by Jenn Faulk
They tried to come back and apologize, though. They tried to make it right. But I was too mad at that point, too hurt, and too proud to listen. Tanner tried, pleading with me to give them a chance, then standing there, just like he is now, telling me that I was wrong. What in the world, Maggie? he’d said, just like he’s saying it now. Why don’t you grow up a little?
“Why don’t you grow up a little?”
Ahh, well, that sounds familiar.
“I made a mistake,” I say, kicking off my shoes and wiping at my eyes again, catching the tears that have started falling once more. “I should have asked more questions about what happened with Emma. Should’ve made the police tell me something, and—”
“I’m not talking about that,” Tanner says. He nods at the door. “I’m talking about the weirdo.”
I frown at this, thinking of Peter’s knee, inching away from mine as we sat on the couch, so different from his lips as we sat in his car, as close as possible but not close enough . . .
“Hello? Maggie?”
“I hear you,” I say, flopping down on the couch. “Emma still asleep after all that?”
“Out,” he confirms. “Had Mr. Snuffles in a headlock last time I checked. Didn’t even stir at all while we were grilling that idiot out here, and—”
“He’s not an idiot, Tanner,” I say.
“Seriously?” he asks. “He lies to you, and you’re just going to forgive him like that? I thought you’d grown up a little after all that you went through with Brandon. Why are you so drawn to men who are habitual liars?”
“Tanner,” I say, my voice breaking just a little. “Please.”
He lets out a long, frustrated breath. “I mean, not to speak ill of the dead and all, but what in the world, Maggie?”
“I wish you’d stop saying that,” I mutter, putting my arm over my eyes.
“And I wish that you’d stop finding these jerks to be with,” Tanner says, sitting down next to me, his voice softer. “Brandon lied about his marriage. Lied about his business. Lied about where he was taking Emma—”
“He never said anything about where he was taking her,” I correct him on this point. “He didn’t give me that information, and it didn’t matter, because . . .”
“Because you trusted him,” Tanner says. “You trust liars.”
I do, don’t I? I don’t take my arm off my eyes as I shake my head from side to side.
“You do!” he says. “You’re fascinated by men who are completely deficient in some way, shape, or form! Brandon was a liar! And who even knows what else, given what happened to him!”
True. True enough.
“And this Peter guy,” Tanner says, really getting into this deconstruction of my love life. “Weird. Just weird.”
“He’s not weird,” I say. And that makes me a liar.
“Well, whatever,” Tanner mutters. “He’s a liar, too!”
Are there degrees of lying? I mean, Brandon omitted the information about how he was married and all, but Peter’s was only about how my baby has witnessed a suicide and . . .
“Ughhhh . . .”
Tanner takes my moan as the green light to keep on.
“I know you have daddy issues,” he says. “You know, because we had the same daddy and all.”
Is he making a joke out of this?
I take my arm down to glare at him. Sure enough, he’s smiling a little. A tired, sad smile.
“What?” I ask him. “Is this all because my daddy was a liar, too? That I’m attracted to liars?”
“I don’t know what it is,” Tanner says softly, shrugging. “But you . . . I don’t even know, Maggie. This is more than just you and your love life. Emma . . . what she’s seen . . . and you can’t seem to . . .”
To what? To make good choices myself? To do the right thing?
“What?” I ask him again.
“You can’t seem to fix what’s wrong this time,” he says. “This is bigger than just what’s going on. You, your heart . . .”
There’s something very wrong with it, likely.
Before he can tell me that I need to go home, that I need to call my mother, that I need to be reacquainted with the God of my youth, I cut him off.
“I’ll be okay,” I say, though I’m not sure I will be.
And mercifully, he lets it go.
~Peter~
When I was ten, some astute teacher realized that my being with older kids who pretty much hated me all day and doing nothing but reading books throughout recess was probably not real good for me.
My mom realized it. She knew my academic needs, but she knew my social ones, too, and all during kindergarten and first grade, she advocated for me. During the day, I played with kids my own age and learned how to interact with them, but when the academics were rolled out, I was given things to do that challenged me and interested me. I remember being in those classes. I remember that I was a very happy kid.
Until Mom got pregnant with Andrew. Well, I was happy about that, but not long after that news came some other news, and—from then on—Mom was busy advocating for her unborn baby.
Once Andrew was born, Mom had him and dying to think about. She didn’t know that everything she’d worked so hard to put in place for me was going to fall completely apart—that Dad was going to be overwhelmed by raising two little boys all by himself on top of being overwhelmed with grief. She didn’t know that he would take a new job and move us here to Florida so that we could have a fresh start. She didn’t know that my new school was going to deal with me in a completely different way than my old one had, and that Dad wasn’t going to see what it was doing to me until it was too late.
