by Kim Karr
I narrow my eyes at her. “But I needed you.”
There, I said it.
Finally.
And it feels like a big fucking weight has been lifted off my shoulders. “I needed my mother to read me bedtime stories and tell me I was okay after I fell off my bike. To teach me what to say to girls, how to act, to help me understand what love is. And you know what, Mother? I got none of that.”
Emma Fairchild stands, and I swear she’s going to walk out on me. But instead she circles the table and drops to her knees. Taking my hands in my lap, and putting her head there, she whispers, “I know and I’m so sorry, but I hope it’s not too late, Keen. Tell me it’s not too late.”
Years of hostility just melt away and I wonder why. Why now? Perhaps it is me that has changed or her that has changed, or maybe it’s a combination of us both. Who knows? Perhaps it’s even my involvement with Maggie.
Am I softer now?
No.
Never.
Maybe.
Uncharacteristically, I find myself standing up and taking my mother in my arms, and holding her tight.
And when she whispers, “It’s never too late,” I nod.
Maybe it isn’t.
Maggie
If only I were better at record keeping.
I could keep track of birthdays, and holidays, and anniversaries, and yes, even my periods wouldn’t be a bad idea.
Looking back at my calendar, I wonder if I last had my period before or after St. Patrick’s Day. If I can unravel that mystery, then I can either be a little less scared . . . or a lot more scared.
After much obsessive calendar reading, I finally remember eating green M&M’s with Keen to test the horny theory when I last had my period. So, I had it just before St. Patrick’s Day.
Which leads me to realize that I hadn’t skipped or missed any pills, but still . . . that doesn’t stop the fear.
Am I just bloated because I decided to eat three bagels at breakfast today, or is it something else? Am I pregnant with a bagel baby, or another kind of baby? Like a real baby?
I examine my stomach as I slowly turn in front of the mirror, so every inch of my abdomen can be inspected for possible growth. I don’t see any changes, but I mean, would I really be able to?
I try to pinpoint whether the feeling roiling in my stomach is nerves, morning sickness, or too many bagels.
I just can’t tell.
I don’t normally pray to God. But that doesn’t stop me from pleading with Him right now. And yes, I make impossible promises to Him about how I’ll never, ever have sex again, if only my period will just show up already. But I have to take that back. I have to. What else can I promise?
Thinking.
Thinking.
Thinking.
I’ll come back to that.
I’m not usually one to blame myself, but maybe I should have gone for a more foolproof method of birth control.
At least if my IUD had failed, I’d be blameless.
Okay, so that leaves me here.
With a choice.
Go.
Don’t go.
I have been very reluctant to go purchase a test because I keep hoping that my period will just appear. But it has been six days since I realized I hadn’t gotten it and it still has refused to show.
I haven’t told Keen. I know. I know I should. But if you were in my situation, would you until you knew for sure?
Never mind. I don’t want to know.
Anyway, I’m in New York on business, and that is not something I should do over the phone.
Unable to take another minute of wondering, I head to the store and really soon I’m standing in the pregnancy test aisle in a pharmacy on Fifth Avenue, wondering which brand will result in the test being negative.
Looking at all my choices, I start to panic, and think that by bringing the test back to my mother’s, I am only inviting disaster. I consider putting the test down and just going back to my mother’s and drinking lots of wine instead.
Because what else am I going to do?
I have to prepare myself for the worst. Also, maybe the wine will cushion any panic that is certain to come my way.
But don’t worry—I know I shouldn’t drink until I know and I also don’t leave.
Instead I buy one or maybe five, and truck my ass all the way back to my mother’s and Winston’s at Trump Tower with the bag in my purse like contraband.
My lips are sealed. I’m not telling anyone I am doing this right now.
No one.
Not even Keen.
What am I saying? Especially not Keen. Oh, God, what if he thinks I’m trapping him?
Stupid, stupid girl.
Anxiety takes over and I have to push it away. One thing at a time. The test. I have to take the test.
Once in the guest bathroom at my mother’s, I go from blaming myself to blaming the test for even existing in the first place.
Who ever came up with early pregnancy tests anyway?
With a deep breath, I read the test’s directions—twice.
Having to pee on a stick for five seconds doesn’t seem like a long time, but let me tell you, it is. I try to focus my aim, but it feels like the target is too far away.
Now complete, I stand over the test, glaring at it. “Come on, you’re taking too long,” I complain. Who knew three minutes could be so damn long?
Once these three minutes are up, my life might completely change. This leaves me panicking all over again.
But we know that is not going to happen.
All will be well, like what happened to Makayla last summer. She thought she was pregnant, and guess what—false alarm.
They do exist.
And yet I still feel sick to my stomach and super anxious as I wait for this little stick to hurry up already.
And then it does, and my entire world turns upside down.
Positive.
Maggie
I am okay.
This is what I tell myself as I stare down at my ringing phone, but don’t answer it because I know what I’m telling myself can’t possibly be true.
