by Holly Rayner
The thing is, that day never came.
I never stepped into my role as Colt’s provider. Not fully. Not with my whole heart.
But how can I? I’m not capable of caring for someone else. I still have to focus on caring for myself.
It takes all of my energy just to keep up the walls that I’ve erected around my life. That’s still where I need to put my energy.
Cinda’s waiting for me to respond. I sip my beer again and then move toward the dish of food waiting for me. “Colt’s a tough boy,” I say. “Just like his dad. We both have our coping mechanisms.” I think of my long hours at the office, and Colt’s fights on the playing field.
“We do what we have to do to keep ourselves safe,” I say. “Maybe Colt’s fight was justified.”
“Fighting is never the solution,” Cinda says sternly, as if I’m a child under her care. Then she seems to remember who she’s talking to, and she blushes. “There are better ways to resolve conflict. This is a symptom of a deeper hurt. I’m just saying that I think we need to address that before he becomes a teenager. Now it’s getting suspended from lacrosse, but when he’s older the consequences are going to be bigger—suspension from school, drugs, dangerous behavior…”
I walk my dinner over to the microwave and place it inside.
She continues her lecture. “Mr. Green, I do have a degree in child psychology, remember? That was one of the reasons you hired me from the agency.”
She waits for my response. I know what she wants me to give her: a promise of quality time with Colt, this week.
I hesitate to make that promise. I’ve made it before and broken it. I’ve seen Colt get his hopes up and seen how crushed he can get when my work gets in the way.
“I hear what you’re saying,” I tell Cinda. “I’ll think about it. Today’s been a long day, and I need to just eat and get some rest. Okay?”
She looks disappointed, but I don’t know what else to tell her.
She gathers her bag of belongings and a light jacket. I pay for her housing, which is right next door, so I know she doesn’t have far to go, or else I would call a car for her.
“Good night, Mr. Green,” she says sadly.
“Good night, Cinda,” I say. “I have another early start in the morning. If you could please be here at five fifteen, that would be excellent.”
She agrees and leaves the room.
Finally. Her presence only exacerbates the guilt I already feel about my parenting abilities.
I carry my drink and dinner out of the kitchen, down a long hallway, and into one of my living rooms. It’s dark, but I leave the lights out and instead turn on the large-screen television, which casts a comforting glow across the room.
A baseball game is on, and I’m eager to lose myself in the game and forget my guilt.
I eat mechanically, barely tasting the food, and try to get invested in the game. I finish my beer and grab another from the minibar next to the couch. No matter what I do, I can’t seem to shake my nanny’s warning.
In two years, Colt will be a teenager. Where has the time gone? I keep putting off our father-son time, thinking I’ll get to it later.
One day when…
This phrase reminds me of Karla. She was right. I put off my happiness—always for a time in the future. What if Colt grows up and moves out before I really ever bond with him in the way that I know I can?
What if I never fulfill my potential as a father?
Karla was right. The time is now. I have to start being more present.
I smile a little, thinking of her. Colt really liked her, too. He’d be thrilled if I spent more time with her. What if I invited her here, to dinner? I set my beer down and pull out my phone, suddenly eager to see if she emailed me back. She must have. I’m sure she checked her email by now, and if she was happy to see my note, she would respond quickly.
I tap my phone until my emails pop up. I scroll through them, with an eye for Karla’s email address.
Nothing.
She didn’t respond.
A deep wave of sadness passes through me—a loneliness and hurt that I feel at my core. I hate the feeling.
So instead of dwelling on it, I reach for my beer and turn my focus back to the game on the screen. My team is ahead, but just by a little.
I set my phone off to the side, willing myself to put thoughts of Karla aside, too. Maybe it’s better this way. She’s probably found another job already. She clearly doesn’t want to talk to me. I called her and emailed, and she hasn’t responded. She’s moved on, and it’s time for me to do the same.
Chapter 6
Karla
Six Weeks Later
I step into my apartment, flip on the lights, and set my keys down on the empty countertop. They make a soft jingling sound that echoes off the bare walls.
I’ve never seen this apartment so empty. It’s now late May. June is right around the corner. How did the summer arrive so fast? I feel like just yesterday it was mid-April, and I was applying at GFC Bank.
What a huge failure that was.
It was just the beginning of a string of bad news for me. Soon after I learned I didn’t get the job at the bank, my landlord informed me that my apartment, which had been my grandmother’s before she died, had been sold. He gave me until June 1st to find a new place.
At the time, June 1st felt so far off. Yet here I am, with the beginning of the month just three days away—this Saturday.
Thank God I found another apartment.
I sigh and wander into the little kitchen. As I stand next to the stove, reaching for one of the plastic, disposable cups that I’ve been using since I packed up my kitchen items a few days back, I think of all the times that I stood in this very spot as a child.
I was so young that I couldn’t even see the stovetop. Gran always wore a ruffled apron, and she wielded a wooden spoon much like a fairy godmother wields a magic wand. I remember the way she’d lower that wooden spoon, blowing on the contents it carried, and then let me taste the sauces she was brewing up.
