by Bailey B
“Did you know your mother calls me every week?” I can’t tell if she’s irritated by the fact my mom is a helicopter or simply sharing the information with me. Either way, next time Mom and I talk, we’re going to have a chat about boundaries. “It’s like clockwork. I know that every Wednesday at two-forty-five, she’ll be wanting an update on how you’ve assimilated into college life.”
“I’m so sorry. My mother is…”
Miranda holds up her hand. “It’s okay. It’s part of the reason I love being a freshman counselor.”
“Oh. Okay.” I’m sure Miranda is assuming my mom is calling because she misses me. This year is hardly different than any other, except instead of me waiting at home for my parents to grace me with my fifteen minutes of attention, I’m in Florida living my life. What’s crazy is I’ve talked to my mother more the last seven months than I have in my whole life.
No… Mom isn’t calling me and Miranda to check on me. She’s snooping, looking for something to report back to Ashley’s father. He still has hope that our families will align and create a power team no one can mess with. They can align all they want, but it won’t be through me.
“You’ve exceeded my expectations this semester.” Miranda turns her monitor so I can see the screen. I ended with all As, a ninety-seven percent and a ninety-nine percent to be exact.
I smile, letting out the breath I was holding and relax in my seat. There’s no room for arguing that I can’t stay another semester. I took my C-average self and kicked ass. “Thank you.”
“I was thinking we could up your workload to three classes.” She slides a paper across the desk with my projected classes highlighted. “I know about your arrangement with your parents, but given how you excelled this semester, I don’t see why you can’t handle three.”
I read over the list. Biology-1, lab, and geometry. It all looks great, except for the lab option. That would require me to drive back up here, and there’s the pesky fact that all of these classes are face to face. “I was thinking about trying some online classes this semester.”
Miranda frowns and folds her hands over her lap. “Distance learning is rough. You have to be motivated because there’s no one there to guide you. It’s easy to fall behind. Are you sure you want to go this route?”
I slide the paper across the desk. “I can handle it.”
Miranda’s lips pull tight, but she nods. She may be my advisor, but that’s all she can do. Give me advice. However, I know what’s best for me. Cutting hours of driving that could be used for studying out of my life makes sense. Not devoting all of my free time to a crappy paying job also makes sense. Josh and I haven’t talked about how we would handle bills, but we can figure that out once I get a job. Plus, my parents will still be sending me my stipend. I doubt Josh will make me pay eight-hundred dollars a month in rent. “I’m sure.”
“Well.” Miranda turns back to her computer and taps at the keyboard again. “I’m putting it out there that I don’t recommend this option for you, but we can switch the core classes to virtual learning. You’ll still have to come in for the lab though.”
“That’s perfect.”
My phone rings for the tenth time today. I park the Gator at the sliding glass door and stare at the screen, unsure if I should answer it or not. It’s probably Amanda, blowing me up for something or another. That girl has called and texted me nonstop.
Her belly hurts.
Her back hurts.
Her head hurts.
Her feet are swelling.
I’ve given up being nice. It does no good to tell her that I don’t care. She still calls. Still texts. So I’ve resorted to ignoring her. I hit the side button on my phone, darkening the screen. It rings again, seconds after being ignored. Whoever this is, they are on a mission.
“Hello?”
“Oh! You answered.” Papers shuffle in the background as the woman clears her throat. “Are you Joshua Thomas?”
“Who’s asking?”
“My name is Clara and I’m calling from St. Mary’s Hospital. How are you today, sir?”
I groan and drop my head against the headrest. This is baby related. Of course it is. “How can I help you?”
“I’m calling to discuss Bryson McGee.”
I take my hat off and toss it on the dash. This is low. Having the hospital call me. I know I need to get the paternity test out of the way but come on. “Listen, Miss—”
The woman blurts her next sentence in one breath, simultaneously stealing the air from my lungs. “Amanda McGee has passed during childbirth.”
