I gave Drake a quick hug to tell him goodbye. I knew by the way he held on to me longer than I held onto him that he wanted our departure to be more meaningful than it was. I wanted it to be that way too, but I just couldn't give in, not with everything else I had going on.
"Dwake?" Isabel said.
"Yes."
"I like youw house, and I like youw studio. I fink you have the most fun ovew hewe at youw wowk."
"I do have a lot of fun at my work."
"I could tell because you took pictuwes of us and it was fun, huh?"
"Yes it was," he said. "I had a lot of fun."
"And we went to that birfday pawty, and we ate wunch."
"I know," Drake said. "It was fun, huh?"
Isabel nodded seriously. "I want to do it again tomowwow," she said.
"Iz, we're going to Hartford," I said. "And Drake's got stuff going on. You can't just see him whenever. He took our pictures because that's what he does for a job, and he was nice enough to offer to do some work for us one time for free."
"I can do it for free as many times as I want," Drake said, talking to Isabel like I wasn't even standing there. "That's my name on the door. You know what that means?"
"That you awe in chawge?" she asked.
"Yep, I'm in charge." He high-fived Isabel and then looked straight at me as he held the door open for us. "Please text or email so I can send you some of these pictures."
"I will," I said. "Thanks again for taking them, and for lunch. Thanks for everything."
Chapter 11
It was close to dinnertime when Isabel and I made it to my parents'. My mom and dad were both at home. Dad had bought himself an old Ford Mustang, and he was in the garage with his head under the hood when I pulled into the driveway. I was driving a small hatchback I had rented in the city, and I parked it right behind his classic car.
Isabel had only recently learned how to let herself out of a seatbelt, and she did so as soon as I put the car in park.
"Thewe's PopPop," she said. "He's wowking on his caw."
"I know, but I have to let you out before you can go see him."
Isabel bounced on the seat with excitement. Dad had made it over to me by the time I got out of the car, so I gave him a hug just before I reached out to open the back seat and let Isabel out.
"Where's my little girl?" my dad asked in a great, bellowing voice. He put the side of his hand to his forehead and looked around with intensity.
"I'm wight hewe, PopPop!"
"I hear her!" he said.
"Wight hewe!" she said, laughing and tugging at his shirt.
"Right here?" he asked. He stared down at her in sweet amazement, and she giggled and held her arms up, inviting him to carry her. "How's my little girl?" Dad asked, hugging Isabel.
"Good," she said.
"Looks like you still got that thing on your arm."
"Uh-huh, but I get it off in fouw days. And I bwought a tweat fow Bingo."
"He's gonna love that. He's inside with Nana." He turned to me with a smile. "How's my other little girl?" he asked, reaching out to give me another little sideways hug.
"We're good," I said. I had always been pretty good at hiding my real emotions, but I had a lot on my mind, so my casual attitude was slightly less convincing than normal. I sent that email to J.R. way earlier that morning. It had been like nine hours, and still no response. I had checked my sent folder twice, rereading the email both times. I kept telling myself it was the weekend, and he probably hadn't checked his email, but I knew that was untrue since J.R. lived on his phone.
Anyway, I hated not hearing from him.
I spent the next few hours catching my parents up on everything Isabel had been doing in school, and getting her settled in for the night. I kept everything light and fluffy while Isabel was awake. I had checked my email just about every hour throughout the day, but I never heard from J.R. The day passed quickly, though, and before I knew it, Isabel was sound asleep in my old room.
I checked my email one more time before I went back into the living room to talk to my parents. There was nothing from J.R., but looking at my phone made me think about contacting Drake. I fished his card out of my back pocket and typed his number into my contacts. I went ahead and put in his email address while I was at it. I started to send him a text, but I changed my mind. I even composed one and deleted it, deciding that I needed to take a day to clear my head.
I took a long shower, washing my hair and shaving my legs, and doing all the things I usually put off. In spite of being unsettled with work, I felt clean and cozy at my parents' house. My mom had ice cream in the freezer, and I made myself a big bowl of it before popping down on their comfortable couch. My dad had a baseball game on TV, and my mom was sitting next to him with her nose in a magazine. I sat down beside her, and she readjusted to make room for me.
"Is she out?" Mom asked.
"Like a light."
"She sure does like that Drake guy," Dad said.
I had not expected him to say that, and I honestly wasn't prepared to talk about Drake. I had just been about to tell them I quit my job, and I found it difficult to switch gears.
"Yep," I said. "I quit my job. At least I tried to. I haven't heard back from them yet, but I put in my two-weeks notice earlier today, right before I came here."
"Why'd you do that?" my mom asked. She peered at me from over her reading glasses with a look of concern.
"Because I wasn't getting along with my manager," I said.
Dad leaned forward so he could look at me from the other side of my mom. "I thought you were the manager," he said.
"I am, I was. I was the store manager. But I have a boss, and so does he. There are people I have to deal with—answer to."
"Were they being unfair?"
"I don't know if you want to call it that."
My mom stared at my father and then me as if she didn't know what to make of all this.
