. My son’s adoptive parents gave me this.” Cynthia shows Marla a ring she wears on her first finger. It has a blue stone, the colour of an old dog’s eyes. “Aquamarine,” Cynthia tells her. “My son’s birthstone. He has the same ring. He would be old enough to wear it now.”
“Okay,” Marla says, not to agree, but because she wants to stop herself from bawling. How many guys has she met that might be this woman’s son? He has no idea, and wouldn’t even have her accent. “I think I want to go.”
Cynthia nods. “Come again and we can talk some more.”
Marla nods, barely, leaving the three of them thanking each other, and heads for the waiting room where she accidentally meets the eye of the beaming receptionist. Nope. She’d rather be outside. Her baby begins to hiccup as she gets on the elevator. Alone with the mirror, Marla realizes she’s crying.
Gavin signs the visitor sheet at the reception area as a frowsy counsellor stands over him, talking as he writes. He signals for her to wait and hands her a card.
She looks him up and down, then shouts like a moron. “Visiting hours are almost over!”
Of course they are. CAN I STILL GO?
She shrugs and leads him through the kitchen area to the common room where several young adults and some rough-looking middle-aged people watch TV. The counsellor points to Gavin’s mother, who’s playing ping-pong against an acne-ridden teenager. Candace swings wildly, spinning around in her slippers. Her black hair shakes. Gavin thinks she looks the same, but he doesn’t have any pictures of her. The image he has of her is a teenager.
Gavin waves, then scribbles hurriedly. HI, MOM.
He was too slow. Candace Parker walks right past Gavin, takes a mittful of juice boxes from the fridge, and sucks one back before she sits heavily at a table. He follows her, sitting across from her. Candace looks at Gavin with the slow shock of recognition. Puts her juice down.
“Long time, trucker.” She bats her eyelashes, tucking her hair behind her ears, sitting up straight.
IT’S ME, GAVIN.
Candace takes another look and yelps. She stands up so quickly she rocks the table with her knees as she comes to hug him. “My baby.” She sits again and looks up at him. “Thought … your dad …”
Gavin can’t remember his dad, or even seeing a picture. His dad is a different man than Marla’s father, an oil patch worker who never came back. YOU THINK I LOOK LIKE HIM?
“Exactly … but such … retard.”
Gavin feels something hard in his gut. SOMETHING WRONG WITH HIM?
“… nice guy … neighbour … using his disability payments … pay rent …”
Gavin has been trying to remember a man in the house, not a neighbour. There were so many of those—the old guy at the Dutch store, the truckers who stopped at the diner, Randy with his scratchy beard who used to play trucks with Gavin, using scrap lumber for ramps.
YOU MEAN RANDY?
“Yeah, Randy. Your dad.”
A crippled giggler of a man is his father. A guy Gavin’s never lived with. And now he knows his name. WANT TO FIND HIM. Gavin sees himself sitting on a step with a guy who chewed tobacco and slept with his mom and wonders what they’d do together.
“Why … change anything.”
But Gavin knows it might change everything. If he only knew exactly what kind of retard his father was, how people talk to him, whether he wears stained jeans or is missing some teeth. Those are the important things Gavin can’t remember. And why his father couldn’t look after Gavin when Candace tanked. WHERE IS HE NOW?
“Fucked off to … where.”
He swallows and writes, WANTED TO SEE YOU. CAME FROM ONTARIO.
“… haven’t taught … talk, eh? Fucking deaf school.”
Gavin doesn’t want to tell her he can talk. She used to make fun of him for how he sounded, kicking him when he made noises with his toys. He played under the table after that, but she would haul him out.
FINISHED HIGH SCHOOL. HONOURS.
Candace nods, purses her lips to whistle. “Okay. Now what?”
HAVE SCHOLARSHIP TO U. OF T. He doesn’t tell her it was for the winter session that began in January. WANT TO BE AN ARCHITECT.
Her eyes are darting around like she’s not really following. He makes a fist under the table, squeezing hard, and waits.
Candace finishes another juice and nods at him, starting a new conversation as if they weren’t already in the middle of one. Talking about herself. He can tell by how many words she’s using. “… doing the work … life back together … program.” She gestures at the other clients and the counsellor at the desk. “I should tell you I’m sorry.” She makes a heart out of her two hands and presses it from her chest to his, which somehow makes Gavin feel even emptier.
MARLA’S PREGNANT.
“Yeah?” Candace picks at a gouge in the plastic tabletop.
SHE LIVES HERE.
“I know … not stupid …” She’s mumbling, turning away.
YOU SHD VISIT.
“She came to me once. I told her to go home.” Candace looks him in the eye, daring him to say it: You’re a bad mother.
WHY DIDN’T YOU WRITE ME? Even as he says it, he knows it’s ridiculous.
“Write? Like letters?” She starts laughing, so Gavin hands her his phone so she can type her number in.
I’LL TEXT YOU.
Candace shakes her head. “… don’t … one of those. Hey, you smoke?”
Gavin shakes his head.
“… couple bucks?”
Gavin takes two twenties out of his wallet, surprised there aren’t more. She stuffs them in her bra.
They sit in silence until she pokes him, points to the ceiling. “… announced it … gotta go now.”
Gavin nods. He can’t bring himself to write “I love you,” so he writes down Marla’s address. He wishes he’d brought Dani. She would have known what to say.
The doctor at the clinic where Marla works asks to talk to her, and Marla grits her teeth. Katelynn stares as she walks by, still typing. It’s serious, then, if Katelynn knows. Marla’s all set to tell the doctor she hasn’t been reading the files because she is super keen about patient confidentiality, but that’s not what he wants to talk about at all.