If I was standing, I’d fall to my knees. I don’t like the girl, but I didn’t hate her. And I’d never wish something like this to happen. I run my hand through my hair and try to figure out what happens next.
“She’s been calling me,” I blurt, words and reality not connecting. “She can’t be dead.”
“It was probably her family. You are listed on the forms from her doctor as the father. I need you to come in and sign some papers.”
“I…” It’s not mine. The baby isn’t mine. I’ve said that sentence more times than I can count. Now that he’s born, without a mother, I don’t feel as confident.“I’m not the father.”
“Oh.” The woman audibly sighs. “That’s unfortunate. Are you sure?”
“We were going to do a paternity test to be certain, but yeah.” My stomach falls. As much as I don’t want to be the father, I can’t imagine growing up without a family. All that kid’s got is Amanda’s crazy sister. Their dad is in jail for meth and their mom has been in and out of rehab for as long as I’ve known the girl. It’s a shitty situation.
“How soon can you get here? Paternity tests take on average three to five days to come back. Bryson is in the neonatal unit, and will be here for a few weeks, but there is paperwork that needs to be signed. If you’re not the father, Child Protective Services has to get involved and things get messier.”
I pull the key from the ignition and shove it in my pocket. Mom needs to know what’s going on. I’ve kept the baby thing a secret, but with Amanda out of the picture, this changes things. If the kids is mine, there won't be any shared custody agreements or visitation. Everything will fall on me. The bills. The doctors. The late nights. All of it. Shit.
“Um.” I look at the time on my phone and sigh. This is a lot to take in. I still don’t think the kid is mine, but I need to get my ducks in a row. Just in case. “I can be there in about thirty minutes.”
“Okay.” Her rolling chair slides across the floor. “Perfect. I’m running to the NICU so we can get the paperwork ready. For the kid’s sake, I hope he’s yours.”
“Thanks, I think.” I don’t know how I feel about this kid. I don’t want him to be mine, but I don’t want him lost in the system either.
I hang up and shoot Mom a text, telling her I’m picking her up in five minutes. She doesn’t ask questions, just says okay. I love that about her. Whenever I need something, she’s there. No questions asked, ready to help.
I open the sliding glass door to the house and stop in my tracks. Layla’s pouring two glasses of wine in the kitchen, smiling as she holds one out to me. I shut the door and take the glass but set it on the counter.
Layla isn’t supposed to be in town until tomorrow night.
Normally I’d be stoked she’s here early, but I don’t have the time to entertain her tonight. I need to get to the hospital and talk to Mom and figure out how to pay for this kid’s hospital bills.
Fuck.
I hope it’s not mine.
Convincing myself there was no chance I made the kid when he wasn’t here was one thing. Now that he’s born and breathing, needing support from I don’t know how many machines, it makes that point-one-percent more real.
Scarier.
“What are you doing here?”
Layla sets her glass on the counter and wraps her arms around my waist. “I finished work early and took tomorrow off. I thought I’d surprise you.”
I take Layla’s wrists and peel her off of me. I don’t want to be touched. I want to be alone to process that Amanda is… God. She’s dead. How the fuck is she dead? “You shouldn’t have come. I don’t have time for you right now.”
Shit. That came out wrong, but it’s not a lie. I look at my phone. Five minutes has passed. Mom is probably waiting by the road, wondering where I am.
Layla takes a step back and crosses her arms. “I’m sorry. What?”
I groan and run my hand through my hair. “I need to leave, but you can’t come with me, and I don’t know when I’ll be back.”
Layla stares at me, brows bunched together in confusion. It frustrates me because every second I waste is one more added to the d-date, where I find out my future. My hand shakes with nervous energy. I’m not ready to be a dad.
“Are you kidding me?” Her arms drop to her sides and she takes a step back.
I’m running out of patience, but I’m trying. It’s not Layla’s fault I’ve got to go but I really, really need to leave. “Seriously, Layla, I’m trying my hardest not to be a dick right now, but I’m running out of time. I have to go, but you seem like you’ve got something on your mind. I can spare five more minutes. What?”
