by Maggie Bloom
So this “date” was a crime of opportunity, spawned by the rudeness of her PhD advisor? “That makes sense, I guess,” I reluctantly admit, though I’m still suspicious of Jung’s motives. I mean, the girl has gone from borderline agoraphobic nerd to insatiable man-eater overnight.
Angie puts her head in my lap and promptly drifts off to sleep, the SUV emitting a throaty purr as it transports us back to my and Jung’s apartment; meanwhile, my mind is transported—à la a cheesy sitcom flashback (think gentle harp music and a hazy, time-distorting glow)—to the last time I saw Mark Loffel.
We were drunk off our asses, which doesn’t excuse—but does explain—how two semi-acquaintances (our circles of friends overlapped, and I knew his name but little else) ended up skinny dipping in the police chief’s hot tub (at the invitation of the chief’s granddaughter, who threw a midwinter bash at his house while he sunbathed in the Florida Keys), followed by a feeble attempt at making naked snow angels (hint: ninety-eight-point-six degrees does not a slippery, slide-y surface make), followed by the quickest sexual encounter known to woman (seriously, it was like: in and out, in and out and—congratulations!—you’re pregnant).
I thought about telling him when I found out, but the intel on Mark Loffel went something like this:
Sole physical, emotional, and financial supporter of his sick mother (Parkinson’s disease) since his father, a popular lobster fisherman, was lost at sea when Mark was twelve.
Superhard worker with as many as three jobs at once (dog walker, pizza deliveryman, and landscaper—circa 2010).
Gifted basketball player, with a full-boat scholarship to Purdue (and more than a passing interest from overseas recruiters—which might account for how the chef-savant ended up running a bed-and-breakfast-slash-whatever in Italy or France).
Given the aforementioned data, it should be no surprise that informing Mark Loffel he was about to be a proud papa was out of the question. I mean, Mom and Dad were cool with raising Angie while I did college, and once I graduated, I’d be equipped (or so the theory went) to take over my daughter’s care. Burdening an already taxed near saint with just-out-of-high-school parenthood seemed, by comparison, the greater of two evils (the lesser being my concealment of the truth).
But now . . .
Angie stirs in my lap, and I get a pang of guilt over what I’ve done. Even if my motives were pure, she’s become a casualty of the lie. And someday soon, she’ll discover that I’ve betrayed her. Before she learns the truth about Mark, though, she’ll have to come to terms with the truth about me.
We pull into the driveway, my mind reeling.
“Want me to carry her up?” Dex asks, Angie’s eyes fluttering at the sound of his voice.
I’d like to say I’ve got her, but the truth is, at nearly four years old, she’s heavier than I can handle. “Would you mind?”
He comes around to the back of the SUV, and I slide Angie into his arms, which, I can’t help noticing, are at least three times as muscular as any med student’s ought to be.
Jung stays in the vehicle, while the rest of us plod upstairs. Once inside, I ask Dex to rest Angie on my embarrassingly unmade bed. “Thanks again,” I say, tugging my bedroom door shut. He lingers in the hallway, and I get an out-of-the-blue urge to kiss him. So, I do. On the cheek.
If his ear-to-ear grin is any indication, he approves of my forwardness. “She’s a sweetheart,” he says about Angie.
I kiss him again, this time alarmingly close to—but not actually on—the lips. “Takes one to know one.” I’m not sure what has gotten into me, but someone should flog me with a wet noodle.
I have a boyfriend.
And Dex is currently—as in RIGHT NOW!—on a date with Jung.
Plus, thanks to Mark Loffel’s sudden reappearance, my life has turned as complex as the quadratic equation in Hebrew Braille.
The universe agrees that anything beyond friendship between Dex and me is ill-fated, as evidenced by the eruption of my cell phone at the precise moment his lips are poised to grope for mine. He falls back toward the living room, where I’ve stashed my now-screeching purse. “Shouldn’t you, uh, get that?” he asks.
I whizz by him. “Yes,” I say, grabbing my purse and rooting around for the phone, “I should.” Into the receiver, I mutter, “Hello?”
Mom’s voice is clipped. “Emmaline, where are you?”
