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The How & the Why

Page 22

by Cynthia Hand


  “Because—” I have to stop and think about this for a minute. “Because I was hurt, and I was jealous, and I wanted to hurt her, too.”

  Mom nods silently. “Did you tell her you were sorry?”

  “Yes, but things haven’t been the same since then.”

  “Some wounds take time to heal,” Mom says. “In the meantime, you have to decide whether or not it’s okay to say something racist, for any reason. If that’s who you want to be.”

  I swallow. “Right.”

  She touches my cheek. “Everything’s going to be all right, sweetie. You’ll mend things between you and Nyla—you’ve been friends for too long for it to end over a single sentence. You’ll go to College of Idaho, and Nyla will go wherever Nyla decides to go, and you’ll miss each other terribly, and you’ll think about this horrible fight you had and shake your head about how wrong you were and how much growing up you still had to do.”

  “I miss her now,” I admit.

  Things are quiet for a while, with only the beep beep beep of her monitor.

  “Mom,” I say, because clearly it’s a night for being honest, and maybe she’ll be honest, too. “Why do you keep saying that I’m going to go to College of Idaho like it’s a sure thing?”

  “Well,” she says.

  “Don’t say the universe. Even if I get in—”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, you’ll get in,” Grandma says.

  “It’s so much money. Money we still don’t have. And yes, I’ll get scholarships, maybe, but even if I get the highest possible theater scholarship and the highest possible academic scholarship, and even if I work full-time during the summers and part-time during the school year, I’ll be short.” Like ten thousand dollars a year short. I sat down and figured it out a few days ago.

  Mom looks down at her hand with the IV. Curls and uncurls her fingers. Clears her throat lightly.

  “Well,” she begins softly, “when I . . .”

  “There’s life insurance money,” Grandma says for her. “One smart thing your parents did—they got large life insurance policies when you came along, in case there was ever an accident. Or an illness, I suppose.” Her lips tighten. “So when your mother . . .” Even she can’t say it. “When she’s not with us anymore, there’ll be some extra money. Money for you to go to College of Idaho. Or wherever you’d like to go, honestly.”

  My eyes fill with stupid tears. It takes a minute for me to be able to talk again, and then I say what I’ve been thinking about ever since I didn’t get the scholarship. Which is maybe I’m not meant to do all of this. Maybe my purpose right now is lying in a hospital bed in front of me, and I should focus on her.

  “Thank you for telling me.” I lean over to take Mom’s hand. “But I’m not going to go.”

  She pulls back to look at me. “What?”

  “I’ve decided not to go to college next year.” I rush on before Mom can argue. “I’m going to stay home. Find a job. Save up. Because that’s the responsible way to do things.”

  Grandma frowns. “Say that again—my hearing’s not the best.”

  “Cass,” Mom says, but then she flounders. “Honey, I—”

  “College can wait.”

  She shakes her head. “You don’t have to do that. College is months away. I won’t be here.”

  “But Dad will be here. He’ll be all alone.” This isn’t entirely true, either, I know. Dad has friends. And Uncle Pete. And Grandma, who’s as much of a mother to him as my grandparents in Portland. But the thought of Dad sitting in our empty house when Mom’s gone, with me four hours away, it feels wrong on a gut level.

  Mom’s shaking her head. “You can visit your father. You can call him, every day. You don’t have to give up—”

  “I’m not giving up,” I tell her. “I’m only deciding what it is that I want. And this is what I want.” I squeeze her hand three times. “This. Then after you—you get your heart, or whatever happens, after you . . .” I take a deep breath. “After you die . . .” My eyes flood with tears again, but I dash them away. “After everything’s settled down, and I’ve had time to process it, too, you know? I’ll go then. Will it make you feel better if I promise I’ll go? Later?”

  She’s still shaking her head. “Baby, we can’t let you—”

  But then Grandma jumps in. “Yes, you can let her, Kitty Cat. She’s asking for some time to grieve, and I don’t think that’s unreasonable. It’s her decision, after all.”

