I feel better hearing that. Not completely, of course, because life is scary and my heart is still broken and the boy I fell in love with is gone, but enough to pick myself up and keep going.
Days pass. A week. A month.
A new year comes.
I gather the courage to see a doctor. I’m still in the first trimester. My father and I haven’t spoken much, but he knows I’m pregnant. He calls it the ‘lovesickness’.
More days.
I get a job at the grocery store, and I hate it, but they give me a lot of hours, and I need money.
More weeks.
I’m starting to show. I stare at myself in the mirror, rubbing my stomach, feeling the bump. It’s weird. There’s a life growing inside of me right now.
The doctor tells me it’s a girl.
You have a daughter, Jonathan, and you don’t even know. I feel the fluttering as she moves around, and my heart is soaring. I’m still scared, so scared, but when I feel her, this overwhelming sense of love flows through me, and I smile.
I’m smiling again.
It’s like I’ve finally figured out the point of it all, the purpose of our story—it’s her.
More months.
The world is thawing. Spring comes.
I’m six months along and sitting on the porch, in one of the rocking chairs, bundled up to ward off the chill, when you pop up. The black town car slowly pulls up to the curb in front of the house, and there you are. My mother has to stop my father from storming out of the house.
You look like yourself from afar, but as you approach, I see the eyes are all wrong. It’s early, the sun barely in the sky, and you’re still awake from last night. You linger somewhere in the gray area between drunk and hung-over, coherent enough to stand up straight but by no means are you sober.
Still as handsome as ever, though. You’re wearing a suit and your tie is tugged loose, a glimmer of a teenage rebel I remember.
“Can we talk for a minute?” you ask, stopping near the porch, and I almost laugh at your choice of words, because that’s what I asked, too.
I say nothing, staring at you.
“I’m sorry,” you say, your voice cracking. “I’m so sorry, baby.”
Something you’ll never know is at that very moment, as you say those words, I forgive you. I don’t even know what you’re sorry for, but I forgive you for all of it. I don’t tell you that, though, because I don’t do it for you.
It’s for her.
I still stare.
You talk some more, going on and on about how wrong you were and how much you miss me and how you haven’t had a decent night’s sleep, how hard it is not having me to come home to, and all I can think about as I listen to your words is how much growing up you have to do, Jonathan, because every sentence from your lips contains ‘I’ or ‘My’ or ‘Me’, but you can’t be the center of the universe anymore.
Not this universe.
“So it’s true?” you ask. “You’re pregnant?”
I avert my gaze and nod, because you deserve to know, but I can’t find the words I need to tell you anymore.
“I can tell,” you say. “You’re glowing. You’re so beautiful.”
I look back at you when you say that.
“Come back to me,” you say. “I need another chance, just one more. We can’t let it end this way. We’re having a baby, and I don’t even know… is it a boy? A girl? When are you due? I don’t know anything, but I want to. So come with me. Please. I’m making money now, and I can take care of you.”
If anyone’s actually reading this, and I don’t know if anyone ever will, this is the moment where I’ll lose them, where they’ll rant about that stupid character messing up the story. And I get it, because so much of me yearns for you to be my happy ending, but I can’t apologize for doing what's right.
I shove out of the rocking chair and step off of the porch. Your gaze goes right to my stomach, as do your hands. I don’t stop you, though my chest feels like it’s caving in. Your eyes are lighting up, and I know—god, I know—you’ll make a great father, one of the greatest, and you’ll love this little girl with every part of your soul.
But that can't happen until you’re ready.
“I love you,” I whisper, three words you haven’t said, as I put my hand on top of yours on my stomach. “More than everything… except for her.”
You meet my gaze. “It’s a girl?”
I nod, and hesitate, before I kiss you, lingering, letting you have this moment, and if I’m being honest, it’s just as much for me.
I need this moment to gather my courage.
And when I do, I pull back and say, “I need you to leave.”
You look at me, stunned.
“I need you to go and not come back until you get better,” I say. “I’m asking you… no, I’m begging you… don’t come back here like this again. She’s going to need a father, a real one, someone who can love her more than everything. There’s no place in our lives for an addict. So, please… leave, Jonathan.”
I go inside, because I can’t stand there and look at him, shoving past my father. I sit on the couch. I sit and sit and sit. My father still hangs out right there, watching. And an hour later, he says, “He finally left.”
It took you an hour.
After you’re gone, my mom says, “I’m proud of you. I know that must’ve been tough.”
“I’m surprised the son of a bitch respected her wishes,” my dad says. “He never respected mine when I told him to stay away from my daughter.”
“Michael,” my mom warns. “Now’s not the time.”
He holds his hands up.
“I’m not surprised he listened,” she continues. “He’s a good guy.”
My dad lets out a loud laugh.
“He is,” my mom says. “He’s just an addict, and your daughter was his first high. That boy would’ve run right into traffic if she said she needed him to.”
My dad looks at me. “I’ll pay you fifty bucks to do it.”
“Michael!”
“Geez, okay, don’t bite my head off, woman,” he says, squeezing my shoulder as he says, “I’ll throw in some free babysitting, too.”