An irrational wave of panic rolls over me. “I just got home.”
“To the apartment?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Angie’s still with you?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Why?”
She lets out a tense sigh. “Your father’s in the hospital. We both are.”
So my panic wasn’t crazy, after all? “Why?” I repeat. “What happened?” Please, God, let it be a case of indigestion run amok.
Dex recognizes my strain and guides me by the arm to the couch, where we sit.
“It’s not a heart attack,” Mom blurts. Before I can unclench my teeth, she adds, “His heart rhythm went a little haywire. They’re keeping him overnight for observation. If things don’t calm down, he might need surgery.”
Jeez, what’s worse: a heart that’s starved for blood or one that thinks it’s dancing the cha-cha? “Um, okay. What can I do?” I ask. I think desperately about rushing downstairs and haranguing Dr. Jacobs—the genius heart surgeon otherwise known as my landlord—into taking my father’s case. I mean, if anyone can fix him, this guy can.
“Can you keep Angie for the night?” Mom asks, sounding reticent. “I want to be here for your father, in case he needs anything.”
The request is so simple it catches me off guard. “Sure,” I say. “Absolutely. But don’t you want me to come to the hospital? What hospital are you at, anyway?”
She dismisses my offer, assuring me that, should anything significant transpire, she’ll greenlight my mad dash to Beth Israel (as it turns out, my father is already tucked in bed at the medical center where my abnormally gifted landlord plies his trade).
After Mom and I have agreed to touch base at 7 a.m., Dex asks, “Is everything all right?”
Again, my gut reaction is to kiss him. In the time I’ve lived here, he’s been nothing but supportive. And sexy. All things considered, he’s doing a bang-up job compared to wily ol’ Trent, who really should be here consoling me. “I’ll be fine,” I say with a sniffle that contradicts me. I blink back a well of tears. “You can go if you want.” Even if he doesn’t want to, there will be nothing happening (of the romantic variety, anyway) between Dex and me tonight. I learned my lesson with Jimmy, a mistake I’m in no hurry to repeat.
“Why don’t I get Jung?” he asks.
The truth is, I prefer Dex’s company to Jung’s—or, well, I think I do, based on the lack of interaction between my roomie and me. “I guess,” I say. “But I’m going to head to bed soon.”
“I’ll be right next door,” he replies, which I take as an open invitation to bother him with my unsolvable life problems.
I squeeze his hand. “Thanks. That means a lot.”
This time, he kisses me. On the forehead. “Get some sleep.”
* * *
Despite Dex’s advice and Jung’s hot tea—which I reluctantly sipped until it went cold—I’ve got a raging case of insomnia that, with my luck, will break at about 6 a.m.
Until then, though . . .
Angie has settled nicely in my bed, so I curl up on the floor and balance my laptop across my knees. If nothing else, I should get some work done. After all, my editor (I’m referring to Sharon, a.k.a. Wonder Woman, Mitch Heywood having built another layer of hierarchy between him and me) wants my article in her inbox by 1 p.m. Regardless of what I whip up, I’m sure she’ll shred it. I mean, there’s always that one woman who puffs herself up by demolishing every other female within reach of her tentacles. In my life, that woman is Sharon Fleming.
I resist the urge to check my social networks and, instead, open a new word processing docu
ment.
Big mistake.
As soon as my gaze falls upon that blank screen, my mind starts swirling with catastrophic thoughts, such as:
What if Dad doesn’t make it?
What if Mark finds out about Angie and sues me for custody—and wins?
What if Angie learns I’ve lied to her and hates me forever?
What if, for the second time in as many weeks, my column flops, giving Mitch Heywood more than enough reason to fire me (not that he needs any reason at all)?
What if Jimmy won’t take me back at The Crowbar (because, obviously, if I lose my job at The Times, I’ll have to go groveling at his feet for another chance)?
What if I can’t pay my student loans—or my rent—irreparably damaging my credit and forcing me to cram all my earthly possessions into the Green Goblin and call it home?
What if, while I’m running the Green Goblin to keep warm at night, carbon monoxide seeps inside and poisons me?
What if I die of carbon monoxide poisoning and a criminal finds my body and steals my belongings, but leaves me there to rot instead of calling the police?
