Whatever it is we’re sampling on this date, the thought of it has me grinning as I open the door.
But when I do, the face I see is so out of context, it takes me a few seconds.
Big blue eyes, small pointed chin, tidy ponytail. One seat to the left of me in English Writers of the Western World. I used to borrow her perfectly sharpened pencils. Never gave ’em back.
“Tim?” she says, like I might be Tim’s evil twin.
“Hi. Uh . . . Heather.” How I scrounge that name from my subconscious, I have no idea.
“It’s Hester. Can I come in?”
What? I think, at the same time I say, “Sure,” and open the door wider for her. She brushes past me, sits down on the couch, and looks at her shoes. Hester was a Brain and a Good Girl. So we had nothing in common. What’s she doing here? She smooths down her khaki skirt, readjusts her white shirt. Prep wear. Clothing as birth control, my douchey friends and I used to joke. All those fuckin’ buttons. Little gold hoop earrings, neat part in her brown hair. Shit, is she, like, a Jehovah’s Witness or something? I don’t have time for this. But now she’s weaving her fingers together, studying them. “So, Tim . . . you left Ellery early this year.”
“Yeah, left, as in got booted.”
I look at the clock on the stove right as it flips from 5:58 to 59. Less than half an hour to meet Alice, and it takes fifteen minutes to drive. If you don’t run the lights or speed.
Hester lifts her face and looks at me squarely. “Before that, you went to Ward Akins’s pool party.”
I did? Geez, I was so messed up back then, worst of my worst. I can hardly remember those last months of school. Little flashes. Ward Akins? Asskite guy on my tennis team. Pool party? Would I have gone to one of those? Who’m I kidding? I would have gone to anyone’s party.
But also? Who the eff cares what party I did or didn’t go to.
“Uh. Look, can we catch up some other time? Sorry—I mean . . . not to be a dick, but . . . why are you here?”
“Ward is my godmother’s stepson,” Hester says, like family history answers the question. “Even though he’s an abject loser, I went to this party because . . . Well, never mind.” Her voice, which is husky, throaty, stalls out for a sec. Then she braids her fingers together even more tightly, swallows. “Big house—very modern, glass windows . . . the pool’s indoors, heated. They have a tiki bar . . . Do you remember any of this?”
Not even the tiki bar. “No. Sorry. I got nothing.”
Her face shuffles through a boatload of emotions in, like, seconds—there and gone. Then her features smooth, totally composed. She looks dead on at me, blue eyes crystal clear, focused, narrowing, like she’s aiming a gun. “You don’t have ‘nothing.’ You have a son.”
Chapter Fifteen
TIM
I do the most wrong thing I could possibly do.
Laugh.
Looking Hester straight in the eye, I slump down on the couch next to her.
And laugh.
It’s like I can’t stop. I’m holding up one hand, holding the other to my stomach, and she’s staring at me like I’m dog shit she’s stepped in, except that her eyes are filling with tears.
So I try to get a hold of myself, say something.
And again, straight to the worst thing.
“You’re fucking kidding me, right?”
She’s standing up now, slowly, in this rickety way, like she’s aged fifty years at my response.
Brushes her hands on her skirt again. Tucks some stray hair behind her ears.
“No joke. Sorry.”
She’s halfway to the door before I stop her, hand on her shoulder. “Hester. That’s not possible . . . I’m not that stupid.”
Yeah, hack off foot and shove it permanently in mouth.
Her eyes flash. “You were. Sorry again. You were a bit drunk. For a change. Never mind.”
“Never mind?” I repeat incredulously.
Hester reaches into her purse, foraging around, all anxious. Then smacks her forehead with the heel of her hand, stuffs it into the front pocket of her skirt, pulls something out, and hands it to me. “It’s an awful picture. I didn’t know that hospital pictures are a scam. They get you while you’re groggy and suddenly you have all these wallet-sized photos and a mouse pad for, like, eighty bucks . . . He looks better now.” She hands me this little snapshot. Of this baby with his eyes squinted shut like he’s pissed off. And a fluff of red hair. My hair. When I was little it always stuck straight up exactly like that.
