“We did in a way, I guess.” She cocked her head to the side and smiled.
I thought back on that night for a moment. It had been during one of our Friday night dinners. We were in the old dining room, having homemade pizza. I had soda, and Mom and Dad had been warming up to the talk by way of a nice bottle of Chianti, of course. Mom took the first step.
“You remember we told you how we met?” She briefly looked at Dad and gave a silly smile. I nodded.
They had told me the story about five hundred times. “In high school, yada yada yada. At the dance, yada yada yada. It’s not exactly hot news anymore, Mom.” I probably rolled my eyes at her.
“Well, it sure was pretty hot to me,” Dad had said, pinching Mom under the table. Mom, all drugged up on Chianti and memories of high school love, agreed.
“Yes, we met in high school and we were very much in love. Very much,” she had added, looking at me.
“Were? As in the past sentence?” Dad had teased, pinching Mom again, this time a little too hard.
“Ouch, Frank,” she had cried. “Frank, I swear to God...” She let her words trail off.
Dad had looked at me and continued, “Ella, a woman needs to be treated with the utmost respect. A woman should never have sex with a man who doesn’t respect or love her, and she should never ever have sex with a man she doesn’t know, and I swear to God that I would be the first one to punch the one who...” He had stopped and looked at Mom with a red face. I guess talking about sex to a ten-year-old girl (try fifteen) was too much even for Mr. Free Spirit.
Mom had offered a knowing smile and continued. “What Dad is trying to say here is that a woman should wait. You should always wait until you’re ready and not because some guy wants to, you know.”
I knew. So did Dad with his red face who suddenly stood up at the end of the table like he was about to make a formal speech. “I know,” he had said a little too loudly, “some horny little pimple-faced teenager, I swear to God, I’ll, I’ll, I’ll...”
Now it was Mom’s turn to interrupt. “You’ll sit down and be quiet now,” she had said calmly, putting a hand on top of Dad’s. The poor guy had looked so stressed out, probably imagining his little girl—in the not-so-distant future—having sex with some little pimple-faced boy. Even at fifteen I understood how hard that must have been for him. Hell, even I had a hard time grasping it. Sex was pretty much eww at the time.
“I know, you’ve told me about a thousand times,” I had said with a piece of mozzarella pizza stuck to the roof of my mouth. “Dad was your first and only one. Save yourself for someone special, blah blah blah. Play hard to get and always, always wear a...a ...a...” I couldn’t say the word out loud.
“Condom,” Dad had added, “double condom on condoms,” he said, smiling (saved by my outspoken and articulate Dad).
“And the pill on top of that,” Mom interjected, giggling. They looked at each other, nodding, silently agreeing to a job well done. I joined in the affirmative nodding, thinking at the same time how they sucked at this.
“Thanks Mom. Thanks Dad. I know. I know. Never use drugs; always were a co-co-condom.” I had finally said the word out loud.
“Double,” they had said, giggling at the same time, nodding with even more enthusiasm. And I smiled with all of my upper teeth covered in braces, even though the little girl they saw was probably still missing a few teeth.
I LOOKED AT MOM AND smiled with a full set of straight teeth. “Mom, I think I was a little more than ten back then,” I said, holding up ten fingers, “but who’s counting?”
Mom smiled. “Well, when you talk about sex the first time with your baby girl, I guess you want to make sure it’s, how should I put it? Basically, you have the talk to prevent it from happening too soon, too fast, with too many. When I was a little girl, Grandma used to say that a woman should never give herself away to any man unless he’s willing to marry her.” She raised an eye and leaned back in her chair.
“Okay, Mom and Grandma. Knock, knock.” I put my ear against the table and knocked. “Who’s there?” I said with my Oprah voice, looking up at Mom. “It’s the twenty-first century,” I said, laughing. God, it felt good to laugh a little.