“If I had known you were going to turn into such a jerk, I wouldn’t have given up my lease.”
I run my hands through my hair and look up at the ceiling. “What the fuck did you do that for?”
My phone dings in my pocket. I don’t need to look to know it’s Mom, probably wondering where I am and if I’m okay.
“We talked about this.” Layla takes my hand in hers. It’s small and warm, and I can’t help but think about the baby, and how tiny his hands must be. “I’m taking next semester’s classes online so I can be here. With you.”
I pull back and grab my keys off the counter. I can’t do this right now. “Jesus Christ, Layla. Are you serious? We talked about next year, not next month.”
“January is a new year.”
“Well, it doesn’t work for me right now. Get your apartment back.” I stalk to my room and grab a clean shirt. Mine is sweat soaked and stinks.
Layla follows me down the hallway, to the bathroom, and watches me put on my deodorant. She waits for me to face her before saying, “I can’t. They’ve already got a new tenant lined up.”
I set my hand on her hip and slip past, heading for the front door. “Then get a new place because you can’t live here. Not right now.”
Layla chases after me and grabs my arm, stopping me from getting into the truck. “Why are you being like this?
I grip the door until my palm hurts. I’m already late and Layla is forcing my hand with this conversation. I don’t want to fight, but she’s not understanding that I have to leave! “Because I didn’t ask you to rearrange your life for me!”
“Josh.” She sucks in an audible breath. “I…”
“Layla.” I frown, not meaning to have hurt her feelings. “If you’re still here when I get back, then we can talk, but I have to go. Don’t wait up.”
Mom takes my hand and squeezes. I told her everything minus the particulars of how the baby was made. She made a good point. Amanda said she was on birth control, but she could have lied. And she supplied the condom. That girl was hell bent on us being together; she could have poked holes in it.
If that’s the case, there’s a good chance this baby could be mine.
“Everything will be okay,” Mom insists, but I’ve got a sinking feeling that everything is going to change.
From the moment that woman at the hospital called me, I felt it. This blanket of dread. Walking under the yellow lights of the hospital hallway, that blanket gets heavier with each step. I take a breath, unable to fill my lungs, then attempt to let it out.
“How can I help you?” the triage nurse asks.
The room spins. I can barely keep myself upright, let alone answer the question. I grip the counter and suck in another ragged breath.
“We’re here for a paternity test,” Mom answers for me.
“Oh!” The nurse perks up. “Baby McGee. I’ve been waiting for you. Can I see a photo ID?” She reads over my name, matching it to the one on her paper. “That little guy is a trooper.” She tells the other nurse at the counter she’ll be back and buzzes us through the doors. “Do you want to see him?”
“I… uh…” No. No I don’t. Seeing Bryson makes him that much more real. Right now he’s a dark cloud looming over my future. But seeing him, hearing him cry… nope. No thank you.
“We’d love to.” Mom smiles up at me with hopeful eyes. I nod, feeling that invisible blanket wrapping itself into a nuse.
The NICU isn’t what I expected. Babies aren’t in clear bassinets, waiting to be adored like in the movies. Most are in covered boxes, unable to be seen. Rows and rows of those boxes with monitors and machines attached fill the room. It’s scary.
“Here he is.” The nurse stops in front of a clear box without a cover.
My heart squeezes looking at Bryson. Wires stick out from his chest and arms, there’s tubes in his nose, and another going down his throat. The scariest is the IV. It’s sticking out of the little guy’s head, tapped to a scraggly mass of dark hair.
“What’s wrong with him?” I touch the box, knowing without a doubt the kid is mine. He looks like I did when I was born. Half the size, but just like me.
“He’s doing better than most babies his age, but he needs help breathing because his lungs aren’t fully formed yet, and he doesn’t have the coordination to eat on his own.” The nurse grabs a cover and places it over his cubicle thing. “I was hoping you’d want to see him, so I was ready. Babies this young like to be in the dark, they grow better that way.”
