by Kaela Coble
I shake my head again. There’s no one. No one even knows I’m here except for Lucy and Michelle. Well, and my resident assistant. After I threw Danny out, I confided in my RA so she would appeal to the university on my behalf to keep the other half of the room unoccupied due to my “special circumstances.” I figured she was a safe bet since she’s bound by confidentiality and could be an emergency contact should anything bad happen.
But tonight when I woke up in a puddle of embryonic fluid, I slipped a note under her door rather than waking her up. I was perfectly capable of taking a cab myself, and I didn’t know her well enough to obligate her to share this experience with me. About every five minutes during labor, I thought about calling Ally. Even after all this time with no contact, she would drive here like a bat out of hell if I picked up the phone.
My parents were easier to keep in the dark than I thought. I saw them once, at Parents’ Weekend, when I was still not far along enough to show. After that, I made stuff up—I was skiing with my roommate in Aspen for Christmas, partying in Cancun for spring break. All the things I should have been doing my freshman year of college. After my second trimester (when I could no longer throw on an oversize sweater and claim the freshman fifteen), I begged out of every dinner request by my father, citing homework or a date.
I lived in fear he would get frustrated at my excuses and show up at my dorm one day, but my worry was for nothing. He isn’t that kind of dad. I’m sure the people in my dorm and my classes have figured it out, but I made it a point to keep them strangers. They didn’t say anything about it; they just waited until I passed to whisper. In that way, college wasn’t much different than Chatwick.
“The father?” the nurse asks. “You left that blank on the birth certificate.”
I tell her the same lie I told the adoption agency. “I don’t know who he is.” I had to say this; otherwise, Murphy would have had to sign off on the adoption. I was too scared, either that he wouldn’t sign or that he would without a fight. I seesaw about which would be worse.
“Are you sure you don’t want to see him?”
A current of panic shoots through me. Does she mean the baby or the father? Is my baby—Lucy and Michelle’s baby—a boy? Even though I’ve thought of the baby as a he, I don’t want to know that for sure. I can’t. So I don’t ask her to clarify. I just nod. Either way, I’m sure.
The nurse turns to leave, but I stop her.
“How long until the pain goes away?” I ask.
“Well, you’ll be sore for a few—”
“That’s not what I mean.”
I knew when I made this decision that it would be hard. Even before my fight with Danny, the one where he basically called me a murderer, I had already been waffling. The judgment of my drug-dealing, stepfather-killing friend was not what put me over the edge. I still went to my appointment, but after I had been prepped and was lying there with my shaking legs in the stirrups, I sat up and told them to stop, that I couldn’t go through with it. I knew I couldn’t keep it, but I also knew that, without me and Murphy for parents, it might have a chance at a good life. A chance to make two other people’s lives whole.
The nurse looks at me, pity filling her eyes. Normally I would find it condescending, but right now I can accept it.
She sits on my bed. “I’ve never given a baby up for adoption, but my first child was born early, much too early. Stillborn.” Her eyes moisten. “I would imagine that, even though your baby is alive and well, it feels something like that.”
I nod. Perhaps.
“I can’t say you’ll ever be completely free of it, honey. The first few weeks will be the hardest, because your body will be telling you it’s time to feed the baby and your hormones will be all out of whack. It will get easier after that. Every day will get a little easier, and then one day, you’ll wake up and you’ll feel almost normal. And soon after that, you’ll be grateful.”
“Grateful?”
“I know it sounds crazy, but one day you will heal, and you’ll be grateful you got through it. And you will be grateful for the choice you made, because it means a better life for four people. You, the new parents, and the baby.”
Five people, I think. Murphy.
I worry that she is about to call Jesus into the conversation, belittling the women who did keep their feet in those stirrups and make the choice that was right for them. I don’t have the strength to defend them, but I don’t think they’re any less brave than I am. They’ll never be the same, either.
But she doesn’t launch into a pro-life sermon. “I know I’ve only known you for a day, Ruby, but it’s the hardest day you will probably ever have. And if it means anything to you, I think you’re the bravest young woman I’ve ever met.”
