by K. Bromberg
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Colton clears his throat and swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I saw what I needed to see, know what I need to know. Curiosity satisfied,” he says as he sits down on the coffee table in front of me.
And I know that sound in his voice—guarded, protective, unaffected. There is a whole storm brewing behind the haunted look in his eyes, yet I’m not sure if I should draw it out of him or leave it be and wait for the eye to pass on its own.
My own curiosity gets the best of me. My innate need to fix and soothe and help him when he’s hurting controls my actions. “Did you get to—?”
“He’s a piece of shit, okay?” he explodes, startling both Ace and myself. “He didn’t give a goddamn flying fuck who I was. All he saw was a nice car, nice clothes, and was totaling up dollar signs in his eyes for how much he could take me for. He reeked of alcohol, had the tats to show he’d earned his prison cred . . .” The words come out in a complete rush of air, the hurricane within him needing to churn. The muscle in his jaw pulses with anger, his muscles visibly taut as he lifts the glass of amber liquid to his lips. He pushes the alcohol around the inside of his mouth trying to figure out what to say next before he swallows it. “I am nothing like him. I will never be anything like him.” He grits the words out with poisoned resolution.
“I never thought you were or would be.” Still unsure of the right thing to say, I take the direct approach with him. He doesn’t need to be coddled right now or treated with kid gloves. That would only diminish the validity of his feelings and what he’s going through.
“Don’t, Ry,” he warns as he shoves up from the table, his anger eating at him. “Don’t give me one of your speeches about what a good man I am because I’m not. I’m the furthest fucking thing from it right now, so thanks . . . but no thanks.”
He turns to face me, eyes daring me to say more, the defensive shield he carries at the ready, up and armed. Our gaze locks, mine asking for more, needing to understand what happened to rock the solid foundation he’s been standing on for so very long.
“You know I went there today with no expectations whatsoever. But a small part of me . . . the fucked-up part obviously,” he says with a condescending chuckle, “thought he’d see me and shit, I don’t know . . . that he’d just know who I was. Like because we shared blood it would be an automatic thing. And even more fucked up than wanting to know I was a blip on his fucking radar, was at the same time, I didn’t want him to realize it at all.” His voice rises and he throws his hands out to his sides. “So yeah . . . tell me how I’m supposed to explain that.”
The anger is raw in his voice and there’s nothing I can say to take away the sting of what he went through. I just wish I’d been there with him.
“You don’t owe an explanation to anyone,” I state softly. His legs eat up the length of the living room and he moves like a caged animal. “Everyone wants to feel like they belong to someone . . . are connected to another. You have every right to be confused and hurt and anything else you feel.”
“Anything else I feel?” he asks, that self-deprecating laugh back and longer this time around. “Like what a fucking prick I am for asking Andy to go with me? For asking the only dad I’ve ever known, the only man who has ever given a rat’s ass about me, to drive me to find a man who hasn’t given me a second thought his entire life? Yeah . . . because that screams son-of-the-fucking-year now, doesn’t it?”
His verbal diatribe stops just as abruptly as it starts, but his restraint from saying more manifests itself in his fisted hands at his sides. And I can see his internal struggle, know he feels guilty over needing to close this last door to his past at the expense of possibly making Andy feel less in all senses of the word in his life.
I want to shake him though and assure him Andy wouldn’t see this as betrayal. Find a way to make him see that he’d see it as his son taking the final step to lay the demons to rest. Find peace in the one constant that has been his whole life.
“Your dad has always supported you, Colton.” His feet stop, back still to me, but I know I’ve gotten his attention. “He encouraged you to find out about your mom. You’re his son.” He hangs his head forward at the term, the weight of his guilt obvious in his posture. “He’s proven he’ll do anything for you . . . I imagine he’s glad he was the one with you when you faced the final unknown of your past.”
