Finding Joy (The Joy Series)

by Jenni Moen

  “Where’s your mom?” I asked, as smoothly as I could. “I haven’t checked in with her in a while.”

  On Sunday afternoons, Amber could usually be found passed out on the threadbare velour couch that operated as the only piece of real furniture in the small living area. Typically, she was either hung-over and recovering from the night before or she was embracing the hair-of-the-dog approach and was already halfway to shit-faced. Either way, she didn’t usually venture too far from the apartment on Sunday afternoons. Of course, today, when I really wanted to see and talk to her, she was nowhere to be seen.

  “Oh, she’s just down the hall at Diane’s apartment. They were going to make cookies or something.”

  “Cookies?” I asked. “Seriously? Is she teaching Sunday School now, too?”

  Lizzie sighed. “I just wanted to say something normal for once. Why can’t I ever just answer a question normally? ‘Where’s your mom?’ ‘I don’t know, probably passed out somewhere.’ ‘Where’s your father?’ ‘Yeah … again … I don’t know. I’ve never met him.’ ‘Have you gained weight?’ ‘No, that’s just a baby in my tummy.’ For once, I just wanted to say something that normal people say. I wish my mom would just make some damn cookies.”

  Her answer was crass and bold, and broke my heart, but I knew Lizzie and that wasn’t what she wanted to hear.

  “Language, please. When we get back, let’s see if we can find her, okay?”

  “Sure,” Lizzie said, with little confidence.

  “Let’s go then. It’s time to get you some new clothes.”

  We walked out into the hall, and she pulled the door shut and locked it with a key that I’d never seen before. “You’re taking me shopping?” Lizzie asked skeptically, as she turned in the direction of the stairs.

  The actions that I’d just witnessed caused the alarms to crescendo to a level that made it hard for me to hear what she had just said. In the four years that I’d known her, I’d never seen her lock the door. Never. It had been something that had really bothered me at first. In the beginning, I’d asked her to lock it every time we left. In fact, I’d begged her to lock it. But she always just laughed at me and told me that she had to leave it open for Amber. Apparently, Amber had a real problem keeping track of keys.

  Keys and daughters, as it had turned out.

  I shook my head to stop the ringing. “Yeah, I am,” I answered definitively. “And no arguments either. You can’t wear that sweat shirt everyday.”

  “I like this sweat shirt,” she said, as we headed down the stairs at the end of the hall. “It makes me feel smarter than I obviously am.”

  “I like it on you, too. Seriously, Lizzie, with grades like yours, you could go to Columbia one day if you wanted to.”

  “Yeah, right,” she snorted. “Fat chance of that. I’ll be lucky to get my GED at this point.”

  I grabbed her arm and turned her toward me just before she pulled open the front door of the building. I pointed a menacing finger in her face and gave her my best mother hen look. “I don’t ever want to hear you say GED again. You are going to graduate high school, and then you will go to college. I have big plans for you, missy.”

  “I’m not scared of you,” she said, laughing. “You’ve done enough for me already. I’m not your responsibility. Besides, I know someone else who is going to need your help more than me.”

  My heart stuttered a little, and warm fuzzies took over my stomach. I couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across my face even though I had to let her comment slide for the time being. This was not a conversation that I wanted to have right now. Not here. Not yet. Not before I talked to Adam. “Taking care of you would not be a responsibility, Lizzie. It would be a privilege.”

  “Yeah, I hear that all the time,” she said, laughing lightly as she pushed open the door, letting in a cold blast of air.

  The brisk fall air that had felt so full of energy and promise earlier no longer brought candy corn, roasted turkeys, and Christmas trees to mind. Instead, it mirrored the words she’d just spoken and was devastatingly depressing.

  _________________________

  “Ugh. I’m six months pregnant, Alexis. We need to talk about it,” Lizzie said.

