The How & the Why

by Cynthia Hand

  I walked slowly down a big tree-lined sidewalk for a while, and then turned off toward the only building I recognized, not counting the dorm where Dawson used to live. The students parted around me like I was Moses before the Red Sea, staring at my protruding belly, whispering to each other.

  It was like being back at high school would have been, if I’d stayed the year there. I was getting noticed for all the wrong reasons.

  “Hey!” Someone was calling me. I stopped.

  Ted came jogging up.

  “Hi,” he said. “I thought that was you.”

  “You thought right. Hi.”

  “How are you?” he asked, making an effort to look at my face and not my baby bump. Ted’s a nice guy. Every time I see him or talk him, he proves it more and more.

  “I’ve been better,” I murmured. I could feel a blush coming on, just seeing Ted. “I’m, uh, looking for Dawson. As usual, I guess.”

  “Of course,” he said.

  “I have no idea where he might be.”

  “Well, I don’t know his schedule,” Ted said, “but whenever I wanted to find Dawson last year, I started with the theater. Usually he hangs out at the studio.” He actually offered me his arm, like we’d gone back in time a hundred years. “Come on, I’ll take you over there.”

  We waddled along—or, I should say, I waddled, and Ted kept his pace slow to match mine—back down the sidewalk to a large building I’d been in before, but couldn’t remember when. Ted held the door open for me and led me through the lobby, which was all white and marble and tall pillars, to a door marked “Studio Theater.”

  There was a group of students standing in the middle of the stage holding little paper books. Scripts, I guess. An older guy sitting in the front row turned to look at me.

  His gaze went straight to my stomach. “Can I help you? Are you lost?”

  “I’m—” Maybe this was a bad idea, I thought. It might look bad for Dawson, to have me in the state I was in wandering around campus searching for him. I didn’t want to humiliate him, not really. Everybody didn’t have to know that he’d gotten a girl pregnant. I couldn’t prevent people knowing, in my own case, since you, X, are super obvious to everybody who lays eyes on me at this stage. But it didn’t have to be that way for Dawson.

  This was a mistake, I thought.

  “Yeah, I’m lost,” I said.

  Ted shook his head. “She’s looking for Dawson.”

  “Oh,” said the older man. He checked his watch. “I’m afraid Dawson’s not here at the moment, but he’ll be here for a rehearsal in about an hour. If you’d like to come back.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I will.”

  Ted and I went back out into the lobby and stood there for a minute. Then Ted said, “Hey, I know where we can wait,” and he walked down a hallway where there were a bunch of doors. He tried one of them and found it locked, and then tried another, which opened.

  It was a small room with an upright piano in the corner, a bunch of folding chairs, and a couple of music stands.

  “This is a practice room,” Ted explained. “For when you want to suck at your music in private.”

  “Do you play an instrument?” I asked.

  Ted got adorably red in the face. “I play violin. My mother thought because I’m part Asian, I was going to be a musical prodigy by the age of five. So she made me play. I was not a prodigy.”

  “Your mother? Are you adopted?” I asked.

  “No. My mom is white. My dad’s Japanese,” he explained. “They’re both great, but even she had to work through some preconceived notions about race, and I didn’t help by being good at math and science and enjoying the occasional game of chess, but I did my part to break down her assumptions by sucking at music.”

  “Oh.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  He unfolded a chair for me, and I sat. He grabbed another chair and straddled it backward across from me. He seemed different than he was last year, taller, even. Not as shy. I wonder what happened over the summer to give him this boost of confidence. I wanted to ask him, but we’re not friends. I’m just a girl who got knocked up by his roommate, who he was being inexplicably nice to, because I needed help and he’s a nice guy.

  “So why did you tell the director in there that you were lost?” he asked. “What happened?”

  “I don’t want to embarrass Dawson,” I confessed.

  Ted gave a short, sarcastic laugh. “Why do girls always do that? Why do they try to protect the guy? I don’t get it.”

  It was a valid question, but it got my hackles up.

