He looks me dead in the eye and commands without blinking, “Have an abortion. I don’t want children.”
My heart drops to the soles of my feet. I can feel my blood growing cold and pooling around it in my shoes. “I can’t do that. I want the baby.” I don’t want a baby. I want his baby. I need this link to him. He’ll change his mind. He’ll come around. Someday, he’ll realize we belong together.
He smiles in disgust and shakes his head. “Fine. Keep the baby, but my name’s not going on that birth certificate,” he threatens. “Put your husband’s name on it. He can raise it.”
His words hurt. I’m the punchline to a joke that no one delivered. It wasn’t supposed to go this way.
But, I’ll take it. At least he didn’t say it was over between us. I’ll never lose. I’ll make him see things my way one day.
Goddamn pathetic sponge
past
Baby number three is delivered under a heavy administration of drugs, and I feel nothing but pressure, no pain. Two pushes, because this isn’t my first go at ridding my womb of an invader, and a belting cry saturates the room.
“It’s a girl,” the doctor says. Well, that’s new.
I know I should look at Seamus, it’s what I did with the other two. I watched his reaction, even though it crushed me. But this time, I look at the baby when the nurse lays her on my chest. She’s covered with a layer of goo that makes me want to gag, and she’s squalling like she objects to the outside world and wants back in where it’s warm. Her obvious displeasure makes me smile a little; it sounds like something I’d do. Then I look over the features on her tiny face, even with her mouth open in rebuttal and her eyes squeezed shut, she looks like me. This warms me to her a bit; finally, I got one who looks like me.
“Hey, baby girl, don’t cry,” Seamus coos.
She hiccups in air, and the cries lessen as if his voice is soothing her. Of course it is, he’s a saint.
His large hand is on her little back, he’s already her protector, when he speaks again, “We’re so happy you’re here and we finally get to meet you, darlin’.”
She settles completely at his words and blinks her eyes wide.
“She looks like you, Miranda. She’s beautiful.” His voice is thick with emotion.
I smile at his words and think Jackpot! This is how I’m supposed to feel after giving birth! I’m supposed to feel at least some sort of connection. And he’s supposed to show me admiration. Finally!
“What should we name her?” he asks.
With the other two, I was unable to speak after birth, choked off by negative emotion and jealousy. Not this time. “Kira. After my grandmother.” Seamus doesn’t know anything about my grandmother, other than she raised me. Not because he hasn’t asked, but because I’ve always kept her to myself and refused to talk about her.
“Kira is perfect,” he agrees.
But as soon as Seamus picks her up and cradles her in his arms and the nurse says, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a prouder daddy,” my temporary happiness comes crashing down around me.
She’s not his.
Loren should be here with me to share this moment.
This whole dramatic, picture perfect scene is a fallacy. An illusion.
She’s mine.
Not ours.
Just mine.
And that’s terrifying.
What if Seamus finds out before Loren warms up to the idea of us, and I’m left to raise her alone?
I feel sick. My head is caught up in the undertow of deceit. Usually, I can breeze my way through shit like this, but today is different, maybe it’s the hormones.
And then the whole twisted plot is only made worse as I watch Seamus holding my daughter. He’s talking to her so softly I can’t hear him, but I can see his lips moving, and I know by the look on his face that every word he’s uttering is a promise. Promises he’ll keep until the day he dies. I can feel the love rolling off of him in waves. And it’s all for her. All of his attention. All of his commitment. Another child has captured his heart.
And she’s not even his.
If I had a conscience, I’d tell him.
Instead, I let the full weight of losing, not what’s ours, but what’s mine, my dream of a new life with another man, to him. And I feel more alone than ever.
Sonofabitch, I’m relieved I asked them to tie my tubes now that this production is over. I refuse to go through this mindfuck again for any man.
I request the postpartum depression meds the minute I’m deposited into my recovery room. The nurse tells me she’ll need to consult my doctor. I tell her, “Fuck the consultation, bring me drugs,” with a growl in my voice and narrowed eyes. She exits swiftly, and Seamus returns immediately from the nursery, I’m sure at her urging.
I send him away for a cheeseburger and fries from the fast food restaurant he likes that’s miles away. I never eat that shit, but today I’m going to indulge in every guilty pleasure I can. Speaking of guilty pleasure, the moment Seamus leaves the room I pull my cell phone from my purse next to the bed and dial Loren.
“Miranda.” His voice always makes my belly flutter; and it’s trying to, despite all the trauma it’s been through the past several hours: baby expelled; all the baby housing, gelatinous accoutrement expelled; traumatized, stretched skin sagging in relief; and internal plumbing irreversibly altered to ensure this doesn’t happen again.
“Hi.” It’s a single, pathetic word that sounds flimsy and tinny. Suddenly I’m on the verge of tears. Not an isolated, pitiful tear, but a painful, hysterical breakdown.
“Justine said you weren’t at work today. Is everything all right?” I want to hear compassion and concern in his voice, all I hear is urgency. He’s busy and wants to end this call. I do the same thing…with everyone but him.
I take a deep breath to keep the deluge of emotion at bay and answer, “It’s a girl. She looks like me.”