  We’d had a successful afternoon of shopping, and the fruits of our labor were piled around our feet. The tags might be larger in both size and price than Lizzie was used to, but I could tell she was pleased. Because she was so tiny to begin with, we had gotten lucky in the juniors section of a store that she was familiar with. We’d scored an assortment of big sweaters and leggings that would get her through the next month or two. I wasn’t sure what would happen after that, but I imagined that at some point we would have to venture into some actual maternity stores. I feared that it wouldn’t be a good day for either of us.

  This day had been just fine though, and we were now stuffing our faces with pretzels dipped in carnival cheese. Since I couldn’t eat the fluorescent orange goodness without thinking about my childhood, I was currently on a culinary-induced trip down memory lane. I closed my eyes and was transported back in time. I made stops at the circus, the skating rink, and the state fair, forgetting momentarily that I’d never be able to find happiness in the great state of Texas again.

  Lizzie made a slurping noise as she licked the cheese off her fingers and brought me back to the present. “Hello?” she sang out. “Anyone in there? Seriously, we need to talk about it.”

  “I know we do. It’s just that I haven’t talked to Adam about it yet. And he and I have a lot to discuss before I can make any promises.”

  “So why haven’t you?” she asked naively. “I know you want it. I can tell. Your face lights up every time we do anything even a little baby-related.”

  “I do want him or her, Lizzie.” I found it a little unnerving that Lizzie constantly referred to the baby as an ‘it.’ “It’s just not that easy. Adam had a lot of responsibility placed on him when he was a kid, and he’s scared … no, not scared … uncomfortable with the idea of taking it on again. He’s made it clear that he doesn’t plan on having kids,” I finished.

  “Just make him see how much you want it. He’s crazy about you. And he’ll be a great dad. Look at how awesome he is with me. Hell, you know you are going to get married and make babies. And then it will have a whole bunch of brothers and sisters to grow up with.” She stopped rambling and looked down at her bulging tummy, which looked more pronounced when she was sitting in a slouch. “I wish I had that.”

  I smiled knowingly at her. We were on common ground here. The fact that we were both only children was something Lizzie took solace in even though it was the only common thread in the fabric of our childhoods. Whereas my childhood had been silk, hers was scratchy wool.

  “Yeah, we need to talk about that, too” I said, and then paused to take a deep breath. “Lizzie, I’m not without reservations here. I have concerns. One of them is that if I take him or her, there won’t be any brothers or sisters to play with. He will be an only child just like we are. I’m not sure I’m okay with that and didn’t think you would be either.”

  “But why?” she asked. “I’m telling ya, he’ll come around. I know it. Adam’s like your Prince Charming, and you’re going to ride off together to your castle in the sky and have lots of little princes and princesses. He loves you so much,” she said dreamily.

  While her 14-year-old imagination was running away, conjuring up my happily ever after, I wondered just how much I should tell her. She might be dealing with adult problems, but she was still just a child. And unloading my problems on her was not part of the program.

  I reached over and wiped a string of fluorescent cheese off her chin. Her eyes snapped back to attention. “See, look at you mothering me. Wiping food off my face. You’re a natural. You won’t be able to stop with just one.”

  “Yes, I will,” I said quietly. “I’ll stop at one because I have to stop at one. I can’t have any kids, Lizzie.”

  “What do you mean, �
�you can’t have kids’?”

  “I mean, I just can’t. I don’t have all the right equipment, so to speak.”

  “Oooooh,” she said, dragging the one word out as long as she could and looking at her feet.

  I’d seen and heard this reaction before. Nothing struck another woman speechless like the phrase ‘I’m barren.’ It was the reason I stopped telling people a long time ago. It was nobody’s business anyway. “It’s okay. I came to terms with it a long time ago. It never even occurred to me that I would have the chance to have a baby. And I was fine with that … until … well, until you came along.”

  “And then I changed everything, huh?” she said brightly. “Well, good. I’m glad something good is coming from this disaster. You’ll get your baby, and I’ll get to pretend it never happened. This was meant to be.”