I hope he really hears my words and realizes that as a parent all you want is your child to be whole, healthy, and happy, and that was exactly what Andy wanted for him today. I thought I understood that concept. Now I have Ace—albeit for a brief five days of motherhood—I know I’d move heaven and earth for him to have those same exact things.
He walks toward me without saying anything and sits back down in front of me. He reaches out and tickles the inside of Ace’s palm so he closes his hand around Colton’s pinky. There is something about the sight—huge hand, tiny fingers holding tight—that hits me hard and reinforces the notion that Ace depends on us for absolutely every single thing. That we are his lifeline in a sense. I wonder if a baby senses when one half of that connection is absent.
“I look at Ace,” he says, his voice calmer, more even, “and I feel this instant connection. I figured it was because I have blood ties to someone for the first time in my life. That it was an automatic thing you feel when you’re related to someone. I can’t tell you how many times over the years I’ve felt like a fucking outsider, cheated out of having this feeling.” He pauses for a moment, runs a hand through his hair and clears his throat, the grate in his voice the only sign of the emotion wreaking havoc inside him. “But today I was standing there looking at this bitter man with eyes just like mine, who couldn’t be bothered to give a shit about me, and I felt absolutely nothing. No click. No connection. No anything. And his blood runs through me.” His voice breaks some, but his confession causes every part of me to bristle with guilt for my feelings moments ago. The ironic parallel of how I desperately needed the connection with Ace when he latched on to nurse to make me feel whole and centered again.
“It freaked me the fuck out, Ry,” he confesses, pulling me from my thoughts. “That connection I thought I was missing for most of my life, I’ve had all along with my dad. Andy. Today, I realized that blood ties mean shit if you don’t put in the time to make them worth it. So yeah, I’m connected by blood to Ace . . . but in a sense, I’ve been no better than that sperm donor was to me.”
I start to argue with him, my back up instantly, but he just shakes his head for me to stop. When he lifts his gaze from Ace to meet mine, there are so many emotions swimming in them, but it’s the regret in them I take notice of.
“Look, I know I haven’t been very hands-on with Ace. I’m still petrified of hurting him or doing the wrong thing because I’m absolutely fucking clueless. But standing in that driveway, looking at that piece of shit, I realized Ace doesn’t care if I’m perfect . . . all he cares is that I’m there with him every step of the way. Just like Andy has been for me. Shit, Ry, I’ve been so busy trying to figure out what kind of dad he needs me to be that I’m not really being one at all.”
My tears are instant as I look at the little boy become entirely eclipsed by the grown man I’ve loved all along.
“You’re going to be an excellent father, Colton.”
We both lean forward at the same time, our lips meeting in a tender kiss packed with a subtle punch of every emotion we share between us: acceptance, appreciation, love, and pride.
“You are nothing like him. We’ve known that all along. Now you finally know it, too. I’m so proud of you, Colton Donavan,” I murmur against his lips. He brushes one more kiss to my mouth before pressing his signature one to the tip of my nose.
We sit there for some time in silence. The three of us. My new little family.
I fight fiercely against that undertow of discord that seems like a constant so I can revel in this moment. Memorize the feel of it and the sense
of completeness I have with them by my side.
And all I keep thinking is that the storm has finally passed.
I just hope there are no new clouds on the horizon.
I STARE AT THE OPEN email from CJ on the screen. At the five magazines listed down the page with ridiculous dollar figures next to them. Their offers for the first photos of the new Donavan family. The tamed ex-bad boy racing superstar, his sex-crazed wife, and their little piece of perfect between them.
My muscles tense. My eyes blur. My mouth goes dry at the thought of anyone getting his or her sights on Ace. The mere thought of taking him out of the house causes me to break out in a panic attack. Thankfully Colton was able to get the pediatrician to make a house call for his first check up or else I’m not sure what I would have done.
I close the email. No way. No how. Publicity pictures are not even an option.
Any pictures for that matter.