After that astute teacher finally figured out that I wasn’t just some shy bookworm who preferred to be by himself but someone who was dying for attention despite never really having learned to interact with people, I got placed in a social skills group. This might have been okay if it even came close to addressing my needs, but it didn’t. Not by a long shot. Every other kid in that group was autistic—or at least on the spectrum—and learning how to read peoples’ facial features or how to understand sarcasm was not at all what I needed.
What I needed was to learn how to do the right thing. How do you know what you’re supposed to tell a mother about her little girl and what you’re not? And why would a woman go out with someone—why would she kiss that someone—when she’s clearly still hung up on the father of that little girl?
That’s really the kind of thing they need to teach people in social skills classes.
~Maggie~
I can only take another ten minutes of Tanner’s pep talk. I tell him I’m exhausted (which I am), that he’s welcome to revisit the topic of my love life in the morning (which he will), and that I’ll think about doing what he’s encouraged me to do.
Call Mom. Tell her myself that Emma, the granddaughter she’s never met, is okay. That she’s safe. That I’m safe. That I’m not so far gone that I don’t remember that God is still here, even if I’m not sure He cares much at all.
I’ll think about making the call, but it probably won’t happen.
I leave Tanner to the couch, where he’ll be out in two minutes, tops. Then, I head to my room, where I’ll probably be awake half the night.
I don’t think I’m wrong to trust Peter. Sure, he lied, and sure, I was upset about it.
But I think about what I told him, not that long ago, as he told me about finding Emma, when I said that I didn’t need to know everything . . .
Well, didn’t he just do what I asked?
I’m still thinking about it after my teeth are brushed, after I’ve changed into pajamas, and after I’ve crawled under the covers on my bed.
Good things about Peter . . .
He’s sweet. He’s a gentleman. He loves his family. He’s smart. He likes Emma. (And Emma likes him.) He’s competent at his job. He’s actually more than competent at his job. He has a good sense of right and wrong.
Well, mo
st of the time. Maybe leaving out important information is a gray area.
Bad things about Peter . . .
My brother kinda hates him. He didn’t tell me everything. He can keep a secret. He’s a little odd. I don’t know what he’s even thinking half the time.
But he’s sweet. And the way he looks at me makes me think that I’m more than just a single mother working a minimum wage job and barely getting by . . .
And that kiss.
I put my hands over my face as even then, in the stillness of my room, I swear I can hear Tanner. Why don’t you grow up a little, Maggie?
He’s right. I’m a mother. I have someone else to put first. I don’t need to be dating men who require this much thinking and soul-searching. Love should be easy. Relationships should be easy. I have too much else to deal with now, especially given this news about Brandon, about Emma, and about how the rest of our lives will never be the same.
I have too much else going on to even worry about Peter.
Yet, here I am, reaching to check my phone one last time before I try to force myself to sleep.
Maybe he’s called.
I hope he calls.
I really, really hope this all works out.
~Peter~
All the lights are on when I ring Crystal’s doorbell. She opens the door and doesn’t look the least bit surprised to see me, but she does look awful. Not only has she obviously been crying, but she starts again as soon as I step inside and she shuts the door. I put my arms around her and she sobs against my shoulder for a minute, and then the two of us head into the living room.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” she says, shaking her head. “I mean, I know you told me something really bad might have happened to him, but I just . . .”
Her voice trails off and she covers her eyes with one hand, still shaking her head back and forth. After a moment, she seems to pull herself together. She lowers her hand and looks at me.
“Thank you for coming over,” she says.
I nod.
“Is it on the news already?”
“Uh, no,” I say with a little shake of my head.
She continues to look at me and then says matter-of-factly, “The police called Maggie.” I give her a reluctant nod. She seems to consider this information. “And then she called you.”
“Uh, no,” I say again. “Actually I was with her.”
She seems to brighten up at this. “Like on a date?”
I give her another nod.
“Well good for you,” she says, a little smile playing across her lips. “How’d that go?”
I think about our kiss, but then I think of how upset Maggie was to learn about Brandon—a man she did a whole lot more with than just kiss. I look at Crystal and shrug. “Okay, I guess. Until the police called her.”
Crystal nods as if she understands. At least one of us does.
“Have you called anyone?” I ask. It seems that she should have some friends here with her. Someone besides just me.
“I called my dad,” she answers. “He’ll be here tomorrow afternoon.”
“What about a friend or something?”
“They’ll be here once they see it on the news,” she assures me.
“You don’t want me to call someone for you now?”
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “I can’t stand the thought of . . .”
She covers her eyes with her hand again as her voice trails off. When she finally lowers it to look at me, she says, “My friends help me spend money. They tell me what sandals look good with what skirt. They squeal over a new convertible. They go with me to the spa. They’ll come over tomorrow and they’ll say all the right things and then they’ll go back to their fake, perfect lives and . . .” She shakes her head again and finally tells me again, “My dad will be here tomorrow.”
“I . . . I just don’t want you to be alone.”
“I’m not alone,” she says, managing another smile. “You’re here.”
I nod at her and try to smile back.
“But I’ll be fine by myself,” she insists. “You don’t need to feel like you have to stay.”