I was her “helper,” standing on a little stool at times and stirring the pot, or informing her in my childlike way that the soup needed more basil, oregano, or salt.
It was like a game. She was always so pleased when my judgment of our concoction matched her own. “Yes! Yes! More salt it is!” she would say. “Karla, you are going to be a wonderful cook one day.”
I fill the plastic cup with water and turn so I can lean against the counter as I drink it down. I’m exhausted. It’s been a long day, but I finally got the last of my boxes into a storage unit. I’m ready to hand over my keys on Saturday morning, and then I’ll stay with Christy until my new apartment becomes available on Monday.
I set my now-empty water cup aside and open the fridge. It’s the barest it’s ever been, but I did set aside two containers of leftovers to get me through the next two days. I pull one out and pop it into the microwave.
As it heats, my thoughts turn to the new apartment. The kitchen is about five times as big as this one. It will be sad to say goodbye to this place, because of all the memories I have here. However, I should look at the bright side. The apartment I’m going to move into will be newly renovated. That’s why I can’t move in until the fourth of the month—the landlord said construction is a bit behind schedule. It’s going to be so worth the wait. I smile, and the microwave dings.
I pull out the Tupperware, fill my cup with water again, and then carry both to the living room.
The new apartment is more expensive, but at least I just got a new job that will help me pay the high rent. I think about the temp position I just accepted, with a skin-care company. I’ll be answering the phones in the shipping department, which sounds awful to me. I’m capable of so much more. At least it’s a job.
Since I put my living room furniture into storage days ago, I settle onto the floor with my back against the wall.
I feel unsettled, thinking about the new job, which I started
at the beginning of the week. My gran always taught me that it’s not healthy to eat while upset, so I try to turn my thoughts in a more positive direction.
The new job might be awful, but it’s not like I have to do it forever. My business is so close to taking off. I can feel it. I should be grateful that I have work to get me through until it does. I’ll have a steady paycheck. I should also feel grateful that I found such a nice apartment. The housing market is so tight these days, with very few options available to renters.
I close my eyes, let gratitude take the place of my anxiety, and then open my eyes again.
I look down at my meal, expecting to feel hungry. It is past eight, after all. I worked hard all day and snacked instead of having meals. I should feel famished.
But I don’t. The fragrant steam from the risotto, which is wafting up toward me, actually turns my stomach a bit.
What’s wrong with me? I usually love the smell of creamy risotto. This is one of my favorite comfort foods, which is why I made such a big batch before I packed up the kitchen.
Now that I think about it, my appetite has been off for a while—at least a week, possibly more. Am I fighting the flu or something?
I reach my hand up and feel my forehead. I don’t have a fever.
Suddenly, it dawns on me. Could I be pregnant?
I feel my eyes go wide. My breathing speeds up. No. No—I couldn’t be.
Could I?
The only guy I’ve slept with was Garrett, and that was…
I close my eyes, thinking through the timing. Mid-April. I slept with him in mid-April.
It’s been six weeks, and my cycle has been off since then.
The pieces start to fall into place, and I stand in a hurry. I bring my dish of food and cup back into the kitchen, and the food goes in the fridge. Then I grab my purse and rush out the door.
I need to take a pregnancy test.
Within a few minutes, I arrive at the local corner store. I avoid the cashier’s eyes as I pay for the test, and then I hurry back to my apartment.
Fifteen minutes later, I have the results in hand, my suspicions confirmed.
I carry the white plastic stick, complete with a little pink plus sign, back to the living room and slide down to the floor once again.
I let myself just sit. I’m too stunned to do anything else.
Pregnant.
I’m pregnant.
My gaze drifts to the kitchen, and once again I’m filled with memories of standing at the stove with my gran. My parents worked a lot, and Gran practically raised me, here in this apartment. I’ve always fantasized about having a little one of my own, who I could share my love of cooking with, just like Gran did with me.
For a minute, as I stare dreamily at the stove, I see a scene in my mind’s eye. It’s me, at a stove, stirring a big pot of sauce. My child is next to me, standing on a stool just like I used to do. I scoop up some sauce and blow on it gently while my child smiles in anticipation. Then I lower the spoon so they can sip some of the goodness off of it. I think of the joy of that moment, and my heart feels like it might burst.
Tears form in my eyes, and I’m still in too much shock to bother wiping them away.
I close my eyes, and with my heart full to bursting, I say an internal prayer of gratitude for the little life inside of me.
A sensation of connection, awe, and joy overcomes me.
I don’t know how long I sit like that, crying with gratitude, but when the overwhelming sensations pass, I finally get up and make my way back to the kitchen. I may not be able to eat the risotto, but I have to eat something. It’s important for me to have some calories, seeing as I’m carrying a child.
I find some crackers in the cupboard and a jar of peanut butter.
As I begin to eat, reality starts to set in.
I’m pregnant—with Garrett’s child.
He called me, and I didn’t pick up. I never responded to his email. His messages were so cold and formal, only about the job at his company. He didn’t mention he was thinking about me or even mention our time together. And he’d waited an entire week to contact me. I thought I was done with him. I thought that by ignoring his messages, I had put him out of my life for good.
I thought we had a one-night stand, and that was that.
