Love Delayed

by Love Belvin

  Chapter 13

  Then

  April 2008

  Zoey

  We were discharged from the hospital two days after I delivered Jordan. Apparently, Stenton and my mother agreed that for the first week, while Stenton was relieved of playing, we’d stay at his home in Alpine. It was big enough to accommodate my mother, who would be staying with me. Stenton wanted full access to his son and didn’t feel comfortable staying at my parents’ where there was no room for him anyway. In Alpine, he could still train while helping out with Jordan.

  Things were weird between Stenton and me because we assumed different roles. We were now parenting partners, no longer lovers…or best friends. His good energy was with me, but he seemed more formal and timid. Nonetheless his exuberance around Jordan melted everyone’s heart. He stayed in the baby’s face, constantly talking about nothing at all.

  Two weeks after I had Jordan, I moved into the Philly apartment. I figured the way to go in was head first. I needed stability for my son and that wouldn’t happen in good time if we’d stayed with my mother for a few months. I made my bed and had to sleep in it, so to speak.

  It was hard because my mother was still working and couldn’t stay with us very long. She was killing herself, trying to prepare meals for two households, helping with Jordan and going to work every morning. So many nights I had to kick her out, which was the last thing I wanted. I needed my mom more than ever. She would assign Ruth responsibilities, but at seventeen and with no driver’s license, she had to be transported and would keep the same hours as my mother when she visited.

  The upside to the isolation was the bonding that took place between Jordan and me. He was the most beautiful baby I’d ever seen. It amazed me how I could soothe his cries with just a diaper change, burp, feeding from my breasts or simple cuddling. I never imagined what I’d be like as a mother; it had all come so soon, but Jordan forced me into this realm of love I never knew existed. And while I thought I loved and appreciated Sarah Barrett before this experience, I could now honor her with a fresh perspective. I’d been a mom for two short weeks and could see what the fuss was all about every year, leading up to the second Sunday of May.

  Jordan slept a lot. He was still a newborn, and with having to be prepared for his every demand, I couldn’t exactly relax. That bull crap about sleeping when the baby sleeps was the most invalid advice anyone could give. There was always laundry that needed to be done, food that needed to be prepared and other household chores. I’d wipe those things out and then look for more to do before Jordan’s next scheduled feeding. Sometimes I moved too fast for my own good and became antsy.

  One night, I stalked Stenton online…again. I went to Facebook and Twitter to see if I could catch up with him. We still weren’t as communicative as we once were. Now, everything was about Jordan. I’d set it up that way. I had to protect the place of emotional stability I’d been able to find vacancy in. As I did my social media voyage like a fan of his, I clicked on dozens of pictures of Stenton, posing with our newborn son. If the number of teeth he exposed in each picture could measure his elation, the amount of them he shared made his joy palpable. He was revealing his private life, something he was reputed for not doing. His beaming smile in the hospital, next to an hour-old Jordan in a plastic bassinet; his sheer happiness when holding a sleeping Jordan on his bare chest covered in graffiti, were all telling of his absolute contentment. In the last photo of them skin on skin was the perfect contrast of purity against rugged art.

  In the numerous pictures Stenton appeared to be happy, on top of the world. How could this be when I was still suffering from a broken heart? From failure.

  When I Googled him like an overzealous fan, I found a clip of Rosci of 106&Park, who was clearly smitten with Stenton, ask probing questions, “We all know you just had a baby. How you were able to hide that from the world is beyond me. So, the woooooorld,” she emphasized the word, “…wants to know, who is the woman worthy enough to have Stenton Rogers’ baby?” The crowd went up in a roar, rooting and whooping.

  Stenton smirked, but I knew him well enough to know he was uncomfortable. Stenton Rogers never minded attention on the court, but a telescope into his personal life brought about high levels of anxiety.

  Trying to calm the boisterous crowd, Rosci hushed them before continuing. “I mean, we all know you’re a private man. You’re rarely photo’d out with anyone. But you were able to slip this past us. How?”

  Stenton snorted, causing another round of oohs and aahs from the crowd, “By doing what I’m doing now: not speaking about it.”

