Daisy (14 page)
He didn’t come home.
I didn’t sleep well. In the morning, I clicked back into that autopilot mode I’d become so good at. The house was eerily silent as I got dressed—it was getting harder to find clothes that fit—fixed my hair, tried to disguise the puffiness around my eyes, and made myself some scrambled eggs. December’s pregnancy book had talked about how important protein was for the baby. I took some small comfort in doing this one thing right.
At work, I was grateful for the backlog of files that kept me sufficiently overwhelmed so I wouldn’t think about the phone call I hadn’t received from my husband. I had been sure he would want to talk once the idea settled. My phone was silent except for a text message from Amy, who had been looking at me strangely across the conference table at our morning meeting.
Are you okay?
My reply was brief.
It’s been a long week.
I hadn’t run out of work to do, but my back started to hurt around seven o’clock. I couldn’t remember the last time I was the last person at the office. I shut down my computer, organized the piles of work I needed to take care of tomorrow, and headed home. The windows were dark when I pulled up. The house was empty.
I turned on the kitchen light, then sat on the living room couch. Should I call him? Should I keep waiting? I was tempted to be angry—I was sure the anger was in there somewhere—but then I thought about the process I had to go through to come to terms with this myself. He was doing the same thing, right? I was desperate not to judge him too harshly.
He didn’t come home again.
The next morning, Friday, I was beginning to feel some anxiety about running out of work when Amy entered my office. She shut the door behind her and sat down in the chair on the other side of my desk. She’d lost even more weight and looked beautiful in a pair of black slacks and a cranberry-colored blouse. She leaned forward and looked me squarely in the face.
Panic swirled around me like a hurricane.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, her wide eyes staring me down while the sincere concern in her voice demanded an honest answer.
I couldn’t tell
her.
But I couldn’t
not
tell her either. She’d find out eventually—everyone would. I sat there for several seconds, trying to find a way to be honest and still preserve her feelings.
“What’s wrong?” she asked again.
I felt the tears rise and shook my head. “I don’t want to tell you.”
She said nothing, and when I looked up at her, she had leaned back in the chair, looking as though she were trying to interpret what I meant. “You don’t want to tell
me?
”
I’d already run off my husband. I’d run off Paige, too; my tantrum still embarrassed me. I didn’t want to lose Amy, but I was tired of playing games with people. I could not save her from this. I was powerless against the truth that would soon be very apparent. So I told her.
“I’m pregnant.”
It landed like a brick on the desk between us. Amy’s eyes went wide, a flash of envy sparked behind them, and then, in the next moment, her expression went blank. “You are?” There was no recrimination in her tone. Instead, she reached across the desk and took my hand. “Really? I thought you were . . . done.”
“So did I,” I said, waiting for her expression to harden as her true feelings came to the surface. But her face stayed soft, her expression confused, perhaps, but open.
She started asking questions, and I answered them, still waiting for her to cry or get angry or something. Instead, she was supportive and excited, even when she realized that this wasn’t necessarily a good surprise for me. She asked how Paul felt about it, and I completely fell apart and told her I hadn’t heard from my husband in thirty-six hours. When I recovered, she asked if I’d been to a doctor yet.
“No,” I said, embarrassed. “I’ve only known for a few weeks, and then I was in Ohio with December, and then I told Paul and . . .”
“Do you have a good OB?”
“I’ve just gone to a clinic for my yearly stuff,” I said. “I couldn’t even tell you the name of the last doctor I saw.”
“Hold on,” she said. She left the office, and I focused on taking deep breaths and trying to digest the fact that the one person who seemed to have the most reason to
not
be happy for me, was. She came back a minute later and handed me a piece of paper. “Dr. Christiansen is the doctor Mick and I have been working with. He specializes in pregnancies that aren’t necessarily standard—like in vitro, or high risk, or, I’m sure, failed sterilization. He’s really wonderful.”
I stared at the paper and then looked up at Amy. “Thank you,” I said, and I meant every word. She came around the desk, and I stood up so we could hug. I held on tight, needing her strength, needing her support. She stepped back after several seconds and smiled.
“You’re going to be okay,” she said. “This is a good thing.”
I couldn’t help but feel a sting in my heart. Even though her tone and her expression were sincere, those words couldn’t have been easy to say. But she’d said them anyway. That was remarkable.
After she left, I sat back down and stared at the name and phone number on the paper she’d given me. I was already into my second trimester, and he was a specialist, which meant that getting an appointment was probably impossible, but I sure didn’t want to ask anyone else for a recommendation. I called the number, explaining to the receptionist that I was a new patient. When I told her my age and how far along I was, she put me on hold. Thirty seconds later, she was back on the phone. “How about Monday morning?”