“Ha, ha, ha,” Mom said, also looking a little less heavy-hearted. “I know it sounds very prehistoric,” she said, emphasizing the word very, “but it’s not bad advice, you know. I’m not saying you should marry every guy you end up in bed with, but he should be that much in love with you that he would be willing to marry you if something happened. That’s all.” She leaned over and tried to reach for the coffeepot standing on the counter.
“Is that why you got married? Because I happened?” I pointed at myself.
She shook her head. “No,” she said with a strenuous voice, trying to stretch her arm to an impossible length. “That’s not what I meant by too good be true.” She slumped back in her chair. I guess she had given up on the I’m-too-lazy-to-get-up-and-get-it-myself-that-I-would-rather-break-my-neck-trying thing. She sighed and got up on her feet.
“No?”
“No. Dad wasn’t the first,” she said with her back to me.
“He wasn’t?” Wow! This morning had turned into nothing less than a Sunday morning confessional at Grandmas’ church.
“He wasn’t,” she confirmed, pouring herself a cup.
I couldn’t help smiling. All my life they had been making such a big deal out of the whole “one and only” thing when it was nothing more than a romantic concept. And even though that basically meant that they had lied to me all those years, it was kinda sweet.
“And he wasn’t the only one either.” She turned around and leaned against the counter and looked at me with a set of rosy cheeks.
I nodded. “Well, not being the first kinda gave that away, don’t you think?” I looked up at her and whistled.
She looked down into her cup and smiled. “Smart ass!” She leaned over and punched me on my shoulder. “He was the second, though. I would say that’s pretty close, huh? I guess we told you he was the only one simply because it sounds more romantic, and I guess I wished it were true in some ways.”
“But who was the other guy, then?” I blurted out, not sure if it was even an appropriate question to ask your own mom, and not even sure if I wanted to know, but it was kinda the next obvious question to ask.
“It doesn’t really matter,” she said, like she didn’t mind me asking, “he was some guy my friend Jessica knew from, hell, I can’t even remember,” she said, chuckling, “but I do remember that I was way too young, way too drunk, and so not ready for it. I guess I just wanted to do it because I was the only one who hadn’t done it, you know.”
I nodded. I had been that girl, too. “I know,” I said thinking about Maddie and her first time with the beer-stained dress. “I waited too, you know?”
“I know. And that’s why I’ve always been so proud of you. Why I am so proud of you. Ever since we put you in kindergarten I worried about you being almost a year younger than all your peers since I knew that it might push you to, how shall I put it, grow up too fast.” She paused and took a sip of coffee before continuing. “But no, not my Ella. Even though you’ve always been such an old soul, you’ve never been in a hurry to grow up, and you never seemed to care what everyone else thought or did. You’ve always been such an independent, strong-minded girl, and I’m so proud of you for that. No matter what, you hear?” She smiled and looked me straight in the eyes—right into my old soul.
I nodded, even though I sure didn’t feel like a strong-minded girl. I never had. I had just dealt with things my own way. Hiding was not the same as not caring about what others did or said. And I did care what others would think about me—the pregnant teenager, the teenage mom pushing a stroller to Starbucks on a rainy day, or the teenage girl who had had an abortion (only said as a mere whisper, of course).
And even though Mom was so supportive and nonjudgmental, wouldn’t there always be that little voice in the back of
her head—the voice of right and wrong—reminding her of her own loss? Voices or not, at least I knew that, no matter what, I could count on Mom and Dad to help me with whatever choice I made. And as opposed to Stella, I had no concerns, none whatsoever, about bringing a baby into our world, into the Jensen Family.
But what about me? Could I really imagine myself with a baby, a real baby in flesh and blood, a baby, as in my responsibility? Would I still be able to do all the things that I wanted to, even though I still hadn’t quite figured out exactly what that was? And was I ready to sacrifice Eleanor for that one tiny mistake I had made that one single night with Hans? Fuck!
After almost four days of searching my old soul for answers, signs, or some kind of certainty, I was still pretty much lost. I looked up at Mom and shook my head.
“I’m not that strong, you know,” I said with a voice drowning in tears.
“Why are you crying, baby?” She grabbed her cup and sat down on the chair next to me. “What happened with all the knock-knock jokes?” She smiled.
