Cam glanced sideways at Abby, who crossed her arms. Would she have invited him to this meeting if she’d known this was going to be the topic? Was any of this information useful to Reuben?
“I did some research,” the principal continued, “and I understand the uh…circumstances. And we recently had a policeman come visit the kindergarten class to speak about safety, which may also be an inciting factor. But I’m concerned about Summer in all of this—I have a Masters degree in child development, and I’m not sure whether she’s processing this information in an appropriate way. I’d like to refer her to our school psychologist. We have an excellent—”
“I’ll handle it,” Abby interrupted. “I appreciate you looking out for her, and I’ll take her to see someone, but I want to handle this privately.”
Cam could tell that the principal wasn’t thrilled with the idea by the way she sort of leaned back in her chair, scrunched her eyebrows together. Probably looking at the two of them, wondering how old they were, estimating the likelihood of their ability to fix this problem on their own.
“Abby’s right,” Cam said. Did he actually just say those words, Abby’s right? Had hell frozen over? And how many times had he worried about Summer, still living in Natasha’s house, attending the yearly candlelight vigils, hearing stories about her long lost auntie, her picture in the paper, the baby named after the missing girl, as though his daughter was Natasha reincarnated. How many times had he, too, wondered whether Summer was processing all of it in an appropriate way? What if she ended up telling the psychologist something incriminating about Greg? Or someone else? Nah, she was just a kid. The whole thing had gone down before she was even born. She couldn’t possibly know anything. But, if his brother was right, Summer was regularly hanging out with a creep who beat up and eventually offed his ex-girlfriend. Who knows what else Greg was capable of?
Cam kept going. “It’s so close to the end of the year. And if my daughter’s going to see a psychologist, I’d rather choose that person myself.” That part was true, yeah. He’d find his daughter the best psychologist his parents’ money could buy. Maybe he could even go, he and Abby, to learn strategies for better co-parenting. Jess would want to come, but it would be best for him and Abby to go alone. He and Abby had a lot to work out between the two of them, especially if he was going to be hanging around more, trying to get information out of her and her family. They were twenty-four now. They could be mature and go to counselling together. And maybe even for coffee afterwards. To discuss their daughter, of course.
“I agree,” Abby said. She uncrossed her arms.
“I know of a good child psychologist,” Cam said. Not true, but maybe it would get the principal to lay off.
Once outside the school, Cam asked, “Should we just hang around until school’s out and pick Summer up?” They had only a half hour to wait. Abby’s short skirt and high-heeled sandals made her legs look long and toned. “The three of us could go for ice cream,” he suggested.
“She has a play date with Kenzie,” Abby said, retrieving her keys from her purse. “Kenzie’s mom is picking them up.”
“Who’s Kenzie?” Cam asked, before thinking about it. Clearly Kenzie was one of Summer’s friends. But the comment made him look like a shitty, absent father.
“Her best friend...” Abby said, smirking, which made Cam feel even worse. “This week,” she added, which made it a little better.
Cam squinted into the sun. Well, now he’d have to go home. To the master bathroom toilet he still had to unclog, to the lawn he had to water and mow, to renewing his driver’s licence and paying the gas bill. To Jessica and her feelings.
And what would Reuben say? Wasn’t this a prime opportunity?
“Thanks for backing me about the psychologist,” Abby said, then. She reached out and touched his arm. Her fingers made his skin feel hot, even though he was wearing a long-sleeved dress shirt.
“No problem.” Cam swallowed. He felt sweaty. He undid his top button.
Abby fiddled with one of the multicoloured hair elastics looped around her wrist. “Well, I guess I should go.”
“Yeah,” Cam said, and then, “I’m still craving ice cream, though.” He’d once taken Abby on a date for ice cream, and they’d walked by the Bow River the opposite way of all the cyclists and runners. It had been so hot that Cam had taken off his shirt and they’d dangled their feet in the water and licked each other’s cones. Right now he craved Rocky Road: chunky dark chocolate, walnuts, springy marshmallows. Plus, he could ask Abby more about Greg. And stuff.
