40 Things I Want to Tell You (16 page)

“I’m sorry.” I could not undo what I’d done. “I should have told you.”

“How? Who? Who is he?” He was desperate. “Bird?”

I shook my head. “It’s too late.”

He became insistent. “Who is he?”

“It won’t help, Griffin.”

“You won’t even tell me that? You lied to me, made me feel like it was me ruining everything—”

“It doesn’t matter who he is—”

“I can’t believe you’d do this.” His face pleaded with me to change what was happening. “Bird?”

I shook my head again. “I’m sorry.”

He drank me in with his last look. And then he swallowed hard. He turned his back and walked down the path, and I knew, because I know him so well, that he was crying.

I ARRIVED AT CLEO’S LATER THAT EVENING. SHE ANSWERED THE DOOR
in a shirt-dress and leggings. “How’ve you been?” she said, her eyes worried. “I’ve been trying to call you all day. Like thousands of times.” She cast an eye over the small rucksack at my feet. “Seriously, this is bad. I saw it on Facebook—I can’t believe I didn’t read it when we were away. I wasn’t checking anything like that—you know, being disconnected is supposed to be a good thing for Internet addicts like me, holidays, whatever. Did you get my messages? Did you see it online? Griffin
must
have read it.” I knew she was rambling because everything was so awful. “Did you see Griffin? What about your dad?”

“I didn’t know where else to go, C.” I choked back a sob. “My dad’s so angry. Griffin hates me. I’ve ruined everything. I need— Can I stay here?”

“Hey, hey, come in.” She grabbed me in a huge hug. I stood there crying. “I’ll just ask my mum.”

“I’ll wait.”

She nodded and headed up the curved staircase. I could see myself in the mirror in the hallway. I looked wretched, my body bloated, my hair a frizzy mess. My cheeks were pale and a little mascara darkened the flesh under my eyes. Cleo came back downstairs.

“She says it’s okay. Your dad had already called. Told her about, you know …” She pointed at my tummy. “Mum says just until you work things out with your dad. It’s not that she doesn’t love having you here, but she thinks you and your dad need to sort it out.”

“This just gets worse every day. How could I have been so stupid? At least Dad cares enough to call your mum.”

She said, “Of course he cares. He’s just angry. Come and chill out. The spare room at the back is always all set up for, uh, longer-term guests. Unless you want to share a bed with me for the next week or so …” She led me up the stairs.

I thought how many times I’d longed to live at Cleo’s gorgeous house, how often I’d felt like her house was way better than our cozy home, but now more than anything I wanted to be where I belonged. Cleo directed me to a small, sweet room on the same floor as hers. The walls were papered with rose patterns and etched with golden ferns. I sat heavily on the single bed.

“Thanks, Cleo,” I said, dissolving into tears again.

“You don’t like the room?” she tried to joke.

“I’ve made such a mess of things,” I said, sobbing.

SCHOOL BECAME A NIGHTMARE. NO ONE WAS SPEAKING TO ME
except for Cleo, and although I’d never been one of those girls who hung out with a gaggle of friends, I didn’t realize how much I would miss the easy
hellos
and
how’s it goings?
from the other students. Now they just looked at me like I was a creature from a different planet. As for Griffin … well, it was unbearable. He vanished from my life as if he’d never existed. His bedroom curtains were always drawn, and if I caught a glimpse of him at school, he hurried away. All of our history together was destroyed.

I tried to call Dad every day but he wouldn’t take my calls, although Cleo’s mum said he was calling her to make sure I was okay. The more angry he was with me, the more angry I was with Mum. I ignored her calls and frantic emails, acting like she didn’t exist.

Even though Cleo offered to go with me, I went to my second scan alone. A mistake. I looked at the baby kicking its legs and
punching its fists but I could hardly see, I was crying so hard.

“Do you want to know the sex of the baby?”

I shrugged.

“He’s a boy,” the doctor said.

A boy.
A boy.

The baby kicked on the screen again, a full hard kick, which I could see but couldn’t yet feel.

A son.

AND SUDDENLY, THREE DAYS LATER, ON THE MONDAY MORNING WHEN
someone from Adoption Services was due to visit me at Cleo’s, I felt the baby move. It was like a fish swimming through my gut, or a shudder of a tiny earthquake. I rested my hand, feeling for another movement, but the baby was still again.

I concentrated on a question in Miss Take-Control’s inbox. It had been sitting there for weeks, and today I was finally going to answer it—probably too late for 96tough-chick, but hopefully it might help someone else.

