What Came First (39 page)

An hour later, I’m helping my mother set the table when a siren goes off outside.

“Is that a car alarm?” I ask.

My mother is already heading for the front door. “Jade’s here!”

When she opens the door, the sound gets louder and clearer. It is a child, after all, a brown-eyed, brown-haired, red-faced bundle of fury. As my sister attempts to unstrap her from the back of my father’s car, Jade flails and wails, her piercing scream starting to form words. Specifically: NOOOOO! And: DOOOOOOON’T. And: I-I-I-I-I HAAAATE YOUUUUU!

Harrison and Sydney scramble down the stairs and out to the front lawn, where they stand gawking at their powerful niece and their obviously unbalanced aunt.

“Stop it, Jadey! I said, stop it! Ow! You kicked me! Stop it! You’re embarrassing yourself. Can’t you see you’re embarrassing yourself?” Tracey looks like she is going to cry.

I check my mother’s face for shock but find none. “Is she always like this?” I murmur.

“She’s just tired,” my mother says. “All children throw tantrums when they’re tired. Or hungry. Or—well, all children throw tantrums. It’s part of growing up. When you were little . . .” She smiles and shakes her head.

“What?”

“You’ve always been emotional,” she says. “Which is a wonderful thing. That you don’t bottle it up”

“You always said I was a good child.”

In the driveway, my sister has taken a step back from the car and appears to be on the verge of tears. “I’m going to count to five, Jade Elizabeth. One . . . two . . .”

“Should we do something?” I ask my mother.

“Oh, no,” my mother says. “We shouldn’t make a fuss. That’ll just embarrass your sister and make Jade think she’s having an effect on us.”

I can’t believe it. Jade is a monster! Here I’ve been thinking I was the only one with temperamental children when . . . wait.

“Mom, when you said I was emotional . . . I know I cried sometimes, but . . . I wasn’t like that, was I?”

My mother laughs. “Oh, Wendy, that little girl’s got nothing on you. There was a time, you were maybe four, when your nursery school teacher said we might have to institutionalize you.” She laughs some more.

“That’s not funny,” I say.

“You’re telling me! I thought it was something I’d done or not done. But gradually things got better.”

“I was a horrible child,” I say, still stunned.

“Not horrible,” she says. “Just emotional. Look! Jade’s out of the car! Jadey, dear, look where you are! You’re at Gammie and Pop-Pop’s house!” She hurries to the driveway and takes the little beast in her arms.

Here I thought I was just a bad mother. Now I know: it’s all in the DNA. Eric Fergus’s wimpy little genes didn’t have a chance against mine. Not a chance.

It was absurd to think I might be pregnant—no, to believe, deep down, that I was. Hormones and IUI and in vitro couldn’t get the job done. Why would a one-night stand?

I cried the day I got my period in the ladies’ room at my office, my hands plastered over my mouth so no one would hear my sobs. Once my breathing calmed down, I washed my face and left early so I could pick Ian up from school. On the concrete outside his classroom, I gave him a quick kiss on the head (anything more demonstrative would embarrass him).

“I’ve got big news, buddy.”

“What?”

“We’re getting a dog!”

That was over two months and countless hours of research ago. Today is the big day: a goldendoodle in Colorado named Mae West is giving birth, and we’ve got dibs on one of her puppies.

When I get home from work, Ian is sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded by his homework, while Carmen stirs something creamy and garlicky on the stove.

She says, “A package come for you today.” She motions to a brown padded envelope on the counter.

Without looking at the envelope, I say, “Three girls, one boy.”

Carmen claps her hands. To my surprise, she’s at least as excited about the dog as Ian. Even more exciting for Carmen: her son has applied for a U.S. work visa, and I’ve assured her I’ll do everything I can to help. After all these years, they can finally be a family again.

“Did Mae West have her puppies?” Ian asks.

I nod. “The boy is ours. Eight more weeks and we can get him.”

He looks out the window. “Do we really have to get rid of the chickens?”

“Sorry, buddy. But we really do.”

