The Right Side of Wrong

by Prescott Lane

  Tears start flowing down my cheeks, and I drop to my knees beside him. “I can’t marry you. I can’t.”

  “Because of whatever you’re hiding?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I sob.

  “I don’t care what it is,” he says. “I want you to be my wife.”

  “But . . .”

  “I need you to listen.” He tilts my chin up to look in my eyes, rubbing his finger down Finn’s arm. Finn’s little hand wraps around Slade’s finger. “You are my son,” he whispers.

  I close my eyes tightly. “Dada,” Finn says happily.

  “Forever,” Slade says, kissing the top of his head before turning his eyes to me.

  “Slade?”

  “I need you to hear me.” I nod, knowing he’s sucking me in. I knew he’d put up a fight, but I didn’t know it would be this hard. “This will always be your home.”

  Softly, I kiss his lips. “No matter where I am, you will always be my home.”

  “Mamamamama,” Finn babbles out.

  Tears stream down my face. I try to stop them, but I can’t. I know Finn probably doesn’t know what he’s saying, but this should be a happy moment. Unfortunately, it’s wrapped up in too many lies. I’ve been lying to everyone for months, and my lies have run out.

  “No, Finn,” I say. “Not Mama.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  LAST YEAR

  DECEMBER 1ST

  PAIGE

  Leaving my dorm, I take two buses across the city of Memphis to reach the run-down public housing where my mom lives. If the kids at school who whine about having roommates and using community showers spent a night or two here, they’d never complain again.

  Holding my purse tight across my chest, I walk the mile from the bus stop to my mom’s place. Anyone who grew up here knows there’s a certain way to walk. You can’t show fear. You have to walk with confidence, an attitude that you aren’t to be messed with, but it’s a fine line. You don’t want to look cocky, like you’re daring someone to start something or looking for trouble because you will find it.

  I don’t fit in here anymore. I can still walk the walk, but my clothes, my hair, everything else screams college girl. Of course, I don’t really fit in on my college campus either. My clothes aren’t designer, my hair isn’t highlighted, and my shoes are for comfort instead of style. So basically, I don’t fit in there, but I don’t fit in here.

  You won’t hear me complain, though. I have a full college scholarship and a small stipend for incidentals. I work on campus, too, and that’s enough to afford me clothes from discount stores and any other thing I might need.

  I’m lucky. When you age out of the system, you typically get nothing. You are no longer the state’s responsibility. You aren’t your foster parents’ responsibility. Basically, you’re the walking dead. I’m one of the lucky few.

  Some guy from an above balcony yells something obscene at me. My instinct is to flip him the bird, but I don’t want to invite trouble.

  I really thought I was done with this neighborhood, this life. I hadn’t heard from my mom in close to a year when she sent me a letter six months ago. No matter how many times I’ve moved around, I always let her know where I am. The first few years, I stayed in touch a lot more, but as I got older, I realized I couldn’t save her, so I vowed to stay away. That is, until I got her letter.

  Her ground-floor apartment door is splintered and chipped. No woman should ever live on the ground floor, that’s self-defense 101, but my mom thinks it’s the best for her “work” and easy access when she’s flying high.

  I’ve done my best to try to keep her clean these past few months, but I can’t watch her all the time. I bring her what little money I can scrape together. I’m sure I’m breaking all kinds of student aid laws doing that, but my mom has made it clear she can’t work in her condition. Who’d want to pay to have sex with a pregnant woman?

  Actually, I’m sure some perverts would be into that, but if her ever-growing belly is the excuse she needs to stop turning tricks, then I’m not going to fight her on it.

  “Mom!” I call out as I open her door, which she hadn’t even bothered to lock. The place is basically three rooms. You walk into the small den, which is attached to the even smaller kitchen. One small corner of the den houses baby items I’ve been collecting over the past few months. The rest of the apartment is my mom’s room and one bathroom. The whole thing is a mess. Papers scattered about, old food and dishes litter the counter and the coffee table. She doesn’t have nice furniture or anything, but I’ve always thought it would be a lot nicer if she at least kept it clean.

