Now it’s my turn to stare at her. “I can’t believe you just said that. I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do. I’m trying everything I can think of to do right by Hope. I got a job. I haven’t seen any of my friends all summer, and when I have, it’s like they’re freaked out they’ll catch the fucked-up-life disease from me. Meg is gone. She’s gone, Mom, and she’s never coming back, and it’s all my fault.”
With no warning, all the bullshit inside me forces its way out in violent, hyperventilating gasps, and I’m suddenly reaching for my mom as she gets up from her chair, rubbing my back like she did when I was a little kid.
Goddammit. Today was supposed to be a good day.
“It’s okay, buddy,” Mom whispers. “Let it out.”
I don’t know how long we stand there like that, but eventually the shaking subsides and my lungs start working again. I pull away, slowly.
“Sit,” Mom says.
I do.
“Talk to me,” she says. “Please.”
And I do.
It’s not like any of it is really news to her—she obviously knows all the major plot points of the story. But I’ve never told her the little things about Meg, the things I loved most about her, like how she used to concentrate really hard on what the teacher was saying in class, as if she was eager to soak up as much knowledge as she possibly could. Or how she used to talk me into letting her braid my hair when we were alone and how she used to laugh at how ridiculous I looked when she was done. Or how she was the only person I’d ever seen eat ice cream (okay, sugar-free, organic frozen yogurt—Meg wouldn’t have eaten real ice cream) out of an ice-cream cone with a spoon.
I’ve never told her how Meg was always pushing me to track down Michael, how she thought there was some big question mark in my head where my dad’s face should be.
I’ve never told her that sometimes when I look at Hope’s face, really look at her, I feel sick to my stomach because she looks so much like Meg that it’s like being haunted by a ghost.
I’ve never told my mom how much I hate myself for how everything turned out, how much I regret having sex with Meg without a condom, knowing she had cancer and that things would be bad if she got pregnant, and how I should have pushed harder for her to have an abortion. Even if it meant Meg hated me forever, I should have done whatever it took to make her think of herself for once, to stop her from sacrificing herself like this.
But I tell her now.
“It wasn’t supposed to happen this way, Mom. Everything was supposed to be fine. Meg promised me! She was so sure she was going to make it.”
Before she got pregnant and after, during chemo and post-chemo, right up until the end, Meg never once believed she was going to die. And if I’m being honest, despite all our fighting about her decision to stop her treatment, deep down she had me convinced of it too. I really did believe she would make it through…right up until that horrible day late in the sixth month of her pregnancy when I looked at her face and realized pieces of her were already gone.
All Mom says is, “It’s okay, Ryden. It’s all going to be okay.” Even though I know she’s wrong—it won’t all be okay—it’s the best thing she can say to me. Because she’s not trying to contradict me or tell me it isn’t my fault or any of that crap. She’s letting my feelings stay my feelings. And I love her for it.
Mom deserves to know I’m not completely in denial and that I actually do think about our situation. “I called Grandma and Grandpa.”
She nods. “They told me.”
“They said they would send a hundred dollars.”
“That’s nice.”
There are a few moments of quiet. Oh, fuck it. Might as well tell her everything.
“And I went to Meg’s house to ask her parents to help pay for day care,” I say in a rush.
Mom’s eyebrows shoot up. “You did? When?”
“Yesterday.”
She stares at me, clearly waiting for me to elaborate.
“They didn’t come to the door. They were home though. They saw me. I know that for sure.”
Mom lets out her breath all at once. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t understand it. I know they hate me and blame me and all that, and I know they probably blame Hope too, and that’s why they’re acting like this, but those people have more money than God. Why wouldn’t they throw us a few grand to make sure their own flesh and blood is being properly cared for?”
“They’re complicated people, Ryden,” Mom says.
“Yeah. No joke.”
Complicated, yes. Crazy, yes. But if they truly loved Meg—and I believe they did; they were always doing whatever they could to help her get better—why wouldn’t they want to see Hope? I don’t care if she reminds them so much of her that it hurts. I don’t care that it’s easier not to deal with any of it.
I could have put Hope up for adoption and moved the fuck on. But I didn’t. I couldn’t just erase Hope and Meg from my life. I made the hard choice, because it was the right one. They should have to too. Isn’t that what parents are supposed to do?
Or is that just another thing I’m wrong about?
Mom walks over to the sink and rinses out her coffee cup. I glance at the clock. It’s already nine. Practice is starting. I have to be there.
But Mom’s not ready to let me go yet.
“Ryden?” she says.
“Yeah?”
“What changed?”
Could you be a little more vague, Mom? “What do you mean?”
“You said Meg wanted you to try to find Michael, right? We both know you would have done anything for that girl. But you didn’t ask me about him then, not even when Meg asked you to. So why now? What’s changed?”
I really don’t want to talk about this. Plus, I don’t know how to explain it. “I don’t know.” I pick up Hope’s car seat. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”
“Please, Ry. I want to know.” Her eyes are almost begging. Fuck.