Silence. The news is met with silence.
“We’re well,” I add, wishing he’d asked the question, instead of offering the answer unsolicited.
More silence.
I swallow hard twice. “I’ll let you go. I just wanted you to know.” I end the call before he hears the sob escape my lips.
I’m still wailing when Seamus returns. He drops the bag of food on the table and crawls into the bed and holds me.
He holds me like I’m worth comforting.
He holds me like I’m not the devil incarnate.
He holds me like he loves me.
All of which I probably don’t deserve, but I soak it up like a goddamn pathetic sponge.
And I think, Fuck you, universe.
All that’s left is we
present
Miranda just picked up my kids from apartment three for her visit today. I refused to deliver them to her. Truth be told, I wanted to barricade us inside the apartment. And not let her in. Or put the kids in my car and drive far away. And never come back.
A court date is set up for two weeks from now to discuss custody. I know she thinks I’m going to give in to her and sign the papers she had delivered to avoid a battle because she knows I don’t have the money to hire a lawyer. I would sell my fucking soul to fight for my kids. Miranda’s always been self-absorbed, selfish, but it seems the more power she gets career-wise and the more money she makes, the more unreasonable she is. She can’t relate. Everything is a competition…that she counts herself the winner of before it even gets underway. Fuck the opponent—half the time they don’t know they’ve been screwed, and should’ve been fighting with everything they have, until it’s too late.
It’s not too late.
I’m fighting.
I’m stir crazy. Trapped by four walls. I need to get out of this apartment for a few hours. I decide a sandwich from Mrs. L’s deli is in order. I haven’t had one in a few weeks. I’ve been living on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch. They’re cheap. And cheap is what sustains me these days. But today I’m splurgin
g on a foot long roast beef with extra spicy mustard and banana peppers. Maybe it will help soak up the misery I’m feeling.
Mrs. L sold me a foot long for the cost of a six-inch. I feel like a king. And my mood is lifting slightly. The sunshine begs for my company as I walk out the door of the deli. Its warmth is a hug.
Hug.
And now I’m thinking about Faith as I take a seat at the table in front of the deli. And I’m missing her. And her smile. And her good nature. And her brightness—not just her boldly colored hair, but her presence. Everything about her is colorful like a rainbow set against a backdrop of gray.
My world.
Gray.
She’s contrast. She shines effortlessly, unknowingly imploring me to take notice. It’s an attraction I wholeheartedly feel but have unconsciously tried to deny.
Faith doesn’t answer when I knock, so I write on the deli receipt in my pocket, and tell myself this is not a date.
The ground under the apartment building is settling and there’s a slight gap under the right side of her door, so I slip the paper underneath.
Returning upstairs to my apartment, I lay down on the couch and in no time I’m asleep. It’s sleep I desperately need—making up for all that was lost to worry this week.
Rap rap…rap…rap rap.
It’s Faith’s trademark knock, random and improvised. It’s never the same sequence.
I blink away sleep, but the pace of my heart is so erratic it has me sitting and reaching for my cane before consciousness fully engages.
“Coming!” I yell, even though we can see each other because she’s peeking in through the front window next to the door.
When I open the door, she’s standing with her feet centered between the remaining letters on the W…E mat looking down at them. “We,” she says. “Do you think it means something?”
I’m pretty sure I’m awake now, but the question catches me off guard. She lifts her chin and trains her blue eyes on me. I’d forgotten how deep they are, her eyes. “What do you mean?”
She doesn’t move. “I mean the rest of the letters are gone. As if removed purposely. All that’s left is ‘we.’”
Her words ring in my ears. All that’s left is we. Her. And me. I shrug. “I suppose that’s true. All that’s left, tonight anyway, is we. You and me.” She smiles, and I feel the acceptance of my apology before I even say it. “I’m sorry. It was a misunderstanding. I was laughing at her jealousy, not at you. I should’ve come to you sooner. Life’s been—”
She cuts me off with a finger held to my lips and repeats, “We.” And then she steps off the mat and enters my apartment. “What’s for dinner, Seamus?”
As she follows me to the kitchen, I scratch the back of my neck, wondering the same thing. “I’m not sure. We’ll have to make do. I haven’t been to the grocery store in a week.”
She shrugs. “I’m easy to feed.” She’s always agreeable, and I wonder if that’s a direct reflection of her parents and how she was raised, if it’s just her, or if it’s something she works at.
I open the cupboard and the refrigerator and survey. “Looks like ramen, mac and cheese, cereal, oatmeal, or bologna sandwiches. Oh, or toast. Or any combination of the aforementioned.”
Looking over my shoulder to gauge her reaction, I find her smiling. “How about mac and cheese bologna sandwiches?”
“What do you mean, mac and cheese inside the sandwich?”
“Yeah,” she confirms. “I’ve never had that. But we have to fry the bologna. I don’t like cold, dirty meat. It makes me gag.”
I bark out a surprised laugh because that could be interpreted many ways and I don’t want to dive straight into the gutter, but I can’t help it. “Dirty meat?”