  “Mama.” Mom frowns.

  “What? She’s an adult. She can make the necessary decisions about her own life. Heaven knows you did when you were her age.”

  That shuts Mom up. Grandma’s good at that.

  “It’s my life,” I say softly.

  “Okay,” she murmurs.

  For a minute we all sit here listening to her heart rate on the monitors, which is faster than I’d like it to be. I’m feeling perfectly calm, though. I feel better than I have in a long, long time.

  It’s the right thing. I’ve made the right decision. I feel it.

  Grandma’s smiling at me. She looks like Mom, or I should probably say that Mom looks like her. She’s what Mom would end up looking like if she ever made it to old age.

  “Shall we watch some television?” she asks. “I think we might still be able to catch Wheel of Fortune.”

  Mom and I both groan, but we indulge Grandma, who finds her show and starts shouting out the answers and calling the contestants morons when they don’t instantly know the words on the board.

  Mom looks sad, though. I wish she didn’t look so sad. I hope that she’ll come to understand that while this is a present I’m giving her, and Dad, too, I guess, it’s also a gift for me.

  The gift of time.

  I only wish that time could be with her.

  29

  “Let the moment go!” I sing as hard as I can, lifting my face to the lights. “Don’t forget it for a moment, though. Just remembering you’ve had an ‘and’ when you’re back to ‘or.’ Makes the ‘or’ mean more than it did before. Now I understand . . . and it’s time to leave the woods!”

  This is still just a tech rehearsal, but from offstage I hear Bastian give a whoop of applause. I smile and turn a slow circle, getting my bearings among the large, fake trees that constitute our set. Then I (as the baker’s wife) begin to count my steps again.

  “Seventy-one, seventy-two, seventy-three . . .” I stop. There is the boom of a giant’s footsteps. The caw of birds. Fake leaves rain down from above.

  I look up in terror, and the lights change so a shadow seems to fall over me. There’s the sound of a tree falling. I scream. And the lights go out.

  Offstage again, I pull out my phone. I’m officially dead now, not on again until the end of the show, where I appear to give a pep talk to the baker. It’s not so much time that I can go hang out in the green room, but enough time to mess around on my phone for a while.

  Then I literally bump into Nyla.

  “Sorry,” I whisper.

  “No problem.” She’s staring at me like she wants to say something. I wish she would say something. “Great job on your song.”

  “Thanks.” I want to say You too, but she’s headed to the stage to sing her big act two solo right now. I’m standing in the way. I take a few steps back and gesture at her to pass by.

  “Thanks,” she whispers.

  You want to get something to eat, after? I want to ask her, but she’s already past me.

  I find a corner to hide in and turn my attention back to my phone. That’s when I see the email. My eyes skim over the subject line: You’ve Got A 100% Match!

  I reel myself back to the sender. Adoptedsearch.org.

  My breath catches. I glance around, like I can feel the freak-out coming on, and I want to know if anyone’s watching. No one is. I’m standing here in the dark, minding my own business, getting on with my life, and then, BAM.

  Life-changing email.

  My finger hovers over my phone, ab
out to open it, but I stop myself. I’m in the middle of rehearsal here. It’s probably not a good idea to read this email right now. I should wait until I get home. When I’m alone. And I can process.

  But . . . it says a 100 percent match.

  One hundred percent.

  I click on the email.

  Dear CassieintheRye,

  We at adoptedsearch.org are pleased to inform you that there has been a perfect match to the profile you created on our site. When such a match occurs, we assign a member of our staff as a mediator to get in touch with both involved parties and verify the match. Later we also help arrange a meeting, if both parties desire a reunion.

  Please respond promptly to this message with the dates and times that it would be most convenient for us to contact you, along with the best phone number where you can be reached.

  Thank you for your patience. We’ll be in touch soon.

  Sincerely,

  Jennifer Benway

  Adoptedsearch.org

  Time gets fuzzy. I read the email a bunch more times in rapid succession, and then I have to stuff the phone back in my pocket and hurry onto the stage, because I’ve almost missed my cue for the ghost scene.