I let out a long sigh. "I'm not working there anymore, and I don't have another job, yet. I'm at a crossroads, and right now, I'm just trying to decide whether I want to move back home and start over or try to stay and make a go of it in New York."
They were both quiet for a few seconds, and my mother was the one who broke the silence. "Yeah, because Macy's gonna be getting married," she said. "I know she'll be moving out, and it would be all on you to pay for that apartment. Are you month-to-month on that place?"
I nodded. I sat there for what must've been a full minute, taking small bites of the chocolate ice cream that was in my bowl and doing my best to forget about all the big decisions I had to make.
"What does your heart tell you?" My mom asked, pulling me back to reality.
In that moment, I silently asked my heart what it wanted, and the only thing that came to mind was Drake.
There I was, on my parents' couch, wrapped up in a blanket while eating chocolate ice cream. Moving back to Hartford was the obvious choice. My parents would gladly welcome Isabel and me to live at their house while I got my feet on the ground with a new job. I should have started making plans to move back home as soon as I finished my two weeks at work, but honestly, moving back home was the last thing I wanted to do. Mom asked what my heart was saying, and the truth was that it was saying I should stay in the city. I clearly wasn't going to tell my parents that the main reason I wanted to do so was because I had become hopelessly infatuated with some photographer I had just met.
"My heart wishes I could try to make it in New York," I said. "But I know it's gonna be hard for a little while without benefits and everything." I let out a long sigh at the thought of switching over a bunch of paperwork and possibly having to apply for some sort of state healthcare for Isabel. I hated paperwork. The whole thing was overwhelming, and I felt like all I wanted to do was forget about all the pending change in my life and disappear into my bowl of chocolate ice cream.
"Well, you know you are always welcome to come home," Dad said.
I gav
e him a little smile. "I know. And, thank you. It still might be a possibility, I just wanted to take a few days to think about it."
"You got Isabel all situated for kindergarten in the fall," my mom said, thinking out loud. "But all you'd have to do is put her in school here if you decide to come back home."
"I've already thought about all that," I said. "I think I'm just gonna wait to hear from my boss. A lot of it will hinge on whether or not they're gonna give me a good referral."
"Of course they will!" my mom said. "They're probably gonna beg you to stay and give you a raise once they read the note that you're leaving."
Dad sat back on the couch, looking relaxed, like he had all the confidence in the world that I'd be able to get any job I wanted.
"They better be fair to you," Mom said. "You've worked for them a long time. You've paid your dues. Is there some kind of severance package or something?"
I gave her an incredulous glance. "I'm not getting laid off, Mom. I'm quitting. There's no package. I'm just going to finish off these last two weeks and hope my last paycheck and my savings can get us by until I find something else. It's an awkward, stupid situation at work, and I don't really want to talk about it, but I'll get through it. I'll find something else. And if I don't, the back-up plan really isn't that bad."
She put her hand on my shoulder and regarded me with a slightly sad expression. "I could tell something was bothering you, sweetheart."
I leaned into her, letting our heads touch in an act of affection. "I hate strife," I said. "I've had to deal with people's drama as a manager, but I'm usually able to stay out of it—keep my distance. I hate having the drama be about me. I'm not used to this."
My mom rubbed my back again. "Honey, I don't know what to tell you. I wish you'd tell me what was going on. I know you're a hard worker, so if that's not good enough for them, then they don't deserve to have you."
I didn't bother explaining that my sudden departure had nothing to do with being underappreciated; she knew it was something deeper than that.
"Didn't you tell me somebody from the Gap had called and asked if you wanted to work there?"
I let out a humorless laugh at my mom's question. "That was when I was in high school, Mom. My friend, Brittany, who worked at the Gap called to see if I wanted to leave Patterson so I could go work with her."
"Well, I thought maybe she still worked there," she said.
I felt bad for being so amused by her suggestion that I said, "The Gap is an option, though. There is one of them not too far from my apartment."
"Would you be able to start out as manager?" she asked.
"I don't know. I don't know anything right now."
She rubbed my back again.
"Everybody goes through stuff, sweetheart. "You're strong. You always figure out a way to keep going when things don't go your way."
I smiled at her. "I wish I could figure out a way to make them go my way instead of having to make the best of it when they don't."
"Nobody can do that," Dad said. "That's not what life is. There's always going to be something coming up against you. And even when there's not—even when it seems there is nothing to complain about, you can find something. You're gonna have struggles, sweetheart. That's why we've always taught you to look for strength in something other than yourself."
"I know, I'm trying," I said. "And I'm thankful, I really am. I have a little put away in savings so that I can try to make it in New York for a few more months. I know Macy would like for us to stay in the city so she can see Isabel."
"Well, if your family is a factor, then we would like you here," my mom said.
"She knows that," my dad said. "Let her make up her own mind." He leaned over my mom and smiled at me again. "But your mother and I wouldn't mind having you girls closer."
***
I stayed in the living room, talking with my parents for an hour or so after Isabel went to bed. I found my phone and checked my email as soon as I got to my room. Again, there was nothing from J.R. I went to the sent folder one more time just to make sure it had actually sent. I refrained from reading it this time, which somehow felt like an accomplishment.
