by TJ Klune
“I am weirdly uncomfortable right now.”
“Sorry. I just… I just hate them so much. Like, what are they trying to be? Because if they’re trying to be bitches, then by god, they’re doing it right.”
“Can we get back to the part where you’re supposed to be making me feel better about everything?”
“Oh. Right! Where was I?”
“I honestly don’t even know.”
“The daddy thing. Papa Bear, all that other shit just falls away when they call you Daddy. Man, I can’t even begin to describe what that feels like.” He smiled as he looked down at his hands. “And they’re funny too, you know? I didn’t… I didn’t expect that. JJ is… I know he’s not like Ty was. He’s not… the smartest kid in the world. But he just… he gets me, you know? And I get him. Anna says he’s my kid, through and through. And he can make me mad, and yeah, there are times I’ve wondered about what my life would be like if we hadn’t fucked up and gotten Anna pregnant. But then he’ll call me Daddy, or he’ll say something funny, and I’ll just laugh, you know? I’ll laugh, and it will have made everything we’ve been through—all the poop and snot and fucking hipsters—worth it. It’s worth it, Bear. And nothing will ever happen to make me think otherwise.” He frowned then. “Unless he grows up to be the next Charles Manson or something. If that happens, we’ll probably need to revisit my assessment.”
“I don’t know if I feel any better.”
He clapped a hand on my shoulder. “You’re not really supposed to. You can do all the research you can, you can ask my wife questions about the state of her vagina after childbirth—”
“I regret that so much right now, you don’t even know. Did she have to pull up pictures to show what can happen? I mean, my god. How do they do that? I stub my toe and I think the world is ending.”
“—but the only way you’ll actually be ready is when you hold the baby in your arms for the first time. You’ll wing a lot of it. Trust me on that. Because nothing anyone can tell you can actually prepare you. Oh sure. You’ll think you are, and maybe you’ll know more than we did, but all of that just flies right out the window that first moment. You’ll make mistakes, Bear. You and Otter both. And there will be days when you’ll want to pull the covers over your head and cry a little. But it’s worth it. In the end. You can trust me on that.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Dude, it’s fucking amazing.”
“I like her,” I said quietly, as if speaking it any louder would make it untrue.
“This Megan chick?”
I nodded. “We’re gonna give ourselves time to think on it. Maybe meet with some other surrogates just to be sure, but… I don’t know. I thought we clicked, a little. When we met. She’s a little ditzy, but she’s… cool. And that’s such an understatement to describe a person who could carry our kid, but—it’s just all I can think of. She’s cool.”
“That’s good, man. You get good vibes from her and all that. The only thing I think you’re doing wrong is not telling Tyson. I get why you’re doing it, but I don’t want that to come and bite you in the ass.”
I heard Anna laugh in the living room with Otter’s warm voice running as an undercurrent. I took the towel from Creed to dry my hands. “I know, but it is him we’re thinking about. He’s says he’s better with the idea, but you saw his reaction when we first brought it up. He wasn’t… thrilled.”
“You know I love him, right? Like, behind JJ, he’s the best in the world?”
“I know.”
“Good,” Creed said. “So remember that when I say he’s a fucking shit.”
“Hey!”
“He is. Or he was. That was a dick move, what he pulled at that first dinner back. I get why, I really do. For a long time, it’s been just him. You always put him above everything else. Then Otter came along and did the same. But Bear, he’s doing what he needs to do to right himself, and you gotta do the same for yourself. You have earned this, okay? Both you and Otter have. And if he’s going to be a dick about this, then fuck him. After everything you’ve done for him, he should be willing to give you this.”
“He apologized,” I said. “I think he’s okay with it now.”
“But you’re not telling him,” Creed pointed out.
“Not just him. Everyone. Dom. Your mom and dad. Anna’s parents. They all know we’re trying, but we just… in a way, you’re right. This is our thing. And I want to keep it that way. For now.”