“I do care what other people think about me, and that’s what’s making it so much harder to-to-to decide.” I looked down at my hands in my lap. It was as if they were forming a tiny hand crib right under my belly. Quickly, I placed them on the table and looked up at Mom. “I just wish I knew how to get out of this whole mess.”
“You’ll know pretty soon. Trust me. I know,” she said with her mommy voice, wiping a tear from my chin.
“Yeah?” But how? And how could she be so sure? I looked down at my hands again. The way they were positioned on the table almost made them look like a pair of wings, ready to take off. Okay, now I was looking for signs that weren’t even there. I ran both of my tricky hands through my hair and looked at Mom.
“I just know,” she assured me. She scooted her chair over behind mine and wrapped her arms around me and the chair. I leaned back against her and listened to the comforting sound of her heart. When I looked up, she placed a big wet kiss on my forehead and smiled.
Why hadn’t I just gone straight to her the moment I knew? Miss T had been right about everything; Mom would understand and love me no matter what. I raised my head. Mom was looking out the window, obviously caught up in her own thoughts. Poor Mom. Who had she turned to in the hours of darkness? Mom would never have turned to Grandma about an abortion. It was murder in Grandma’s religious world. No matter what the circumstances.
“Granddad,” she whispered like she had read my mind. “I had Granddad. Even though he sure was a big old drunken fart half of the time, he also had a big, big heart, and he helped me through the hardest of all times. He kept the secret all those years. He never told anyone. Not a single soul. But he knew, and I guess that’s why he loved you so much,” she said with tears in her eyes. She looked down and blew a curl away from my forehead. “The day at the hospital, when he held you in his arms for the very first time, do you know what he said?”
I shook my head and held my breath.
“He said, ‘This one we got to keep.’ And then he cried like I had never seen him cry before, and for a long, long time he just sat there with you in his arms, counting your fingers and toes over and over again. I almost had to fight with him when it was time to nurse. Oh, he loved you so much. He secretly called you ‘his little keeper’ when no one else was around.” She stroked my hair. “You know, that’s true. You were always my little keeper, our little keeper,” she cried.
I nodded and let myself go in the abundance of soft fabric and Mom. And right as I was feeling safe and secure from the world, I thought about Dad. I had to tell Dad, too. He had to know. He had the right to know, too.
“I need to tell Dad,” Mom said, as if she were reading my thoughts again.
“No, I need to tell Dad myself.”
“No, I mean, I need to tell Dad about me, about what I did back then. I don’t know why I haven’t, but all of this has made me realize that I need to tell him. I owe him that.” She took in a deep breath. “Tonight,” she said, staring out of the window.
“Poor Dad.” I made a nervous face at her, but she wasn’t looking; she was still staring out the window, and I could see her lips quivering.
“Yes, poor Dad,” she whispered, biting down on her lip.
The moment of truth has arrived
“Okay,” I said, coming down the stairs, “the minute Dad comes home, I’ll go and get the drunken noodles, so you can have the house all to yourself.”
Mom nodded and looked in the mirror again. She was wearing her new favorite Target dress, her hair was down and nicely blow-dried (just as Dad liked it), and the Chianti was warming up on the table, standing right next to a few candles and two of the heirloom crystal wineglasses from the cabinet. She had spent the entire afternoon pacing the living room floor, rearranging the glasses and candles on the table and looking at herself in the mirror, readjusting her hair and clothes, as if she were going on a first date.
“It’s going to be fine,” I assured her reflection in the mirror. “It’s Dad we are dealing with here—Mister Soft and Fuzzy Hair Dude, right?”
She nodded and readjusted her hair for the twentieth time. “I know, but still...” she said, leaving it up to me to finish her sentence. “Are you nervous?” She turned around to face me.