  A small groan comes from her bedroom. Pushing open the door, I find her on the bed wearing only a long T-shirt, her arm in a tourniquet as she attempts to stick a needle in her vein. Instinctively, I hit her hand, knocking it to the wall.

  “Stupid bitch,” she yells at me. “I need that. The baby’s coming.”

  “What?” I cry, putting down my purse and hustling beside her. “You said you had three more weeks.”

  She just shrugs and says, “I need that for the pain.”

  For the past six months, I’ve come over two to three times a week, making the one-hour trip by bus to bring her food, money, vitamins. I didn’t do it for my mom. I did it for my little baby brother or sister. My mom doesn’t deserve my help, but that little baby does. To my knowledge, she’s had very little prenatal care. She says she’s gone once or twice to some free clinic, but who knows what’s true and what’s not. Honestly, I’m not sure why she even kept this baby. I know she’s had abortions before. How many? I can’t tell you. Maybe she didn’t realize she was pregnant until it was too late? Maybe she thought this baby would heal her? I have no idea.

  She cries out in pain, and I look at my watch to try to time the contractions. I know that much from my nursing classes. I thought I had a little longer. I’d planned to read up on labor and delivery when my final exams for the semester were over. I’m not prepared for this.

  I don’t know what contractions only two minutes apart even means. “Let’s get you to the hospital,” I say, trying to help lift her.

  “No hospitals,” she says, moaning and groaning in bed, trying to find some position that may be comfortable.

  Nothing with my mom is ever easy unless you’re a paying customer. That’s not very nice of me, but it’s true. Looking at my mom, anyone can see that she was beautiful once upon a time—long dark hair, dark eyes, model thin. Perhaps she would still be considered beautiful if she wasn’t so messed up.

  “We have to go,” I say, trying to pull her up. I’m a college student. I can’t deliver a baby. Yes, I’ve had some basic nursing classes, but nothing that would qualify me to do this. Nothing beyond what I’ve read in a book.

  “Paigey Poo,” she says, pulling out her little pet name for me that she only uses when she wants something. “Don’t make me go. They’ll take the baby from me just like they took you.”

  That makes me hesitate.

  “You know how the system is. You want that?” she says. “You want to never see your baby brother or sister again?”

  “Mom?” I beg.

  “I’m barely using now,” she says. “You know I’m better.”

  I look over at the needle on the floor. I don’t even want to think about how she got that. Did she use the money I gave her for food? Did she trade her body for it? Neither would surprise me. I’ve seen it all before. Better? I know she’s trying, but she has a long way to go, and I don’t know that she’ll ever get there.

  “Ugh!” she screams out in pain. “I have to push.”

  “No, don’t push,” I say. She’s never listened before, and she doesn’t now, bearing down, her teeth gnashing together.

  “Shit,” I cry, moving between her legs. As much as I want to call 911, I know my mom is right. Social services would take the baby. I may never see my baby brother or sister again, and I know firsthand that foster situations aren’t always better.


  “Get it out!” my mom screams.

  I look down. God, I don’t want to see this. I don’t even have gloves. There’s blood and various other liquids, and all my mom’s private parts are on full display. She’s never been a shy woman and now is no different, spread eagle on the bed. My heart rate is through the roof. My mom has put me through some shit in my life, but this might take the cake.

  She starts to bear down again, and I see the tiniest glimpse of the top of the baby’s head. “Oh my God,” I cry. “I can see the head.”

  At that moment, my body settles. I know what I have to do. Get the baby out. I can’t focus on my mother’s screams, her drug use, none of it. My sole focus is on the baby.

  I don’t know how long or how short of an amount of time it takes. It could’ve been two hours, or it could’ve been two minutes, but either way, it was the longest experience of my life. I just kept telling myself that women have given birth in worse conditions, in worse shape. Heck, I’ve even heard stories of a woman giving birth in fields, then attaching the baby to their back, and continuing to work. If they can do that, then I can do this.