  This reserved and confident man I was observing was far from the yielding, excitable and eager lover I experienced making the baby in question. If I was less stable, I would question my knowing the man on my computer screen. The spotlight made him supernatural.

  The chorus of regrettable awwwwwws came. Rosci joined them. Where is Terrance J? “C’mon, Stent. You gotta give us something. You know these ladies aren’t going to let you out of here without something—I’m not going to let you off the stage without a legitimate answer!”

  “I can tell you this: the next woman you see me photo’d with will be someone I’m dating, but the only woman you’ll hear me speak of will be my wife.”

  That set off a heavy applause and I cocked my head to the side wondering why. Was it because the audience got the riddle or because it was cute to hear Stenton Rogers refer to his future wife? I was then able to see just what Stenton meant when he said people don’t see him; they see who and what they want to see.

  “Wow! Okay!” Rocsi, too, seemed moved by that ambiguous comment. “But I have to push a little here, Stent. You and I have a mutual friend that didn’t even know you were expecting. I had to ask him if she put some kind of spell on you to cut the line.”

  I gasped.

  Stenton seemingly found that one humorous as he laughed. I didn’t agree.

  “Nah. No spells, no potions. Just awesome chemistry that produced the cutest and most adorable little prince. I’m a very lucky man. He has the best mother.”

  That was issued without humor. Did he mean that? Was that a ploy to appease his legion of crushees? Did Stenton feel something more for me than the young girl that was so inexperienced, she got pregnant by him? Was I overthinking this?

  The sounds of Jordan stirring next to me in his bassinet stole my attention.

  And there was my life: me and this precious new being, forcing me to learn new things about myself and propelling me to develop others. When you have a baby to care for, you reflect on the times of leisure before the baby when you thought you had no time and realize you had it in abundance. You wonder when you’ll be able to get back to some level of normalcy or whether you should say goodbye to what you knew as normalcy and expect new normalcy. You wonder if you’ll be able to relax and not always be on guard for a disgruntled baby.

  You also wonder if you’re providing the best for your child. I had Jordan outside of the cushion of a marital partnership. It was just the two of us. Yes, Stenton was around as much as his schedule would allow—and sometimes when it didn’t; he made so many concessions in his schedule—but he wasn’t here every day. Ultimately, it was me and my baby boy. Don’t get me wrong, I thoroughly enjoyed exploring this new life. I took joy in observing his ever changing features the first weeks of his life. We’d get out for doctor appointments and walks when the weather permitted. My mom, sister and Karen would come by when they could, but the distance isolated us. Yes, we were closer to Stenton and his job, but it was a complete culture shock not having family just a stone’s throw away.

  Angela still wasn’t speaking to me. That hurt when I thought about it. Thankfully, I didn’t think about it often. Having a baby will prioritize your mind, and Angela wasn’t a part of my day-to-day struggle. I didn’t go to church for the first few weeks of Jordan’s life because I wasn’t ready for the fanfare, seeing everyone was aware of whom Jordan’s father was.

  I
was completely hormonal eight weeks into my postpartum self. I’d become awfully high strung and too idle with my time when Jordan slept, which was increasingly less, but still a lot. At one point, I started planning his christening. I didn’t want a big, lavish event; only to get it over with and rededicate my son back to Christ. I consulted my mom on the minor details that it would take to pull off what I had in mind and before I knew it, the day had finally come.

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  June 2008

  The soft and melodious rifts of the organ rang to fill the air as Pastor Whitaker ran down the latest announcements. We’d already sat through the official announcements portion of the service that Sister Brenda does each Sunday as part of her job as the announcer, but Pastor Whitaker would always come behind her and emphasize the ones he felt were of high priority. He also took the time to shout out his seven-year-old daughter’s birthday. It amazed me that I could recall when she was no bigger than Jordan, who rested in his car seat next to me, on the floor.

  Jordan. My latest obsession.

  “We have a dedication on this morning before I bring forth the word,” Pastor Whitaker announced, drawing my attention from my prince. “Could we have the participants come to the pulpit please?”