“Stop!” Abby chided, smiling. “Now you’re making me crave it.”
“We should go, then,” Cam said.
Cam had only cheated on Jessica three times. First, with Abby, when they were still in high school, the brief affair that led to Summer’s conception. He couldn’t really be criticized for that one, given the combination of his age and how aggressively Abby had pursued him (even more so once he’d officially coupled up with Jessica).
After that, he’d behaved himself for almost two years, the remainder of high school, and throughout most of their first year of university. Both pursuing business degrees, he and Jess had enrolled in most of the same courses. Cam’s father had promised him a junior position at the company once he completed his degree. And, with Jessica around, he had consistent sex, an okay trade for the varied but irregular hook-ups his friends were having. He and Jess were still living with their respective parents.
“We’re saving for a house,” Jessica had told a classmate their freshman year. Oh they were, were they? When had their life together become a foregone conclusion? Sure, Cam wanted to own property—it was a smart investment. And his parents would help him substantially with a down payment. At some point.
Still, he liked the fact that he had his own room in the basement, a new-ish car (2002 Audi A6, a graduation gift), a hot tub just out the back door. Some of his buddies were living in the campus dorms, sharing a single room with two coffin beds, having to take showers in a communal bathroom, use a swipe card to buy lunch from a cafeteria. Not that Cam cooked. But he could make a mean baseball cut sirloin on the BBQ. His parents also helped a ton with Summer—he could still go out on dates or with his buddies; his daughter hadn’t hampered his social life at all, because his parents loved having her. Living with his parents made hooking up difficult, but only a little—both his parents often travelled for work. Plus, his buddies in the dorms didn’t have it any easier, what with their roommates’ beds literally right beside theirs.
Anyway, after the saving-for-a-house comment, Cam just needed a night to get obliterated, like a normal college kid, not a guy with a baby and a “wife.” At the campus bar, The Den, beer was cheaper by the pitcher. The bathroom contained a giant urinal that stretched all down the wall, like a trough, and every so often some guy would toss a Loonie in there to see who would be dumb enough to reach in and grab it. He stumbled out of the bathroom and into Luna.
Luna. With a name like Luna and skin like caramel, how could he help himself? Two years older, Luna had her own apartment. They had sex three times that first night, but technically it was only one night. A one-night stand. A one-time deal, a one-time oops.
The third time was a little more involved. Cam had heard of the seven-year itch, but was there such a thing as a three-year itch? For their anniversary, Jessica wanted an engagement ring. Cam had told her he had no intentions of getting engaged until they graduated. But he’d stupidly bought her a promise ring in high school after she’d agreed to give him another chance after his indiscretion with Abby, so he couldn’t buy her a promise ring now to hold her off a little bit. Maybe she’d settle for a puppy. Except where would they keep it? Her dad was allergic, his parents already had a dog, Harrison.
He had to give Jessica props for loyalty. Would any other girl have stood by him after his infidelity led to a pregnancy? Sure, girls fawned over him when he took Summer to the park, especially when her hair got long enough
to put into a little stick-straight-up ponytail on the crown of her head. But a single dad in his early twenties...no girl really wanted that. And Jessica was beautiful, and she bought him little gifts just because, like those honey-roasted peanuts that he always craved. And she always looked good, put together, classy makeup, sexy little lace bras and panties under her sweaters, her tight jeans. She’d never gotten sloppy, didn’t wear sweatpants or leave her retainer around or something like that. They went on great trips together, like to Maui and Mexico. His parents got along with hers. She even looked beautiful when she cried, her brown eyes filling up with glossy tears, her wet eyelashes like the points of little stars.
Still.
So, he had a fling with Erika, a waitress at the restaurant where he and his buddies went because the waitresses there were babes. He and Erika hooked up for about six months, usually after her shift was over, in her car, behind the restaurant. Her car was old and grungy, but it had more legroom than his Audi. Around Christmas, Erika got a boyfriend and stopped answering Cam’s texts, but no hard feelings or anything. And Jessica never found out. It was just a fling, and after it was over, he actually appreciated Jessica more.