He watched me for a moment. Then, “You don’t think this will work, do you.”
I took a step back. “What? I—I don’t—”
He shook his head. “Dude. You don’t think this will work.”
And maybe that was right. Or rather, maybe that was almost right. I knew what we were trying to do, but everything I’d gotten in my life, everything I’d loved had come with a price. A trade-off. There was always something bad to offset the good. And I was getting better at it—focusing on the positive—but I’d been conditioned all my life to expect the worst. Mom leaving. Otter leaving. Mrs. Paquinn dying. Otter’s accident. Ty’s mental state. His addiction.
And what’s the one constant here? it whispered. Who is the common denominator in all of this? Oh, that’s right. It’s you, Bear. You’re the one connected to all of this. Makes you think, doesn’t it? Makes you really think.
“It’s not—”
“Cut the shit, Papa Bear,” Creed said, a scowl on his face. “I’ve known you for far too long to let you try and talk in circles around me. What the hell?”
I glanced toward the living room to make sure we weren’t being overheard. Anna and Otter were seated close to each other on the couch, speaking quietly. I couldn’t hear what they were talking about, but neither of them was looking at us.
To be safe, though, I lowered my voice. “It’s not that I don’t think that, it’s just… it’s, okay. It’s expensive, right? And there are no guarantees. If we don’t get this, if it doesn’t work, we’re out that money. Most of which, by the way, is coming from Otter.”
Creed snorted. “Yeah, because what’s his isn’t yours at all. Dude, you’re married. Knock it off.”
I glared at him. “I know that, but I’m a teacher. You can’t ignore the fact that my salary doesn’t exactly cover the seventy fucking thousand dollars this is going to cost us. And if it doesn’t work, that’s just… gone.”
“Okay,” Creed said. “Fair. But what if it does work?”
I could find nothing to say to that.
Creed sighed. “Look, Papa Bear. I know you’ve been dealt a crappy hand, okay? Life sucks and then you die. But Jesus, you are allowed to have hope for something. Dude, enough with this sad-sack martyr routine. The chances are greater of this working than not. You guys are going the IVF route, right? Gestational surrogacy?”
I shook my head. “We were looking at that, but then we met her. She just… fits. You know? Think we’re going to go the traditional surrogacy route instead if we choose her.”
He stared at me. “She fits? With us? Oh my god. I don’t know if that’s amazing or terrifying.”
“Right? Jury’s still out.”
“That’s—okay. Whatever. Yes, it’s expensive as fuck, and yes, there’s always a chance it doesn’t work. But you know what happens then? You get upset about it for a little bit, but then you pick yourself up and start again. There are always options, okay? Always. We’ll figure it out, one way or another. And hey, Anna said you could rent her womb if necessary.”
“She did not.”
He shrugged. “Well, maybe not in so many words, but we both know she’d do it. And if not even then, there’s always adoption. Like, Russian kids or something.”
“He wants me to do it,” I admitted.
Creed’s eyes widened a little at that. “To be the donor? Dude, that’s—”
“I told Otter he was out of his mind, especially given the crazy that’s apparently genetic in our family. But he said that there’s already JJ, and h
e wants it to come from me. So it’d be a part of me.”
“Can’t they mix both of you?”
“Some places do that, but the clinic we’re using doesn’t. It’s more expensive that way too.”
“Dude,” Creed breathed. “That’s awesome.”
“You don’t think it’s a bad idea?”
“Fuck no. It’s the best idea ever. Holy shit, Bear, a little fucking you? That’s….” He blinked. “Okay, I can see why you’re scared now.”
I couldn’t help it; I laughed at that, loud and long. “You dick.”
He hugged me then. It was strong and familiar, and we didn’t say much about the way we both sniffled a little bit. “You’ve got this, Bear,” he whispered in my ear. “Trust me, okay? You’ve got this. I promise you. And I’ll be there when there is shit and vomit everywhere to remind you it’s worth it. It’s so fucking worth it.”