My mom laughs. “You’ll be babysitting for free as it is, Gramps.”
He makes a face, mumbling, “Gonna need a better nickname.”
Before my dad can walk away, I ask, “What made you get better?”
He sighs. “You did, kiddo.”
“Me?”
“I ruined your birthday,” he says. “Forgot it was your birthday. Came home wasted, ate your cake before you could, passed out on the couch and pissed myself. Your mother snapped and tried to kill me for it.”
“I didn’t try,” my mom says. “What your father is leaving out is that I kicked him out that morning, but he didn’t respect my wishes to stay gone.”
“In my defense, I got drunk and forgot I wasn’t supposed to be there.”
“How is that a defense?”
“Guess it’s not.”
“Anyway, I threatened him so he wouldn’t forget again.”
“I woke up to you pouring liquor on me,” he says. “Then you pulled out matches and threatened to light my ass up!”
“Exactly,” she says. “I threatened.”
I vaguely remember the cake thing, but I don’t remember that. “So mom scared you sober?”
“Oh, no, as scary as she can be, that wasn’t it,” he says. “After she put down the matches, I apologized to you. I told you I was sorry, and you said…”
He trails off, so my mom chimes in. “You told him you didn’t care about his sorry because he wasn’t your dad anymore, you decided you didn’t want a dad because all they ever did was stuff to be sorry for, so he could go.”
“You were only five,” he says. “You weren’t mad. You were just done.”
“That did it? But almost being set on fire didn’t?”
“Your mother tried to kill me because she loved me and wanted her husband back
,” he says, ignoring her when she again says she didn’t try. “You decided you didn’t want me anymore. I was like a broken toy that you never liked, so you were okay with your mother tossing it out. I loved you, but I’d never given you a reason to love me. I had to make a change.”
“Which Jonathan will do, too,” my mom says.
“We’ll see,” my dad says. “But hey, if he doesn’t we never have to see him again, so win-win?”
“I swear, Michael, I should’ve just struck that match.”
They’re both joking. It’s nice, seeing them happy, knowing they survived everything thrown at them. I can’t imagine a life where we aren’t a family.
I rub my stomach, feeling those soft nudges as the baby moves around.
Six months turns to seven and then comes eight. I work, eat, and sleep. Wash, rinse, and repeat. Before I know it, summer is upon us. I’m nine months pregnant, those soft nudges full-blown roundhouse kicks.
My water breaks the morning of my due date, right on time, but it still feels too early for me. I’m nowhere near ready. I’ve got a crib and diapers and all the things she'll need, but I’ve yet to figure out how to be a mom.
And I’m terrified. I’ve never been so scared in my life. My mother’s beside me, and my father’s in the waiting room, and your sister shows up, because she’s excited to be an aunt, but you’re not here, and I knew you wouldn’t be. I told myself that every day. But as the pain tears me apart, and people are yelling at me to push, push, push, there’s nobody in the world I need more.
I can’t do it without you.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
But then she’s here, and she’s screaming, and I’m crying, and the second they hand her to me, the world tilts again. And that’s it. I know for an absolute fact that I will love this beautiful little being for the rest of my life. Until my dying breath, I’ll fight to keep her happy, to protect her heart from breaking, because she’s the greatest creation that’s ever existed, and we made her.
She’s born at 6:07 in the evening. Exactly. Born on the fourth of July. They tell me you came to the hospital the next morning, as the sun was still rising outside. Our little one was in the nursery, and I was sleeping while I had the chance. You went straight to see her, staring through the glass as she slept.
You asked about signing her birth certificate, about putting yourself down as the father, but they told you to go through me. So you came to my room—or so they tell me, because I never saw you. The door was open, and you stood in the doorway for a long while, watching me sleep, before you walked away.
You left without holding your daughter.
You left before finding out her name.
So you don’t know this, but that girl? That beautiful little one wrapped in pink in the nursery? Her name is Madison Jacqueline Garfield, and someday, you’re going to know her. Someday, she’s going to call you her daddy. And when that happens, she’s going to steal your heart, and you’ll get that chance you asked for. But you need to be ready, Jonathan, because she’s here, and she's waiting. Don't make her wait too long before finding your way home.
Chapter 29
KENNEDY
I glance at my watch for the tenth time in the past five minutes, letting out a deep sigh as I shift around in my chair. In three short minutes, it’ll be three o’clock.
“He’s not coming,” Meghan says.
She’s sitting to the right of me, an empty seat between us, reserved for a notably absent Jonathan. I’ve called him a dozen times in the past half hour, but all I get is his generic voicemail. The person you’re calling isn’t available.
I’ve left a few messages, telling him he better hurry, but I’ve heard nothing.
“He’ll be here,” I say. “He promised.”
“He better come,” my father says from his seat to my left. “If the boy knows what’s good for him.”
There’s a scoff from behind me, a familiar voice muttering, “If we’re counting on Cunningham using his brain, we’re probably going to be disappointed.”
I turn around, seeing Mrs. McKleski sitting there, knitting... yes, she’s knitting. I’m not even sure why she’s here. It’s an afterschool kindergarten presentation. My gaze scans the small auditorium, surprised by how many people have come to see a handful of little kids do a play about the weather.