  “It’s not like you didn’t do the same thing,” I shot back.

  “Me? What did I do?”

  “It’s more about what you didn’t do,” I said. “Or say.”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  “You didn’t tell Dawson about . . .” I gestured to my belly. “. . . this.”

  He stood up. “Why didn’t you tell him? That’s why you were there that night, right? Did you chicken out then, too?”

  You know the answer to that, X, which is yes. I totally chickened out. But I said, “No, I wrote him a letter, explaining the situation. I thought he received it, but it must have gotten lost. . . . So all this time I thought he knew, and he didn’t want to deal with it.”

  Ted sat down again. “Oh. No, he thought you dumped him for no reason. He really liked you. He was actually a little heartbroken, if you ask me. And pissed.”

  My stomach gave a guilty twist, or it could have just been you doing one of your backflips in there. “I got that same impression when I called him last week. But you knew all along, and you didn’t tell him. Why?”

  “I didn’t think it was my place,” Ted said. “That’s a pretty serious bomb to drop on a guy. He probably wouldn’t have believed me, even if I had told him.”

  I nodded. That made sense. Sort of.

  “So what’s going to happen now?” he asked. “Are you . . . I mean, obviously you’re going to have the . . .”

  “Baby.” I can say it now. You’re a baby, X. You’re a real live human baby. I guess that’s progress from how I thought of you in the beginning. “I’m going to have her.”

  “So it’s a her.”

  “I’m going to give her up for adoption. I’ve already chosen the parents and everything.” I tried to smile. “I need Dawson to fill out some of this paperwork, and come in and sign the documents, and it will be a done deal.”

  “Good for you,” Ted said.

  “Except when I told Dawson, he said the baby isn’t his, and he hung up on me.”

  “Oh, dude.” Ted dragged his hand down the front of his face. “Oh man. What an asshat.”

  “Yeah.”

  “No wonder you’re nervous about seeing him.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well. I do not know what to tell you.”

  “It’s okay. I don’t know what to say, either.”

  “Dawson’s not a bad guy. I mean, he can be a little . . . vain, maybe? A bit obsessed with himself. I used to make fun of him for the way he kept looking in the mirror and practicing all these dramatic expressions.” Ted laughed, but then got serious again. “He’s had kind of a crapshoot life, but he turned out okay. He’s not really an asshat, so . . . I think he’ll come around.”

  “I think you know him better than I do,” I said.

  “I know him well enough to bet he does the right thing here.” Ted stood up and walked over to the piano. “In the meantime,” he said more cheerfully. “Do you know ‘Heart and Soul’?”

  “Everyone knows that song.”

  “All righty, then.” He cracked his knuckles. “Let’s play.”

  We fooled around on the piano for a bit, which effectively got my mind off the situation for a few minutes, and then we went back out into the lobby to wait for Dawson. The director guy was right—around four o’clock Dawson came ambling into the building. His arm around some redhead.

  I don’t own him, I told my
self. It’s fine.

  When he saw me, his arm dropped away from the new girl. “What are you doing here?”

  “I need to talk to you,” I said as quietly as I could.

  He looked at Ted. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m moral support,” Ted said.

  “Who is she?” asked the redhead.

  “Nobody important, don’t worry.”

  I met Dawson’s eyes again. “We need to talk.”

  “I told you before, it’s not my—”

  “Dude, don’t be that guy,” Ted said. “Hear what she has to say. Step up.”

  “Who is she?” asked the redhead again.

  “Hey, can you go tell Joe I’m going to be a few minutes late?” Dawson asked the redhead. She didn’t look happy about it, but she went.

  Other actors were also entering the building, giving us curious stares.

  “Do you want to go somewhere more private? I only need a minute,” I suggested.

  “Okay. This way,” he said.

  “I’ll wait for you here,” Ted said.

  Dawson led me down another hallway to a small room, but this was a kind of dressing room with a big plaid couch along one wall.

