You're My Baby

by Laura Abbot

  Despite Shelley’s dissatisfaction, it was little wonder his attempt to create a family had failed. He’d had no model. Maybe “happy family” was nothing more than a myth. But that didn’t prevent him from wanting one.

  From Pam, he’d learned more about the emotional distance between her and her sister—how, as a child, no amount of good behavior or beguiling smiles could win over Barbara, frozen in grief and resentment. On a cheerier note, Pam told of her closeness to her rancher father, her days as an undergraduate at U.T., her roles in theater productions, her love of American literature. But nothing more about this past summer, about her love affair. For the life of him, he couldn’t fathom why thinking about her with another man bothered him so much.

  It had only been a week since their marriage. Fifty-one to go. The way he felt right now, though, the time could only grow more torturous, because with every passing day, despite his history, he was becoming more and more invested in the idea of family. His family. This family.

  But he’d made a bargain. And he was a man of his word.

  SUNDAY AFTERNOON Pam curled up on the sofa with two stacks of student papers. Grant watched a pro football game, seemingly unaware that Viola was perched on the back of his recliner.

  Saturday had gone better than expected. Andy had slept late, and when Grant had returned from a morning at the gym, Pam had put them to work bringing over the rest of her belongings from the condo and then rearranging furniture here and hanging her prints. Luckily she’d leased her condo to Randy Selves, the young journalism teacher, for the school year.

  Grant asked her if the audio of the game was disturbing her, and although she said no, she nonetheless found her attention straying from the papers. Glancing around the room, she allowed herself a satisfied grin. It no longer seemed stark and utilitarian. Her collection of wooden candlesticks looked great on the mantel, and the colorful Southwestern throws and pillows brought color where there had been drabness.

  At halftime Grant muted the TV and moved to the sofa. “How do you think it’s going? Our arrangement?”

  “Okay. Maybe we’re at our best when we forget we’re married and try just to be friends.”

  “This is harder than I thought.”

  “That’s because we can scarcely ever let our guard down.”

  “Maybe we’ll settle into a routine soon.”

  “Let’s see, you do Sunday breakfasts, I cook dinners, I do Andy’s laundry, you do your own.” She continued ticking items off on her fingers. “We take turns cleaning the bathroom. You vacuum, I dust. How am I doing so far?”

  “Sounds like a game plan to me.”

  “Would you mind if I planted some bulbs in the yard?”

  He chuckled apologetically. “It’s pretty barren out there.”

  “All it needs is a woman’s touch.” Should she have mentioned flowers? Was it presumptuous to put such a permanent stamp on his territory?

  He stood. “Can I get you anything? A soda or something?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  He hesitated, then went on. “Is it next week you go to the doctor?”

  “Yes. Wednesday after school.”

  He didn’t say anything, just nodded. But there was something in his body language that suggested uncertainty. Surely he didn’t want to go with her. That would be way too weird. Besides, she had lots of questions to ask Dr. Ellis, and her privacy was important. He didn’t need to feel any obligation to carry their charade that far. “On second thought, a glass of iced tea sounds good.”

  “Sure,” he said, heading toward the kitchen.

  Had it been fair to entangle him in her personal affairs? With perseverance he could surely have located a housekeeper. Then he and Andy could have bonded without the complication of her presence in their midst. For Andy, though, the biggest surprise was yet to come.

  Lost in self-recrimination, she didn’t hear Grant return. “Here.” He handed her the tea. “Okay if I watch the second half?”

  “Go ahead.” He shooed Viola away and settled in his chair.

  She held the icy glass to her cheek, relishing the cool. Finally she set it on the table and picked up the papers still awaiting her attention. This early in the year she took particular care with her grading, making more than the usual number of comments in the effort to reassure the students. The senior essays had been, by and large, proficient, but, as expected, the level of quality among the sophomores was all over the board. When she came to Andy’s paragraph, she took a sip of tea before beginning to read.

  Halfway through, she closed her eyes, fighting tears. His heart lay there on the page, bleeding.