A dog means no chickens for the simple reason that he might kill them. Ian argued that we could keep them apart, but when I reminded him of the hit-and-run incident, he relented. Fortunately, it only took several phone calls to find a taker for the birds: Axel’s family. His mother thinks chickens will teach Axel responsibility. I didn’t disagree, at least out loud.

Now Ian walks to the glass slider and stares out at the smelly coop, the ravaged yard. Before spring, I will ask the gardener to reseed the grass. A year from now, we’ll be cleaning up dog poop instead of chicken crap. It will be like the chickens never happened. Instead, we will be just another family with a dog. A happy family with a dog.

I smile.

Ian announces, “I’m going to go practice my guitar.” At the end of summer, Ian begged to switch from piano to guitar. I didn’t really believe him when he said he’d practice every day, but sure enough, every afternoon he shuts himself into my office, which affords him greater privacy than the living room.

“Homework done?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Put it away, then.”

As he shoves the papers haphazardly into his backpack, I think,
He’s just like his father.
And then I put the thought away. A part of me wishes we’d never met Eric Fergus, but Ian has stopped talking about him, so I think he is at peace with the situation. At least he doesn’t have to wonder about his donor anymore. He knows exactly who he is.

I pick up the padded envelope. No DNA test this time. The return address is an apartment in Arkansas. I may not have gotten another child from Eric Fergus, but thanks to the Internet, I’ve managed to buy his CD.

“I’ll be in my room,” I tell Carmen.

It’s Friday night, and Eric and I are on a study date at Starbucks. Which seems weird. It is weird. But nice too. We’ve both gone back to school. Eric is working on a PhD at UCLA in immunomicrobiology. Or microimmunobiology. Something like that. I might be missing a syllable. Anyway, he’s able to use a lot of the stuff he learned in med school, so he says he’s ahead of the game.

As for me, I’m learning about computers. It all started in August, when Dr. Sanchez called me into his office as I was about to leave one day and asked, “Vanessa, do you know how to use Excel?”

I said no.

“How about Word?”

No again. If this had been a job interview, I would have been out the door.

Dr. Sanchez said, “How would you feel about taking classes to learn them? You’re smart. You’d pick it up in no time.”

He said he was spending way too much time on billing and paperwork nights and weekends, when he really just wanted to be with his kids. He said he knew I could handle the extra responsibility. Next semester, he’ll pay for an accounting class. And after that, he’ll promote me to office manager.

So I’m looking at more education, more responsibility, and more money. Any one of those things is enough to make me scream with happiness. But what meant the most was having Dr. Sanchez call me smart.

At Starbucks, Eric and I have a table for two along one wall. I really want the couch and coffee table, but the people there don’t look like they’re ever leaving. Our table has just enough room for two laptops and two beverages. My laptop is new. It was the cheapest I could find at Best Buy, but it works.

I’m creating an Excel spreadsheet for my Computer Basics course and drinking a pumpkin latte with whipped cream. Eric doesn’t drink coffee, so he got this nasty chai stuff. He’s better than me at concentrating, but we knew that. Here’s Eric: bent forward, iPod in his ears. He squints at the screen, making little faces now and then, after which he starts typing like crazy. Then he stops and squints at the screen some more.

Here’s me: “I don’t know about this pumpkin latte. It tastes like pumpkin pie, and I guess that’s the point, but I’m not sure pumpkin and coffee really go together.”

He doesn’t react at all, and at first I think,
Wow, his concentration is amazing.
But then I remember the iPod and wonder, not for the first time, whether he uses it to block me out. And then I think, again not for the first time, that I have to stop thinking this way, always looking for the negatives.

At the next table, two teenagers are sharing a big slice of cheesecake. The glass display case looks a little picked over, but there are still giant cookies, blondies, brownies, and muffins. Chocolate: that’s what my pumpkin latte needs.

I touch Eric’s arm. He looks up and turns off his iPod.

“You want something to eat? I’m getting a brownie. Or we can share.”

“I’ll get it for you.” He starts to stand up.

I press his shoulder. “No, you’re working.”

“So are you.”

“I’m ready for a break.”