I am not okay.
Keen’s been calling me for the past three hours and I haven’t been able to pick up. It’s now one in the morning and I haven’t moved since the plus sign made its appearance.
The text messages started soon after the first call and I haven’t been able to answer those either.
3 hours ago
Mr. Tall, Dark & Handsome: Hey, I thought you’d be home by now. Call me.
2 hours ago
Baby Daddy: Maggie, where are you?
1 hour ago
Baby Daddy: Where the fuck are you?
1 minute ago
Baby Daddy: Listen baby, I’m worried. Call me.
I have no words to tell him.
How do you tell someone that his whole life is about to change when you can’t even begin to fathom it yourself?
I turn my phone off and go back into the bathroom.
Stare at the test.
Then the second one.
And the third.
None of them have changed.
They are all positive.
I throw them away.
And even that doesn’t change the fact that I am having a baby.
Turning on the shower, I step in and allow myself to cry. I go down to my knees and let the hot water pound on my naked skin and I try to figure out how this happened. Try to come to terms with the fact that I am having a baby.
I am having a baby.
And with those five words, I allow myself to come undone.
I am not okay.
Keen.
Oh, God, Keen.
What will he say?
How will he react?
I’m worried and afraid. Will I be doing this on my own, like my mother did? And my grandmother did?
Will I lose him?
I can’t breathe at the thought.
I gasp and choke, and clutch m
y face.
I am not okay.
The knock on the door has me jumping up and once I take a deep breath, I call out, “What?”
The door opens. “Maggie?” It’s my mother.
I peer out the side of the shower curtain but leave the water running so she can’t hear the strain in my voice. “Yeah, Mom?”
She’s in her robe with her makeup off, and she’s holding the house phone with her palm on the receiver. “Keen is on the phone, honey—he’s worried about you. Is something going on?”
I reach my hand out. “No. Everything is fine. I’ll talk to him.”
Handing it to me, she stares at me with knowing eyes. “You sure?”
I nod. “I’m fine. Go to bed. Sorry he woke you.”
When she leaves, I turn the water off and slip out of the shower. Once I’ve wrapped a towel around myself, I put the phone to my ear. “Keen,” I manage.
“Hey,” he says, his voice low and taut. “You didn’t answer my calls. What’s going on?”
Taking a few steps, I turn and slide down the door to sit on the floor. My voice is shaky and my entire body is trembling. “I can’t.”
I hear the sound of the mattress, like he’s sitting up. “Can’t what, Maggie?”
Water drips onto the floor and I try to hold back my tears. “I can’t,” I say again.
“Hey, is this about yesterday? Because if it is, I should have told you that I love you. Maggie, I love you.”
I cry even louder.
“Hey, I didn’t say it because I didn’t want to scare you away. And maybe because I was a little afraid myself. To be honest, this feeling terrifies me.”
I cry even louder because I think I love him too. And I don’t know how I feel about that. The only thing I know about love is that it hurts, and what if I don’t want to be hurt?
“Maggie, do you hear me? I love you.”
The strength in his tone. The sound of his voice. The resoluteness of it breaks me, and I find myself saying something I never thought I’d say to a man. “I love you, too, Keen. I love you, too.”
“Okay,” he laughs, “that’s good, but why are you crying?”
The rise and force of all these feelings comes rushing out and I know I have to tell him. This isn’t something that is just a part of me. It’s a part of him too. “Because I’m afraid what I’m going to tell you is going to break us.”
“Nothing can do that.”
“I’m pregnant,” I blurt out, “and I can’t talk about it right now, so I’m hanging up. I’ll call you tomorrow. I promise.”
Right or wrong, I have to accept this for myself before I can expect Keen to. And whatever he decides, I will have to live with. With that, I end the call and leave the phone off the hook. And then I head to bed.
Tomorrow I will face whatever this means.
Tomorrow.
Maggie
The thing about Katherine May is that she is very perceptive.
Some celebrity gossip show seems to have her attention. I attempt to creep into her state-of-the-art kitchen in the penthouse overlooking Central Park that she now shares with Winston Trust and try to steal a cup of coffee unnoticed before heading out to my last meeting of the week.
“Margaret Elizabeth.”
I freeze, and glance over my shoulder as I finish pouring the hot brew. “Yes, Mother.”
Formal words for the formal greeting.
“Let’s talk.”
“I can’t. I have a meeting that I don’t want to be late for.”
There’s a look of disbelief on her face. “I spoke to Jordan earlier about some Simon Warren loose ends, and he happened to mention to me that your meeting isn’t until ten.” She tilts her head to the side and motions toward the table. “We have plenty of time.”
Sighing, I fix my coffee and then take a seat at the table and look out the window at the rain.
Dreary.
Dreary.
Dreary.
My mother sits across from me with her cup in her hand. “What’s going on, honey? Whatever it is, you know you can talk to me.”