She laughs with me, blushing a bit, but standing her ground. “Yeah, dirty meat. Bologna, hot dogs, pepperoni. You never really know what’s inside. It’s dirty meat.”
Her rosy cheeks are adorable. “Gotcha. Please don’t mention that to Kira. She lives on bologna and hot dogs, and I can’t afford to cut any foods out of her limited diet.”
Faith fries the bologna while I make the mac and cheese. We even toast the bread, so everything about the sandwich is hot.
When we sit down on the couch with our plates, Faith assesses her sandwich. “Seamus, we might be on to something here. This is classy on a budget.”
Raising my eyebrows, I look around the room. “If you hadn’t noticed, that’s how I roll.”
She laughs as she bites into her sandwich and talks only after she’s swallowed. “Oh, I noticed. Me, too,” she adds with a wink.
While we eat, I decide now’s a good time to find out a little bit more about her. “Where are you from Faith?”
“Kansas City,” she answers.
I stop chewing and look at her because surely she’s kidding. She doesn’t look like a Midwesterner. “Really?”
“Really. I grew up there. I moved here a few months ago.”
“What brought you to California? You’re a long way from home.”
She smiles at me like she knows I’m going to be amused by what she’s about to say. “Research.”
I smile in return. “Ah, of course, research. Do your parents still live in Kansas City?”
She shakes her head as she chews a bite of her sandwich.
“Where do they live?”
“I grew up in foster care.”
The words, even though there wasn’t negativity behind them, concern me. I’m familiar with the foster care system due to my job. Counseling sheds light on all facets of my students’ lives. Most foster care parents are loving, giving individuals who want what’s best for the child. But, like anything else in life, there are always the bad apples. The ones responsible for tarnishing the reputation of the good. Those are the ones who stick out in my mind. The ones who shouldn’t be allowed around other human beings, let alone children. “How was that?” My stomach twists as I wait for her answer.
“Let’s just say, some families were better than others.” She takes in my worried eyes and adds quickly, “Some people are really good at making you feel valued. Like you’re worth something. And some people feed and house you.” She shrugs. “I survived. And it made me that much more grateful for the ones who cared. Gratitude isn’t a gift to the receiver, it’s a gift to the giver.”
“How old are you, Faith?” I’m more curious than ever now.
“Twenty-two.”
“How’d you get so wise in twenty-two years?” I mean it, she’s a deep thinker.
“Old soul.” She winks. “Growing up in and aging out of the foster care system is like dog years. About two to your one. Technically, I’m forty-four.”
I love her sense of humor. “Good to know. Should I start calling you ma’am? That’s how I address my elders.”
She shakes her head threateningly. “Never. Even when I’m ninety, no one will be allowed to call me ma’am.”
I’m finished with my sandwich—which was an unexpectedly tasty combination—and wait for her to finish before I ask another question. “How old were you when you went into the system?”
“Two.”
“So, you don’t remember your birth parents?”
She shakes her head to let me know I’ve missed something or that I have the story all wrong. “Long story short, my mother gave me up for adoption at birth. My adoptive parents…weren’t exactly up to the task of parenting after the newness wore off and they figured out babies, toddlers, were work.”
My heart aches. It aches because I can’t help but think of my kids. “Do you know the circumstances behind you going into foster care in the first place?”
“My caseworker shared my file with me when I turned eighteen. The neglect and abuse was all there in black and white. I’m glad toddler’s memories are purged as we mature.” She looks at me. “That’s one of the best gifts I’ve been granted in life, not remembering the worst. But it did make sense of some of the scars I have.”
I cring
e at the pain she has no doubt suffered. “I’m sorry.”
Shaking her head, she says, “Don’t be sorry, Seamus. I don’t remember it—”
“That doesn’t excuse what they did,” I interrupt, feeling protective. I can see Faith in my mind giving hugs to strangers on the beach with a kindness that should’ve never been tainted.
“I’m not saying that because I don’t remember it excuses it. They both did jail time. I’ve never spoken to them. I’m just saying that not being plagued with the awful memories was a sympathetic act the universe bestowed upon me. An act that saved me a lot of money on therapy.”
I smile at her positive take on her life. “You’re pretty incredible, you know that?”
She shakes her head. “Nope. I’m just a girl who fought like hell for her name.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I was eighteen I legally changed my name to Faith Hepburn. And before you ask, it’s after Audrey and Katharine, because they were both amazing women. And it’s a pretty name.”
“That it is,” I agree. “Are you religious? Is that why you chose Faith?”
“Nope.”
“Faith in what then?”
Her eyes are bright, but slightly aged when she looks at me and answers, “Life.”
I nod. Of course. Everything is about living life to her, experiencing it.
“What about you, Seamus? What do you have faith in?” Before I answer, she adds quickly, “And you can’t say your kids. That’s obvious.”
Damn, that’s exactly what I was going to say. The only other answer that comes to mind is too depressing to verbalize.
“Well?” she prompts.
“I don’t know,” I lie, not wanting to bring this conversation down. “I can’t think of anything.”
“You have an answer,” she challenges. “I can see it all over your face. I can see it in the way your posture slouched. I can see it in the way your eyes dropped.”