She smiled at the thought. “Good thing I live fifteen minutes away.”
“I can be there in ten.”
“Good night, Brock.”
“Good night.” Before she hung up, she heard him call her name again.
“Yes?”
He was silent. “Never mind. Just have a good night.”
When she clicked off the phone, she whispered, “I’ve had a very good night, already.”
Chapter Forty
“Honey, we had a wonderful time with you and the kids Saturday,” Beatrice said. “And it was nice meeting Brock.”
Sheridan held her breath, bracing for the questions. She didn’t want to answer any inquiries about Brock and she exhaled when all Cameron added was, “He’s a nice guy.”
“We had a good time too,” Sheridan said. “But the best part of everything is that you’re cancer free, Daddy.”
“Well, I always knew I’d be healed, but I want to go beyond my healing, and that’s why we called.”
Beatrice said, “Sheridan, your father has come up with a wonderful idea.”
“Let me tell her, woman,” Cameron teased.
“You’re taking too long.”
Sheridan laughed. “Come on, guys. Tell me. You sound so excited, but I’ll never know what it is if you keep going at each other.”
They laughed with her, but then Cameron turned serious. “Sheridan, you know the deadliest part of prostate cancer is not the cancer. What kills is not catching it in time. And that’s because men aren’t aware and don’t get examined. Early detection is almost guaranteed curable. I want men to know this.”
“So,” Beatrice jumped in, “your father wants to do workshops. Isn’t that terrific? We’ve already talked to our pastor about it and I’m sure Pastor Ford would be open to having this at Hope Chapel too.”
“That’s a great idea, Daddy. I’ll speak to Pastor Ford, but in the meantime let me know when you’ll be speaking at your church and I’ll be there.”
“That’s why I called.” Cameron paused. “I want you to do the workshops with me.”
Sheridan frowned. “How will I do that?”
Beatrice said, “These workshops are about survival. And your father and I believe you would be terrific.”
“Yes,” Cameron continued. “I’m calling these My Life as a Survivor Seminars. There’ll be quite a few of us presenting. Mrs. Maloney has agreed to speak about surviving breast cancer and Mr. Johnson is going to speak about surviving his wife’s suicide.”
Sheridan could feel the fear building. Surely her parents weren’t asking her to speak about her husband being gay.
Cameron said, “And you can speak about divorce, sweetheart.”
Oh, no.
He continued, “Now, I know you may not want to talk about Quentin specifically, and that’s okay. But you have quite a testimony. And testimonies are not for you alone. They’re meant to be shared. I can’t do these workshops without you, Sheridan. You’re a survivor.”
“We’ve been talking about this all week,” Beatrice said. “Don’t you think that’s a great idea?”
For moments only silence was Sheridan’s answer. Finally, she said, “I don’t think I can do that.”
This time, the Collinses responded with silence.
“I’m sorry, Daddy.”
“That’s okay,” Cameron said with disappointment inside his words. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
“I will,” she said, although she knew she would never do that. Never stand up in front of anyone. Never give her testimony. Never tell anybody that she’d survived her husband’s preference for a man.
Chapter Forty-one
Sheridan was livid.
“I don’t know where he is, Ms. Hart,” Nicole said in her soft manner. “He never came to services this morning.”
Sheridan stood in the middle of the hallway, across from the Youth Center, where the teens held their Sunday services. She squinted, recalling this morning’s conversation with Christopher.
“Mom, I’m going to walk to church,” he’d said when she came downstairs.
He’d been walking to church with Nicole for the past few weeks.
“Maybe he wasn’t feeling well and went back home,” Nicole suggested.
That had to be it. “Thanks, Nicole.”
Sheridan marched to her car. That’s what happened. He was walking to church and didn’t feel well. But not even that made sense. She’d watched him walk out the door; he’d been fine.
She jumped into her car and as she drove her anger grew. Just when she believed life was moving fine. Everything had been going well with Christopher—her model son had returned. No more missed curfews, no new tattoos, no other disorderly conduct. The only challenge had been that he still wouldn’t speak to his father. But Sheridan had even accepted that for now, believing one day soon father and son would reconcile.
“Obviously, I was wrong,” she thought as she rounded the curve of the cul-de-sac. A rusted pickup truck sat in her driveway. She frowned.
She pulled up next to the car, half expecting to see Jett Jennings, ready to ambush her once again, although she couldn’t imagine the star golf pro in a truck like this. She looked toward her house. There was no sign anyone was inside, but still her stomach lurched.
The moment she entered her home, she knew why her insides were churning. She moved in slow motion—closing the door, stepping into the living room. Taking in the sight of her son. And Déjà.
Sheridan put her purse on the chair. “Hello, Déjà.”
The girl smiled, but she didn’t possess the ignorant arrogance she’d worn the last time she was in their home. She sat on one end of the couch, with Christopher at the other. “Hello, Ms. Hart.”
Although she kept her eyes on Déjà, Sheridan asked, “Christopher, what’s going on?”
His silence made her look at him, and she noticed the way he shook. And she did the same.
“Mom,” he said with his eyes lowered. “We have something to tell you.” Only then did he look at her. “Do you want to sit down?”