“His name’s Calvin.”
Really? What a sucky name.
I stare at the picture, the closed eyes, the defiant face. Scrabble for something . . . anything . . . to say.
Fuck.
“Where is he now?”
“In my car.” Hester takes the picture back, tucking it into her wallet, carefully closing the purse back up, all focused. “He was sleeping and I thought it’d be better if I—”
“You serious? It’s eighty-five degrees!” I hurtle down the garage steps.
“The windows are all open!” Hester calls after me.
The windows may be open, but the baby in the car is soaked with sweat, dark red hair plastered to his forehead, hunched down in one of those backward bucket baby-type seats, boneless and kinda bowlegged. He’s wearing a blue undershirt, a diaper, and a weird-ass sailor hat. His eyes, with these little spiky eyelashes, dark like mine, oh hell, are shut tight, his mouth puckered like he’s dreaming about kissing.
I bend in, try to unlock the car seat, sweating like a mother myself. There are these two thick red buttons on either side and I press them hard, jiggle harder. Nothing happens. Hester moves forward. I think she’s gonna unlatch things, but instead, she takes off his hat.
“Here he is,” she says, like, ta-da. “This is Calvin.”
“Yeah, can we save the introductions?” I’m punching and jiggling the buttons. “This kid really needs air.”
Actually, I don’t know this. Just guessing. If he were a dog in the car, he’d need air. I sure need air. I’m breathing so hard, I’m pretty much panting when I finally hear the click of the car seat disengage and drag it out. Look at the kid.
My kid.
Wait, wait. No. This isn’t. This isn’t real and I’ll wake up and see that this is some crazy dream test. At least I’m not naked. Except that I feel it, more naked than actual naked because—
He stares at me, blue eyes, confused face, and I might as well be looking at one of the baby pics on our living room wall. The world is sucked silent, just a faint hum. I’m gonna puke.
Because—
At the same time that I’m thinking no, no, no way, some other part of me is not surprised. Not at all. Of course. Of course I would do this. Of course.
Through the buzzing in my ears, Hester’s talking again. “I want to go to college next spring. Taking a gap now. Because of Calvin. Obviously. I’m already in at Bryn Mawr. It’s where my favorite teacher went, where I’ve always wanted to go. I took this time off so I could . . . deal.”
I’m still looking at the kid, whose little dark eyelashes are fluttering, sinking closed again.
“My grandfather—I live with him—said you deserved to be told,” she adds, in a voice so low, it’s almost a whisper. “He said you deserved a chance to be a man.”
A man. Shit. Not again. I don’t want to be a man. I’m not even good at being a boy.
His eyes open again—blue as . . . blue stuff.
He stares, unfocused, for a second, then waves a fist at me.
“Hold out one finger,” Hester says, and I do. Calvin knocks his fist against it, prizefighter-style, then opens up his little starfish hand and clenches onto my index finger. His clutch is hot and sticky. He stares at me, eyes crossing.
“Do you want to . . .” Hester clears her throat. “Hold him?”
Hell no. He looks completely breakable. But I should want to, right? “Uh, sure. Yeah. I do. Absolutely.”
Hes
ter peers at me. Like she’s wondering if she can trust me not to break her baby. She shouldn’t. I break everything.
She unlatches the little belt, scoops her hand behind Calvin’s head and under his butt, straightens up and passes him to me.
My hand covers his entire backside. He’s wet with—I hope—sweat, and has this weird milky smell.
I wait for him to start screaming because, Christ knows, I want to, but he doesn’t. He simply gazes, all fathomless navy blue eyes.
“Serious little guy,” I say, finally, because I should say something.
I’m holding the kid, my kid, for the first time and no natural instincts are kicking in. Except the “flee” one.
“They don’t smile when they’re this little,” Hester says softly as I focus on pulling up the sock that’s about to slide off Calvin’s midget foot, the size of my goddamn thumb. “They learn in a month or two.”
Hope so. On the other hand, this kid might not have much to smile about.
We stand there for a second next to the car—me awkwardly balancing the baby, Hester flicking her gaze between us. All I can think is, What now? What does she really want?