  I say my lines. I sing. I sing some more. We get to the curtain call song. My voice struggles on one of the high notes, when usually I reach it easily. I catch Nyla giving me a weird look when her back is turned to the audience, but I don’t meet her eyes.

  I shouldn’t have opened the email, I think. I should have waited.

  Then we’re done for the night, and I hurry back to my phone to compose a reply.

  Contact me anytime, I write. And give my number.

  Dear X,

  Okay, I’m ready, kid. Get out.

  I’m only kind of kidding. I have about a month to go before my due date, but I’m already freaking enormous. I can’t see my toes. I can’t get up or down from a chair without major effort. I’ve got stretch marks. Swollen ankles. The works. I’m constipated, too. It’s all your fault. You’re almost fully baked in there. If you want to come early, that’s fine by me.

  School’s back in session. The grounds are full of noise again. Babies crying. Girls laughing and gossiping like normal. Teachers droning away. I’m glad. It was too quiet this summer.

  Teresa had her baby about three weeks ago. We were sitting around in the living room, each reading our own dog-eared copy of the What to Expect book, when Teresa sat up suddenly, made this little hmm noise, rubbed her back, and then went back to reading. This happened two more times before I caught on.

  “Oh my God, are you having contractions?” I asked.

  “I believe I am, yes.” And she went back to reading.

  “Braxton Hicks contractions, or the real kind?” I’d been having the Braxton Hicks myself, where I’ll be minding my own business and suddenly all the muscles in my abdomen will lock up for a few seconds. It doesn’t hurt, but it isn’t exactly pleasant, either. Practice contractions, Melly calls them. My body is going over the exit strategy.

  Anytime, X. Anytime.

  “The real kind. It hurts,” Teresa said.

  “It hurts? How bad? On a scale of one to ten, one being like a stubbed toe—”

  “Three,” she answered. Then she frowned and rubbed her back again. “Four.”

  “So I should go get Melly?”

  “Not yet,” she said. “The book says it could be several hours, and the book says it’s better to labor in the comfort of your own home for the first stage.”

  I squinted at her. “Are you thinking about hiding in the basement? Because I am not in the mood for stairs right now.”

  She smiled. “No. I will go when it’s the right time.”

  “The right time for what?” We both looked up to see Amber with a plate of pickles and a peanut butter sandwich balanced on her giant belly. She’s making us all look bad. She glanced from me to Teresa. “What’s going on?”

  “Teresa here is having contractions,” I announced.

  Amber’s eyes widened. I always thought that Amber’s eyes should be, well, amber in color. But they’re dark brown. Her hair’s not amber, either. There’s nothing Amber about Amber.

  “Should we get Melly?” she asked.

  “No need yet,” Teresa said.

  “Melly told us she wants us to inform her immediately if we start having contractions.”

  “I know. But I don’t want to bother her. She’s dyeing her hair.”

  Little-known fact, X, but in the bottom floor of the old brick building that used to be the school that used to be the lying-in hospital there’s a bunch of special sinks in a line, like the kind you’d find in an actual salon, because, back in the old days when the old brick building marked the very edge of town, and nobody in town was supposed to know about the pregnant girls who lived here, they had to do something about their hair. It was the sixties. Hair was a big deal. Now every six weeks or so, Melly goes over there to cover up her grays. So that’s where she was.

  “Are you going to hide in the basement?” Amber asked Teresa.

  “That’s what I said!” I exclaimed.

  “No,” Teresa said firmly, and also a little sadly. We haven’t seen Brit. I mean, she’s fine—she didn’t die in childbirth or anything. She had her little girl, and that little girl did, indeed, as Melly reported to us, have red hair. Also according to Melly: Brit gave the baby up to the adoptive family without a hitch. But she didn’t come back.

  I guess that’s not a surprise. What could she come back for?

  “I’m going to miss you both.” Teresa was obviously thinking the same thing.

  So she sat there for a while, rubbing her back and frowning every seven to ten minutes, and then every five to seven minutes, and then she stood up.