And yes, I know this, and that is why those tears I forced myself to stop shedding sometime before dawn come back before I can even take my first sip of coffee.
Quick to action, my mother takes charge and we move to the family room and sit on the white sofa, where I cry and cry and cry in her arms and cry some more until I finally tell her, “I’m pregnant.”
At first she says nothing, but then her face lights up. “Oh Maggie! I can’t believe it, but my baby is having a baby.”
I force myself to sit up. “Mom, I’m unmarried and with a man I’ve only been together with for two months, tops.”
She shrugs. “Do you love him?”
I nod.
“Does he love you?”
I nod. “I think so.”
“Then Maggie, the rest will work itself out.”
That’s not true. It’s not that simple. He’s not a prince and I’m not a princess, and this isn’t some fairy tale that I never read. Resolutely, I look at her and shake my head. “No, Mom, it won’t. What if Keen isn’t ready for a baby? What if he turns his back on us? What if—”
Oh, God, the what-ifs . . . I learned this from Makayla.
Damn her!
My mother smooths her hand down the side of my face. “Oh, honey, he might be shocked, and it might take him a bit to figure out what this means to him, but Maggie May, he is not your father.”
A shiver runs through me. I was an unwanted daughter. I would never want to put my child through that.
My child.
My baby.
My baby.
Our baby.
An emotion I can’t decipher crosses my mother’s face. “I’ll be right back.”
She gets up and once she leaves the room, I put my hand on my belly.
My baby.
This is my baby.
Our baby.
And maybe for the first time I really, truly understand why my mother kept my father’s identity from me as long as she did. Thinking about him as a powerful man who was very busy doing great things was easier to accept as a child than the truth. The truth that the man she loved had chosen another, married another, had a family of his own, and the very real truth that he never wanted me. He didn’t want me, but she did. And she didn’t want to hurt me.
My mother returns and hands me an envelope I thought she’d long ago destroyed. “I think it’s time you read this, Maggie.”
With trembling hands, I take the envelope my father left me when he died. “You were supposed to burn it.”
She tilts her head to the side. “I kept it for you until you were ready to read it. And I think you are finally ready.”
I nod. Swallow. Gulp.
My mother leaves me alone, and with shaky fingers I unseal the envelope and then slowly unfold the parchment paper.
Maggie,
If you’re reading this, I was a coward. I never approached you. I tried at least one hundred times.
My beautiful little girl grew up so fast. I blinked and you went from a child to a young adult, and yet I still didn’t find the courage to introduce myself.
Regret is a hard thing to live with and I am filled with it. I wish I would have embraced fatherhood, I wish I wouldn’t have turned my back on your mother when she told me about you, and even more that I wouldn’t have turned my back on you. I wish I had been stronger and hadn’t listened to those around me about what was best for my political career.
In the end, you must know that I’m the one who missed out.
Know this, Maggie: I watched you from afar, and never has distance been so great. Not having the courage to bridge that distance is my biggest regret.
My best wishes for all that this world holds for you,
Your father.
As the rain falls outside, I fold the letter up with tears streaming down my face, and then I look out the window and the day seems a little brighter.
&
nbsp; My father wanted me.
He wanted me.
Maggie
New York City weather sucks.
Plain and simple.
The rain falls cold and relentless in sideways sheets. The wind whips it in every direction and makes my raincoat nearly useless. Trying to force my umbrella open, it refuses and then snaps backwards, rendering it as useless as my raincoat.
I lived in New York City for years, so you’d think I’d remember how to dress in the spring.
Wrong.
My cute little jacket advertised as water resistant cinches around my waist and does nothing to protect me from the bone-chilling cold. The new suede platform shoes I bought because they were blue and reminded me of Elvis are completely ruined, and the swishing of them makes me wish I were barefoot. Even my skinny leggings leave me feeling naked and cursing myself for not adding the tights I’d considered and then rejected for fear I would be too hot.
I heard pregnancy does that to a woman.
As if to punctuate the thought that I can’t get back to California soon enough, a cab barrels through a yellow light and blares its horn at me just as I’m about to cross the street to hit up the donut vendor outside the park.
Pregnancy has obviously removed all of my filters, and I don’t hold back when I give the taxi driver my middle finger right in the heart of Manhattan.
Forget the donuts.
I’ll grab something later.
Considering the height of my platform heels, I make decent progress for the next two blocks. Sixth Avenue, Seventh Avenue . . . it isn’t that much farther now to my meeting; then, once it is over, I can call Keen and we can talk about all of this.
My thoughts are interrupted by the distinctive tone of my iPhone.
Walking fast, I stop to huddle under the protective confines of a building’s entryway and pull my phone from my bag. My screen flashes Makayla’s name and for a moment I consider hitting Ignore. Not that I don’t want to talk to her, but I can’t be late, and I shouldn’t tell her about the baby until Keen and I have talked about it.