“No.” She had to stand; her legs didn’t have the power to move. “What is it?” When he remained silent, Sheridan said, “Christopher?”
Déjà reached across the massive space and took Christopher’s hand. But he jerked away and then clasped his hands under his chin as if he were praying.
“Christopher?” Sheridan called him again.
“I’m pregnant,” Déjà said.
Christopher’s head snapped back. “I was supposed to tell her.”
“You were taking too long.” The movement of her head emphasized each word. Déjà’s arrogance was back.
Sheridan watched the drama unfold. Only this wasn’t television.
“What did you say?” She faced Christopher as if Déjà hadn’t spoken.
“I’m pregnant,” Déjà repeated, “and Christopher is my baby’s daddy.”
No, she didn’t just say that. She shook her head, not allowing Déjà’s words to touch her. As long as the words stayed away from her head, as long as they stayed away from her heart, this wouldn’t be true.
It couldn’t be true anyway. Couldn’t be happening. Not to her son. Not in her perfect family.
Then she remembered: they weren’t the perfect Harts anymore.
Finally her legs moved, and she fell into the chair facing them. It was the same space she’d sat in when she’d met Déjà two months before.
This baby can’t be Christopher’s.
“Déjà, you haven’t known Christopher long enough to be pregnant by him.”
Déjà frowned as if she wanted to ask Sheridan if she’d ever taken biology. “It only takes one time, Ms. Hart,” Déjà said, breaking it down. “And I was with Chris plenty more than once. But if you don’t believe me, we can take a test. ’Cause since I met him, I haven’t been with anyone except for Chris.” Her hands moved with her words, and Sheridan noticed that this time Déjà’s fingernails did
n’t claim her son. Sheridan allowed her glance to move to Déjà’s stomach. And she wanted to cry. The girl didn’t need glitter on her nails to stake her claim anymore.
“So what are you going to do?” Sheridan asked, looking between the two of them.
Christopher frowned. “Mom, I thought you would tell me—”
“I’m going to have the baby,” Déjà interjected, as if Sheridan should have known this. “We should get married.”
Christopher’s eyes widened, and in spite of it all, Sheridan laughed. “How can you get married, Déjà? Christopher’s sixteen. He can’t marry anyone.”
“He can if he has your permission. My father checked it out.” Déjà blew a bubble and then let the gum pop, sealing her words.
Christopher shook even more.
“You told your father?”
She nodded. “He don’t have no problem with this.”
Why would he?
“He says I’m grown. So I want to get married.”
Christopher looked as if he would begin convulsing at any moment. Sheridan wanted to rush to him, rest his head on her shoulder, and convince him everything would be all right. But first someone had to do that for her.
Sheridan closed her eyes, hoping to still the shock that was making her shiver.
“Do we have your permission to get married?”
Sheridan opened her eyes. Was this your plan all along? she wondered as she looked at Déjà.
“Mom!” Christopher’s tears were just seconds away.
“Déjà, I need to think about this, talk it over with Christopher and his father.”
“Mom!” he exclaimed, as if he couldn’t believe she was giving him away.
Sheridan ignored him. She wanted him to stew in the shock that he’d just given to her.
Déjà smiled, on the verge of winning a prize. “That’s fine. I’ll go now, so you can talk.” She stood and glanced at Christopher, but he kept his eyes away from her. With a sigh she walked past Sheridan and out the front door.
Sheridan sat, staring at her son. Christopher sat, staring at the floor. Neither said a word until the rattle of the old truck’s engine faded.
“Mom,” Christopher finally spoke. “Please.”
“Please what, Christopher?”
“Please don’t make me get married.” He trembled with his words.
Like I would really do that. “Why shouldn’t I? You’re going to be a father. Don’t you think you should marry your child’s mother?” It sounded even more absurd when she said the words aloud.
“Mom, I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m too young.”
“But you’re not. You’re going to be a father.”
“And because I don’t love her.”
“But you had sex with her.”
“Yes, but people have sex all the time and they’re not in love.” She wondered where he’d learned that piece of fact. And then she remembered. Brock. Then Christopher. In the hallway.
Sheridan stood. “I haven’t decided anything yet. I have to talk to your father.”
He stood. “Mom, please.” She half expected him to drop to his knees.
She turned and then said over her shoulder, as calmly as if he’d just told her what college he’d selected, “Don’t leave this house, Christopher.” She stomped up the steps and slammed her bedroom door. She needed to call Quentin, but first she had to get her heart back to its normal pace. Her sixteen-year-old son was going to be a father. How could this have happened?
Sheridan was catatonic.
She didn’t know how long she sat, staring, thinking about all that had gone wrong. All the reasons why her family continued to crumble like a tower of cards.
Finally she gathered the strength to pick up the phone and punched in Quentin’s cell.
“This is Dr. Quentin Hart. I’m unavailable…”
She hung up and paged him, but when after five minutes he hadn’t called back, she scrolled through the caller ID, found his number, and called his home.
Her heart pounded with each ring.
“Hello.” It wasn’t the man who was once her husband.
“Jett, I need to speak to Quentin.”