Because even though the public got Eddie’s picture of Ace—scrunched-up red face, mouth open, hands blurred in movement—to obsess over, it wasn’t enough. Not even close. It almost gave the reverse effect. They are now hungry for more. Staking out the house, trying to bribe Grace to sneak a picture while she’s cleaning the house. You name it, nothing’s off limits.
And I refuse to give it to them. They’ve taken enough from me, so I refuse to give them any more.
My phone vibrates again from where it sits on the desk beside me. I glance at the screen. This time a text from Haddie instead of the five I’ve received from my mom today, telling me that pretty soon she’s not going to take no for an answer. That she’s going to come over without asking so she can see her grandson and help me in any way possible.
I clear the text from the screen and send it to the vortex of the bazillion other texts from family and close friends asking when they can come over, if they can bring us dinner, or if I need them to stop at the store for diapers.
Take the offer, Rylee.
The last time someone came over—the boys—I had a breakdown. And I’ve had plenty more on my own in the silence of this house; the last thing I need is to show everyone else how unstable I am.
Just tell her to come.
No, because then she’ll know how much I’m struggling. I can’t let everyone know the lie I’m living. That the woman they all said would be such a natural mother can’t even look at her son some moments without wanting to run and hide in the back of the closet. How more and more I cringe when he cries, have to force myself to go get him when I’d rather just lie in bed with my hands over my ears and tears running down my cheeks.
Type the words, Ry. Ask her to get here.
I have the baby blues. That’s all this is. A goddamn roller coaster of emotion, extreme joy interlaced with moments of soul-bottoming lows, all controlled by the flick of the hormonal switch.
She wouldn’t understand. These feelings are normal. Every new mother goes through it, but no one else understands it unless they’re in the midst of it.
I can get through this on my own. It’s just my need to control everything that makes it feel like it’s uncontrollable: the outside world, my emotions, our everything. I can prove I can handle this, that I’m good at this. It’s only been seven days. I can handle this on my own.
Take the break she’ll give you. It’s exactly what you need.
How can I let someone else watch Ace, when I’m having a hard enough time allowing Colton? I know I’m the only one who can nurse him, but there are still diapers and burping and rocking left for others to help with. And it’s not because I don’t think Colton can handle it, but if I get there first, prove to myself I’ve got a handle on this, then maybe it will help me feel less haywire.
Get a few minutes to yourself. Let her come over. Take a shower without rushing. Brush your teeth without staring to see if his chest is moving. Eat some food without a baby attached to you.
I pick my phone up, hands trembling as I stare at Haddie’s text. Every part of me is conflicted over what to write.
We’re good. Thanks. Just settling in. Maybe next week when we’re in a better routine.
I hit send. Will she see through that response? Will she come over anyway and in five minutes know something is wrong with me?
Maybe that’s what I want.
I don’t know.
I close my eyes and lean back in the chair. Lost in my thoughts, I try to find some quiet in my head since Ace is asleep in the swing right now while Colton is outside the walls of my self-imposed prison.
The first tear falls and slides silently down my cheek. Thoughts come and fade with each tear that drops, but for some reason my mind fixates on the empty picture frame on the bookcase beside me. The one that’s supposed to be filled with the new memories we make together as a family and yet when I open my eyes to look at it, its emptiness is all I see.
Just like I feel.
I came in here with the intent to do so many things and now for the life of me, I can’t remember what they were. I swear that pregnancy brain has turned into postpartum brain with how groggy and forgetful I feel when I’m wide awake.
Check on Zander. Take a shower. Reassure Shane I’m all right after the other night. Pump breast milk. Ask Colton if the police have gotten any closer to finding Eddie. Eat. Must remember to eat something. Email Teddy about status of Zander’s caseworker. Respond to the texts on my phone.
It all makes my head hurt. Every single item. And as important as each item is, I don’t want to do any of them. All I want to do is pull the blankets over my head and sleep. The only place I can escape my thoughts and feelings that don’t feel like mine.