Glancing back at Mrs. McKleski, I ask, “What are you doing here?”
“Your father invited me,” she says.
I look at my father, who shrugs. “It’s my granddaughter’s big day. I wanted people to know about it.”
“How many people did you invite?”
“Half the town,” Mrs. McKleski answers for him.
Shaking my head, I look at the time. 2:59.
I call Jonathan again. Voicemail.
The teacher comes out along the edge of the stage, in front of the big curtain, the moment the time changes, hitting three o’clock.
Sighing, I hang up without leaving a message, putting my phone away. There’s nothing more I can do. I hear the kids moving around behind the curtain, getting into place, and all I can think about is how crushed Maddie’s about to be when she realizes he hasn’t shown up yet.
The curtain opens, the play starting.
Maddie stands along the back of the stage, wearing her costume—white from head-to-toe, with a fluffy tutu and cutout cardboard snowflakes strapped to her back like wings.
She smiles excitedly, waving at us, but it doesn’t take long before she notices the glaringly vacant seat. My father is recording it, and I should tell him to stop, because I’m not sure her first broken heart is something any of us will want to relive, but I can’t get those words to form. I can’t bring myself to say it.
Can’t bring myself to believe it.
Despite everything, I still believe in him.
Maddie stands there, no longer smiling, her gaze scanning every face in the auditorium. She’s anxious, and every time she looks my way, I see her grow a little sadder. One-by-one, kids step forward to deliver lines. When it’s Maddie’s turn, she doesn't move.
There’s an awkward silence.
The teacher nudges Maddie, whispering something to her. Maddie takes a few steps forward, frowning. Another long pause.
She looks at me.
I want to rip her off the stage and hug her, make this all go away, but instead, I give her a smile, hoping maybe it’ll help her.
She smiles back.
Just as she’s about to speak, her mouth opening, there’s a loud noise at the back of the auditorium, the door bursting open. Maddie looks, her eyes growing wide as she screeches, “Daddy!”
Murmurs flow through the auditorium. People shift around in their seats. Maddie runs right off the stage, heading down the center aisle as fast as her legs can carry her.
I turn, more than a little alarmed that she’s running away, and freeze when I see him. Oh my god.
Jonathan stands there, head-to-toe in full Breezeo costume. He takes a few steps forward, scooping Maddie up. She hugs him, as he carries her back down the aisle, ignoring the looks everyone is casting him. Confusion. Shock. Disbelief. There’s some laughter, some excitement, even a bit of annoyance at the interruption. Me? I’m trying not to cry at the moment.
Jonathan deposits Maddie back on the stage before his gaze finds mine. He slips into the chair beside me, whispering, “Sorry I’m late.”
“Hey, guys!” Maddie announces, jumping right into her line. “What’s got six arms and is like nothing else in the whole world?”
A chorus of kids behind her say, “A snowflake!”
“That’s me!” Maddie says. “I’m falling and falling and falling. Where am I going?”
“Down to the ground,” the kids say.
She steps away, taking her place in the back, the play continuing like the disruption hadn’t happened. Maddie no longer pays attention to the play, staring at her father, fidgeting, grinning, like she??
?s just waiting for it to be over.
The teacher nudges her. She has to give the last line of the play. Maddie steps forward, and I see it as she blanks. She forgot her line. A second passes, and then another, before she shrugs.
“I gots a line here but I dunno,” she says. “So I’m improvising like my daddy says.”
People around us laugh.
Jonathan shakes his head.
The kids are supposed to line up and bow as the crowd cheers, but they have to do it without Maddie, because she’s running off the stage again. Jonathan stands up, catching her as she jumps off the side, not even bothering to use the steps this time.
My father stops recording then, shaking his head. “Never a dull moment with that kid.”
“I knew you’d come, Daddy!” Maddie says when he sets her on her feet. “Did I do good acting?”
“The best,” he says. “I’m sorry I missed the beginning.”
“It’s okay.” She shrugs. “You didn’t need to see them other people, anyway.”
The play officially comes to an end as kids stream off of the stage, meeting their families out in the audience. It’s chaos then, unsurprisingly, as people swarm Jonathan.
My father takes Maddie’s hand, pulling her away from the center of it. “You did great, kiddo. I’m proud of you.”
“Did you record it?” she asks.
“Of course!"
“Can I watch?” she asks, jumping around. “I wanna see!”
He hands his phone to her, so she can see the video, as he steers her toward the exit. Meghan and I are right behind. Jonathan lingers for a moment longer before following, signing a few autographs along the way, before breaking from the crowd once we’re outside.
“Cunningham,” my father says. “Glad to see you.”
“You, too, sir,” he says. “Glad to be here.”
It’s all so cordial. It’s so much not them.
But I have to wonder, as they shake hands and my father bids us goodbye before leaving, if maybe I’m wrong about that. Maybe it’s them now, the doting grandfather and the dad that’s trying to be better, no longer adversaries in a political-turned-personal nightmare.
Their stories changed, too.