by Portia Moore
She sits on her bed carefully and stares at her lap.
“Oh, I got you the stuff.” Nerves spread from my stomach to my throat like bile that needs to come up.
I run out to the car and bring her the bag of stuff Dr. Morris told me to get. I hand it to her, and she opens it and looks through it quickly before setting it on the floor.
“Thank you Aidan.” Hearing her speak shocks me. Her voice is low and hollow and almost unrecognizable.
“It was nothing.” I stand around feeling like a bump on a log. “Do you need me to get you anything? Something to drink, a snack or something?”
She shakes her head. “I’m just going to lie down.” Her eyes are red and downcast, her despair contagious.
I wish I could take it all for her. I’d carry it all to see her eyes light up again.
“Okay. If you need anything, let me know,” I say before I head out the door.
She doesn’t say anything this time.
I wander around the house aimlessly. I open the fridge and look at the groceries she bought yesterday. The fridge hasn’t been this full since Grams started dating her boy toy. I wipe down the kitchen counter even though it’s clean and sweep up the stray glitter that must have come off the book Lisa made for Willa. She brings it every time she comes over and makes one of us read it to her. I know the story like the back of my hand by now, and it’s actually pretty good.
I collapse on the couch in front of the TV. I want to sleep, but my mind is reeling from everything that happened today, how everything was good and just flipped in an instant. Then I remember I left my phone in the car and I haven’t looked at it all day. I go grab it and scroll through text messages from the girls I’ve been seeing. I have one text from Chris, asking if I’m coming up this weekend. I text him back no. A boob pic from Hillary sort of gets me to smile, and I see one message from Tara.
Shit, I was supposed to meet her for drinks.
Thanks for standing me up.
I sigh. I can’t call her now. It’s ten, and I was supposed to meet her at eight. I sit up on the couch and decide to tell her the truth.
I’m really sorry. It’s just not a good time for me to date anyone.
I head to my room and stop as I hear crying. I stop at the guest room door and hear that she’s stopped. I contemplate knocking, but fuck it. I crack open the door. It’s dark except for the lamp illuminating her face. Tears are coming down it as she stares at the ceiling. She covers her face, her blond hair sticking to it.
“Leese,” I say quietly. I don’t know if I should leave or say something. So I do neither.
I walk over to the bed and carefully climb over her. I lie down next her and pull her toward me and tell her to let it out. She wraps herself around me and lets go completely. I hold her and rub her back until she falls asleep.
THE LAST TIME I felt anything close to this type of loss lasted only briefly. It was after I left Michigan and stayed with Aunt Danni in Chicago. I was pregnant with Willa; my heart was broken into a million pieces. I had left the only life I had ever known and was shell-shocked. As my stomach grew, the pit of despair I was in seemed to grow deeper each day. I felt as though I was losing my identity each time I looked in the mirror.
I wanted to hate Will with everything in me. I wanted to be over him, but each month that passed was a reminder that he was the only person who made me feel alive. Even though I was in a new place where people didn’t know my mother’s sins, they read my own. I was a teenager and pregnant, and the father was nowhere to be found. I felt like a statistic, a walking billboard of my mistakes. I was in a nightmare I wanted nothing more to wake up from, yet I couldn’t.
When I hit six months, everything changed. Willa kicked me so much every day that I swore she was going to be a championship soccer player. I could sometimes see the imprint of her foot or elbow through my skin, and even though at first it looked like something out of Alien, eventually it became normal. I grew accustomed to it and almost welcomed it. I stopped seeing her as a problem I couldn’t wait to pass along to Aunt Danni; she had become my friend. A friend who knew all that I knew and would never judge me. She was the only piece I had left of the one man I loved and sacrificed everything for. She was my internal diary. I told her how much I missed home, and for me, home was my friends: Amanda, Chris, and even Aidan. She’d listen to me talk about what I wanted to do to the people who gave me looks at the school I went to.
I tried not to look at her as a daughter because I knew when she came, she wouldn’t be mine, and I knew with everything in me that was what would be best for her. So when I made it to seven months and she stopped kicking or elbowing me, I was terrified. I waited hours to tell Danni because I didn’t want to worry her even though I was scared out of my mind. After dinner, when she still hadn’t moved, I broke down in tears and told Danni. She tried to stay calm, but I could see in her eyes how afraid she was. As we drove to the hospital, I saw her hands trembling on the steering wheel. Yet she kept telling me it was going to be okay, that everything would be fine and to stop crying and we were going to laugh when the doctor told us we were two big scaredy cats.
When we made it to the ER, I felt as though I had to make myself breathe, and when they did an ultrasound and Willa was okay and I heard her heartbeat, I let out the longest breath I ever had. It was the first time I had ever cried out of sheer joy. I realized that as bad as my life looked and even though the circumstances that brought Willa into our lives weren’t the best, I wouldn’t have changed anything I’d done. I wanted, more than anything, for her to take her first breath and wrap her little hand around my finger.
