by Ann Angel
Duh, Sylvie. Jake resisted throwing a Jell-O-sticky marshmallow at her.
“No,” he said. “I’m keeping stats.” And wishing every day he was out on the field and not in the dugout with a clipboard.
“So, you see much of Brynn?” Jake shot her a sideways glance. What did she know?
“No,” he said, choosing his words. “She’s busy with school. Besides, it’s two hours to Decatur. Two hours back. That’s a lot of gas money.”
Sylvie rested her soda can on the arm of her chair. “You two break up?”
“Kind of.” Change the subject! Change the subject! “We’re taking a break.” Yeah, a permanent break.
“Really?” Sylvie perked up at the whiff of possible gossip. “Why?”
God, how nosy could she get? Even for a cousin.
“Difference of opinions,” Jake said. “What’s new with you?” He knew several topics that Sylvie might not care to discuss. For instance, the pictures of her having a very good time on spring break that Brad had texted everyone who hadn’t gone to Panama City. “How was spring break?”
Sylvie gave him a dirty look.
“Well, I’m done,” she said. “Going to Brad’s?” She finished off her drink but held on to the can. Experience told Jake she would use it as a portable ashtray in her car.
“No.” Jake stood. End of Conversation. “Have fun at the lake.” Ouch. His knee wouldn’t straighten. That happened when he sat in one position too long. He limped toward the garbage cans lining the driveway.
On New Year’s Eve, Jake’s leg had still been messed up, so he and Brynn had spent the night at his house, watching movies, making out a little.
Wow, those freshman fifteen pounds looked good on Brynn. It had all gone to her boobs.
That was when he Found Out.
“Just when were you planning to tell me?” he demanded.
Brynn gave him an exasperated look. “Eventually. I mean, it really doesn’t have anything to do with you. Remember last summer when I had the flu? Well, I was so busy barfing, I forgot my pill. The end. I’ll take care of this.”
“What do you mean?” This was his baby. At least he was pretty sure it was.
“Before you ask, yes, it’s yours. I haven’t slept with anyone else.”
“Really?”
“When? Between school and two jobs, I’m not exactly Campus Party Queen.” Brynn clutched a throw pillow to her stomach. “You think I want to lose my scholarship and wind up back in that double-wide with Mom and my lazy-ass stepfather?” She squeezed the pillow.
“You didn’t answer my question. What do you mean ‘take care of this’?”
Brynn slammed the pillow to the couch. “I’m having the baby.” Before Jake could feel sad or glad or anything else, she added, “I’m putting it up for adoption.”
As Jake sat in Granddaddy’s backyard on Easter afternoon, his family swirling around him, that night seemed an eternity ago. Jake checked his cell phone. Had he been there only half an hour? It was too soon to leave. An hour. An hour would be the right amount of time to stay.
What was he going to do for another half hour?
Out of nowhere, Gran appeared.
“You’re not leaving, are you?” she said. “You just got here.”
“No, ma’am. Just getting rid of my plate.”
“No seconds?” Gran raised her eyebrows. “Eat up or you’re taking it home with you.” She gave him a playful swat, as if he were seven instead of seventeen. “Boy, you grow a foot every time I see you.”
You saw me Wednesday, Grandma.
Grandma crossed her arms and gave him a long look. “Changing all the time, boy.”
She had gotten that right. He looked like the same old Jake: a pretty good athlete. Make that a past athlete. A good friend. A good son. But inside he was different.
He was a father.
Open adoption, they called it. When the other options fizzled out, the social worker had told him about this one. A birth parent could arrange to see the child, and the adoptive parents would keep in touch with pictures and letters.
Yesterday, Jake had driven to Atlanta to see his son. A two-and-a-half-hour drive, plus another forty-five minutes looping through fancy neighborhoods, looking for the Atlanta Botanical Gardens.
When he found it, a mechanical ticket gate blocked his way. PARKING $2.00 PER HOUR, shouted the sign. Two dollars an hour just to park? He hadn’t counted on that. He had just enough money for a burger and gas back home. He punched the gate button, and a time-stamped ticket shot into his hand. He’d stay longer than a few hours next time.