“I don’t feel brave,” I murmur. How can I? Right now, I feel like marching down that hallway and yanking my baby out of Lucy’s and Michelle’s proud and loving arms. Right now, I feel like everything I’ve done to protect this secret was completely insane. It was crazy to think I could pull this off and walk away unscathed. I thought it would be the best thing for everyone. For Nancy, who once let it slip that her bipolar worsened after the stress and hormone changes that came with having children. For Murphy, who was in no way prepared to handle this. For the baby, who deserved a chance at a family who wanted it. And for me, who just wants to have the big life I always dreamed of. But right now, my life seems very small. Seven pounds, nine ounces small.
I cry into the nurse’s arms until she administers a sedative and I drift off to sleep.
The next morning, I wake up, check out of the hospital, and try to pretend it was all a dream.
27
RUBY
NOW
The streets are quiet. The citizens of Chatwick—many of which were at Emmett and Steph’s wedding last night—are cozy in their beds, sleeping off their New Year’s Eve hangovers as the snow falls silently but steadily outside their windows. I am jealous of them as I pull up to the curb and step out of the car directly into a pile of slush.
I tug on the brass handle of Charlene’s—her deli, not her house—pleased to find the door is no easier to open than it was ten years ago. Muscle memory kicks in, and I perform a combination of deftly aimed kicks and yanks before the door swings violently open. The patrons inside do not so much as glance up from their newspapers or tear their eyes from the chalkboard menu above the deli counter, familiar with this “secret knock” required to enter the deli.
The people in line study the chalkboard as if they don’t have it memorized, as if they won’t be ordering the same thing they did yesterday and the day before that. On the first day of this new year, already they are breaking their resolutions to eat healthier, to try new things. I’m sticking with mine: to be honest. With others, but most of all with myself.
A man in line is wearing a blue jumpsuit with the word Borbeau’s in block letters on the chest pocket. I don’t recognize the man, but part of me feels like I should approach him, tell him I knew Danny, tell him I’m sorry he lost his coworker. But upon closer inspection, I see it’s not a man at all. It’s a boy. About the age Danny was when he started working at Borbeau’s, way back in high school.
This boy is Danny’s replacement. Working on New Year’s Day even though the shop is closed, either because he needs the money or because he’s picked up where Danny’s side business left off and there are lots of people just itching to break their promise that this year will be different. He even has sandy hair like Danny’s, but his eyes aren’t nearly as blue. And his presence isn’t half as magnetic.
Murphy sits in one of the red-pleather upholstered booths that Charlene removed an aisle of liquor to make room for back when she became the owner. (Chatwick near rioted over the change.) He’s in the booth farthest from the door, as if we’re likely to have any privacy anywhere in this town. But he rightly suggested we finish the conversation from l
ast night here, rather than his apartment, exactly because it’s public. Even considering how we’re both feeling right now, it would be too easy to get off topic at his place, to not talk about what we need to talk about. To not talk at all.
They’re both really good at ignoring problems.
I’m a bundle of nerves as I slide into the padded bench opposite him. We make small talk about the weather for a few minutes—how unusual it is for the temperature to be above thirty-five degrees at the beginning of January, how this snowfall is nothing compared to the Nor’easter of ’93 and should stop in plenty of time so that my flight home shouldn’t be affected. I’ve never felt more awkward making small talk in my life, because I’m sitting with Murphy Leblanc and we’re supposed to be past all this. An observer might think we’re on our first date, rather than our last.
A waitress who can’t be more than sixteen comes over. Plump white rolls of skin spill over the sides of her low-rise jeans, a lacy hot-pink bra strap peeking out from a black tank top. I want to ask her how she’s not freezing, and that makes me feel old. I ask if Charlene is here, but the girl tells us with a smirk that she is home “recovering.” I’m not surprised; as I climbed into Murphy’s truck after the reception, I saw my parents piling her into their car to give her a ride home. Charlene’s car remained in the lot for the hours that he and I stayed there talking. I know now that she was drunk on more than just the gin and tonics she was sucking down; she was drunk on relief, on freedom from her part in Danny’s little game.
Emmett came to find us when the reception was through to invite us to the after-party at Margie’s. When Murphy assured him we would “be along in a bit,” Emmett knew he wasn’t going to see us, so he filled us in on the second letter Danny wrote to Charlene, and her confession that she was the one who sent us those sweet little follow-up notes. All of us had thought it was some girlfriend or junkie customer Danny had guilted or bribed into doing his bidding.