“This coming Monday?” I said, looking at the calendar. “You can see me that soon?”
“We keep a few slots open for situations like this, and Amy Shawton called a few minutes ago to refer you—we always try to work with referrals from other patients. It’s important that you’re under a doctor’s care as soon as possible.”
“Okay,” I said, seeing this as a good sign. “I’ll take it.”
I wrote the appointment into my planner and allowed myself to feel a little better. I was eating right, I had a friend to support me, and I had an appointment with the doctor. Those things didn’t completely tip the scales against everything else, but they were a start.
I was on the couch at home around eight o’clock, flipping between channels and crying my eyes out when I heard the garage door open.
He’s home,
I thought as my heart leapt in my chest. I jumped up from the couch—well, kinda jumped since my body didn’t respond as quickly as my adrenaline did.
It had been two full days since I’d seen or heard from Paul, and although I’d gone to call him half a dozen times, I’d chickened out. I kept telling myself I was giving him the chance to process this, that’s all. I wiped at my eyes and smoothed my shirt, but my hand stopped on my extended belly. I swore it had doubled in size in the last two days. I wished I could hide it for this meeting.
The sound of the garage door closing spurred me into the kitchen, so I was waiting for Paul when he came in. He opened the door and saw me standing there. We both just looked at each other. Then he looked away and came all the way inside.
“I picked up Chinese,” he said as the door shut behind him. “Do you want some?”
Chinese? That was his lead-in? “Um, no thanks.”
He nodded his acceptance and put the white plastic bag on the counter before opening the cabinet and pulling out a plate. “Do you mind if I watch the Clippers game?”
“No,” I said, watching him dish up his spicy chicken and ham fried rice, wondering when he would recognize that the elephant in the room was still there.
He finished loading his plate, grabbed a beer out of the fridge, and went into the living room, where he sat down and turned the channel on the TV. I hovered in the doorway for almost two minutes, waiting for him to initiate the inevitable conversation. When he continued ignoring me, I felt I had no choice but to start things off myself.
“Are we going to talk about this?” I asked over the shot clock buzzer.
“Not yet,” he said with finality, his eyes glued to the TV.
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
The anger I knew was within me flared briefly, but I didn’t want it to best me. I’d already agreed to let him take the time he needed, just as I had done. I nodded my acceptance of his terms, but he didn’t look at me, so he didn’t see it. I stood there for another minute and then went into our bedroom.
Paul was home, but I was still very much alone.
I fell asleep before he came to bed.
The next day was Saturday, but I went into the office anyway, since I’d be missing part of Monday for my appointment. When I came home, there was a note from Paul saying he was at Charlie’s putting the finishing touches on the deck. He was going to stay there overnight, and then they were going fishing in the morning. I told myself that I thought it was a good idea for him to spend time with his brother and take things slow, and then pushed it out of my mind while I made myself a sandwich for dinner and then baked cookies.
Stormy had confirmed she was coming over after she babysat for Paige and would stay until Sunday. I needed some extra fuel to get me through yet another announcement—hence, the cookies. After telling Stormy, I would tell December, and my parents—ironically, they were the ones I was least worried about, and not just because of the tête-à-tête Mom and I had had in Ohio. I wasn’t seventeen years old anymore. They’d be happy about this baby because they knew I could handle it. And I could, but I wasn’t looking forward to explaining it to people and having to navigate their reactions.
It wasn’t quite eleven o’clock when Stormy came in through the front door. She had her overnight bag over one shoulder, and I was glad we’d have enough time together for her to ask whatever questions she needed. I hoped we could use this as another way to pull us closer together. I gave her a hug and invited her to sit down at the table, where I had a plate full of freshly baked Rolo cookies waiting. After pouring her a glass of milk, I sat in the same seat Paul had been sitting in when I’d told him the news two nights ago.
“Sheesh, Mom, you’re kinda freaking me out here.”
She had no idea.
I had rehearsed all kinds of ways to tell her, but I was tired, so I just said it. Her eyes went wide, and while she digested the bombshell, I filled in the details. When I finished, she was breaking a cookie into little pieces on the plate.
“So,” I said, feeling myself tense up when she didn’t say anything or even look at me. “How do you feel about this?”
She shrugged and dug the caramel out of one of her cookie pieces with her fingernail. “Okay, I guess.”