“Are they crying?” Anna asked, sounding bewildered.
Creed and I both jumped apart, coughing in a manly way and discreetly wiping our eyes.
Anna and Otter were standing in the entrance to the kitchen, staring at us.
“We’re not crying,” Creed said. “We were having bro-time, which you just interrupted. That was rude of you, and I will accept your apology when you’re ready to give it.”
“We’re in love with a pair of idiots,” Anna told Otter.
But Otter was smiling at me, that crooked smile that he wore so well. “Yeah,” he said softly. “We are, aren’t we?”
THAT NOVEMBER we watched on the computer screen as Dominic walked into Ty’s room in New Hampshire. Ty told him he’d started to figure things out and he thought he could stand on his own now.
It was all very romantic, or so I was told.
I was too busy trying to think of a way to effectively intimidate Dom, even though he was twice my size.
THREE DAYS later, we picked Megan Ridley to be our surrogate.
She grinned at us and said, “Super. Let’s get the eggs and bacon inside me cooking. Happy holidays, everyone!”
We gaped at her.
ON THE morning of December 16, 2015, Anna Thompson went into labor.
“No, Bear, you cannot stay in here and watch,” she said through gritted teeth in her hospital room.
“But how will I know what it looks like to be dilated!” I protested as Otter started to drag me toward the door.
“I’ll take pictures,” Creed called after us before he yelped in pain. I didn’t see what Anna had done to cause that, but I figured it was nothing good.
Ten hours later, their son was born.
Allan Jude Thompson. Seven pounds, four ounces.
“AJ for short,” Creed said a little hysterically when he came into the waiting room. “Since Anna couldn’t keep him in until Christmas, I got to pick the name, even after she vetoed Creed Junior. He’s so awesome, he’s healthy and awesome, and he looks like a hairless mole! I’m pretty sure Anna broke my hand, but Jesus Christ, AJ is here and he’s real. He’s fucking real. Dude, Bear, I’m a daddy. Again.”
He cried a little then.
I think maybe we all did.
LIFE IS funny sometimes.
It can knock you flat.
It can take away everything you love.
One moment everything is fine, and then it turns on a dime, and you’re standing on a beach, a phone pressed tightly against your ear, and there’s a voice saying I’m afraid I don’t know anything about a Theresa Paquinn and Derrick, that’s not why I called and According to the EMTs, he was T-boned on the driver’s side of his vehicle by a van that ran a stop sign. And everything can go to hell so fast that you have whiplash from it when you’re holding a Kid in your lap and watching as an old woman who means so much more than you ever told her takes her last breath. Because sometimes, these things are inevitable. They happen for no rhyme or reason, and as you’re reeling, as you’re struggling against the earthquakes, against the goddamn ocean that wants to swallow you into the deep, you think to yourself that everything would be okay if you just breathed.
But then there are those other moments. Those moments when the breath is knocked from your body in the best and most frightening of ways.
Otter’s phone rang on a Saturday afternoon in early January. I was sitting in the kitchen, a blanket on my lap, sipping tea while reading over essays, some of which were making me want to bang my head on the table.
The holidays were behind us, and the Kid was back at Dartmouth, making plans for himself. He’d told me that when he was ready to let me know what he was going to do, he’d let me know. And for the first time in a long time, I was trusting him with himself.
So I wasn’t really paying attention when Otter’s phone went off on the kitchen counter. He rubbed a hand over my head as he passed me by, and I made a little noise to acknowledge him, but nothing more.
I didn’t even look up when he sucked in a little breath before answering his phone.
“Hello?” he said, and I wondered if Davey Brewer had ever heard of spell-check, because I was dying. “Hey. Hi. Are you—yeah. He’s here. What do you—hold on. Bear?”