I put the car seat back down and pull the rubber band out of my hair and redo my ponytail just to have something to do with my hands. “Honestly, Mom, I’m totally sucking at this whole parenthood thing. I have no clue what I’m doing. Hope even seems to know that. So I thought…maybe…if I met my own father, things would start to click into place. Like, I don’t know, on some basic level. What fathers act like when they’re in the same room as someone they gave their DNA to. Or what it feels like to look at your father’s face. Stuff like that. I thought if I had those experiences, things might start to make more sense for me and Hope.”
Mom stares at me as if I’m speaking Korean. Finally she unclamps her jaw. “First of all, you’re not sucking at all. You’re doing amazingly well, actually.”
Ha. Whatever. I’m not sure if I actually say that out loud.
“Second…you really think Michael has something to teach you about being a parent that I don’t?”
Shit. Suddenly I’m realizing how that reasoning must sound to her. Like I think she wasn’t enough of a parent. Like everything she’s done for me was so lacking that a five-minute visit with my deadbeat, glorified sperm donor would be more meaningful than a lifetime with her. Goddammit. That’s not what I meant at all.
“Mom…that’s not…not teach me anything…more like what it feels like…I mean, you’re the best—”
She holds up a hand to stop me. “It’s okay, Ry.” She takes a breath and then asks, “Have you started looking for him?”
I nod.
“Anything?”
I shake my head. “I think it might be a lost cause.” But her question reminds me of all my other Googling, which provides me with the perfect opportunity to get far, far away from the subject of Michael. The news that the day care dilemma won’t be an issue next year should cheer up Mom at least a little.
“I almost forgot—I d
id some research last night,” I say. “UCLA has a day care for students’ kids. And they give you financial aid. So I can take Hope to California with me. I know it’s not gonna be easy, but I really think I can do it.”
She crosses back over to me, places her hands on my shoulders, and really looks at me. Then she smiles a sad, weary smile. “You know what, bud? I think you can do anything, if you want it badly enough.”
“So”—I pause—“I’m gonna go to practice.”
Mom nods. “Have fun.”
• • •
“I got your message last night,” Alan says as I run him through the basics of child care.
“And?”
He shakes his head. “I haven’t seen any of Meg’s journals in months. Since she was still…here.”
“Damn.”
“What exactly are you looking for?”
I quickly explain my theory about the checklist and he goes, “That’s so Meg.”
“So you think I’m right? About her leaving us some sort of message?”
“I guess it’s possible. Or at the very least maybe she left us each a journal. As a…” He looks like he’s searching for the word.
“Souvenir?”
“Or like a gift? But I don’t know where she would have left them if they’re not at your house and they’re not at my house. It’s not like she was going out all that much.”
“I know. That’s the problem.” But with every moment that passes, my desperation to find Meg’s journals grows. Because if I’m not going to get answers about how to be a dad from my father, then maybe I’ll get them from Hope’s mother. What if Meg left pages and pages of motherly wisdom behind? What if, even though she’s gone, she didn’t actually leave me alone in this?
At this point, I don’t care where the answers come from—Michael or Meg or somewhere else entirely. Soon I’ll be “Daddy,” and all too soon after that, Hope will be old enough to start remembering stuff, and I really need to figure out what the hell I’m doing by then, because I don’t want to permanently screw her up. So you can be damn sure I’m going to follow any lead that comes my way.
I hand over Hope and all her stuff and book it across town to school. I get to practice at 9:55.
“Brooks,” Coach O’Toole barks, not looking happy. “You’re late.”
“I know, Coach. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
He nods toward the field. “Take your place with your team. We’re doing windows.”
I jump right into the passing and receiving drill, and after a few minutes, it’s as if the last year didn’t even happen. I’m back in time, the Ryden of old, the one who spent the summer before sophomore year hooking up with Shoshanna Harvey, swimming at the lake, drinking a lot of beer. The Ryden who knew absolutely nothing about baby feeding schedules or diaper rash or what the word metastasis means.
My foot connects with the ball over and over again, and each impact is like a jolt of electricity from a defibrillator. Out here on the field, I’m coming back to life.
Dave approaches me at lunch. “Dude.” He gives me a fist bump.
“Hey, Dave.”
“I didn’t know if you were coming today. You seemed kinda freaked out at the lake. And you’ve been totally MIA all summer.”
I take a bite of my sandwich and chew slowly, trying to figure out how to respond. I really don’t want to get into a whole discussion right now. Eventually, I go with, “Yeah, well, here I am. So what’s going on with you and Shoshanna?”
Dave’s eyes glaze over a little, and I know exactly what he’s thinking about. There are certain things Shoshanna Harvey is very, very good at. “Man, she’s amazing. I think I’m in love.”
I smile. He’s not wrong. Sho is amazing, in lots of ways.
“That’s cool with you, right?” he asks way too belatedly. “I mean, you’re totally over her, yeah?”
“Yes, David. I’m over her. I’m happy for you, man.”
He pops a straw into a Capri Sun and downs the whole thing in one sip. I watch as the pouch gets flatter and flatter, powerless as its insides get sucked out. “Whatever happened with you two, anyway? You never told me why you broke up.”