“It’s certainly a surprise, isn’t it?” I tried to keep my tone light.
“Yeah.”
“It’s kind of cool that you’ve been babysitting Paige’s kids so much lately, huh? So you know a little more what it’s like to have a little kid around.”
She looked at me, her eyes narrowed slightly. “I’m not going to babysit for you all the time.”
I felt my cheeks heat up. “I didn’t mean that,” I said. “I just meant that now that you’ll have a little brother or sister, it’s nice that you’ve had some experience with children.”
“I guess.” She went back to her cookie massacre.
“You don’t seem very happy,” I finally dared say out loud.
“Are you happy?” she asked, looking up again.
“I’m getting there,” I admitted. “It’s been a . . . journey. But holding Tennyson reminded me of you and your sister and how much I love you. It’s hard not to feel excited about doing that again.”
“You don’t even want to take care of me,” she said, an edge creeping into her tone.
“That’s not true,” I said quickly, feeling slapped even though I had prepared myself for her to say something like this, based on our recent history. I had convinced myself that if she brought up what I had said, I would take the opportunity to clear the air between us once and for all. Mom had said babies were magical; I was counting on it. “I would do anything to take back what I said that night, Stormy, and I’m horrified by the way I handled that whole situation. I do love you, so much, and—”
She pushed away from the table. “I’m going back to Dad’s.”
Tears, again, blurred my vision as she stood. “Please don’t,” I said. The catch in my voice caught her attention, and she looked at me, anger and sadness wrapped up in her features. “I’m sorry, Storm, for what I said, for the kind of mother I’ve been to you. I’m sorry for making you feel less important than you really are to me. It hasn’t been fair to you, and I’m sorry for all of that.” I was about to add a “but” and explain why none of that should have anything to do with this new baby, but that wasn’t fair. It had everything to do with this baby.
She stared at me, her eyes starting to get shiny with tears of her own.
I held my breath, willing her to stay.
She turned around and headed for the front door. I felt like a balloon that had been popped when the door slammed behind her, and I deflated back into my chair where I covered my face with my hands and sobbed over the mess I had made of everything in my life. The hope I had so cautiously cultivated for this meeting broke into a thousand pieces. Every good thing I’d ever had I’d somehow squandered. And now, I was going to start all over again with a new baby who deserved so much better than this.
“Thank you for coming with me,” I said to Amy after we’d been sitting in the waiting area of Dr. Christiansen’s office for ten minutes. She’d called me on Sunday to see how I was doing. When she found out that Paul wasn’t planning to go to the appointment, she asked if I wanted her to come.
“You’re welcome,” Amy said, looking up from her magazine. I was reading
Parenting
for the first time in a dozen years. She was flipping through
National Geographic.
I wished I dared ask her how she felt about this, if it was painful for her, but I wasn’t ready to support her possible answers.
I felt so battered by Paul, who’d come home early Sunday morning but continued to be distant, and by Stormy, who hadn’t called me all weekend, that I was too desperate for support to risk having to hear of how this must burden Amy.
I’d talked to December every day. Tennyson was off the oxygen and was taking a bottle; December had a breast pump she used religiously now that her milk had come in. Each time we called one another, I’d told myself to tell her about the pregnancy. Each time, I chickened out. Her trials of being a new mom traveling to the hospital three times a day were not over yet, and I couldn’t bring myself to burden her even more. Although Stormy wasn’t talking to me, I’d texted her to ask that she not tell December until I was able to. She’d texted back with a simple
okay
.
The nurse called me back, and Amy stood to the side while the nurse took my vital signs and drew some blood. I avoided looking at the scale once I stepped onto it. I was well aware of the fact that I weighed more now than I had when I’d been nine months pregnant with December; I didn’t need to see it. The nurse showed me into a room, and I undressed from the waist down per her instructions, then sat on the examination table. Amy knocked a minute later, and I told her she could come in. It was a little weird to have her there; we hadn’t been what I would call close friends before now, but I was still starved for the support and glad not to be alone.
The doctor came in a few minutes later—he was actually younger than I was, which was strange, but he seemed very nice and personable. He and Amy exchanged a few pleasantries before he turned to me and we got to work creating my chart—the paper synopsis of my whole reproductive life.
“How many pregnancies have you had prior to this one?”
“Three.”
“How many live births?”
“Two.”
“How many abortions?”
I startled. “None,” I said strongly. Just remembering the dark moment when I’d briefly considered that option coated me with shame.
“Miscarriages?”
“One.”
“How far along were you when it happened?”
“About thirteen weeks.”