  I didn’t sit because a) I wasn’t sure I could get up again without help, and I didn’t want Dawson to see me flounder around like that, b) I suddenly had to pee, and c) at this point I wanted to get this conversation over with.

  The door closed behind us.

  “You’re the father,” I said. “I can get a paternity test, if you want, but you are the only guy I ever slept with. Or not slept with, to be more accurate.”

  He opened his mouth to protest, and I put my hand on his lips. God, I used to love his lips. They were one of his best parts.

  “I’m not asking anything from you. Not really. I intend to give this baby up for adoption. It’s all arranged. Like I said on the phone, you won’t have to be involved, or pay any money, or do anything. I just want you to fill out this form, so she—”

  He pulled my hand away from his mouth. “She?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? It’s a girl. She loves to kick me in the spleen, but otherwise she’s pretty awesome. She’s probably going to want to know about you. Who you are. Some of your health history. Illnesses that run in your family.”

  His Adam’s apple jerked, and something tightened in his jaw.

  I held out the form. “Please. Not for me. For her.”

  “Okay.” He took the papers. His hands, I noticed, were shaking a little. I felt bad for him. I wanted to hug him and tell him it would all be okay. I believe that, now. I really do think it will all be okay.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “I was a jerk. I’m sorry.”

  “I surprised you in the worst possible way,” I said. “I’m sorry, too.”

  “When is she—”

  “About three weeks.” I rubbed my belly. “Although, seriously, if she wants to come early, I’d be all over it. It’s getting pretty uncomfortable.” I shifted from foot to foot. I still had to pee. “I’ve been writing her letters. I don’t know if she’s ever going to get them, but I keep writing them. Telling her about things. About us.”

  “Can I?” His hand hovered above my stomach.

  My heart started beating faster. I mean, I wanted Dawson to be okay with the adoption. I wanted him to be glad, the way I am, that you’re alive. But what if he wanted more? What if he wanted a different plan? You’re his kid, too, X. What if he wanted to know you?

  I’m not sure I can handle that. I have a plan now, one I’ve given a lot of thought to. I don’t want it to get all messed up.

  “Sure,” I squeaked.

  He put his hand on my belly, right at the top. “Whoa, it’s really solid.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t expect that, either,” I said. “I thought it might be like a big water balloon in there, but it’s so hard. Sometimes I feel like it’s full of cement.” I pressed down until I felt you under the layers of muscle. You shifted slightly. “I can never tell what part is what.” I took his other hand and guided it to the spot. “But this . . . is either an elbow or a knee.”

  He left his hand there for a minute. Then he gasped like he’d been burned, because you moved, like you pushed back, and he felt it.

  I got teary, I confess. I hadn’t ever let anyone else touch my belly. No one except me had ever felt you move before. So now you were real to both of us.

  Dawson took his hand away. I wiped at my cheek. “I’ll call you about the paperwork—there’s something you need to sign before she can be adopted. And I’ll have someone call you when she’s born. I’m sure they’ll let you see her, if you want to.”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t think—”

  “Right, it’s okay. I understand.” I took a deep breath. “Goodbye, Dawson.”

  “Bye,” he said.

  He stayed in the room after I left. I went back out to the lobby and there, true to his word, was Ted, sitting at the bottom of the big marble staircase.

  “I’ll walk you back across campus,” he said. “Did you . . . drive? How did you drive like that?”

  “Oh my God, Melly!” I gasped. “I’ve been gone for hours. She must be freaking out.”

  Melly was, indeed, freaking out. She was about an eyelash from calling the police when Ted and I huffed up to the car. She stared at Ted intently.

  “Is this the guy?” she asked.

  “Uh . . . ,” said Ted.

  “No. This is Ted. He’s a friend.”

  Ted smiled. He nodded. “I’m a friend.”

  “You did what you came here to do?” Melly asked.

  “Mission accomplished,” I said.

  “Okay,” said Melly briskly, still eyeing Ted a bit strangely. “Let’s go.”