“I don’t mind,” I say. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“You’re worried about the baby.”
“I’m worried about you, too,” I say honestly.
“Well, thank you for that,” she says, and there seems to be real appreciation in her voice. “But I really will be fine.”
“I’ll stay,” I tell her.
She considers this for a moment and then nods. “Thank you,” she says again.
I nod back.
We’re quiet for a moment, and then she asks, “Do you know anything? The police don’t seem to know anything. Like, who killed him? Was it that lady that had Emma?”
“I’m not sure,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t really know any details yet.”
“Do you think he was having another affair?” she asks me quietly.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I just don’t know.”
“I thought everything was finally okay between us,” she says, looking off into the distance. “He told me about Maggie after Emma was born. He told me that it was a mistake . . . that it would never happen again . . .”
“Why did he tell you about it?” I ask.
“Because of Emma,” she says. “Because he loved her and he wanted her in his life and . . .”
She sighs.
“And because I think he felt guilty. He said he wanted to be honest with me and he wanted me to forgive him.”
“Did you?” I ask.
“I tried.” She nods. “It’s been . . . it’s been hard. Especially hard not to be jealous of the fact that he had a baby with her. I guess I thought that if we had a baby . . .”
Her voice trails off again. “But now it’s just me. Not we. Just me. Now I’m pregnant, and I’m all alone.”
“I’m here,” I remind her, and she gives me a little smile. Then I remind her, “And your dad’s coming.”
“Yeah.”
“Does he know?”
“That I’m pregnant?” she asks, and when I nod, she shakes her head. “No.”
“Are you going to tell him?”
“No,” she says. “I need to make this decision on my own.”
I give her what I hope is an understanding nod.
“You think it’s a sin, don’t you?” she asks.
“I think . . . I think it’s a baby,” I finally say. “I think it’s a person. Just like you and me.”
“Then why aren’t you trying to talk me out of it more?” she asks.
“Because I don’t really think you can talk somebody into or out of something like that,” I say. “Legally it’s your choice—I can’t make you have a baby if you don’t want to. All I can do is . . .”
I finish my sentence with a shake of my head.
“All you can do is what?” she asks.
“All I can do is try to be here for you . . . and to pray for you.”
She looks at me for a long moment.
“You’ve been praying that I won’t get rid of it,” she clarifies.
“And I’ve been praying for you,” I tell her sincerely. “I’ve been praying for God to be with you and to help you and to bring you peace.”
She stares at me for a moment, and then tears fill her eyes.
“No one has ever prayed for me before,” she says.
“Well now someone has,” I tell her, reaching out and patting her hand. After she wipes her eyes, I get another smile.
~Maggie~
I wake up to Emma patting me on the cheek.
“Mommy,” she whispers. Then, more insistently. “Mommy . . .”
“I’m awake,” I murmur, forcing myself from pleasant dreams. Peter played the starring role in all of them, but he was confident in each and every one, saying what he meant, doing what he wanted to do, and taking care of all of the problems I’m facing.
Those probl
ems were vague in the dreams, but as I open my eyes to see Emma looking at me and grinning, I feel the weight of all of them once again.
Emma has Brandon’s smile.
It thrilled him to see himself in her, of course. Even though we weren’t together by the time she was giving him that smile of hers, that smile of his, even I had to smile when I saw the delight it gave him when she’d turn it toward him.
She smiled at him a lot. Laughed, too. She loved him . . .
How am I ever going to explain all of this to her? What am I going to say when she inevitably starts asking for Daddy, just like she does every time when it’s been a week since she’s last seen him? What am I going to do when she gets older and wants the details about how he died?
I don’t even know the details.
“Morning,” Emma says now, pointing out the window where the newly risen sun is flooding the room with sunlight. “Morning, Mommy.”
“Yes,” I say, pushing aside all the troubling thoughts I’m having. “Mommy’s little alarm clock.”
“DIIIIINNNNNGGGG!” she shouts, right before she begins laughing.
We’ve made the joke so many times that she knows it’s funny without even knowing why.
“Fine,” I say. “I guess I need to get up, huh?”
“Morning, Mommy,” she says again.
“So you say,” I sigh, checking my phone again, feeling a little disappointed that there’s nothing from Peter. No missed calls, no texts.
Maybe he’ll call later on. Things ended on a tense note, so maybe he’s just thinking through all of the awkward ways he’ll try to talk about that, to bring up the topic, and to resolve things.
It would be easy for anyone else. Hey, I didn’t tell you everything because I thought it would upset you. But I was wrong. I’ll be completely upfront about it next time. Easy. But that’s probably so far beyond—
“Is she up already?”
I put my phone down and manage a smile at Tanner, who’s standing at the doorway, squinting and running his hand through his bedhead hair.
“Is the sun up?” I counter.
“Emma,” Tanner groans. “It’s called sleeping in. You’re like a tiny alarm clock going off —”