“Were there any complications?”
“Yes, I hemorrhaged and ended up getting a full D and C that required me to stay overnight at the hospital.”
“How many living children?”
“Two,” I said. Should I tell him I’d become a grandma last week?
“Marital status?”
“Married.” Sorta.
“But this was an unplanned pregnancy, correct?”
His question surprised me. Had I told him that? But everything was such a blur I probably had. “Yes.”
“Okay,” he said, nodding as he scanned his notes. He looked up at me and smiled. “I understand you made the decision a long time ago not to have more children, so it would be understandable if this change of circumstances didn’t fit into your future plans.”
His comment took me off guard. “If you’re talking about an abortion, there is—”
“No,” he said strong and firm. “That’s not what I’m talking about at all.”
I blinked at him, confused for a moment. “Adoption?” I hadn’t even thought about it. My family, everyone at church, and even my friends had pushed me that way with December. When I discovered I was pregnant with Stormy, I was a different woman in a completely different situation—few people brought up the fact that I had a baby six months after the wedding. I was now forty-six years old; I’d raised two children and knew what I was getting into. I wasn’t a desperate teenage girl unable to meet the needs of a child.
Why would he bring up adoption to me?
Dr. Christiansen continued before I could put the thoughts running through my head into words. “I know your situation isn’t exactly typical in regards to women who usually choose adoption for their baby, but it is something you should at least consider. I can assure you that there will be no judgment from me should that be the right choice for you. Many wonderful couples could provide this baby with a loving home and a bright future. An open adoption would even allow you to maintain limited contact.”
The room was silent when he finished. I was stunned. Then I noticed the briefest look pass between Dr. Christiansen and Amy. He smiled at her, and I turned to see her smile back at him. She saw me looking and quickly glanced into her lap.
Amy
had a loving home and could provide a bright future for a child. Was
that
why she was here?
“Just think about it,” he said casually as he turned to the counter and pulled some gloves out of the box. “Just because you’ve conceived this child doesn’t mean you’re obligated to raise it, if that isn’t what you want to do. Adoption is a heroic thing, not a selfish decision, and no one will judge you harshly for asserting the decision you made years ago when you chose not to have more children. Biology cheated you, so don’t feel as though you don’t have any other choices because of that.”
He put on his gloves and instructed me to lie back on the table so he could continue the exam, but I didn’t move.
“Just lie back,” he repeated. “This will only take a few minutes.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head and wrapping my arms around my waist.
Amy spoke up. “Daisy, just—”
I silenced her with a look. I didn’t have to say anything else. She looked away, then at Dr. Christiansen for help.
“I don’t think this is going to work for me,” I said as calmly as I could. “I’m sorry for taking your appointment. I’d like to leave.”
I could see in his eyes that he knew what I was thinking.
“No one is going to push you in a direction you don’t want to take,” Dr. Christiansen said. “So let’s not jump to conclusions about—”
“What conclusions?” I cut in, staring him down and trying to hold back the emotional avalanche taking place inside of me. We all went silent, no one willing to say out loud what we all knew. My head was tingling. Amy wanted my baby? Was this a bad movie? Was this really happening?
“I need to get dressed,” I said.
He and Amy left, and I hurried to put my clothes back on. I felt violated but forced myself not to give in to the despair creeping over me. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe the pregnancy hormones were making me paranoid.
Amy was in the waiting room when I came out, and as soon as I saw her, I knew my suspicion wasn’t paranoia. She looked guilty and couldn’t meet my eyes. I didn’t look at her as I headed to the door. We’d driven to the appointment together, and I wasn’t going to leave her here, so I didn’t stop her from coming with me, but I was furious and deeply, deeply hurt.
We got in my car, and I turned on the radio. Loud. Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers sang about an American girl, and I used every bit of willpower to hold back the tears.
You can cry later,
I told myself.
When you’re alone.
Amy didn’t say anything until we arrived at the elevators in our office building. The silent car ride had been excruciating, and the idea of being in that little box with her right then was repulsive.
“I’m taking the stairs,” I said, turning toward the door next to the elevator. The door shut behind me, and my shield began to waver.
I took the stairs slowly, trying to put myself back together before I reached my office, wondering if I could afford to take yet another day off. With each stair, I felt like I was imploding as everything began to wriggle to the surface of my consciousness. Paul. Stormy. Amy, too. The door to the stairwell opened below me.
“You don’t even want it.” Amy’s voice wasn’t loud, but it echoed through the concrete stairwell.