I looked up at him. His face was white, and his hands were shaking a little. “What is it?” I asked, heart suddenly thundering in my chest, because life, man. Life fucking turns on a dime. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m going to put you on speaker, okay?” Otter said into the phone, and I didn’t think I’d ever seen his eyes so wide. He pulled the phone away from his ear and punched a button on the screen. He set it down on the counter and held his hand out for me.
I was at his side in a second, gripping him tightly.
I looked down at the phone.
The screen said MEGAN.
Oh, Bear, it whispered. Here we go again. Just when you thought—
“Can you hear us?” Otter asked, voice tremulous.
“Yes!” a bright and cheery voice said. “Hi, Bear!”
“Hi, Megan,” I managed to say. “What’s going on?”
“Oh, you know. Same old, same old. Except for one little thing. And seriously, you guys, this is such a breach of protocol because this should be coming from the clinic, but you know what? I just tried calling the specialist and got voicemail, so when you hear from her, you totally need to act surprised, okay? I don’t want to end up on some banned surrogate list, because you know they exist. So you have to act surprised.”
“About what?” Otter said. “Are you—” His voice broke as he squeezed my hand.
“I hope you’re ready,” Megan Ridley said. “Because I took a pregnancy test this morning. And then I took a second one. And then, just because I could, I took a third one, and guess what? I’m pregnant. Bear. Otter. You guys are having a baby. It worked.”
Life turns. It turns and turns and turns.
But sometimes, it turns for the better.
PRESENT
What matters is to live in the present, live now, for every moment is now.
—Sai Baba
6. Where Bear Attends the Most Awkward Homecoming Ever
“SHE’S DEAD,” Isabelle McKenna says. “Mom. She’s dead and I have nowhere else to go and Ty said if I needed help to find him and I need help! I need help so bad.” Her chest hitches, and it’s that, that little action, a little girl on the verge of tears standing in front of me, looking up at me like I’ll have all the answers that causes my knees to buckle.
And for the first time in my life, my little sister launches herself into my arms. The weight of her reminds me so much of Ty that I can barely breathe around the lump in my throat. She sobs bitterly against my chest. The blood roars in my ears.
You and me. That’ll never change, Papa Bear.
But it will, won’t it?
It already is.
“Twins,” Otter says from somewhere behind us. He sounds just stupid with awe, and through the haze, I am barely grasping what he’s saying. “Jesus Christ. We’re having twins?”
WELL.
Okay, then.
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck—
THE DOORBELL rings again a couple of hours later and startles the shit out of Otter and me from where we are staring blankly in the kitchen, my little sister sleeping in Tyson’s bed somewhere above us, freshly washed and fed. Her eyes had closed the moment her head hit the pillow, Otter and I standing above her, unsure of what the hell else to do aside from closing the door behind us and walking back down the stairs to the kitchen, where we stood now, both of us uttering a word or two but unable to follow it up with anything coherent. There are things we should be saying, things we should be doing, but for the life of me, I can’t find the words to actually say any of it.
So when the doorbell rings, we both jump, laughing weakly at ourselves, but then almost knock each other over as we run for the door.
Otter wins, only because he accidentally knocks me against the wall near the living room.
He even looks vaguely apologetic as he opens the door.
Megan Ridley stands on the porch of the Green Monstrosity, smiling a little nervously at the sight of us. “Hey, guys,” she says, and I swear her stomach is twice as big as it’d been when we saw her two weeks before.
And we probably don’t help her nerves by standing there, blocking the doorway, staring directly at her belly.
“Did I break you both?” she asks, laughing a little.
“Um,” Otter says. “No.”
“Maybe,” I blurt out. “Just—are you sure?”
She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, so a little broken. Okay, I can deal with that. Are you going to let me in? The color of your house is hurting my feelings, and it’s hot out. Like, I have boob sweat right now, okay? And I just drove an hour to get here to make sure you two weren’t freaking out, given the sounds you were making on the phone. But seriously, you have lived here how long and you’ve never thought about changing the color? I may have to keep both of the babies.”