  Finn Albert Hudson entered the world at three thirty-three. I like to think that was good luck or something. My mom picked the name. I have no idea why or for whom. I didn’t ask. She’d told me she didn’t know who his father was, so perhaps she just liked the name.

  I missed school the next two days to stay with them. My mom refused to nurse him. I don’t know if she was worried about drugs passing into his system, or she just didn’t want to be bothered. I’d been stockpiling formula and diapers for a couple of months but hoped she’d change her mind for monetary reasons. Breastfeeding is cheaper than formula, but she didn’t care.

  Finn slept in my arms the first two nights of his life. Amazingly, he seemed totally healthy and normal. My mom wouldn’t let me take him to a doctor to be checked out. She wanted me to wait a week. She didn’t say it, but I know that was to make sure any drugs in his system were gone. Keeping her ass out of trouble was more important to her than her son’s life.

  As I held him and stared down at him, I fell in love. I never love easily, but with him, it was immediate. He is my family. I always wanted to know what that would feel like. Taking care of him, I knew what love was for the first time in my life.

  Those first few days, my mom mostly slept. She was just as indifferent to him as she was to me. By day three, I had to go back to school. Finals week. I needed to study, and I needed to take my tests. Even more than before, it was vital for me to do well and graduate to help take care of Finn.

  Before I could leave, I wrote down his feeding schedule for her, reminded her to put the diaper cream on so he wouldn’t get a rash, and promised I’d be back as soon as I took my last exam.

  Then it was time for me to go—past time, really. Placing Finn in my mother’s arms, I immediately felt sick, a huge pit forming in my stomach. It didn’t feel right. My mom could barely take care of herself, but I couldn’t stay forever, so I ignored the little voice in my head, warning me of trouble.

  Those few days back on campus were the longest days of my life. I tried to study but couldn’t concentrate. I would try to call my mom between study groups and taking practice tests, but my mom never answered her phone the whole time. By the morning of the third day, I was so consumed with worry and fear I skipped my final and made the hour-long bus ride across town. I couldn’t get Finn’s little face out of my head.

  If I didn’t already know that something was wrong, it was confirmed when I approached my mom’s apartment complex and saw her in the alley on her knees, some strange dirty man tossing one dollar bills on the ground as she sucked him off.

  I don’t have any idea if she ever saw me, but I took off like a bullet into her apartment. All I could think about was Finn. Where was he? It was quiet. I was more scared than I’ve ever been. It was not a peaceful quiet, but quiet like when death comes. Somehow, the apartment looked even worse than it did before, a nasty smell now filling the place.

  I found Finn on my mom’s bed. His lips were dry, the soft spot on his head was sunken in, and he was just lying there, almost lifeless. His eyes were open, and his face was scrunched—almost like he wanted to cry, but no tears or sound could come out.

  I scooped him up, made a bottle, and stuck it in his mouth, praying he’d have enough energy to eat. His lips didn’t move. “Come on, Finn,” I begged, tears streaming down my face. This can’t be happening. He can’t . . . I wouldn’t even allow myself to think the word. “Eat,” I cried, running the nipple across his lips, wetting them. “I’ll never leave you again.”

  His lips twitched a little, and I stuck the bottle in his mouth, continuing to move it around a little. I saw his cheeks pinch in one little sucking motion. Just one! Wiggling the bottle again, he did the same thing. He let out the smallest little cry, and it was the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard. Leaning over, I kissed him and whispered, “I love you.”

  Before I knew it, he finished the whole bottle.

  I sat there holding him for hours, waiting for my mother to come back, wanting to scream at her, yell at her. She must have moved on from the guy in the alley to some other, or perhaps she was strung out somewhere. Whatever she was doing, the hours passed, and she never came back. Finn would’ve died there alone if I hadn’t come—and stayed.

  That’s when I decided. That’s when I promised him that I’d do anything to give him a better life.