I wasn’t going to cry. I shut down the computer and drifted downstairs at Cleo’s. Everyone was out—Cleo at school (I was pulling another sick day), and her parents at work. At five to ten, I was waiting in the plush front room watching out the window. The social worker had said over the phone that this was to be just a preliminary discussion. I played her name over in my mouth.
Nicole.
As I let the syllables slide in my cheeks, I saw a busty blonde come up the drive. Her hair needed to be touched up at the roots, where the brown was coming through. She wore no makeup, but her full lips and baby blue eyes were pretty without. Her white shirt and black skirt made her look a bit like a waitress. She
caught sight of me in the window, hitched up her large lime-green shoulder bag, and her smile travelled all the way to her eyes.

As I opened the door, fresh morning air burst in along with Nicole. She shook my hand in her own warm one. She beamed at me.

“How are you feeling? You look wonderful.”

“I’m okay,” I said. “Less tired than I was. Do you, um, want a cup of coffee or tea or something? We can go to the kitchen.”

“Absolutely. Wonderful. Tea. Lovely. Lovely house, gorgeous.”

Up close, I could make out small wrinkles around her mouth as she smiled. I made us both tea and watched her as she admired the landscaped garden through the wraparound windows and commented on a painting by some semi-famous artist.

“This isn’t where I normally live. My dad kicked me out.”

“That must be hard,” she said. “Have you tried to talk to him?”

I rubbed my temples and changed the subject. “So once I’ve decided, is that it?”

She rummaged in her huge bag and laid out some pamphlets on the kitchen table. Last thing she pulled out was a clipboard with a pen tied to it by a string. You’re”—she checked her papers—”eighteen weeks pregnant, right?”

“And a half.”

“This is a preliminary meeting, as we already discussed. We’re having it because you’re thinking about giving your baby up for adoption, is that right?”

I cupped my hands around my mug. It was a perfect temperature in my grasp but I could not drink it.

She continued, “The way this works—if you decide to go ahead—is that you fill out these forms I give you. Then we meet
again. I’m going to ask you some questions in a few minutes, just to establish that you’ve thought about everything. And to answer your first question, no, nothing will be fixed until after the birth, but we can discuss potential families together.”

“I don’t know if I want to do that.”

“We can decide that together too. I’ll be your point of contact and your support, but you’ll need to go to counselling as well. We can work out when suits you.”

“I have school. I don’t know if I have time.”

“We’ll make time. It’s all to make sure this is the right decision and the best thing for you. And for the child.”

“It’s the right thing. Definitely,” I said.

“The way it works here is that the once the baby’s born we’ll talk over the decision again. You can’t sign any papers until the baby is six weeks old.”

“But he doesn’t come home with me. He goes to the other family—not home with me for those six weeks. I don’t even have anywhere to live. My dad’s pretty angry about everything, but I’m hoping to move home once the baby’s—you know, gone.”

She smiled. “The baby won’t come home with you if that’s what you want. We can find an interim situation. What about your mum? Can we talk with you and her together at some point?”

“Not yet. If that’s okay.”

“There’s time. Will your parents be able to be involved in this? We’d like to explore all possible options for a family for the baby. Is there someone in your family who might take your child? We can, if you like, have a family group conference—your family and the family of the father of the baby, although that may not be necessary.”

I was hardly listening. “This was a mistake. I screwed everything up. I had a great boyfriend but I slept with someone else and now everything’s ruined.”

She sat quietly, her blue eyes patient.

“I should maybe have had an abortion, but I couldn’t go through with it. And now I feel like my whole life is out of my control. The baby keeps getting bigger and I’m getting bigger and everyone knows and I just want all this to be over. I want my life back how it was.”

“Have you talked to the father of the baby about what your plans are?”

I felt the blood rush from my cheeks. “Do I have to get his permission?”

“We’d like to contact him, if possible, to get some information about him. Health checks, background information. For the child. We don’t have to do it right now, though.” She made a note on her papers. “It’s important to explore all the options, Amy. More adoptions are open now. You could have some contact with the child.”

“It all sounds so complicated.” My voice was small.

“Are you ready to answer some questions now?” She smiled at me brightly.
Efficient
was the word that popped into my head.

I wondered how many times she’d done this. I wondered about the babies moving to new homes. I wondered about the other women and girls giving up children. My heart hurt so much it was hard to draw breath.

“Go for it,” I said. But what I wanted to say was
Can I change my mind?

A COUPLE OF DAYS LATER, I HAD TO SLIP HOME TO GET SOME NEW
clothes. I was sick of having to borrow Cleo’s stuff. I tried to choose a time when I thought Dad would be out, but it was hard to predict anything with his weird work schedule.

I sneaked along the path, averting my gaze from Griffin’s house. I was a stranger in my own life.

I opened the door quietly and called out, “Dad?” but there was no answer. My phone beeped. Voicemail.

Ms. Finch? It’s Jake Angar. If you would be available to come in for an interview this Saturday, March 19, we’d like to have a trial run at a family portrait later that day.