Jake cruised the parking lot, searching for the Blakelys’ black Range Rover. Like there weren’t a zillion of those. He spotted them, Trey and Camille (“call me Cam”) Blakely in their khakis and polos, next to a Range Rover, waving. Didn’t they own a pair of jeans or a T-shirt? Did everybody in Atlanta dress this way? Suddenly, his own best jeans and Camden Tigers T-shirt felt all wrong, too young, too sloppy, too country. He waved in return, then steered the truck to the far corner of the lot. Away from the Range Rovers.
By the time he walked back to the Blakelys, they had unpacked a stroller the size of a small car.
“Hello, Jake,” said Cam. Her voice said private schools and out-of-state college. She cradled the baby in her arms, a bundle of blankets and a hat. Or did you call that thing a bonnet? “Look who’s here, Aidie,” she cooed.
Aidie? Jake’s stomach clenched. Aidie?
The baby was dead asleep, sucking away at a pacifier. Between the bonnet and the pacifier, Jake couldn’t see his face. Maybe he’d wake up and Jake could see what he looked like. Who he looked like.
Trey and Cam talked their way across the parking lot. A lot of this and that and nothing. Jake said yes and no and nodded and wondered how he had wound up here on a Saturday morning with these people who had his baby.
They stopped at a ticket window. ADMISSION AGES 12 AND UP — $18.95.
“We’re Garden members.” Trey pulled a members’ pass and an American Express from a thick stack of credit cards. “I’ll pay for our guest.”
Jake wanted to argue that he had money. It felt wrong to pay to see his own son, but worse having it paid for him.
“Forget it.” Trey waved off Jake’s crumpled bills.
But Jake couldn’t forget. The whole day seemed weird and off center. They plodded the garden paths, past tulips and azaleas and apple trees, their blossoms as pink as cotton candy. Still talking, saying nothing. Waiting, waiting.
At last, Aidan stirred in his monster stroller, spit out the pacifier, and wailed. Cam hefted the baby to her shoulder. “Lunchtime for Aidie. Jake, would you like to give him his bottle?” She sounded as if she were offering Jake a slice of pie.
“I’ve never fed a baby,” he said. Or even held one.
“Nothing to it,” said Trey. “He won’t break.”
Jake wasn’t so sure. He sat on a bench as Trey showed him how to support the head, tilt the bottle just so. Jake watched the baby, sucking away, eyes closed. Open your eyes, Drew. C’mon, li’l dude, look at me. Your dad.
Trey circled the bench, snapping pictures with his cell-phone camera.
“Uh-oh, somebody’s gone sleepy-bye again.” Cam swooped Aidan/Drew away from Jake, burped him, and settled him back in the stroller.
This wasn’t the way Jake had imagined the day. He’d thought Drew would be awake, and they would . . . He wasn’t sure what he had thought they would do. Drew was too young to do more than eat, sleep, and cry. If only he would open his eyes. If only he would look at Jake.
“Brynn said you play football,” Trey said. “What position?”
“Quarterback,” Jake answered. “You play?”
“Me?” Trey sounded amused. “No. Tennis is my game.”
Tennis. Jake’s friends played football in the fall, baseball in the spring. He did not know one guy who played tennis.
Until now.
“You plan to play college bal
l?” Trey asked.
“No.” Apparently Brynn had left that part out. “I got hurt. Blew out my knee.”
“That’s too bad.” Trey said. “What happened? If you don’t mind my asking,” he added.
“It’s okay.” It wasn’t okay, but what else could he say? “I got clipped in district finals. Tore my ACL in the last quarter. We lost.”
“Are you all right now?” asked Cam. “How thoughtless of us to drag you around all day with an injured leg.”
“No, I’m okay. Really.” Why was he trying to make these people feel better about his leg?
Trey checked his phone. “We’ve been here a good while. You’ve probably had enough walking for today.”
“Yeah, probably.” His leg did feel a little twingy, which wasn’t good.
“You have a long drive home,” Cam added. She was making it easy for Jake to leave. Did they feel as weird as Jake did about this whole thing?
Cam and Trey talked and talked all the way back to their car. They placed Aidan into his car seat as if he were a piece of Grandma Campbell’s china. They folded up the massive stroller and stowed it in the trunk. Only when they slammed the door shut did Jake notice the window decal. YALE LAW SCHOOL ALUMNI.