I stared at the screen.
I had already created a contact for Drake, and I went to it and pressed the button that took me to the texting screen. I composed a text to him.
Me: "Hello Drake, Tabitha here. I just wanted you to have my contact information. I am including my email address since I wasn't sure which means of communication was best for you."
I typed in my email address and pressed send, and not even a minute had passed before I heard back from him.
Drake: "Did you just say means of communication?"
Me: "Ha-ha. Sorry. I'm a big dork."
Drake: "You also wrote, Tabitha here."
Me: "Huge dork."
Drake: "No, but too formal."
I was in the middle of deciding what I was going to write back to him when he texted me a picture from earlier that day. It wasn't one of Isabel and me together; it was just me. I was sure Isabel was beside me at the time that it was taken, but this photograph was so closely zoomed in on my face, that she wasn't in the picture. It was my profile, and I believe I was looking at her.
I instantly focused on my own expression. I was in between smiles, and my face was relaxed and thoughtful looking. I got nervous looking at it, self-conscious, like Drake had captured some hidden aspect of me that I wasn't even sure I wanted him to see. I was tempted to not like the picture of myself, but then I focused on it differently and realized how beautiful the photography was—the actual composition of the whole thing. As a viewer, I really wanted to know what the girl in the picture was focused on and what she was thinking. There was a window behind my figure, and the placement of everything and the lighting were so perfect that I found myself ignoring all of my own insecurities, and instead, smiling at how beautiful it was.
I was staring at it, and trying to think of something to say to Drake (something that would do justice to the beautiful portrait he had just sent me) when another photo came through. It was another one of me. Just me. I knew he had taken several shots that were just Isabel today, but I honestly hadn't even been aware that he was taking some of just me. I was lost in thought, staring at yet another visually compelling photograph when a text came in from Drake.
Drake: "Who is this girl?"
I smiled when I read it, and then I started typing a response.
Me: "I think that's me, but I'm not sure. They really are beautiful photographs, Drake, and I'm not talking about me. Seriously. I see why you're famous. You make me look like a model."
Drake: "God made you look like a model, I just documented it."
Me: "Thank you, but your documenting skills are amazing."
Chapter 12
Drake and I had a conversation via text that lasted about an hour that night, and during it, he sent me a total of four photos from the shoot.
The first two were of me, then followed one of Isabel by herself, and then one of the two of us together. Drake said there were a few other photographs he loved from the shoot and that he would get them to me as soon as he had the chance.
I thanked him again. We exchanged texts for a little while after he sent the photographs, and I caught myself laughing and smiling and feeling like I really liked him. I tried to maintain distance at first, but toward the end of our conversation, my texts became a little more sweet and meaningful. I didn't mean for it to happen that way, but I was drawn to Drake, and in spite of the fact that we might be ill-suited for one another, I certainly didn't want him to think I was uninterested.
Before we said goodnight to each other, Drake made me promise to come by his studio once we both got back to the city. He said he had to go out of town right when I was coming home, but once he returned, he wanted to get together so he could give me some prints. It was a subtle way of saying he wanted to see me again, and I went to sleep that night, smiling at the fact that we had the
excuse.
I woke up at 2am to the worst thing ever. Maybe there are a few worse things than a vomiting child, but I assure you, it's pretty bad—especially when the first of many rounds of vomiting happened directly in the bed next to me. It was, no doubt, one of the longest nights of my life, and as a single mother of a premature baby, I had experienced quite a few long nights. I won't burden you with the gory details, but let me assure you, it was bad. It was terrible.
Isabel woke up at 2am, and from there, things went from bad to worse. I handled it by myself until 5:30 when I woke up my mom for some much needed reinforcement. By 9am, we got in the car to take Isabel to the hospital. We made it all the way there, but we didn't take her inside. She fell asleep on the way, and was sleeping so soundly that we decided to take her back home. We all preferred to stay away from the hospital unless it was totally necessary, so we prayerfully drove her back home and put her to bed.
I was glad we made that call, because she was able to sleep for the next few hours, which was what she needed. I only got a few hours sleep the night before, so I stayed by her side, watching her rest until I dozed off with her.
I was up and down, but Isabel slept until almost noon that day. She was still feeling puny when she got up, but she was in much better condition than she'd been in the night before. She took a couple of sips of water, and my dad went to the store to get her some Jell-O, and popsicles. During the next few hours, she ate several bites of each of these and managed to keep everything down.
I hated seeing my child sick. It made me feel so helpless. I would much rather have these things happen to me than to watch her go through it.
So, the longest night turned into a long, dreamlike day, and the next thing I knew, it was Monday evening. My mom and dad were getting dinner, and watching the news, and going on with their life, but Isabel and I had been stuck in a weird time warp of a day where I was consumed with nothing other than being by her side.
It was Monday at around dinnertime when I realized I had done the right thing in postponing a hospital visit. Isabel felt like she could eat a few crackers and a couple of bites of chicken noodle soup. She also had some color back in her face, which was a much welcome sight for a weary mother.
Love Stung (Shower & Shelter Artist Collective Book 5) Page 8