  “It certainly feels that way, doesn’t it?” I asked, as she stood up and began wadding up the paper wrapping from her pretzel. “Ready to go?”

  “Not really. I’ve got nowhere to be. But you do. You need to go home, and you need to talk to Adam.” She picked up half of the bags and headed for the trashcan. She looked back at me expectantly and grinned.

  I picked up the remaining shopping bags and followed. She was right. It was probably time to just come out and tell Adam about Lizzie’s proposition. I would present my case very logically and rationally. I wouldn’t get emotional and weepy. I would just tell him that this was what I wanted, that this was fate stepping in once again with a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. And then I would list the 101 reasons why he should do this with me … the number one reason being that I couldn’t live without him.

  My head was telling me that I had it all figured out, but my heart hadn’t caught up. Lizzie was handing us our ‘happily ever after,’ but I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was all just too neat and tidy. I did have concerns, and I had voiced only one of them this afternoon. Honestly, the only child thing was the least of my worries. I’d spent the past 10 years oscillating between being an emotional void and an emotional train wreck. I was healing now. I could feel it. Adam was healing me from the inside out. But even if I could successfully forgive myself and allow him to forgive me, I wondered if I would ever truly be a whole person. If not, did I really have any business trying to raise one?

  And, when it came down to it, I was worried he would make me choose. If I decided that I really wanted this baby, how could I choose between the two of them? If I chose him, I’d be giving up a dream that had seemed impossible until two months ago, but now consumed my every waking thought.

  But I couldn’t not choose him either. Loving and being loved by Adam was also a dream. Only it wasn’t a what-if scenario. I was living it. His fierce love, his ability to dismiss years of well-deserved hatred, his desire to protect me from myself and anyone who might hurt me … it all left me breathless. I’d never imagined loving someone or being loved so completely. When I’d been a child, my grandmother had a throw pillow cross-stitched with the saying, ‘I love you more than yesterday, less than tomorrow, forever.’ I had never known what it meant. Until Adam.

  I would never be able to give up one dream for another.

  CHAPTER 3

  Adam

  I shut the door behind me and headed straight for the shower. The temperature outside had dropped steadily the past few days, but my trek up the east side of the park and back had worked up a good sweat. I had to clean up before I could start dinner.

  Allie would be back soon from her afternoon with Lizzie. I knew what would be on her mind. However, knowing what she was thinking and getting her to talk about it were two different things. When it came to the hard stuff, she was a vault.

  To be honest, I didn’t think I wanted to crack that code anyway.

  Why couldn’t things just stay the way they were? Things were pretty damn good.

  I was still waiting for the water to warm up and planning my Allie attack when I heard a crash from the other end of the apartment. In one swooping motion, I had the water shut off and a towel wrapped around my waist. As I walked through the living room, I grabbed an umbrella, readying myself to do some serious damage. Rubber Cat hunkered down on the couch and hissed in the general direction of the kitchen as I passed.

  Even with the cat’s warning, I wasn’t prepared for what I found, which was the equivalent of watching pigs fly.

  Alexis

  I cranked up the speed on the shiny new KitchenAid mixer, and a cloud of dust shot out of the bowl. The powder settled around me, coating every surface in our small kitchen. My new acquisition wasn’t working like I’d hoped.

  Adam came wheeling into the kitchen, wearing nothing but a towel and wielding an umbrella. He came to an abrupt halt, and the fierce expression on his face was replaced with disbelief.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “What’s it look like I’m doing?” I asked haughtily. “Obviously, I’m making cookies.”

  “You’re making cookies. Why?”

  “Because that’s what women do. We make cookies. We make jaw-dropping cookies. And that’s what I’m doing. Right now. These cookies … are going to make your jaw drop.”