Plus one of those damned “Baby on Board” signs.
Jake said his good-byes in a fog. The next thing he knew he was on I-20, headed east, a Braves game on the truck radio.
Yale Law School Alumni thrummed in his head. Nothing else. Just that. Rich people went to Yale. Smart people. People who were members of the Atlanta Botanical Gardens. Played tennis.
The Georgia countryside rolled past him in a straight, dull blur. Yale Law School Alumni. Jake’s head hurt.
The Braves lost just as he turned off the Camden exit.
“Jake?” Gran jiggled his elbow. “You asleep on your feet? I said go get you some dessert. I made that orange pound cake you like.”
As if he were on autopilot, Jake’s feet took him back to the kitchen. He helped himself to a slice of the cake. Back outside, he dropped to the porch steps. He was tired of avoiding so many people and thoughts. Behind him, the TV blared away.
Oh, great. They were still watching the Jefferson County game. Worst night of Jake’s life.
The game had been so close. Time out. The coaches called a huddle. One coach told him to run the ball, the other to pass. Then time was up. Jake went back on the field not knowing what to do. In the split second he tried to decide, a Jefferson lineman flattened him. Twong. His right knee. He tried to stand. Blinding pain. He crumpled to the turf.
Surgery and weeks of therapy. You’ll never play ball again, said the doctors. A strange, empty time without sports. What did people do who didn’t play on a team? Then Brynn told him her news. Maybe that was what he was supposed to be. A father.
But now he wasn’t going to be a father, either. Not the way he imagined. He could see Drew — no, Aidan — whenever he wanted.
“Anytime,” Trey had said. “Just give a week’s notice so we can plan.”
Yale Law School Alumni. As it turned out, Trey and Cam were both Yale Law School alumni. If Brynn had tried, she could not have found a more different set of parents for Drew.
The den screen door whined open and slammed. “Look who’s here,” a female voice caroled. Jake knew without turning that Baby Robert and Jessica were making their Grand Entrance.
“Bring that boy over here,” boomed Granddaddy. “How old is he? Three weeks? Time he learned about football.” Jake knew his grandfather was only partly kidding. Those Campbell boys are born with a pigskin in their hands, people said.
Jake’s half-swallowed cake turned to a boulder in his throat. He wondered what Drew and Trey and Cam were doing today. Not watching football, that’s for sure.
Actually, he didn’t have to wonder. The Blakelys wrote him long weekly e-mails about Aidan. Jake knew Aidan’s every burp, smile, and coo. He knew Cam played something called Classics for Babies while she fed Aidan. Aidan liked baths but hated diaper changes.
The e-mails came with endless photo attachments. Aidan in his swing chair/crib/stroller. With Cam, Trey, friends, relatives. By the time Jake had gotten home last night, pictures from the Botanical Gardens were already in his e-mail in-box.
Aidan. Drew. Two boys. Not two boys. One. Without warning, Jake saw himself, midfield at the Jefferson County game. Hearing two voices, two coaches . . . and then . . . well, it was all over then. The game. His knee. Football forever.
He knew what he had to do. Tell the Blakelys that he wouldn’t see Aidan anymore. He would still write them, and they would write back. Trey would send pictures. But Jake would see his son grow up in pixels, not in person.
“Go, Camden!” the men around the TV shouted, as if they could influence a game played five months ago. Jake turned and watched his cousin Chad. Twenty-five, he calculated. That’s how old Chad was. Cradling his new son, he looked so much more . . . what? Not older. Mature, Jake decided. More mature.
Maturity wasn’t a matter of years, Jake knew. Some of his uncles still acted like the frat boys they had been twenty years ago. There were kids in his class who helped support their families with after-school jobs. They were mature. Jake knew he was not. He was not ready to be a parent.
Aidan was the Blakelys’ son.
Now he understood why Brynn had held that stupid teddy bear at the hospital. She’d cradled the toy against an empty feeling. The emptiness that Jake felt right now, knowing he wouldn’t see Drew again.
Not unless a grown-up Drew wanted to see him.