Apparently not.
I’m going to have to contact him. I’m going to have to tell him about my pregnancy. I should never have ignored his messages in the first place. That’s going to make all of this so much harder.
I chew a cracker, spread thick with peanut butter, and then sip my water. It won’t do me any good to dwell on my mistakes. I’m going to have to call him and arrange a meeting. What will I say? How will he react? I cringe, thinking about it, and decide that it’s a topic to tackle in the morning. I really am exhausted.
I finish my “meal,” and then get ready for bed. As I lie down on the air mattress that I’ve been using since I put my mattress in storage, exhaustion takes over. I fall asleep thinking about Garrett.
How is he going to take the news?
Chapter 7
Karla
I barely make it through work the next day. It’s hard to answer the phones and arrange shipments while my mind is so distracted by thoughts of the baby.
Instead of calling Garrett to set up a meeting, like I know I should, I call Christy during my lunch hour and ask if I can stop by after my workday is done.
With hopes that my best friend will be able to help me sort out my thoughts on what to do next, I arrive on her doorstep shortly after five.
I enter the house without knocking, like I usually do, and am immediately greeted by the giant, slobbering dogs. “Down!” I say, as one jumps up to greet me with kisses. They run down the hall in front of me, and then zoom back in my direction. Together, the dogs and I find the whole family in the living room.
Ian, Christy’s husband, is lying on the floor helping Joshua, six, and Stella, four, with a puzzle. Christy and Ian’s youngest son, Henry, is on the couch, singing to himself while stuffing the limbs of a teddy bear into a set of little overalls. Christy is next to him, on her laptop.
Everyone looks up as the dogs and I enter, and Stella jumps to her feet. “Auntie Karla! Come help us with the puzzle! We’re at the part with the clouds and it’s the hardest part!”
Just then, one of the dogs runs across the room, trampling the puzzle zone while he’s at it.
“No!” Stella shrieks. “He ruined it!”
“Stella, honey,” Ian says, “it’s fine. We can put it back together.”
Stella reaches for my hand and starts tugging me toward the puzzle. “You’ll help us!” she says.
I grin down at her. “I would love to,” I say. “But I have to have a word with your mom first.” I look at Christy.
“Are you okay?” Christy asks. “You don’t sound like yourself.”
“I just need to talk,” I say. “Maybe… in the kitchen?”
There’s a crash as one of the dogs knocks over a box of Legos. This sets little Henry into a fit of frightened tears.
Christy stands, bends over Henry to offer a kiss, and then hands the laptop down to Ian. “Right, of course. In the kitchen,” she says, over the sound of crying. “Ian, honey, will you finish the email to your mother?”
“Sure, sure,” Ian says.
Christy and I leave as Ian works to comfort Henry, keep the dogs in line, write an email to his mother, and finish a puzzle all at once.
The kitchen is blissfully quiet.
A pot of soup is simmering on the stove. Besides the hiss of the propane flames, the bubbling of the soup, and the distant sound of the commotion in the living room, it’s peaceful.
“What’s up?” Christy says. She walks to the fridge. “I need a glass of wine. You want one?” She pulls a bottle of white from the fridge.
I hold up a hand. “No, thanks. I can’t.”
Eyes going wide, Christy sets the bottle down. “You mean you can’t, like you
don’t want to? Or…”
“I mean I can’t because I’m pregnant,” I say. “That’s what’s up.”
“Oh, my God!” Christy nearly shrieks. She hurries across the kitchen, wraps her arms around me, and squeezes me tight. “Karla, tell me everything! Who is the guy? How long have you been seeing him? No wonder you’ve been so quiet lately.”
I shake my head. “There is no guy. I haven’t been seeing anyone. I’ve been quiet because I’ve been dealing with this whole apartment disaster, plus starting up a new job, and working on my business, all at once.”
“You mean you’re not dating anyone? Then how…?” She looks at me questioningly.
“Remember how I told you I hooked up with that guy from GFC Bank—Garrett Green?” I say.
She nods. “Yeah…”
“Well, it’s his,” I say. I place a hand over my abdomen. “The baby is Garrett’s. I’m positive.”
Christy moves to a cupboard and pulls out two glasses. She fills one with water for me and then pours wine into her own.
She sips at it, not saying a word.
“Say something!” I beg.
“I’m thinking,” she tells me.
“You never think before you speak,” I say. “I’m your best friend. Just blurt out whatever you’re thinking. I’ve been alone with my news for almost twenty-four hours and it’s driving me crazy. I need to hear your opinion.”
She bites her lip and looks at me with big eyes. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings,” she says.
I shake my head. “I don’t care. I need you to be honest with me. What should I do?”
“Karla, being a parent is a big job,” she says, slowly and carefully. “I mean huge. You have no idea how it’s going to change your life. It takes over everything.” She glances at the kitchen door. “If I didn’t have Ian, I don’t know what I would do.”
“So you’re saying I’m screwed,” I say, annoyance flaring up inside of me.
“No. I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be pessimistic. Having kids is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I’m just trying to be realistic. I’m trying to look out for you. Karla—you have to protect yourself.”