  “Does it even hurt?” Amber asked. “Or are you like the toughest chick on the planet?”

  “It hurts. It’s definitely a five now,” Teresa answered.

  “Are you going to get the epidural?” Amber said this like the epidural is the good-quality weed. “I can’t wait for the epidural.”

  “God gave Eve pain in childbirth,” Teresa said quietly. “To remind her of her sin.”

  “Bullshit,” I said, which I probably shouldn’t have, in retrospect. It’s what Teresa believes. I should respect that, even if it’s bullshit.

  “I’m going to get my things,” Teresa said, and waddled off down the hall toward her room.

  Amber ran and got Melly, who drove Teresa to the hospital a few minutes later.

  We haven’t seen her since.

  So then there were three weeks of just Amber and me, me and Amber, hanging out. I like her, but I kind of want to punch her again.

  Anyway. Oh yeah, the point of this letter: I have good news. And I have bad news. Which do you want first?

  I always pick the bad news first. So the good news can cheer me up from the bad news.

  So bad news, it is.

  Here goes: I called Dawson. College is back in business, too, and I called the number. But he wasn’t there. Shocker, right? Ted answered. Also not a surprise.

  I felt a little weird talking to Ted this time, because of the dreams. Yep. There’s more than one now. The make-out-with-Ted dream is starting to be regularly scheduled programming in my brain.

  “Is Dawson there?” I asked.

  “He doesn’t live here anymore,” Ted said. “He moved to the Kappa house.”

  I’m sorry to inform you, X, but your biological father is apparently a frat boy now. I have faith you will overcome this flaw in your genetic makeup.

  But unfortunately that’s not the bad news I mentioned.

  I found the number for the Kappa house in the phone book. I called. It took a few minutes for the guy who answered to locate him, and there was a lot of loud music in the background, but Dawson finally came to the phone.

  “Hello?” he said.

  “How are you?” I don’t know why I asked this. I just hadn’t heard his voice in a while. It br
ought back some feelings.

  “Yeah, who is this?”

  I was paralyzed for a few seconds. It’d been months since I’d sent him that letter about me being pregnant.

  “Yeah, this is (whoops, almost wrote my name here, X, but I still don’t think it’s a good idea to do that)—this is (and I said my name). You know, from last year.”

  “Okay.” His voice was immediately chilly. “Can I help you with something?”

  “There’s some paperwork you’re going to need to fill out,” I told him. “You might have to come in to sign some forms.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “For the baby.”

  Silence. You could have heard crickets chirping, X.

  “You know, the one I’m having. The one you’re the father of. That baby,” I said. Okay, so I was a little irritated.

  More silence.

  “Hey,” I said. “You don’t have to be involved. I’m giving it—her, actually, it’s a girl—I’m giving her up for adoption. You won’t have to do or pay for anything, but it’d be nice if you filled out the forms, so that she could know something about you.”

  “Is this a joke?” he said. At least that’s what I thought he said. The music was loud.

  “What part of this strikes you as funny?” I asked.

  Something did, though, because then he laughed. “Okay. A baby. You got me.”

  “That’s right. A baby. She’s due on September 26. So we don’t have a lot of time.”

  “You dumped me,” he said. “You disappeared. And now you call and tell me there’s a baby?”

  “Wait a second!” I protested. “I didn’t dump you. I’m not the dumper here. I’m the dumpee. You’re the dumper. I told you about the baby, and you ditched me.”

  “You never told me about a baby.”

  “I wrote you a . . .” I stop. I think about it. I left the letter in my dad’s office, in the outgoing mail basket. I’ve done it a hundred times, no problem. But I didn’t actually take it to the post office, which would have been the smart thing.

  “Fucking Evelyn,” I whispered.

  “What?”

  “Never mind. I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry. I wrote you a letter, and I thought you got it. I’m having a baby. Soon. I guess I should say, we’re having a baby, you and me. We should meet and talk about it. I’m sorry to tell you this way. I really did think you already knew.”

 

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