“What, uh . . . what can I do for you, Hes?” I’m startled to hear that abbreviation coming from my lips, like they know her better than the rest of me. She looks down at the tar of the driveway. The silent stillness is halted by a gentle rumbling noise. Her stomach.
Her fair skin flushes and she puts her hand there, like she can hush it that way. Or like there’s still something—someone—in there.
“Can I start by giving you a sandwich?” I vaguely remember that you’re supposed to eat a lot after you have a baby. Or is that before? Is she, like, nursing this kid?
Yikes. I steal a look at her tits. They look pretty much as I dimly recall. Small.
“I’d love that,” she says, apparently not noticing the direction of my gaze. “He’s probably hungry too.”
I check Calvin’s face, still waiting for the screaming to begin, but he’s watching me, hanging tightly on to my finger.
Hester grabs what looks like a small suitcase—Oh God—from the backseat of the car and walks up the steps, leaving me to follow. With Calvin. And what may be the lead-up to a coronary squeezing my chest.
Is she here to—uh—stay? Please tell me I don’t have to marry this girl. The bag doesn’t look big enough to hold her stuff and his. But his things are probably pretty tiny. Maybe she’s a really efficient packer. She looks like an efficient packer.
She holds the door open, as if she’s inviting me into her own home. But, given that my hands are occupied with the kid, it’s possible she’s just being helpful.
As soon as we get in, I give him back to her, after carefully unpeeling his clingy, sweaty little paw from my finger.
Which is when the crying I’ve been waiting for gets going.
Hester hoists the small but solid weight of the baby against her shoulder, tipping her chin to hold him more firmly against her, and rummages the suitcase, pulling something out.
A bottle.
That answers the breastfeeding question. Thank Christ. I don’t think I could deal with her exposed boob at the moment.
Then a can of formula, which she unseals with a shhhzz. Which sounds eerily like the beer I wish I were cracking open. “Just pour it in this and zap it for thirty seconds.” She gestures at the microwave.
“Uh. Right. Sure.” I take the bottle and the can, fill the bottle, then stare as it revolves in the microwave.
A wave of dizziness crashes over my head and I clutch the side of the counter.
An hour ago I was worrying about practice dating.
Now I’m heating formula for my baby. Alice is . . . fuck . . .
I glance over at Hester, her pink lip stuff and her neat, if slightly rumpled and a size too tight, white shirt. She’s not even my type, for God’s sake. Delicate. Fragile. These big Bambi eyes. Someone I could do serious damage to.
Make that mission accomplished.
The microwave beeps. My hand is actually shaking as I crack it open. The kid’s still wailing, cranking it up a notch or two every second.
When I hand the bottle to Hester, she whips me a quick look of gratitude, and then stuffs the nipple in Calvin’s wide-open mouth. He hesitates, catching his breath, as if considering whether to continue with the misery or go for liquid comfort. He picks comfort.
Of course he does. My kid, after all.
My kid.
I shut my eyes, and, because I might possibly black out right now, I crouch next to Hester, putting a hand on her knee.
She looks down at it, and I get a sharp shock of weird. Wrong. Although I’ve clearly done a lot more than casually touch this girl. How is that even possible? I remember her from class. From class. Eyes forward, neat little notes, never even catching my eye, even when she lent me pencils. Now that I’m up close, I see there are dark smudges under her eyes, and that her hair in its ponytail is sorta messy. The Hester I recall (vaguely) was one of those chicks who always looked perfect. At the moment her stomach is kind of puffy, squishy. The shoulder of her white shirt has some yellowish stain on it.
I did that. I, like, marked this girl, changed her. And I don’t even remember holding her hand.
Clawing for air in my own personal mineshaft now.
Okay.
She’s here.
With this baby.
Why now and, Christ, what next?
“Hester.” My voice cracks a little, like I’m still thirteen. “Look, I’ve got some leftover pizza. Orange juice. Milk. Some cheese that’s not that old. Grape-Nuts. You can have any or all of that. But you gotta tell me why exactly you’re here. What are you looking for from me?”