When he came over to see Jess after his last hook-up with Erika, she was in the kitchen making stir-fry, and he could smell the sweetness of the sauce as he entered, but she didn’t see him at first, her back to him as she worked away at the stove, singing along with the radio. Sweat prickled along the back of his neck and his stomach curdled. Maybe he should just confess. She didn’t deserve this. But then—that would just ease his conscience and hurt her even more. He hated seeing her cry. He’d already devastated her once. Abby had been the one who dropped the bomb about her pregnancy, phoning Jess after school. Cam had watched Jess answer the phone and he had known, just by the look on her face, the way she sat down really slowly. She began to cry. He’d expected her to be mad. He’d only ever seen crying like that from his mom, at his grandmother’s funeral.
He was such a shit. The worst boyfriend ever. He’d make it up to her. He’d think seriously about proposing. She turned around, gave him a big smile, still holding the wooden spoon. “Hungry, Babe?” she asked. He might be the kind of loser that would cheat on a girlfriend, but he was not the kind of scumbag who would cheat on his fiancée. He would never hurt her again.
“I’ll drive,” Cam said to Abby, eager now for ice cream.
JOSIE
TECHNICALLY, JOSIE GOES TO ACUPUNCTURE EVERY WEEK for her migraines, not infertility. Her company health care policy covers only three hundred dollars a year; the rest they pay out of pocket. Josie takes care of their finances—organizing their statements, paying their bills, selecting where to invest their RRSPs, paying their taxes. It makes sense, with her accounting background and the fact that she makes over double Solomon’s salary. Solomon probably wouldn’t have noticed if she’d started seeing an acupuncturist without telling him. But that would be dishonest. And she does have migraines, headaches that only started in the last five years or so, screws that drive themselves into the base of her skull, twisting sharpness radiating up over her scalp and into her sinuses. Last year, she had to take several unpaid sick days. The acupuncture has helped a little. But some days, nothing she does, not even lying as still as possible in their bed with the lights off, helps. She simply has to wait them out. Be still for the Lord and wait patiently for him.
Lying on her back on the acupuncturist’s table, a thin sheet drawn up underneath her armpits, tiny needles protruding from the middle of her forehead and from her arms, legs, feet, and hands, Josie shivers, but tries to be still. She hates this part—the waiting—letting the needles do their work. Her acupuncturist says stress contributes to her migraines, and possibly to her infertility. She lectures Josie weekly about self-care, as though Josie can just choose to eliminate certain stresses in her life. Like she can just choose to stop having nightmares about Natasha being locked in some rapist’s basement.
Josie hasn’t told Solomon that she has started asking her acupuncturist to treat her for infertility as well as for her migraines. The research is wishy-washy about to what extent acupuncture can influence fertility. Her cycles are regular—they have been, since her first period at age thirteen. Natasha got her period first, which made Josie jealous, until hers came along and she realized just how awful cramps felt. Her cycles are regular, her Body Mass Index is in the appropriate zone. She eats a healthy diet, takes a prenatal vitamin, doesn’t drink or smoke, doesn’t have a family history of infertility or miscarriage. Her thyroid levels tested normal, her iron tested normal, her FSH and LH tested normal. She still has cramps, but nothing two extra strength Midol and a Snickers can’t fix. Josie’s charting suggests that she ovulates nearly every month. Recently, she made the switch to all natural makeup, organic meat and produce, and BPA free Tupperware. None of that has made a difference, except financially—why are healthy choices so expensive? She had to adjust their budget in some other areas to accommodate, especially with Solomon planning another mission trip, this time to Romania.
Solomon knows how badly she wants a child. And he wants a child, too—he’s told her he does, anyway. But when she suggested they pursue fertility testing, he didn’t speak to her for three days, and then he said she was messing with God’s plan.
Be still for the Lord and wait patiently for him.