  So now I’m back at Booth, letting it all soak in. What did we learn today? I ask myself. What can I pass along?

  We learned, I think, that Ted was right. Your sperm donor is not a total asshat.

  I’m glad I was wrong.

  S

  33

  “She’s here!” Nyla exclaims, peering through the tiny space in the curtains. “I can’t believe she’s actually here.”

  “I know.” I peek out into the house, too, where I see my parents—my dad and my mom—slowly making their way into the seats I reserved for them in the center section.

  “Oh my gosh, your dad’s so funny. He’s acting like she’s a porcelain doll,” Nyla observes. He has his hand on the center of Mom’s back, guiding her gently, on the lookout for anything that might become an obstacle or a hazard of any kind.

  “Well, in a way she is.” My heart squeezes as I watch Mom interact with a friend of hers who stops her to say hello. Mom’s wearing a surgical mask to keep any germs at bay—a condition of the doctors letting her come tonight, but I know the smile that’s under that mask so well. It’s this fragile, shy little smile, like she’s embarrassed at how thrilled everyone is to see her out and about after she’s basically been a ghost in our community for more than a year. “She’s not allowed to come home yet,” I point out to Nyla. “She’s got two more days.”

  I take a deep breath and smile, nervous, of course, but in the best way imaginable. All week we’ve been doing this, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights, a Sunday matinee last week, so this is the seventh time I’m about to perform this, but tonight feels like the singularly most important show of my life. “You think they’re ready to see their only daughter make out with a prince?” I ask Ny.

  “Oh, they’re ready,” Ny laughs.

  Right on cue, Bastian appears from the boys’ dressing room, straightening the royal-blue sash that crosses his chest. He makes a beeline right for us.

  “Hello,” he says in the deep prince voice, arching an eyebrow at me. Then he breaks character and grins that little-boy smile he has. “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  “Hey,” says Nyla.

  He glances at the curtains. “Who are we spyin
g on?”

  “Mama Cat,” Nyla answers.

  “My mom,” I clarify.

  Bastian’s brown eyes widen. “Your mom? But didn’t she have heart surgery a few days ago?”

  “Eight days ago, to be exact. But the doctors said she could come for tonight.”

  “That’s a huge deal,” he says. “Wow.”

  I get misty all of a sudden, which is bad because I can’t smear my makeup. “Yeah. It kind of is.”

  Mama Jo bustles up to us, wearing the black velvet dress she always wears on closing night and these perfect sequined shoes that sparkle when the stage lights strike them. She looks us all up and down the way she does before every performance and seems generally satisfied with our costumes and painted faces. “Are you ready to do this one last time?” she asks breathlessly. All these years in the theater, and she still gets nervous for every performance.

  If I do ever become a drama teacher—and right now I’m not decided about what I want to do, but I haven’t ruled teaching out, either—I want to be like Mama Jo, and then I, too, will wear sparkly shoes on closing night. “We’re ready,” I say.

  “Ready to kick butt and take names,” Nyla agrees.

  We do our fist bump.

  “All right,” Mama Jo laughs. “Break a leg, you three.”

  She moves on to check in with the other actors.

  “This is sad,” sighs Bastian. “Closing nights are so depressing. It’s over. We’re never going to get to do this, ever again.”

  “I know, but isn’t that kind of how life works?” I say.

  “After this we’re on to the next thing,” says Nyla. “And it will be even better.”

  Bastian sticks his lip out. “Promise we’ll still be friends, though. Even without the play.”

  Friends, again. “Of course,” I promise.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats. The curtain will rise in five minutes,” says a voice over the loudspeaker.

  We hear rustling from the orchestra pit. The musicians are getting into their places. They start to tune their instruments, and the house goes quiet. All of a sudden there’s that current of electricity in the air, running from an actor to a violinist, from the violinist to a stagehand, back to an actor, to me, to the conductor of the music, to Nyla, to my parents in the audience. It’s like we’re a single organism, breathing together, waiting. Waiting for the lights.