  A special place? Where would that be? A guy’d have to stay long enough in one spot to feel at home. So it can’t be my house in Florida with all those smelly, hothouse plants and my mother’s stupid macaw who woke me every morning with his squawking. It sure isn’t hot, dusty Texas where I’m forced to go to a school where my dad is this big cheese. Keystone. The kids look like sitcom actors and the buildings resemble some architect’s idea of hacienda-land. I suppose a lot of students will pick their bedroom to write about, probably ’cuz they have stuff around them like photos and posters and dorky stuffed animals that they’ve had all their lives. Me? I’ve got my music, my clothes and a tennis racket. You want to know what a special place would be? One where I don’t have to answer to anybody. Where adults aren’t always expecting something from me. Where I can just hang out and be me.

  She set the paper in her lap, awed by Andy’s self-revelation and wondering how on earth she would find the words to respond. Her love went out to him with a fierce protectiveness that caught her utterly by surprise.

  ANDY SAT CROSS-LEGGED against the headboard of his bed, listening to a new rap CD and staring at the phone. Should he call her? And say what? “Angela, this is Andy”? And then what? No way could he ask her for a real date, not before he had his own wheels. He could just picture it. His old man chauffeuring them to a movie. Sneaking peeks in the rearview mirror to see if he’d made any moves on Angela. Nah, better to remain just friends.

  He did like the way she smiled at him, though. And her long black hair was shiny the way wet pavement was after a rain.

  But the football game had been weird. He’d felt like an alien. All the other kids knew one another. Heck, some had been at Keystone together since kindergarten. He didn’t have a clue who they were talking about or what they were laughing at.

  But Angie—that’s how he liked to think of her—hadn’t seemed to mind. In fact, after one big score, she’d slipped her hand into his, like they were a real couple. Yeah. Angie and Andy. That sounded cool. She was friendly, nice. Not like some of those snobby girls with the tight skirts, French braids and designer purses. He closed his eyes, picturing the two of them kissing. Would her braces get in the way? He hoped not.

  The phone sat there. Waiting. Maybe she wouldn’t be home. Worse, what if her father answered?

  He flung off the headphones and crossed to look out the bedroom window. Downstairs he could hear the drone of a sports announcer. Outside, the next-door neighbors were setting up for a backyard barbecue, across the street some little kids were running through a sprinkler and a fat bald guy with a fire-engine-red face was jogging slowly down the street.

  But he didn’t have a place. Not out there. Not in here. Certainly not at Keystone.

  He turned back to stare, once again, at the telephone.

  Forget it, Gilbert. Don’t let yourself get sucked in.

  THE WAITING ROOM with its pastel color scheme was intended to be soothing. But Pam felt edgy and nervous. All around her sat women in various stages of pregnancy, one so huge Pam feared she might give a birthing demonstration any minute. Pam laid a hand across her flat stomach, finding it hard to believe she’d ever look like that.

  She turned her attention to the new-patient questionnaire the receptionist had given her, cringing when she came to the section concerning the father’s medical history. Every time s
he thought she’d moved beyond Steven, something like this blindsided her.

  She swallowed back a sob. Damn. She hated being so emotional. It wasn’t like her at all, but these days every little thing set her off. Like Andy’s paragraph and Grant’s thoughtfulness in tending to the litter boxes.

  “Mrs. Gilbert?” A nurse clutching a clipboard smiled into the waiting room.

  Pam rose to her feet and followed along. To her surprise, the nurse ushered her, not to an examining room but to a beautifully appointed office. “Dr. Ellis would like to visit with you before the exam,” the nurse explained, directing Pam to a wing chair. “She’ll be with you shortly.”

  On the chair-side table lay several pamphlets and the latest issue of Parent’s Magazine. Pam thumbed idly through one of the pamphlets in which terms like amniocentesis, alpha-fetoprotein and blood sugar seemed like a foreign language. What if something went wrong? Miscarriage, she knew, was a definite threat during the first trimester. What if—

  The door opened and a petite, middle-aged woman with sparkling dark eyes and short-cropped black hair breezed in. “Mrs. Gilbert? Sorry to keep you waiting.” She held out her hand. “I’m Belinda Ellis.”