Eric doesn’t get that part of the reason I want the brownie is that it means I can get out of my chair. We’ve been here for over an hour. It’s been a nice date, but I had a long day and now I kind of just want to go home and watch trashy television. Or even do some more schoolwork without all these distractions.

The barista is super good-looking—talk, dark, and handsome, just like I always liked men before I met Eric, who’s really handsome, don’t get me wrong, he’s just not tall or dark. But, anyway, the barista manages to pick the biggest brownie out of the case without taking his eyes off me. And he keeps smiling. His teeth are really white. He has dimples. He’s probably gay and just looking for a good tip.

I drop my eyes and tell myself that it’s nothing, me checking out some random guy. But it’s been happening more and more, noticing guys other than Eric. Holding their eyes too long. Smiling too much. All I can think is that it must be payback. Eric cheated on me. Just thinking that sentence makes me feel nauseous. I don’t want a one-night stand, not really, but maybe it would make things even.

“You want this heated?” The barista, still smiling—God, he’s hot—holds out the brownie.

“No,” I say. “Thanks.”

I pay him and put the change back in my purse rather than in the tip jar.

I have to move Eric’s nasty chai drink to fit the plate on the table. “You want to take a break?” I ask. “And talk?”

“Um, sure.” That means no, but whatever.

He hits a couple of keys on his computer and takes the iPod buds out of his ears. He smiles at me. Sort of. And looks attentive. Sort of.

“Have some.” I nudge the plate toward him, realizing as I do so that a few months ago he would have just taken a chunk of the brownie without me having to offer it.

“How’s your assignment going?” he asks, pulling a corner off the brownie.

Why am I being so weird in the head? Things are better than they used to be. He’s interested in me, in what I’m doing.

“It’s kind of boring, but kind of not. It’s—I think I’m getting the hang of it. And it’ll be really cool to be able to use it at work. To set up patient records and stuff.”

“Awesome.” He takes another piece of the brownie.

“How’s your essay?”

He shrugs. “It’s—you know.”

“Right.”

I try to think of something else to say, but I just can’t. Eric sips his chai and looks at me.

“I guess we should get back to work,” I say.

He smiles. “Yeah. I guess.” He puts the iPod buds back in his ears. Before hitting the play button, he says, “Thanks for getting the brownie.”

“You’re welcome.”

At the counter, the hot barista waits on a chunky teenager. He smiles at her just like he smiles at me. She laughs. He laughs. He hands her a pastry, and she drops some change in his jar.

“Everything I’ve read says you should put all your experience on your résumé, not just paid work, but I’m not sure that wiping butts and being the tooth fairy count as transferable skills,” I say into the phone.

“Actually, I was always the tooth fairy,” Darren says.

It is just after eight P.M. in Michigan, seven in Arizona. I am sitting on the bed in what was once my room, then became a guest room, and now, to my simultaneous delight and horror, has become my room again. The walls are beige. The rug is beige. The bedspread is white. My mother’s approach to interior decorating has never been what you’d call adventurous.

I say, “I told the kids I was going to get a job. At first Syd got all upset because she didn’t think anyone would pick her up from school. I told her Gammie or Pop-Pop would pick her up if I couldn’t, and she said, ‘I want Daddy to pick me up.’”

“They miss you, Darren.”

“I miss them too.”

I almost say,
And I miss you,
but I can’t bear the thought of having him say nothing in response.

I say, “I was thinking. Maybe you can read to them at night. Over the phone. Sydney still likes being read to, even though she can do it herself. And that way—it’s something they can look forward to every night. Make them feel closer to you.”

“Okay,” he says.

“Jade’s dad does that. Reads to her over the phone. It’s the only time she’s quiet all day. My sister lost it at dinner. Just started screaming at the top of her lungs because Jade wouldn’t stop whining. My mother sat there eating like nothing was wrong.”

“And your father?”

“Took his plate and went into the den. He used to do that when we were growing up. I just never realized why before. But, anyway. I think they’re better,” I say. “The kids, I mean. Maybe because they’re playing outside more. Or maybe it’s just that they’re getting older. They’re not even the worst-behaved kids in class anymore.”