Finally. I’d assumed they’d forgotten or found someone else.

I rested my hand on the baby bump and wandered into the living room. I imagined myself going in for the interview on Saturday and getting a job. Cleo’s mum wasn’t going to let me stay forever, so I needed money to pay rent somewhere. Rent. Adoption. I rubbed my face with my hands. The logistics of the whole thing threatened to overwhelm me.

The front door clicked open. Seconds later, Dad cleared his throat behind me. My heart juddered. Then I said, half turning from the window, “I’m sorry. I was just here picking up some stuff.”

“Bird.”

My heart flickered with hope. “What can I do, Dad?”

He said, softly, “I feel like I don’t even know you.”

“It looks like maybe I got the job. I thought they’d forgotten, but they want me to try out this weekend. I can save some money and find a place. Get out of Cleo’s mum’s hair.”

“You haven’t thought about this,” he said. “A baby isn’t …”

“I’ve thought about nothing else.”

“You haven’t considered all the options.”

“I’m going to give him away.”

“He’s a boy?” Dad said, then went quiet.

I turned away. Back out the window a plane slowly unzipped the sky with a white vapour trail. I thought about the passengers far above, looking down at the soft puffs of cloud, the squares of land, the toy houses below. For a moment I returned to Spain in my mind.

I faced him. “I don’t know what else to do, Dad.”

“If you wear a baggy top, they probably won’t realize you’re pregnant at the photography studio.”

“I’ve given up pretending.”

“Get the job first,” he said.

He just wanted to deny all this was happening. “Okay, Dad.”

“What about your mother? She said you haven’t answered any of her calls.”

“You know I’m not speaking to her,” I said.

“You don’t know, do you?”

I frowned. He looked old suddenly, grey around the edges. He said, “She was pregnant with another baby when you were two.”

The words hung between us like mist. “What happened?”

“It wasn’t … it wasn’t her fault; these things happen. Your mother blamed herself. She had a fall and it caused a late miscarriage, you see, and she took it very hard. Very hard. She
so wanted … always wanted another child. We tried again. Another miscarriage. Then another. After the fourth, we gave up. We always thought we’d have two children but … well, we never did. This”—he glanced at me—”is not exactly how she thought another child would come into our lives.”

All the sounds in the room had been sucked out. I thought of Mum all those years, so sad. And now here I was, pregnant with a baby I didn’t want. “Why didn’t anyone ever tell me?”

“I don’t know.” He wouldn’t meet my gaze. “Are you going to follow my advice about the job?”

“Yes.” I asked, quietly, “Do you think I could come home?”

“Bird,” he said, “I can’t even look at you right now. Your mum and I have worked things out with Cleo’s mum for now, given her some money. Obviously, your mum would prefer you were with her, but she understands. You know what she’s like. We all need some time apart.”

With that, he left the room and I broke down.

ON THE MORNING OF THE INTERVIEW, I WANDERED FROM CLEO’S
house over to the photography shop. It was getting warmer and late spring flowers stuck up their colourful heads. I kicked over two purple crocuses. Their petals smeared into the ground and immediately I felt bad. I was so mired in my screwed-up, ridiculous world that I had to go round squashing pretty flowers. Thank God for my website. At least I was still Miss Take-Control in one area of my life.

Arriving at the shop, I checked my watch. I was on time. I
smoothed down my relaxed-fit shirt and maternity skirt—both gifts from Cleo. The skirt had a secret expanding waistline that hid the baby pretty well.

The doorbell chimed into the quiet foyer as I entered. Stunning photos lined every wall: weddings and babies and families, and gorgeous images of urban landscapes. I thought of my Empty Streets project. Whoever had taken these would maybe be able to help me improve my own photos.

A tall, slim man with glasses and a goatee appeared. He wore Converse trainers, corduroys, a light T-shirt and a black suit jacket. Cool chic. He reached out a hand to shake mine. I felt suddenly encouraged.

“So,” he said, “you want to book photos of the baby when it comes?” He gestured at me with a broad grin. “I get ladies coming in all the time who are so excited they just want to book shots, but I always tell them to slow down, wait—once the baby comes you might be a bit too exhausted for photos. Certainly for the first couple weeks. When are you due? A few months?” Without stopping speaking he flicked open a diary. “We could book you in for the end of August or early September? Don’t ask me how I know when. I just
know.
I had my own little one a year ago.” He pointed up to a photograph of a sweet chubby baby. “So does September eighth work?”

I wished I could dissolve. I mumbled, “Um, Jake Angar?”

“Yep. Oh no, hang on, you’re not”—he scanned his diary—”Amy Finch?”

Suddenly unable to raise my eyes, I said, “I’m here for the interview.”