What if I don’t die of carbon monoxide poisoning, but just—JUST!!!—end up with severe brain damage, making me indistinguishable from a potted plant?
What if . . .
I need a Valium—or a talk with Aunt GiGi, which usually has the same soothing effect. With a sigh, I close the laptop and tuck it in the corner by my nightstand, then slip out to the living room and fetch my phone. Back at the foot of my bed, I hunker down and dial GiGi’s number, even though it’s, oh, about midnight.
“What’s shakin’, Miss Emmaline?” GiGi’s voice squawks in my ear.
A smile creeps onto my lips. “Hi, Aunt GiGi,” I say. Right now, I wish I had two specific superpowers: the ability to teleport and X-ray vision, which I’d use to pop onto GiGi’s roof and sneak a peek at what a sassy sixtysomething like her is up to at this time of night. “Have you talked to Mom?”
“I speak with your mother all the time,” she replies vaguely. “We have wonderful conversations.”
“Okay, well, um . . .” I pick at the edge of my bedspread, unraveling one of its thick fringe cords. “Dad’s in the hospital.”
“Is he?” GiGi asks, her tone somewhere between nonplussed and disinterested.
“Yeah,” I say, “his heart rhythm is acting up again.”
“He’ll be fine, Emmaline. Your father’s a fighter.” She chuckles. “Boy, the stories I could tell you.”
“You’re right,” I say. “Think positive, huh?”
“That’s the spirit.” Under her breath, she mutters, “Get out of there, Minnie, you goddamn harebrained feline.”
GiGi’s cat must be twenty years old, at least. “How is Minnie, anyway?” I inquire. As crass as this sounds, I’d figured the cat had died already.
“Oh, who knows? One minute she’s as playful as a kitten, the next minute she’s tottering around here like—well, like she’s older than me. Enough about her, though,” she says. “What’s up with my favorite niece?”
I don’t bother pointing out that I’m her only niece, if you don’t count Angie. “Something sort of”—hmm, what adjective best captures the effect of Mark Loffel’s return to my life?—“big happened tonight. I could use a sounding board.”
“Ooh, should I put on a pot of coffee?”
My pulse quickens at the mention of caffeine. “That’s not a bad idea.”
Chapter 12
I was on the line with GiGi for over an hour before my phone died, right in the middle of one of her folksy nuggets of wisdom, which all boil down to the following two maxims:
Chicken noodle soup cures anything, including a broken bone—and a broken heart.
Never run out of chicken noodle soup.
Still, it was sixty minutes well spent, because even though her advice was less than helpful, her melodic voice lulled me into a trance, making the prospect of sleep plausible. The reality of sleep kicked in a short while later, lasting only long enough to see me through a vivid nightmare featuring a masked intruder who kidnapped Angie right out from under my nose.
* * *
“Ouch!” I say, trying to muffle my voice as I stub my toe in the dark. Just because I’m up again doesn’t mean Angie has to be.
By feel, I locate my bedroom curtains and pull them aside, letting in enough moonlight to illuminate the corner where my laptop is stowed. After tucking the computer under my arm, I tiptoe into the hall, where I overhear the strangest thing—giggling of the preteen variety, it sounds like—leaking out from under Jung’s bedroom door.
Will the strangeness never end?
I shake my head and press on, first to the bathroom and then to the kitchen, where I raid the stash of Oreos Angie and Mom failed to finish last time they were here. With a double stack of Double Stufs, I set up shop on the kitchen table—it’s really more of a desk, anyway—the laptop resting (dangerously, in a fire-hazard sense) atop yet another pile of scientific journals Jung refuses to read and/or recycle.
Now what? I mean, I want to get my article done; I need to get my article done. And it should be simple. The restaurant has great atmosphere, great food, a great-looking chef who just so happens to be the father of my secret lovechild. A review of The Olive Branch could practically write itself. Yet nothing is coming to me, my mind as blank as the word processing document taunting me from the smudge-encrusted screen, my only source of 3 a.m. light.
Fuckin’ writer’s block. Of course, it would strike me now, at a time when—not to be dramatic or anything—my life depends on my ability to crank out five hundred decent (if not jaw-dropping) words.