  I packed a bag with what little my mom had in clothes, formula, and diapers, and walked out the front door with him, keeping my promise.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  PAIGE

  I look at Slade, who’d just learned the truth. I kidnapped my baby brother, stole him from our worthless mother. The house around us is still a mess, a fitting environment for the shit I just laid on him.

  “Finn is my baby brother,” I say. “Not my son.”

  “I’m so sorry, Paige,” he says, reaching to caress my cheek.

  Holding my hand up, I stop him, unable to handle his kindness or sympathy right now. It’s always been easier for me to be kind to others than to let someone be kind to me. When you grow up like I did, you feel like you don’t deserve it. And you don’t trust it. “I withdrew from school, took what little money I had, and caught a bus to Nashville. It was too risky to stay in Memphis. I obviously hadn’t been pregnant, so I skipped town.”

  “You didn’t know anyone here?” he asks.

  “Not a soul,” I say. “The first thing I did was take Finn to a pediatrician to get him checked out. That took a big chunk of my money.” He tries to wrap his arms around Finn and me, but I resist. “Slade, don’t you understand? I stole him. I don’t want you messed up in that. I can’t have that on me. I’ve hurt you so much already.”

  “You haven’t hurt me,” he says.

  “I lied to you,” I say, wiping my eyes.

  “You did what you thought was right.”

  “I couldn’t watch another child grow up like I did. I couldn’t leave him to that.”

  “I know,” he says. “And you didn’t trust the system.”

  Shaking my head, I say, “I thought about reporting her, but I didn’t think they’d give me custody of Finn. I was barely twenty with no real job, no income, no place of my own.”

  “So you took him.”

  I nod, rubbing my belly. “I made a promise to him that he’d have a better life, a home.” I look up into Slade’s blue eyes. “I kept that promise. He has you.” His lips softly land on mine, his fingers grazing my belly. For an instant, I let myself fall into his kiss, memorizing what it feels like to have him love me. “I’m going to turn myself in.”

  To his credit, he doesn’t look surprised. “Then you should know I plan on stopping you,” he says with a little grin.

  “I have to . . .”

  “No, you don’t,” he says.

  Finn reaches up, playing with the tears quietly falling from my eyes. Goodbye
s used to be so easy for me. I was always saying them. To my mother. To foster families. To neighbors. I’ve always been good at them—they always came naturally, like breathing—but my body is fighting this one, my voice refusing to utter the words.

  I don’t want Finn to be as good at goodbyes as I used to be. I get to my feet, finally ready to face the truth. “And I want you to keep Finn for me.”

  “No, Paige,” he says, taking hold of me. “I’m not going to let you do this.”

  “I have to. It’s the only way to protect you, him. And our baby.”

  “No,” he says, catching me by the arm. “You’re not the only one who’ll do whatever it takes.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Catrine said something to Jon, and he did some digging.”

  “On me?” I ask heatedly. “So you knew all this already?”

  He holds his hands up in peace. “I found out that your mom was picked up for solicitation in the early stages of her pregnancy. No charges were filed that time, but it was noted that she was pregnant.”

  “That’s what made her get in touch with me,” I say. “How long have you known this?”

  “Not long,” Slade says. “Things starting clicking into place. Your reluctance to talk about Finn’s father, your pregnancy, why you didn’t have his social security number, why you lied about your first doctor’s appointment.”

  Looking down, I say, “I felt like I had to be honest on my medical forms. I didn’t want to lie and possibly affect anything with our baby.”

  “I know.” His lips land on mine. “Paige, there’s something else.”

  “What?”

  He turns over a box for me to sit on, wrapping his arm around my shoulder, and I brace for whatever news he’s preparing to deliver. “Your mother. She died four months ago. Overdose.”

  No tears come. There’s nothing. Nothing for the woman who gave birth to me, to Finn. I have nothing left to give her. She took my childhood. She took my innocence. I won’t cry for her. I won’t.