Josie feels a little guilty every time she goes for acupuncture, but it’s not like she started taking Clomid, which her GP had suggested as a possible avenue—though she said Solomon would have to have his sperm tested first. On Clomid, her GP teased, Josie would have a higher likelihood of conceiving twins. Josie already had a higher likelihood of conceiving twins, being a twin herself.
Speaking of higher likelihoods—her migraines could be stress related, but they could also be something more. Josie has never had a seizure, but she knows her risk is higher because Jason has epilepsy. When the migraines started, she’d had an MRI and an EEG, but neither revealed any abnormalities. Sometimes she feels her heart rate quicken when she does one of the activities that doctors caution people with epilepsy to avoid, like driving or taking a bath. What if epilepsy is just lying dormant inside of her? She could, at any moment, get into a car accident or drown.
Josie would take a set of twins—she’d take children no matter how they came—but, as a twin herself, she’d prefer her children to come one at a time. Most people thought having a twin meant an automatic partner for life, never feeling left out, having a built-in protector. In elementary school, she’d wished Natasha was her twin; Tash had spent as much time at Josie and Jason’s house as at her own.
In grade four, Jason had found the picture of a ballerina the girls had painstakingly drawn for art class and added a tiny mustache and caterpillar eyebrows. He’d bet the girls they couldn’t both fit inside one of the kitchen cupboards, then slid a hockey stick across the handles and left them in there until Josie’s dad finally came in from mowing the lawn. In grade five, he’d given Natasha a note he claimed was from Tyler Kirnbauer that read Do you want to go out with me? Natasha wrote a reply on the back in pink ink: You are a nice boy but I think grade 5 is too young for going out. Tyler had made an awful face, crumpled the note, threw the ball of paper back at Natasha, and sneered, “I never wrote that. You thought I wanted you to be my girlfriend?”
Lying on the table in the cool room forbidden to move, Josie wills her acupuncturist to come back, to let her change positions, make some small talk. Anything.
Her brother had been a pain as kids, but now, she doesn’t know what she would do without him helping with the searches, with the social media presence, with manning the blog and the message boards. He has really matured, stepped up to the plate. She’s loved watching him with his little boy over the years. He’s such a natural father, whether he be down on the floor playing Thomas the Tank Engine, building Finn a spaceship out of a cardboard box and tinfoil, taking Finn to the water park and running through the sprinklers a
longside him, or volunteer coaching Finn’s summer baseball league. Twins wouldn’t be so bad. Plus, she knows a lot of Jason’s teasing was because he had low self-esteem because of his epilepsy; at least, that’s what her parents always told her.
Maybe Solomon’s reluctance to undergo fertility testing is about self-esteem, too. Maybe, deep down, he feels ashamed of his inability to give Josie children. She knows how important it is for men to feel masculine, to provide. Solomon does such amazing work with the youth group, with his ministry—but she still brings home the bulk of their income. Does he feel inadequate? What overtures could she make to help him feel more valued?
Her acupuncturist enters, then, grins at her, approaches the table and begins to pluck the needles from Josie’s exposed skin. “Were you able to relax?”
Josie forces a smile. “Yes.”
“Good.” Her acupuncturist plucks the last needle from her foot. “Good, good.”
ABBY
PSSSSST. I HAVE A SECRET.
I went out after work with some of the girls and I had some wine, half a bottle, or more than half, I don’t remember exactly. I don’t even like wine. I haven’t had a drink in so long. Don’t worry, Summer’s at her dad’s and I got a ride home. But I’m soooooo wasted.
No no no, that’s not the secret.
I never once saw you trashed. Never ever.
And also, you know what? In all your lectures about safe sex—STDs and condoms and date rape and how some boys just want you for sex and as soon as you give it up they won’t call you again—you never once said anything about the good sides of it. Like how your whole body gets tingly when someone chooses you, can’t stop touching you, pulls your shirt over your head, pulls you right up against them, skin to skin. When someone wants you, just you. Has to have you. Why didn’t you ever tell me about that?
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