I stopped where I was and closed my eyes for a moment before I turned and looked down the flight of stairs. She was crying, and she stared at me with such a pitiful expression that for the briefest moment I saw this from her perspective. I was old, tired, and struggling with my teenage daughter. When she looked at me, she saw a woman who did not deserve—or want—what she wanted the very most in the whole world.
“And it’s not fair to the baby to be where it isn’t wanted. I just thought . . .” She paused for a breath. “I just thought maybe this was God’s way of answering both of our prayers.”
Heat rushed through me. “You don’t know anything about my prayers,” I said, my voice shaky. “I’m sorry for your situation, Amy, and I don’t deny how hard this is for you, but while this is something I didn’t expect, and while it’s made me reconsider everything I ever planned for, this baby belongs to
me.
”
“But you don’t want it,” Amy repeated, tears rolling down her cheeks. “You’re just going through with this because you have to.”
“I don’t
have
to,” I said. “I
want
to.” My words surprised me.
I wanted to? Really? When I couldn’t even call it a baby three weeks ago?
“I would be a better mother,” Amy said, her voice low. “I can give it a better life.”
I felt tears come to my eyes, not only from the pain her words inflicted, but because I couldn’t say she was wrong. “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice quivering. “I don’t understand why this has happened the way it has for either of us, but I love this baby, Amy, and I’m going to do the best job I can to give it the life it deserves.”
Amy stared at me, then crumbled onto the bottom step and dropped her face into her hands as she began to cry even harder. Her sobs reverberated through me, and she looked up, her red face suddenly full of rage.
“Go away!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, her hands clenched into tight fists. I shook at the power behind her words. “Get out of here!”
She folded over herself and put her arms over her head as though trying to protect herself from an avalanche. She began rocking back and forth, wracked with the torment she must have been holding back since I first told her I was pregnant.
I turned and continued up the stairs, knowing there was nothing I could do to help her and trying to swallow the lump in my throat. Once on my floor, I kept my head down as I navigated the hallways toward my office. I locked the door behind me before closing the vertical blinds to shut me off from the rest of the office. I dropped my face in my hands.
What monster could be coming for me next?
My husband was avoiding me. My daughter was ignoring me. The only friend I felt I had in this world had betrayed me, and I was scared to death to tell anyone what was going on for fear that they, like everyone else, would be equally horrible. I felt fractured and wobbly on my foundation. Did I have a foundation anymore? I was completely and utterly alone.
I had no one, not one person, to buoy me up, to tell me it would be okay. The future I had so perfectly crafted for myself was dark and empty, and while I was trying hard to take comfort in the optimistic moments I had had over the last two weeks, and while I wanted to believe what I’d just said to Amy, they were only tiny pricks of light amid a heavy canvas of utter darkness. Could the glimmers of excitement and the moments of capability compare to losing everything else? I was not up to the task of meeting any of the responsibilities in my life, let alone taking on a new one. My throat tightened, and I curled around myself like the burning edges of paper. I’d just told Amy I loved this baby and that I could give it the life it deserved. I’d lied.
I can’t do this,
I screamed in my mind to anyone who might listen to me.
I am going to fail at this, too.
And then the face of Paige Anderson came to mind. At any other time, I think my pride would have prevented me from reaching out to her. She had good reasons to never speak to me again. But I was drowning, and she was the only person I could think of who might give me the motivation to keep swimming toward a shore I could only hope was still there. I knew that she had confidence in that shore. That she had confidence in my ability to do this.
Or, at least, she did once.
Sniffling, I pulled my phone from my purse and toggled through my contact list until I found her number. I hit the call button and put the phone to my ear, barely holding it together.
She didn’t answer.
I really was as alone as I thought I was. I lowered my head onto my arms crossed over my desk and gave in to the sorrow, the loneliness, and the despair that I felt foolish for trying to overcome in the first place. I couldn’t even handle the pregnancy. How was I supposed to raise this child once it was here? Why had God done this to not just me, but to this child as well? What kind of sick joke was this?
I startled when my phone rang. I nearly ignored it, but lifted my head to check the caller ID. It was Paige. I scrambled for the phone and answered before I’d figured out what to say.
“Daisy,” she said carefully, reminding me of all the ugliness between us—ugliness I was responsible for. I didn’t know how to make it right. I didn’t know how to explain. I didn’t even know what I needed right now. I was still crying, and I took a shaky breath and tried to say something, but it came out in a stuttering sob. I was such a mess.
“Daisy?” Paige said again, this time not quite so careful. “What’s wrong?”