But whatever.
I fritter away forty-five minutes Googling cures for writer’s block (hint: there aren’t any) before recognizing what must be done. The solution is obvious, really: I must pen a confession/apology letter to Mark Loffel, thereby emancipating my guilty conscience and emptying the writing queue in my brain, allowing The Olive Branch review to flow.
Deep breath. All right, here goes.
Dear Mark, I type. Then I stall out again. Because, really, should I be referring to him as “dear” anything?
I delete the offending salutation and stick with only his first name, which still feels a bit too familiar. What other choice do I have, though? Addressing him by his full name would be equally gauche, considering the fact that WE HAVE A CHILD TOGETHER!!!
Focus, Em. You can do this, I tell myself.
As it turns out, my pep talk isn’t a lie. In the next twenty minutes, I hammer out a rough (okay, tree-bark bumpy) draft that, if a meteor were to streak through the sky and vaporize us all, could serve as an explanation of my misdeeds for posterity.
And it goes something like this:
Mark,
Emmaline Waters here. Sorry to be contacting you this way, but I didn’t know how else to broach the subject. What subject? you may be asking. Well, the subject of you and me and a hot, snowy night in the police chief’s Jacuzzi. And the police chief’s garden (though, to be fair, the roses were long dormant). And culminating in the police chief’s very own heart-shaped bed.
To be clear, I’m not referring to the sex—which was fine, by the way. A little quick, maybe, but overall a solid B+.
The subject is more along the lines of what resulted from the sex (and, no, I don’t mean syphilis or chlamydia—not that I have either of those).
Anyway, before I plunge headfirst into the subject, I should apologize for waiting so long to reach out to you. Believe me when I say I did it for your own good; I was trying to protect you. I mean, with everything you were already coping with, I just didn’t think . . .
I will also admit that I didn’t take some things into consideration—like your feelings, for example. I was so overwhelmed by doctor’s appointments and homework and—I might as well cop to this too—abject terror that, for a number of months (nine, to be precise), I was pretty much all about me. For that self-centeredn
ess, I am also sorry. (Whew, it feels good to get that off my chest!)
Seeing you at the restaurant was a gigantic shock. Honestly, I’m surprised I didn’t faint. But I also think we crossed paths again for a reason. Something—the universe? God? kismet?—wants us to reconnect and do what’s best for everyone involved. That’s why I’m writing you this letter—to do what’s best, not just for me but for you and, especially, for Angie.
Do you remember meeting Angie tonight? The adorable little girl with the glittery dress, wavy golden hair, and upturned button nose? (Thank you for that, by the way; it’s one of her most endearing features.) Did she look familiar? I’ve always wondered if you’d recognize her on sight, the way I’m sure I would if she and I had never met.
I guess what I’m trying to say (lamely, at this point) is that, as crazy as this sounds, the one and only time you and I had sex—and, for the record, the only, only time I’d had it back then—produced a beautiful baby girl. (Yes, the rumors are true: a girl can get pregnant her first time!)
There’s not much I can do to make up for the past; that ship has sailed, as they say. All I can do now is invite you to take part in our daughter’s life, in whatever form such a relationship might take. (Note: first I’m going to have to break the news to Angie that I’m her mother and not her sister, as she’s been led to believe all her life. Hopefully, that conversation will go swimmingly, and you’ll be free to do your thing—if you want to, that is. No pressure. I have a boyfriend who’s shaping up to be a great stand-in daddy—sort of a big brother/sweet uncle type—so if you want to pretend this never happened, that’s okay too. Angie will get by just fine without you.)
In conclusion, I reiterate that I am sorry for keeping you out of the loop regarding our daughter’s existence. It was a selfish, inconsiderate, panicked decision by an immature girl who was unprepared for motherhood. If I could take it back, I would. To right this wrong, I pledge to do whatever it takes to foster a positive relationship between you and Angie. Our daughter deserves all the love she can get in this world, and I’ll do everything in my power to give it to her. I hope you will too (but, again, it’s cool if you’re not digging it. Totally fine. Just let me know, one way or the other.)