She looks up at me, her eyes vast, blue, and totally unreadable.
“Aside from the life-changing complication I’ve already provided,” I add.
To my surprise, she gives a quick huff of laughter. “Poor Tim. You look terrified.”
Now I’m ashamed, at least more familiar and comfortable than flat-out panic.
“Sorry,” I say, approximately nine months too late. Calvin is glugging away again, his clenched fists waving in the air like he’s fighting some invisible but formidable opponent.
“I’d love some pizza,” Hester tells me, with a little smile.
Sudden surge of liking for her. She does seem to be able to handle this whole hundred-shades-of-awkward meeting practically, without, say, sobbing uncontrollably or pointing an accusing finger at me. Jesus. What a year she must have had. Ellery would not have been an easy place to be a pregnant teenager. Anorexic, sure. Addicted to cocaine—totally. But pregnant? Hell, no—that’s for public school girls.
I stand up slowly, check out Calvin’s face. His eyelids are so thin, you can see little blue veins. On his temples too, near the tips of his ears.
“Yeah, sure. Pizza. Coming up.”
The pizza’s several days old and pretty disgusting. I have to peel it off the bottom of the cardboard box. I slap two rubbery, congealed pieces into the microwave and pour orange juice into one of Joel’s Fitness Galaxy coffee mugs.
No napkins. No paper towels, even. Offering her toilet paper would not be okay, right?
Hester somehow interprets my frantic hunt around the kitchen.
“I have baby wipes,” she calls.
I go rigid. Somehow this just drives home the whole I have a baby thing.
I set the plate down in front of her. The kid’s urgent gulping has emptied most of the bottle. He’s bending his skinny, half-triangle legs up and down in time to his swallowing. Every time I look at him, I get a cold shock wave, like I have the flu. I know dick about babies. Patsy’s cool, but she’s a real person already, not, like, an amoeba.
“Hey, I know this is a surprise,” Hester says, after swallowing a tiny bite of sucky pizza. “I’ve had months to take it in. You’ve had twenty minutes. I appreciate you”—she pauses, then finally continues—“not yelling or sayi
ng he’s not yours or any of that.”
I look at his wavy hair, dry now and as rusty red as my own. “I’m not that guy.”
As I say it I realize that this is the first time in years, maybe in my whole life, that I’ve said what I was and had it mean anything good. Hester nods. “I know. I mean—I hoped not. That’s . . . um . . . why I’m here.” She tilts the bottle so Calvin has better access to the last bit.
I rest my hands on the countertop, try to beat back visions of this future where I’m suddenly married to her—this girl I don’t know—with a child I have no memory of making, and we’re living in the Garretts’ garage apartment. Forever. I’m this old man hobbling out to my job at, I dunno, Hot Dog Haven again or Gas and Go, trying to convince myself my life hasn’t been a complete waste.
As if she’s reading my thoughts, Hester glances around the room. “So . . . do you have a roommate? A . . . girlfriend?”
“Why?” My voice comes out like a bark. Hester flinches. Calvin pauses for a second in his glugging but then speeds up again, his eyes practically lolling back in his head in ecstasy.
She shifts the baby so she can wave her hand around the apartment. “Just wondering why this is where you live now. You left Ellery and . . . you’re . . . here?”
“It belongs to friends of mine. I, uh, needed a place away from home, so I . . .”
Can’t even finish a sentence.
Hester nods, sharp dip of her chin. “It’s”—she looks around at the bare white walls with their thumbtack holes, the milk-crate bookcase, the dead plant next to the bathroom door, the basketball hoop above the trash can in the corner of the living room—“roomy.” I get this sense that Hester’s a nice girl who’s used to saying nice things about things that aren’t nice.
“Look . . . please. I gotta know. What do you want from me?”
She squirms in her seat, chips a hardened piece of pepperoni off the crappy pizza. “After Calvin was born, when I first saw his face—his hair—I knew I had to talk to you. So, as soon as I was, you know—”
“Back on your feet?”
“They put you on your feet right after you give birth, Tim,” she says. “Practically as soon as the umbilical cord gets cut.”