  Pam didn’t know quite what she’d expected—maybe a tall, horsey-looking woman with a bun—but she was immediately disposed to like her obstetrician. “It’s good to meet you.”

  “We’ll be seeing quite a bit of each other in the next few months,” the doctor said, taking her place behind her desk. “I like to get to know my patients. That way we can work together so that you have a happy, fulfilling experience. And a healthy baby.” She glanced down at the questionnaire Pam had filled out. “I see you’re a teacher. Will you be working throughout your pregnancy?”

  “I plan to.” Pam gave silent thanks to Grant, who had saved her from having to resign.

  Dr. Ellis continued gently probing, and Pam gradually relaxed as she noticed how intently and empathetically the doctor listened to her answers. At last the obstetrician set the chart aside and folded her hands on the desk. “Since you’re over thirty-five, I’ll be asking you to take certain precautions. Later, if it’s indicated, I may recommend a couple of special tests. But right now, I don’t want you to worry about anything. From what you tell me, your pregnancy is proceeding quite normally.”

  Pam expelled a sigh of relief. “That’s good news.”

  “I’m sure you’ll want to share it with your husband.” The doctor leaned forward. “You know he’s welcome to come with you for your appointments. In fact, I encourage it.”

  Pam gave fleeting thought to what it would be like to have a doting husband at her side, but that was more than she could ever ask or expect from Grant. “He, uh, he’s a coach. It’s hard for him to get away. He won’t be coming with me.”

  Belinda Ellis narrowed her eyes in concern. “Have I said something to make you uncomfortable?” She hesitated. “I see a lot of women, and I can generally tell when there’s something I need to know regarding the baby’s father. You are married, aren’t you?”

  Pam thought again about the questionnaire and the answers she’d fabricated for the section about the father. She couldn’t go on with the lies, not when her baby’s health was at stake.

  Forcing her body to relax, Pam looked straight into the doctor’s warm eyes. “Yes, I’m married, but…” She bit her lip.

  “Go on,” the doctor urged softly.

  “My husband is not the baby’s father.” Pam had thought the world would cave in if she ever said those words aloud. Instead, she felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted.

  “Tell me about it, if you’d care to. Whatever you say to me is in strictest confidence.”

  Unburdening herself to this woman was easier than she would ever have imagined. Only when Dr. Ellis handed her a tissue halfway through the telling did Pam realize her cheeks were wet with tears. Finally she managed the part about Grant and their arrangement. When she finished, she awaited the doctor’s judgment. A verdict and sentence she knew she deserved.

  Instead, Dr. Ellis smiled a gentle smile and said, “Grant sounds like quite a man. Pam—may I call you Pam?—why don’t you let him be as much a part of this pregnancy as you and he are comfortable with? You could use the support and if, as you say, he’s a good friend, he might like to help you through this special time in your life. What about it?”

  Pam nodded mutely, blew her nose, then smiled in relief.

  The doctor rose. “Feel better now?” She moved to the door. “Let’s get you into an examining room and find out how that precious little one is doing.”

  Later, lying on the examining table with Belinda Ellis’s comforting hand on her abdomen, Pam could truly begin to believe that she was going to be a mother and that everything just might turn out all right.

  ANDY HAD FIRST SPOTTED IT late Sunday afternoon when he’d borrowed his dad’s bike and taken a tour of the neighborhood. A park tucked behind a row of scraggly cedar trees. He’d known the basketball court was there before he saw it because he could hear guys talking trash. He’d stopped to watch for a while, a hard lump rising in his throat.

  So what the heck? Today Pam had some appointment after school and, after delivering him home, his dad was off helping officiate a middle school football game. They’d never know if he sneaked out to shoot some hoops. He missed playing basketball, but he’d never give his father the satisfaction of knowing that. He went out to the garage, hopped on the bike and pedaled down the street.