I shrug. “Dunno. Just wasn’t right, I guess.” The truth is, Sho and I had fun, but the same kind of fun over and over again gets old after a while—at least, when there’s nothing underneath. I was ready for something else. Looking back, I was ready to find Meg. Not that Shoshanna’s stupid or anything. She’s actually really smart. And she’s cool too. And fun. But we weren’t right together. And I told her so. She was really pissed off at first, but she got over it. Shoshanna always bounces back. Maybe that’s why she wears so much makeup—it’s a barrier against assholes like me, so nothing we say or do can cut through her mask enough to hurt.
After the break, we play a full game to get back into the rhythm. I block every single shot.
At the end of practice, Coach O’Toole has us all gather around. “Nice work out there, gentlemen. Welcome back.” We all applaud. “Seniors, listen up. Some of you who will be playing D-One have unofficial offers already, and that’s great. Keep talking to the coaches. Now that you’re in your senior year, they’re free to call you once per week. Let’s turn those unofficial offers into official ones. For the rest of you, if you’re planning to play in college, now is the time to start looking at schools and sending out your letters of interest. Don’t dally. Recruiters’ schedules fill up quickly, and you want to make sure they have time to come see you play.”
“Hey, Ryden,” Dave says after Coach lets us go. “A bunch of us are going to Chili’s. You comin’?”
I shake my head. “Can’t do it, man.”
He nods, like he expected me to say that. “Cool. See you tomorrow then.”
I shower quickly and hop in the car. I have thirty minutes to get to Alan’s, pick up Hope, drop her off with Mom, and get to work.
But really, all I’m thinking about is writing the UCLA head coach. I know Coach said those letters were for guys who don’t have any interest from recruiters yet, but I also know the UCLA recruiter needs to see me play one more time—in person—before offering me my scholarship. As far as I know, that visit hasn’t been scheduled. So it couldn’t hurt to remind them that I’m the guy for their team.
Chapter 8
“How’d it go?” I ask Alan as I bundle Hope into her car seat. She’s holding on to her spider stuffed animal, staring up at me, a little like Hey, I remember you.
She starts to get cranky the second that recognition kicks in. Of course.
“Great!” he says. “She’s amazing.”
I walk out to the car, and Alan follows. “Thanks, man,” I say. “I really appreciate it. So you’re cool for tomorrow?”
“Yeah, no prob. My mom’s in love with her too. She wants to make her Korean baby food. Is that okay?”
“Sounds good.” I get in the car. “See ya, Alan.”
“Ryden, wait.”
I roll down the window. “Yeah?”
“You didn’t call to check on her today.” He’s looking at me like he’s trying to figure something out.
Huh. Calling to check on Hope didn’t even cross my mind. I never do that when my mom has her while I’m at work. God, I’m so bad at this. Even when I try really freaking hard, I still screw up. “Oh, yeah, sorry. I, uh…practice was really busy. We didn’t really have any downtime.”
“Okay.” I can’t tell if he means it or if he’s saying it sarcastically, like “yeah, right.”
I make a show of looking at the clock on the dashboard. “Gotta get to work, man. See you tomorrow. Thanks again.”
And I speed off.
• • •
I’m making a mental list of all the stats and info I should include in my letter to UCLA while taking all the expired containers of precut fruit off the ref
rigerated shelves in produce when someone taps me on the shoulder. I don’t have to look to know who it is. But I turn around anyway.
“Before you say anything,” Joni says, holding up a hand, “let me say my thing first.” Her other hand’s behind her back, like she’s hiding something from me.
I wait. She’s got a nose ring today. It’s a really tiny green stone. I wonder if she just got it pierced or if she just wasn’t wearing anything in the hole the last few times I’ve seen her.
“I wanted to say I’m sorry for being a total douche on Saturday. Sometimes I say things without thinking about how it will sound to the other person. It’s a fault. I’m working on it.” She blows her hair out of her eyes. “I don’t think you’re spoiled or angsty or anything else that I said. I actually think you’re pretty cool. So will you be my friend again, please?” She bats her eyelashes at me.
Maybe it’s the high I’m riding from conquering the hungry baby dilemma last night and having such a good day at soccer, but I can’t help but smile. “Yeah, okay.”
“Rad.” Joni brings her hand from around her back and hands me a package wrapped in aluminum foil.
“What is this?” I ask, taking it. It’s warm and about the size of my fist.
“It’s a vegetarian empanada.”
I stare at her. “Why are you giving me a vegetarian empanada?”
“It’s a peace offering. Duh. My dad made them this morning. He loves to cook, so even though there are about a thousand people in my house, we always have a ton of extra food around. I gave one to my bus driver this morning—he liked it so much, he gave me a pass for a free ride home.”
“You take the bus to work?”
She shrugs. “Don’t have a car yet.”
I open up the foil. A mouthwatering smell hits me. “This better be recycled aluminum foil,” I tease.
Joni holds up three fingers, in the shape of a W, and holds them over her heart. “Whole Foods honor.”
I take a bite of the empanada. “Holy shit.”
What You Left Behind Page 7