  My stomach roiled. I knew this occasion would be difficult, yet a necessary occurrence. This was for my son…and my commitment to Christ. We always christened our children as an act of worship. It is a way of returning, through ritual act, your child to Christ whom entrusted you with the child in the first place. I wanted to do right by Jordan, who I secretly felt I’d let down already by conceiving him so prematurely.

  As I walked down the outer aisle with my baby nestled in my arms, my body went cold and trembled. I heard and felt the hardwood hidden beneath the aged tan carpet creak, and I quickly wondered how many times had I traveled this aisle over the years. The number didn’t matter because none of those times were as terrifying as this moment. There were never the stares and silent throws of judgment that were being cast at me and my innocent child right now. Never had I been so closely regarded as I took the walk. I told myself during the journey to the altar that it was for Jordan. He was pure and precious. I had nothing to be ashamed of or uncomfortable about. He was born out of a love that some of these hypocrites wished they had a day of.

  I made it up to the foot of the altar and observed Pastor Whitaker’s comforting smile as he descended the pulpit.

  He continued, “Amen.” Then he turned to the crowd and asked, “Who will stand with this mother and child?”

  I ducked my head at that portion of the ceremony. It was customary, but today meant much more. Usually the father, mother and baby arrived first and he’d ask, Who will join this man, his wife and child? But that was not the case. Even Karen and Angela had men with them to carry the burden of scrutiny. I was alone. I had no husband. My focus then became my beautiful sleeping baby.

  My father, mother, sister and Karen joined me. There was no man by my side, which was odd in this church. I glanced over to my parents who held their heads high, supporting me once again. There seemed to have been a long stretch of silence. I held my breath, waiting for that moment to pass. I glanced over at Angela who still wouldn’t look at me, but pretended to play in her baby’s hair. That hurt.

  Then I heard movement from behind me. I turned to find Bernard clearing his throat and smoothing his skinny pink tie as he stood and made his way by my side. The act would have been noble if he wasn’t so dramatic about it. Bernard loved attention and this was furnishing him with plenty of it. Standing with an unwed mother and her bastard child? That’ll garner him some respect. In all honesty, I didn’t want him there. I wanted to do this alone. I’d prepared for it. It was my life. My choice. My consequence. My blessing. My child. Bernard didn’t have to stand with me to help me save face, but there was no way I could relay this to him in that moment without being rude.

  I sighed my frustration. Yet another circumstance of not wanting traditionalism. Not wanting marriage. I’m a single mom and here’s my path. This is the road I have to travel. I would make the best life for Jordan…along with his dad, wherever he was.

  And then I heard commotion down the middle aisle, leading to the doors of the church. A door was yanked open and the first one crossing the threshold was a pensive and jumpy Paul. My stomach churned. His petite frame looked formal in dress shoes, fitted black slacks, dress shirt, textured vest and a skinny tie just as pink as Bernard’s. In fact, they were identical. Noticing my quizzical glare, Paul shrugged with his hands in the air, almost apologetically.

  Right away, I knew what that meant: Stenton’s here! My heart dropped into my belly and the wind had left my lungs. Twice I’d consulted Paul about this occasion without exactly telling him what it was. I asked him about cute christening gowns for boys. I didn’t want one made, which is what a woman in our church did for our babies for a small fee. I wanted to involve my church as little as possible. And since Paul, by default, had become my go-to person, I’d asked him. I also inquired about a shoe store for babies. The ones my mother recommended in New Brunswick were with outdated styles or closed down.

  Did he tell Stenton?

  Then I saw familiar faces mixed with those that I was less acquainted with. Alton’s short frame came through with Tynisha in six-inch heels, and their children in tow. I saw Barry and Rob in the mix of people piling in, looking for seats. Then I saw an older gentleman whom I recognized as Stenton’s uncle. There were at least thirty people who arrived before Stenton’s tall frame entered through the doors. He wore the most perceptible scowl as he perused the room and eventually came up to the altar. I’m in trouble. I knew he was angry. Most people would sensibly think he was looking for his child. But I knew Stenton well enough, knew those eyes. Knew the way they roamed. And when they landed on me I felt even worse. My feet felt heavy. I couldn’t move to run.