I go to close Outlook on the computer when an email closer to the bottom of the screen catches my eye that I didn’t notice before. It’s from CJ and has the subject: LADCFS process started.
What the hell? What process was started with the Los Angeles Department of Child and Family Services? Colton’s comments flicker back into my mind from a few weeks ago but I refuse to listen to them. Refuse to believe he did what I think he did.
I open the email and read:
Colton,
As per your instruction, I have started the initial legwork to qualify you and Rylee as suitable candidates to adopt Zander Sullivan. I’d like to reiterate that this can be a tedious and often cumbersome process and might not end in your favor. Attached you will find the completed forms submitted on Rylee’s and your behalf to get the ball rolling.
I reread the email, emotions on a merry-go-round in my mind: shock, disbelief, pride, and anger on a constant circle.
How could he do this without telling me? How could he force my hand and make me choose one boy over the others?
For some reason I can’t grasp onto the positive side of it. I can see it, realize it, but I can’t hold on to the thought long enough that one of my boys means enough to Colton to want to do this. All I can see is that he acted without me.
This is not even an option.
Can’t be.
It may help save one but it would alienate the others.
I lose my grip on the edges of the rabbit hole I felt I was slowly clawing my way out of and slide back down into its darkness. It’s sudden and all-consuming. The feelings are so intense, so inescapable, that the next time I come up for air, the shadows in the room have shifted. Time has passed.
I’m freaked. Ace is screaming. Blood curdling screams that call to my maternal instincts and aching breasts overfull with milk. And yet all I want to do is escape to the beach down below where the wind will whip in my ears and take the sound away. Give me an excuse not to hear him.
“Goddammit, Ry! Where the fuck are you?” Colton’s voice bellows through the house, disapproval and anger tingeing the echo when it hits me.
Is that what snapped me out of my trance? Colton calling me?
Déjà vu hits. Same place, same situation as yesterday, and yet this time the tone in Colton’s voice speaks way louder than the words he says. And before I even se
t foot into the family room, I’m primed and ready for a fight.
I walk into the room just as Colton’s lifting an absolutely livid Ace out of his swing and pulling him to his chest to try and soothe him. He lifts his eyes when he hears my footsteps and the look he gives me paralyzes me.
“That’s twice I’ve walked in the front door in two days to find Ace screaming and you nowhere to be found. What the fuck is going on, Rylee?” His voice is quiet steel and ice when he speaks, spite and confusion front and center.
I stare at him dumbfounded. I know I deserve the reprimand, that he has every right to ask the question, and yet I don’t have the words to explain to him the why behind it.
“Answer me,” he demands, causing Ace’s cries to start again, his pacifier falling from his mouth.
“I . . . I . . . I can’t . . .” I fumble for the words to express what’s going on when I don’t even know myself. So I change gears. Use my emotions to throw the whole kitchen sink into the argument I can see brewing and do so knowing this is going to be nasty. He’s on edge from the emotional overload of seeing his dad yesterday and I’m overwhelmed with the constant free fall of my emotions. “How dare you submit adoption paperwork on our behalf for Zander and keep it from me! I told you I couldn’t pick one boy and not the others!” I yell at the top of my lungs, combining two completely unrelated topics—and it feels so damn good. So damn cleansing when I’ve been holding so much in for so long. And yes, I’m fighting a battle to distract him from the truth, but I can’t stop myself once I start. “You went behind my back, Colton. How dare you? How dare you think for one goddamn second you know what I want or what Zander needs?”
Colton stands there, slightly stunned, eyes wide and jaw clenched—our baby on his shoulder—and just stares at me with absolute insolence. “I don’t know what Zander needs?” he asks, voice escalating with each word. “You want to fight, sweetheart, you better come at me with something stronger than that because you and I both know the truth on that one.” Hurt flashes in his eyes and as much as I hate myself for it, it does nothing to stop the tsunami of anger taking over me.