Jake stood, smacked the dust from the seat of his pants, and dumped his cake plate in the porch trash. Time to go home.
But first . . . Jake took a shaky breath and grabbed hold of a hard truth. For the rest of his life, whenever he saw Chad’s son, he would know that somewhere, his son, his Drew, was the same age, living with people named Blakely. No, not just people.
Parents.
Jake pushed his way through the crowd around the porch TV until he found a redheaded young man, an infant sprawled across his lap.
“Yo, cuz,” called Chad. “Where you been hiding? You want to hold the baby?”
Jake leaned over as his cousin placed the first Campbell great-grandchild in Jake’s arms. The baby opened his eyes. In them, Jake saw Chad and Granddaddy and all the male Campbells that had ever been. Even himself. He would know those eyes anywhere. Even if, someday, he happened to see them on a member of the Yale tennis team.
“Hi, li’l guy,” he whispered. “I’m your cousin Jake.”
“I can’t remember what my name is supposed to be.”
“Weren’t really listening, were you?” I ask him, looking at my boring new hair in the mirror on the back of the overhead visor. “Were you?”
“Your fault.” He pauses at the train tracks, looking both ways, as if looking for a train but actually checking the access roads in case sometime in the next few weeks we have to cut and run and there’s an actual train cutting off our route.
“Left,” I say, already looking at the mirror again. “Hundred feet, cut across the grass to the alley, left on Fourth, right on 151, straight shot to the highway.”
“Assuming a lack of multiple cars in pursuit,” he says with a tip of his head.
“Of course.” Formerly homeschooled Hannah is dressed to blend. Blending is the key, even if it’s boring as hell. Maybe for the next gig, I’ll go punk. Or goth. Something less middle-class boring. I add just a little more shadow, enough to enhance the blue of the new contacts without standing out. Then some more highlighter to thin my nose. Maybe just a touch more gloss would be good.
“Isn’t that a little much?”
“Like you can say shit about my face when you didn’t even listen to the rundown.” I pull out my gloss. “And if you swerve, I won’t tell you one damn thing.”
He regrips the steering wheel, correcting out of the intentional swerve.
“You’re supposed to be a freshman. Inno
cent. Sheltered.”
“So?”
“So . . . maybe you should try to look more . . . innocent.”
“At least I know my name.”
“Screw you.”
“That’s the way to get me to tell you.”
“Liv?”
“Ah, ah, ah. You know better than to break role once we go live.”
“Hannah,” he corrects.
“Yes?” I give him my best innocent, wide-eyed freshman look.
“How many times have I bailed your ass out, force-feeding you info and covering for you?”
“And every time, you throw it in my face. Every time you act —”
“Is this about Toledo? I said I was —”
“Save it.” He has his worried face on. Again. “I blew it in Toledo. I know.” I give him my sad face. “But I’ve got this,” I say, adding a dash of determined.
“We don’t need to draw any attention.”
“I’m not the one who can’t even remember his name.”
“Look,” he says, pausing at the four-way stop. “I’m not trying to be a jerk. I just need some downtime. Toledo was . . . intense.”
He has no idea. Pulling his strings on top of my part of the con is exhausting. “Yeah, well, let’s just hope our trail is good and frosty.” And that Daddy shows up soon with the take. Toledo was supposed to cover us for a while. For a long while. Maybe a nice-long-trip-to-Europe while, with plenty of time and distance to figure out what to do about Kit. Instead, here we are, treading water, waiting for Daddy, watching for tails and worrying about contingency plans and trying not to crawl out of our skins with nerves. At least Mom found a job, so we can eat while we wait. Too bad she hates working.
He hits the brakes hard, tossing us both forward and then slamming us back but barely missing the minivan stopped at the light in front of us.
“Oh, my God,” he says.
“’S okay. You didn’t —”
“Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Shit!”
“It’s okay. Kit, it’s . . .” I grab his arm, try to get him to stop hitting the steering wheel, to stop freaking out. “It’s fine. You didn’t hit her. We’re fine.”
An accident would have sent us scurrying. Paperwork that wouldn’t have matched up and a paper trail we can’t afford. We’d have been aborting and bugging out today, on to another suburban hidey-hole.