The day she was born, I knew it was all worth it, even though I knew I wouldn’t be called her mom and she’d only know me as big cousin Lisa. I knew that I’d done the right thing by giving her a chance at life. She was the best parts of me, and without me there to ruin her, she’d be a better woman than I could ever hope of being. I wanted to name her Hope, because she was that to me, but Aunt Danni hated the name. She thought it was cliché, and when she asked what other names I had picked out, the first word that popped out of my mouth was Willa. That was the name I had picked during those days before my common sense kicked in and I realized the baby I was having wouldn’t create a happily ever after for Will and me.
I realized hope and fate had gotten me through, but today I realize that fate has caught up with me. She’s exacted her revenge, reminding me that I gave up my chance to be a mother and it was for a good reason. The little fantasy I had about actually giving it a try and being able to pull it off was laughable. I don’t have what it takes. The blood that runs through my veins comes from a mother whose best advice was to give my child away and a father who walked out and never looked back.
I had begun seeing myself as someone I had never imagined, and it was all because of Aidan. I thought he was my lifesaver, but he wasn’t. He was a pawn in fate’s sadistic game. I’d seen a glimpse of what I thought could be something . . . but Aidan and me as possible family was a fantasy, and a stupid one at that.
Me and Aidan? Yeah, right.
He’s never even looked at me as anything but a friend, and to think he would have been okay with raising Brett’s kid when he can’t even commit to a girl he’s been with a year was ridiculous. The worst part is . . . just as my life . . .
He makes me feel.
Even when my emotions were like a storm around me—hurt, pain, loss, regret—he steadied me and made me feel as though I was somewhere else. He made me feel as though even after everything that’s happened, something good could still exist.
But that’s just another one of fate’s cruel tricks. I’ll only ever feel something for men I have zero chance to be with. At least I see that now. She won’t ever get me again with dreams of a family, of true love. I had imagined it with Will, hoped for it with Brett, and saw glimpses with Aidan. Now I’m done with it. No more mirages for me.
I see things very clearly now, and I’ll never get thin
gs misconstrued again.
AS HUMANS, WE get used to things. We come to rely on routines, patterns to make sure things are okay. At least that’s what I do. Disruptions to patterns throw me off. I think that’s what threw me from Hillary more than anything. She went from being the cool, fun girl, to being overbearing and demanding, and it came off to me as kind of psycho. Well, maybe psycho is too strong a word, but things like that rattle me. But if there was any pattern I’ve ever wanted to break, it’s the one Lisa fell into . . . after.
The first night was her hardest.
I know because as she lay beside me, pain radiated off of her. I could feel her holding on and trying not to float away. I tried to be her anchor, her reminder that it’d pass and she could get up and keep going. That’s what I always did.
I didn’t want her to let go of the person I’d seen her becoming. I wanted her to hold on to her hope and let it bring her out of the darkness that seemed to be swallowing her.
At that moment, she just needed me there. She didn’t want to hear words or for me to try to fix it; she just needed me. So for two weeks straight, I’d climb in beside her at night and she’d drift off to sleep.
Until the night the door was locked when I tried to go in.
I was shut out. Scared she couldn’t handle her pain alone, convinced that she wanted to drown in it, and I didn’t want her to drown. I wanted to be her lifesaver.
I think she wanted to learn to swim alone.
Letting her felt wrong, and I missed lying beside her, having her near me in bed. Holding her was a pattern I started to like. It never felt awkward or uncomfortable. It was easy, nice, and I wanted to be there.
I thought maybe it was a step in the right direction though, her getting her getting peace back. Maybe she needed to handle things alone. But I wanted to tell her she wasn’t by herself in this, that as long as I was breathing, I’d do whatever I could to help her get through it. But patterns are hard to break and habits even harder. I had a pattern of not getting close enough to girls to miss them, and a habit of not sitting around and moping about it.
I’m not the guy who pores over feelings in his head. I want to tell her that I see her differently, that I miss being around her, miss us hanging out with Willa. Even though I’ll never get the extent of what Lisa’s dealing with, I just want her to let me in and let me help her. I want her to talk to someone who will understand what’s going on, and I can think of only one person who can do that, but it complicates everything.
I pull my head from under the hood of the 1962 Chevy Bel Air I got last week. It’s a mess, a broken but beautiful catastrophe, and it’s exactly what I need to throw myself into to get my focus off a girl who’s locked me out of her thoughts and room.
“Hey.” Her voice throws me off because I haven’t heard it in so long.
I turn around. She doesn’t look anything like how I expected her to look right now. I kind of imagined that when she ventured out of the house, she’d be in clothes too big for her, her eyes red and her hair a mess, but instead, she looks right out of a dream, a sort of X-rated one.
Her black jeans might as well have been painted on, her white leather jacket is unzipped low enough that her cleavage is out, and her long blond hair falls over one shoulder. She walks toward me, and I take a deep breath as she gets closer. Her green eyes find mine. They’re not red and puffy; they’re bright with a black line along the lids. She looks seductive, her lips covered in kiss-me-up-against-the-wall red.
Fuck.
What the hell is wrong with me? This is Lisa. Lisa, who just went through a traumatic experience, who should be in pajamas and eating ice cream, not looking as if she’s on the way to get fucked.
“Whose is that?” she asks.