  I peered into the mixing bowl. I had serious doubts about the jaw-dropping quality of the mixture. Serious, serious doubts. I was good at selecting desserts. I was excellent at paying for them, and I excelled above all others at eating them. However, I’d never actually prepared one.

  Well, that wasn’t exactly true. There had been the one time that I’d made cakeballs at Dawn’s birthday party. But that had been under the instruction and watchful eye of the bakery owner. If I was honest, this kitchen had never seen my culinary skills … because I didn’t have any. Until Adam had moved in, the room’s sole purpose had been reheating takeout and storing my bounty of beverages.

  “What’s all this?” he asked, referring to the sheets of paper scattered across the countertop.

  “Recipes. I found them online. There’s this thing called Pinterest where people post pictures of food they want to eat and shit they want to buy. It’s crazy town.”

  “You did your due diligence,” he said, as he wrapped his arms around my waist and rested his chin on my shoulder. He licked a smear of cookie-something off my neck. “Did your research tell you that you’re supposed to add the wet stuff before you turn on the mixer?”

  “I dunno.” I said in defeat.

  “Yeah, well, if you really want to know, you should mix the dry ingredients in one bowl and use the mixer for the wet stuff in another. Mix the wet stuff ‘til it’s fluffy. Then you can add the dry stuff. It helps keep the ingredients from flying around the room.”

  My jaw dropped, and I just stared at him.

  “Yeah, and you don’t need … pinter shit … or whatever you called it. The best recipe for chocolate chip cookies is right there on that yellow bag. You can add more chocolate chips, but otherwise the recipe, right here, is the money,” he said, tapping on the bag of chocolate chips.

  “And what makes you an expert on chocolate chip cookies?” I wrapped his arms back around my waist and rubbed my hands over his.

  “Every man loves chocolate chip cookies. When they come out of the oven, there is nothing better.” He squeezed me a little tighter before adding in a slightly quieter tone, “And I’ve made my fair share of them. Joy loved cookies. Don’t tell Burke, but … I used to be quite the cookie maker.”

  I turned to face him and placed the palm of my hand over his heart in acknowledgement of the reference to his little sister. Though his shirt made the tattoo invisible, I would never forget that it was there. It was a perpetual reminder of what I’d taken from him. Just as the similar marking on my wrist was. I took a deep breath as I tried to find the right words, knowing full well that any words would be grossly inadequate.

  “I know,” he said, lifting my hand off his chest and kissing the tattoo on my wrist. “Let it go. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  I turned back to the
bowl of failure and sighed. “You want to make these? I thought this would be easy, but I’m miserable at it.”

  “Nah. I stink,” he said, pulling away and backing toward the doorway.

  “I thought you were a hotshot baker … a cookie master,” I teased.

  “No, I mean, I actually stink. I went for a run and was getting in the shower when I thought I heard a robber and came to investigate.”

  “And you were going to … what? Umbrella him to death?”

  “I was going to use my manly man-skills and this umbrella to take him down.”

  “Your manly man-skills?” I said giggling. “You can still use your manly man-skills to take me down … after you shower, of course.”

  “I think I just might. But first I’m going to shower and make dinner … if I can find the kitchen.” He looked at the disaster surrounding us.

  “I’ll clean it up,” I said in a defeated tone.

  “No way. I’ve got cookies on my manly man-brain now. When I get out of the shower, I want a cookie and a glass of milk. So get on it, Paula Deen, and kick some cookie ass.”

  I studied the recipe on the bag of chips and muttered, “Don’t you dare Paula Deen me. I have nothing in common with Paula Deen. I want to be that Italian chick on the Food Network.”

  “Heck, yeah,” he called out from somewhere down the hall. “Giada. She’s a bombshell.”

  _________________________

  I sat down on the couch with my wine in one hand and my phone in the other. I was full of cookies, baked salmon, and some of the best homemade mac n’ cheese I’d ever had. Having changed into a tank top and pink flannel pajama pants, I curled into the couch to get comfortable.