  Stenton, unlike his guests, gaited gracefully, straight up the aisle toward us just as natural as a member. I was granted a delicious and generous waft of his cologne that warmed my core—there at the altar. Jeez! It was as if he knew his place because he stood right across from me and threw the coldest regard to Bernard. I swallowed hard.

  He extended his hand to Bernard. “Stenton Rogers…Jordan’s father. Are you a blood relative?”

  Bernard looked as if he’d seen Christ himself as he shakily took Stenton’s big hand. I saw the yanking Stenton did when they touched. Bernard wasn’t prepared for that. His mouth hung open for a while before he could speak. Stenton was being passive-aggressive. He knew who Bernard was. Bernard knew who he was—they’d met. I had no idea why they both played this role. Perhaps because Bernard would’ve never imagined Stenton setting foot in our church. I don’t know, but this was weird for everyone. No one spoke. You could hear a feather drop.

  “N-no,” Bernard sputtered. “I’m a friend of Zo’s.”

  “Well, I appreciate your support today, but I don’t think it’s necessary for you to stand with Jordan’s blood relatives, do you?”

  Holy mother of Joseph! Nooooooo!

  An aghast Bernard looked over at me and when I couldn’t give him anything, his sights went to my parents, then to Pastor Whitaker. They couldn’t provide anything either. So, he paid Stenton one last parting gaze before backing away reticently.

  I was mortified. The last thing I wanted was Bernard by my side, but Stenton had some gall running him off!

  Stenton straightened his shoulders as he shifted into place. He greeted my parents, sister and pastor with a nod, but wouldn’t look at me. He did, however, gently take Jordan from my hold, raised him in the air reverently as he always did, and kissed him before placing him at the crux of his arms. Once that display of his doting was done, Pastor Whitaker continued the ceremony.

  I felt like crap. I mean, like the gum stuck at the bottom of a runner’s shoe. During the prayer portion, I got a chance to take in Stenton’s countenance starting from his leather dress shoes, heat
her gray suit and up to his stark white dress shirt where the top two buttons were left undone, exposing the ink on his neck. That ink did things to me, tantalizing things. I observed his knuckles that were tatted as well. Stenton looked urbanely gritty and it turned me on…there at the altar, in front of a couple hundred people. Then my eyes roamed up to his lips. Those lips that were full, wide and shaped like a heart. They were perfect and so teasing that my pupils dilated at the sight of them.

  That’s when I noticed his eyes and realized he’d caught me staring. He didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk. His nostrils however did flare. It was as if he was telling me to back off, so I did.

  We made it through the christening with Stenton participating seamlessly. When we all moved back to our pews, I sensed Stenton right behind me, holding a cranky Jordan. I was relieved because it was time for him to eat. Almost perceptively when we sat, Stenton went straight to the Gucci diaper bag one of his associates had sent as a gift—the bag I loathed and thought was unnecessary, but I felt just as foolish for wearing it as I would for wasting someone’s money—and retrieved Jordan’s bottle and burping cloth. He draped the cloth over his shoulder and gave the baby his bottle just in time to miss his cry.

  As the service continued, I furtively watched Stenton with Jordan. My chest tightened with guilt at how Stenton knew to stop Jordan midway through his feeding to burp him, even though Jordan protested for a half a minute. Once he belched, Stenton returned Jordan to the crook of his long arm and continued his feeding. When the bottle was empty, Stenton burped the baby again then put him to sleep. As I marveled at how attentive and involved he was a father, I could only ask myself one question: How could I have excluded him from this christening?

  He allowed Jordan a few minutes before placing him in his car seat to continue to nap. I had to fight for that with Stenton over the past few weeks because he’d hold Jordan all day if he himself didn’t have to use the bathroom. Babies don’t need to be held while they sleep. They’ll get spoiled. It was bad enough he was a breastfed baby. Stenton’s obedience to that request further spurred my guilt. Even after putting Jordan down, Stenton refused to look at me.