I glance behind me, having totally forgotten about the car. I clear my throat. “Mine. I bought it last week.”
“Cool,” she says as she walks around it.
I try to rip my eyes off the way her ass pokes out in her jeans and the way her high-heeled boots make her hips sway. She slides her hand across the car as she examines it.
“You’re doing it. You’re living your dream, huh?” she says with a soft smile that makes me forget for a minute that this is strange.
Where the hell did this one-eighty come from?
“Right now she’s a nightmare, but with some work, who knows,” I say.
She grins, leaning back on the car. “Or you could keep her. One man’s nightmare is another man’s dream.”
Her eyes are seductive, as though I’m being ensnared, but I know that’s not what’s going on.
“Um, where are you going dressed like that?” I ask, trying to hide the surprise in my voice.
“Oh, I got a job.”
“Don’t you have a job? And when did you do this?” I ask.
“I had the interview last week,” she answers as if it’s not a big deal.
“What about working at the school?” She hands me a towel from the trunk of the car, so I wipe oil and dirt off my hands.
“It wasn’t really me.”
“What do you mean not you?” I ask, walking toward her.
For a second, the confidence in her eyes disappears and she seems caught off guard, but it doesn’t last long. “I was doing that for . . . it doesn’t matter anymore.”
For a second, I see a flicker of the pain she’s in and trying to hide behind the red lipstick and leather boots. A distracting disguise, but I see through it.
She swallows hard and tosses her hair, giving me a self-assured grin. “Things have changed, and this is a better fit.”
I let out a deep breath and run my hand over my head.
“Don’t you want to know where my job is?” she asks in a playful tone.
“Do I want to know?” I ask with a chuckle, and she frowns at me.
She rolls her eyes. “It’s just Ardeby’s.”
“So that’s why you’re dressed like that?”
She looks a little hurt, and I instantly feel bad. It wasn’t a dig. I think she looks good—too good. Ardeby’s is one of the only places in town that isn’t a franchise bar and grill, and it’s the most fun place in Madison, not that that’s saying much. We all used to hang out there when she worked there . . . before.
It’s also where I had to, more than a few times, threaten to kick a dude’s ass for “accidentally” grabbing hers.
“I always dressed like this when I worked there. You know, better you look, the better the tips?” she sings, flashing me a wide smile that I try to ignore.
I don’t remember her dressing like this before. Or did she? I think back. I guess she did; it just never really bothered me before.
“I just . . . I figured you’d want something that would work with Willa’s schedule. Do they have you on days?” I ask.
She squints and looks down at her boot, sliding the tip back and forth in the dirt. “No, Thursday through Sunday nights for right now.”
I keep from rolling my eyes. That’s the best shift in a place like that, so I don’t see her wanting to change it, but it conflicts with the times we were getting Willa.
“So you’re not going to be able to keep Willa on the weekends anymore?” I ask.
She looks away from me, turning her attention to the side mirror on the Bel Air. “It’s not a big deal, Aidan. It’s more of a matter of convenience.”
“Matter of convenience?” I ask her in disbelief. “For who?”
“For them, Aidan!” Her words are loud and short. She fiddles with the black purse on her shoulder, then pulls out a little black tube of lipstick and rubs it against her lips.
I want to snatch it from her, spray her with a hose, and tell her to cut this bullshit out and go see a therapist, but I don’t know if that’s too harsh for the state she’s in. I can be too harsh sometimes, I’m told.
“When Gwen gets back, the visits would have stopped anyway. Lauren’s due soon, right?”
I notice how hard she swallows, and her chin falls briefly
. I walk closer to her, but she doesn’t look up.
“Willa loves you, Leese. That’s why Mr. Scott even let her come. Don’t do this,” I plead.
Her head snaps up. “Don’t do what?” Her tone is sharp, but her expression is revealing. Beneath the sexy clothes and heavy makeup, she’s hurting, and if I’m not careful, she’s going to break.
“I’m not pushing her away. But unless I want to be Grams’s roommate indefinitely, I need more money than I was making being a substitute. The teacher I was covering for is back from medical leave, and the other jobs are at other schools and different grades, and they’ll suck!”
She stares at me intently, as if she’s desperate for me to agree with her and tell her this new job is awesome and not to worry about it if she can’t see her daughter much or at all . . . actually, what daughter? I cross my arms. I won’t do it. I refuse to. I’m trying my best not to push her, but I won’t be a fucking enabler.
“Aidan, you’re going to be in Chicago soon . . . I-I have to start thinking about me, what I’m going to do for myself.” Her voice is quiet.
I look at her, trying to hide my disgust. “Maybe you should talk to someone, Leese.”
Her face screws up as if I just suggested she eat her own vomit. “Talk to someone about what?”
“About what happened with the baby.”
Her face turns red. “This is my life. I told you as a courtesy. My decisions are mine to make, okay!” She takes a few breaths as if she’s trying not to cry.
I wish she would. I’d rather see her feel than keep this wall up around her.
“I’ve got to get going. I’ll talk to you later,” she says before stalking off to her car.
I throw my towel at the car when I see she’s reached her car.
“What baby?”