  In this multiethnic neighborhood, it was no surprise to find the players at the park included a couple of awesome black dudes, several tough-looking white kids and a short Hispanic guy who could dribble like greased lightning—probably all from the large public high school nearby. Andy’s hands itched for the ball. But he knew he had to hang around until he was invited.

  Finally one of the black guys turned to him and said, “You play hoops?”

  “A little,” Andy said modestly.

  “Here.” He tossed Andy the ball. “Show us your stuff!”

  Andy threw a head fake, dribbled through the first two defenders, reversed, stalled, then quickly pivoted and drove toward the basket. Then up, up he went for two, count ’em, points. “Hey,” another kid laughed, “You’re good, man. Can you do it again?” And they were off and running. The best games, the ones where Andy felt most alive, were pickup contests with guys whose hearts, like his, beat to the tattoo of a basketball bouncing on asphalt.

  After an exhilarating few minutes, they chose sides. Howie, one of the white kids, and Andy were teamed with Andre and James, the black guys. The other three white guys and Juan squared off against them. Once they started, it was war. Nobody called any fouls and you had to be tough to keep up. Half an hour later, Andy wiped sweat from his face, then rubbed the bruise on his elbow he’d picked up when he’d gotten knocked on his ass defending under the basket. “I gotta go,” he said.

  “You come back anytime, dude,” James said. “You can play, man!”

  Hot and dirty, Andy pedaled away as fast as he could. He needed to beat Pam and Dad home and get a quick shower so they’d never know he’d been gone. But, jeez, that had been a blast. Maybe he could survive this crummy place if he could sneak away and shoot hoops every now and then. So long as his dad never found out.

  For some reason, thinking about basketball reminded him of his paragraph for English. How stupid would it have sounded to tell Pam that his special place was a basketball court? Worse yet, what if he’d written that and she’d told his dad? Actually he’d been kind of amazed to get a B on the paragraph. She’d liked his description of the flowers and bird. She said he had a strong “voice,” too, whatever the heck that was. But one of the things she’d written made him feel kinda squirrelly. He put on the brakes and turned into the driveway, relieved that neither Pam nor his dad was home yet.

  What had she said exactly? Oh, yeah. You can create your own special place in your head and heart. Then it can go with you wherever
you are.

  What was that supposed to mean, anyway?

  FOR THE NEXT COUPLE OF WEEKS school kept Pam so busy she didn’t have time to think about much of anything except lesson plans, ordering play books for Our Town, writing the faculty pep skit for the Homecoming assembly and keeping up with her grading. She’d become a master of thirty-minute meal preparation and, so far, neither Andy nor Grant had complained. It helped when she could squeeze a quick nap in before she started dinner. Otherwise, she went to bed shortly before nine, amazed that pregnancy had sent her night-owl tendencies into total remission.

  She worried about Andy. He still hadn’t made any friends to speak of, except for Angela Beeman. It was as if he went out of his way to nurture the chip on his shoulder. She couldn’t help but wonder if things would be better or worse between Grant and him if she wasn’t there to defuse the tension. She could tell Grant was both baffled and hurt by his son’s attitude. To his credit, Grant was doing a fair job of standing back and giving Andy some space.

  She’d come home from school this Saturday afternoon absolutely drained from helping judge the Keystone Invitational Forensics Tournament. But she had to rally for a command performance—dinner at the headmaster’s with several other faculty couples. She stood in the bathroom applying fresh makeup, hoping she could keep her eyes open until after dessert.

  Grant tapped on the door. “Are you about ready?”

  She managed a tiny grin. He’d been too polite to say “Come on.” If she’d learned anything about him so far, it was that he hated to be late. “Just a couple more minutes.”

  “I’ll be in the living room giving Andy his marching orders.”

  When she emerged from the bedroom, wearing a lime-green dress with a bright blue linen blazer, she stopped in her tracks. The “marching orders” were not going well.

  Andy’s voice drifted down the hall. “Trouble? What trouble could I get into? Whaddya think? That me and Viola and Sebastian are gonna have a wild party?”