“Hell yes, but I’ll try not to think about me until later,” I tried to convince her—and myself. “I’ll just—”
“—sshhh,” Mom hushed me, staring at the front door. “I thought I heard something,” she said, standing perfectly still. “There,” she said as we heard the unmistakable sound of Dad’s signature coming-home-from-work honks in the driveway. Mom and I both turned and stared at each other in the mirror. Moment of truth had arrived. “Speaking of the little teddy bear,” she said, readjusting her hair. Again.
“Well, I guess that’s my cue.” I turned and planted a kiss on her cheek.
She nodded and leaned against the wall. “Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out” she said, sounding a lot like Miss T’s favorite short movie character, Mr. Miyagi.
I smiled at that memory and grabbed my hoodie from the door handle and headed for the door.
“I’m off to get some drunken noodles,” I announced, as I met Dad at the door.
“Oh oh, what did I do this time?” He made a silly conspiratory face at me.
“Beats me,” I said, lying. I leaned over and kissed him and grabbed the keys from out of his hand. As I was running for the car, he turned and yelled in my direction. “She got the fine silverware out. I’m in big trouble!”
I stopped and turned around. “Dad, I’m sure you can charm your way out of everything,” I said cheerfully, trying to hide how nervous I suddenly was feeling myself.
I got into the car and started down the driveway. Of course, he’ll forgive her! He’ll dig right into that big heart of his and find all the right words to say. But what about me? Would the big ol’ heart be able to deal with this, too? I looked in the rearview mirror and took a deep breath. Of course, he would, I assured myself as I headed for the wet autumn roads and two bags of noodles with my name on them.
As always, I was suspiciously early, which is actually a big part of the whole one-two-three concept of getting noodles. One, you spend more time away from home (which is why you’ve been assigned the job to begin with). Two, you have plenty of time to flip through a variety of magazines just waiting to be read. Three, food, obviously.
After a significant dose of famous people and their insignificant problems, the drunken noodles arrived, and I headed back to my car. I loaded the car with noodles and turned it around, and as I started driving back the same way, the weirdest thing happened: Surrounded by the most breathtaking view of the lake, the big evergreen trees, and a curtain of snow-covered mountains, I felt as if I was literally feeling the Pacific Northwest for the first time ever. I was finally seeing the great outdoors that everyone is so crazy in love with. I felt so alive, and I swear I could almost feel everything c
oming to life around me, and for the first time in weeks, I actually felt hungry again, not nauseated, not about to throw up, not actually throwing up, but hungry, as in I could eat a horse. Something had definitely changed, even though I couldn’t quite figure out what.
But when I got home a few minutes later, and I heard the familiar voice of Bob Dylan and saw Mom and Dad through the big bay window—dancing, kissing, and making up for a mistake made twenty years ago—I just knew. I guess Mom was right; somehow, I would just wake up one day and smell the noodles and I would know in my heart exactly what to do. And somewhere between East Lake Sammamish, Mount Rainer, the smell of noodles, and the voice of Bob Dylan, I just knew. Somehow, I just knew that this little thing—this little condom-double-on-condoms mistake of mine—was a keeper. It was a keeper, too.
I took a deep breath as I approached the house with the pulse of a track horse. This is it! My moment of truth—carrying noodles and a baby—had arrived. Suddenly, Mom and Dad both looked up at the same time, and when they saw me standing on the outside looking in, they both started crying, waving at me to come in. I nodded and started walking around the house, thinking all the way how Mom would know the second she saw me. Somehow it only made me more nervous. I was about to open the door, when suddenly Mom and Dad yanked the door open and literally dragged me inside.
“Oh, come here, baby,” Mom whispered with a voice drugged on both Chianti and love. They both pulled me into a hug and with six entangled arms the three of us actually managed to walk all the way to the kitchen, where we continued to hug while listening to Bob Dylan’s “Cry a while like there was no tomorrow”. And once again, in a very short period of time, I found myself part of a group hug, though this time it was a lot more true to a real Woodstock hug—with Bob Dylan singing in the background, Mom sporting her very bright and colorful dress, and Dad wearing his China Man slippers. Very authentic.
Lost in Seattle (The Miss Apple Pants series, #2) Page 34