“Like they’re in the womb.”
The nurse nods and smiles. “Exactly.”
“We appreciate being able to see him.” Mom squeezes my arm. Tears pool in her eyes and I can tell she’s thinking the same thing as me. We’re still going to do the paternity test, but Bryson is mine. Amanda was right all along.
I follow the nurse to her vampire station. In less than five minutes, my blood is drawn and we are free to go. Mom stops at Bryson’s box again. I need a better word. Box reminds me of a coffin and the last thing I want is for him to end up with Amanda.
My throat burns, growing tighter with each swallow. I leave Mom with Bryson and hightail it to the truck. Every instinct in my body tells me to run, but I force myself to walk and maintain my composure. I smile and nod at the nurse near the door.
Left foot.
Right foot.
One after the other at a painfully slow pace.
I make it to the cab of my truck and shut myself inside then stare at the concrete wall of the parking garage in front of me. Space number twenty-eight.
That’s how long Bryson cooked in Amanda’s belly for.
Twenty-eight weeks.
I beat my fists against the steering wheel, not caring that the horn blares a few times. He’s too young to know this kind of suffering. Not able to breathe on his own. Unable to eat. It’s not fair.
He didn’t ask to be brought into this world, but here he is, the underdog, already fighting to make it.
I rest my head against my hands and give into the sobs taking over. My fingers grip the steering wheel until my skin hurts. I need pain. Pain I can control.
My passenger door opens and Mom wraps her arms around me. She pulls me into her and I can’t hold back anymore. I cry, like my newborn should be doing but he can’t because of all those damn tubes.
“Shhh.” Mom rubs her hand in circles on my back, like she did when I was a kid. “Everything is going to be alright.”
I sit up and look her in the eye. Hers are bloodshot, like mine, from fallen tears. It chokes me up even more because Mom is the strongest woman I know.
“Will it? He’s so tiny, Mom. How can a baby be that small and survive?”
“Hey.” Mom cradles my cheeks and wipes my tear
s with her thumbs. “Bryson has the best doctors available. Besides, he’s a Thomas—even if his name doesn’t reflect it, yet—and we are survivors. That boy is going to be fine. You wait and see.”
She kisses my forehead and then pats my leg. “We should get home. There’s nothing more we can do tonight and Layla is probably worried sick.”
Layla. Shit. I’d forgotten all about her in the wake of things. I pull my phone out of my pocket, knowing good and well that I fucked up tonight. I just hope it’s not too late to fix things.
Me: Hey. Mom and I are headed back to the house. Are you still home?
I set the phone on the dash and leave the hospital. It’s a forty minute drive from the hospital to the farm, if you go the speed limit. Mom and I made it here in twenty, but she’s shot me more than one look about how fast I’m driving this time. I slow down to going only ten-MPH over the limit. About halfway through the ride home, I check my phone at a stoplight, but Layla hasn’t responded. So I text her again.
Me: I’m sorry about earlier. We should have that conversation again.
Layla: You said plenty the first time. I got your message loud and clear.
“Honey, the light is green.”
Shit. I toss my phone back on the dash and continue down the road. I wait for it to ding again, but the sound never comes. As I pull into the driveway to drop Mom off, it’s clear that Layla isn’t at my house anymore. All the lights are off and even though it’s too dark to see the driveway, I can tell her car’s not there.
“This might be a stupid question, but are you okay?” Mom will sit in that passenger seat until I answer. She’s a patient woman, but when she asks a question, she expects an answer.
“I fucked up with Layla tonight.” I drop my head against the rest, feeling that burn welling in my eyes again. Today has been too much. First the baby, and now Layla. I need life to cut me a break.
“Sweetie.” Mom touches my arm. I force a smile, because I know it makes her feel better, but I’m dying inside. “Layla will understand. Today was… well, it was unexpected.”