He sits her down with a paper cup of water and looks apologetically at her stomach. “It’s just that Alex is studying nursing and we only have the budget for one practicum student. I’m sorry, Marla.” Dr. Leal gives Marla her last cheque and ushers her out of the office, past Katelynn who waves and Alex’s vest hanging on the coat rack. Marla shrugs like it’s no big deal and walks out into freezing rain. She lets the weather sting her face, ready to feel something concrete.
How is she supposed to save anything for the baby? She won’t be able to get another job now that she can’t hide her bump. She has basically no money, like two hundred bucks, but she doesn’t want Liam to know. She takes care of herself, pays her own way, which is why she would never take Gavin’s money. Marla waits for the bus, staring at the warm mall across the street. She checks the schedule: twenty minutes, if the bus is on time. She eyeballs a wad of frozen phlegm on the glass of the bus shelter and picks up her bag. She heads for the baby store.
It’s snuggly and pastel and just about perfect inside. People really have thought of everything, like little leggings, banana-shaped pillows to nurse with, and very techy strollers or hiking backpacks that convey the message a baby is an add-on you just need the right gear for. She checks the prices: hundreds of dollars for everything except the strap-on booster chair, and even that is fifty bucks.
Marla walks through the cribs, beautiful fake bedrooms without babies. Matching walnut dressers, bassinets, and changing tables. What kind of diapers will she use? There are potties that sing and baby butt wipe warming contraptions.
Marla looks at the clothes, hoping for something she can afford even though she has no job. The newborn onesies are impossibly small. A little suit with a monkey on the front hangs by itself. The size is ten pounds. Jasper, Beckett, Gavin. Marla clutches it and feels like she might cry.
A very pregnant woman and her partner are trying to get by in the narrow aisle. “I said, excuse me,” the woman says pointedly, gesturing to her watermelon shape. She is thirty-five plus, carrying a dainty leather purse. Her partner wears a suit and tie and carts a swack of baby stuff under both arms. One of those big exersaucers.
Marla sticks her own stomach out, pulling her shirt taut over her little front. “Sorry. Didn’t see you there.”
The woman doesn’t roll her eyes or push close for a bump-off like Marla wants. She gives her partner a look of pity. “Aren’t you a bit young, dear?”
Her partner pulls her along. “What a shame,” he says, looking at Marla with disdain.
That shit really pisses Marla off. They are so ruining her moment here. She grabs the little monkey suit and follows them to the till. “Hey, I think you should apologize.”
They ignore her, making their backs a wall. The man has his arm around the woman, who fidgets. The cashier rings their stuff in.
“You think I can’t buy this kind of shit?” Marla flicks their blue plastic bathtub with gizmos hanging over it. Her good arm brushes the woman’s jacket, making a plastic-sounding rustle. The woman steps away in alarm, clutching her womb.
The man has had enough. “Get your hands off her,” he says to Marla. He waves his hand in the cashier’s face. “This teenager is harassing us. Can’t you do something?”
The cashier is post-menopausal and afflicted with severe eczema. She gives Marla a warning look, then lifts the intercom phone beside her till.
Marla glances at the monkey suit crumpled in her hand. She drops it on the floor and stomps out the door.
Outside, she can see her bus pulling away. Marla sprints for it across the parking lot, holding her belly. Any other day she would have made it.
After he returns from visiting his mom, Gavin stays with Dani, leaving only to get cigarettes for her. He brings her upstairs, helps her into the tub, and tucks her in his bed. She sweats and throws up and he rubs her back, brings her ginger ale and face cloths, candy. She gets bad headaches and the shakes, but she doesn’t take her withdrawal out on him. She tells him about her son, about her plans, and he thinks Marla was wrong about her. Dani has it inside herself to change. He can tell.
Marla tells Liam the whole story while he practises endless scales and patterns.
“Then what happened?” he asks. His bow saws at precise angles.
“I ran away like a baby.”
“At least you didn’t steal anything. Or start something.”
Marla sits on the floor beside the cello, her hand resting on the back of the instrument to feel the vibrations. “They started it.”
“You have to know when to walk away.” He plays teens
y weensy scales high on the neck. Liam’s back is so straight Marla thinks he would fall over if she blew hard enough, like a balanced pin.
“Are you mad because I lost my job and now I have no money? Because I’ll pay my own way.”
Liam hangs his bowing hand down by his side and holds the cello at arm’s length. “Never—I’m happy to give you whatever you need. But you should look at the image you present to the world. You’re young, and you walk around in a cheap coat and stretch pants picking fights. What are people supposed to think?”
Marla stands up in her stretch pants and her too tight shirt. “So, I’m impulsive.” She sees the face of the woman from the store on Liam. Same sniffing disdain. She rips the clip from her hair and shakes it. “You’re on their side.”
“No offense, but you’re the one who looks bad.”
Marla wants this fight. No one will tell her the truth, which is that, yes, she is different. It doesn’t matter that she’s almost always friendly and generous and makes her hair pretty. Whenever it’s her against someone else, the other person always looks better, just because. “Why won’t you talk about it? You think I don’t know people look down on me? They’d look down on you too, if they knew.”
“I don’t let anything that happened define me. Not my mother, not my cheating ex-wife. I make my own reality.” He turns the page in his technical studies book and starts another one. Minor this time.
She closes the book too hard and it flaps to the floor. “Why doesn’t that work for me?”
“What do you want me to say? That you’re going to be the one who breaks the mould? You’ll be some sort of wonder mom that everyone else will be jealous of at parent-teacher night who never gets angry and whose kid asks for more vegetables? Get real.”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I want. Someone who believes in me.”
Liam looks her up and down. He shrugs. “I’m just not seeing it. You are different: you have to work way harder than most people.” He edges her out of the way to make the slightest adjustment to one of his fine tuners.
A Handbook for Beautiful People Page 15