“Is everything all right, Sheridan?”
No, she almost screamed. Nothing is right because of you. “I need to speak to Quentin,” she repeated.
She heard his sigh, but she didn’t care.
“Hello.”
“Quentin…” She had planned on telling him all of it, but the thought of what she had to say made her lips tremble.
“Sheridan? What’s wrong?”
It took moments to swallow the lump that blocked her words. “We need you here.”
“I was on my way to pick up Tori from your parents.”
She had forgotten about her daughter, who had spent the night with Beatrice and Cameron. “Quentin, I’ll call my parents, but I need…you. Here.”
Only a beat passed. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
She hung up the phone and let the tears she’d been holding flow. She cried for the lost dreams—the ones she knew Christopher had, the ones she had for him. She even cried for Quentin and what this news would do to him. She cried for her parents and Tori and Nicole. She cried for all who would be affected.
Finally she stood and stepped into her closet. She dropped the skirt and matching top and left the designer outfit on the floor. Then she reached for her black sweat suit. She was dressed in seconds. When she opened her bedroom door, Christopher was coming up the stairs.
She looked at him, but the young man in front of her was not the son she knew. He was a son who would be a father in just months.
“Your father will be here in a little while.”
“Why do I have to talk to him? He’s not a part of my life anymore.”
Sheridan wondered, if sex had made him so bold, then why hadn’t it made him smart? She said nothing; just walked past him, leaving him standing in the hallway. Downstairs, she called her parents, and was relieved when the answering machine came on.
“Hey,” she said into the machine. “Quentin’s going to be a bit late picking up Tori, but let her know he’ll be there, okay? Speak to you guys later.”
She only had to wait a few more minutes before she heard the key in the front door. Quentin stepped inside, tossed his jacket over the settee, and then came into the living room.
“Hi,” he said, eyeing her.
Her response was tears. They gushed from her, as they had the day he left.
“Sheridan, what’s wrong?” He held her.
“Dad?”
Quentin’s arms released her, and Christopher moved toward them, slowly. Then his tears came.
Quentin held his son as if he were a newborn, and Sheridan cried some more.
Finally Quentin stepped away. “What is going on?” He looked from Sheridan to Christopher and back to his almost ex-wife again.
“Dad, Déjà is pregnant and I’m the father.”
Quentin’s eyes widened, and he returned his glance to Sheridan. She nodded and sank into the chair. Quentin and Christopher sat on the couch together.
“Tell me everything.”
Sheridan listened as Christopher told how Déjà had called this morning. He ended by telling his father that Déjà wanted to get married.
“Mom wants me to get married too.”
Quentin looked at Sheridan as if she had lost her mind, but she held up her hand. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t?” Christopher’s voice was soft; he sounded the way she remembered him. Before he’d met Déjà.
Christopher’s shoulders relaxed with relief. “But I still don’t know what to do.”
“What do you think you should do?” Quentin asked.
Sheridan could see Christopher was surprised by the question. He expected her and Quentin to make the decisions for him. “I don’t know,” Christopher said. Sheridan and Quentin stayed quiet, and Christo
pher continued, “I don’t want to get married.” He paused. “And I’m not supposed to believe in abortion.” He paused again, as if waiting to see if his parents agreed. When they still said nothing, he said, “But I can’t be a father, because I don’t even have a job. And I want to finish school.” He paused. “And Dad, I really want to go to college.”
The doorbell chimed, and the three sat still for a moment, wondering who was interrupting their catastrophe. It wasn’t until their visitor knocked that Sheridan rose to answer the door.
“Ms. Hart, is Chris here?”
Sheridan stepped aside, allowing Déjà to enter. She walked into the living room like she was supposed to be there.
“Mr. Hart, I’m Déjà.”
Quentin stood and took her outstretched hand. Then, she took his place on the couch next to Christopher.
“I was on my way home when Chris called and told me you were coming over, Mr. Hart, and I wanted to be with him.”
Sheridan moved to Quentin and they stood, shoulder to shoulder, looking at their son.
Déjà continued, “I wanted you to know that my father says it’s fine if I get married.”
Quentin crossed his arms. “That’s not an option. Christopher is a minor.” He held up his hand, stopping her protest. “I know we can give him our permission, but both of you are too young.”
His words made Sheridan freeze. Those were the words Cameron had spoken all those years ago when she and Quentin insisted on being married. Would Christopher do what she and Quentin had done? Could Déjà convince him that being married was for the best, just as Quentin had convinced her?
Sheridan exhaled when she looked at her son, his eyes full of terror. Not even she would be able to convince him that being with Déjà was for the best.
Quentin said, “But Déjà, although we won’t give our permission for Christopher to get married, we will be there for you.”
Déjà smiled. Christopher didn’t.
“I guess I understand,” Déjà said. “It’ll be better for Chris to graduate. I can wait. It’ll only be a year.”
The three Harts exchanged glances.
“Let’s just get through this part first,” Quentin said.
“Okay.” Déjà shifted her glance to Sheridan. “Ms. Hart, I know you’re not happy about this. But like I told you, I love Chris.” She paused and rested her hand on her stomach. “And I love my baby too.”
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