All of us except Murphy, who received his note the day after the funeral and suspected me of threatening him, which explains his demanding my presence at his house and the carefully orchestrated conversation down by the bay about Danny’s promised arrangement. He was trying to draw me out, to get me to confess that I was behind it. I guess I should be offended, but at this point, what does it really matter?
Once our order is in, we twirl straws and rearrange cutlery. Murphy is the one who called to invite me to lunch. Let him speak first.
“Quite the drama last night, huh?” he starts. He hopes I will take over from here, but I just smile and nod, take a sip of my drink. I’m too afraid to say anything. He has every right to be furious with me, and yet he seems…normal. I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop.
He continues. “Mom says it’s not a wedding without drama.” I wonder if he’s already told Cecile what we talked about last night but decide he couldn’t have. If Cecile suddenly became aware there was a grandchild who had been kept from her, I would have heard from her already. It’s part of the reason I did not tell Murphy I was pregnant. I was afraid I wouldn’t be strong enough to stand up to her and the decision would be out of my hands.
“It was nice to see Cecile,” I say.
“She misses you. You know she still has our prom picture on her mantel, still in the little cardboard thingy it came in?”
A breath of laughter escapes my nose. “Really?”
“Kept it up the entire time me and Taylor were together too. Used to drive her crazy.”
The victorious little thrill that goes through me at this is embarrassing, but hearing Taylor’s name reminds me of last night’s conversation. I had demanded to know who he told about the pregnancy right after he found out. He said he didn’t tell anyone, not even Taylor. He thought it might be the reason they had so many problems, why he had a hard time staying faithful to her. (She finally broke up with him after two cheats in two years; Murphy didn’t mention if I was included in that count or not.)
It was like part of him fractured off by not telling her the truth, by holding it inside and hating himself for what he’d done to me, to her, and he went looking for forgiveness in all the wrong places. It made me angry at first, that he reacted so selfishly to an act already so selfish, but in the end, I kind of understood. Maybe he didn’t deal with it in the right way, but the choice he made left him feeling alone. Just like mine did.
“Listen, about—” Murphy starts.
I hold up a hand to stop him. “Do we have to go through it all again?” I ask. Last night, I told him everything: when I found out I was pregnant, all the thoughts that went through my head, what happened when Danny showed up, what happened after, and how I kept it a secret from everyone. Murphy defended his choice to stay out of it—he was hurt, he was scared, he didn’t feel he had a right to interfere. I justified why I didn’t tell him myself—I was hurt, I was scared, and I didn’t want him to interfere. We didn’t accomplish much beyond draining his gas tank from the blasting heat while we talked circles around each other, not even realizing we were saying the same thing.
He looks at me and swallows. “I think you know there’s more to be said. I think you know that’s why we’re here.” I realize he’s nervous too, his eyes unable to focus on mine for too long before darting around. “I just stared at my ceiling all night, thinking of questions I should have asked, things I should have said differently.”
I don’t tell him that after we parted, I had the best night’s sleep I’ve had in ten years. But not before sitting at the kitchen table with Nancy, who was waiting up for me when I got home. We shared a kettle of hot cocoa and a plate of blueberry pancakes she had whipped up after the wedding and placed in the oven to keep warm.
After having several days to digest the news that I had hid an entire pregnancy from her (Charlene, thankfully, had not told Nancy even about the false secret), she told me only how sorry she was that I had gone through that alone. She thinks I made “the most beautiful decision” she could think of, and that she’s never been prouder of me. I was still nurturing the anger from learning Murphy abandoned me, and I told her about it. “You have to remember, baby girl,” she said. “Not everyone is as strong as you.”
After Mom went to bed, I called Jamie, who was just waking up in London. I told him everything too. He wasn’t angry that I kept it from him, or even hurt. It was my secret to keep, he said, and he was honored that I chose to share it. He also said it explained so much about me, in both good and bad ways.
“Okay,” I concede, agreeing to Murphy’s request to reopen the conversation. We both received new information last night, but when we weigh our secrets pound for pound, even I have to admit Murphy’s new burden is more significant. “Where do you want to start?”
“I was so mad last night, but when I got home, all I could think about is how you went through all that alone. I’m sorry.”
I stay silent. My instinct is to tell him that it wasn’t his fault because he didn’t know, but now I know that’s not entirely true.
“What was it like? Did you have anyone there with you?”
I blink at him, realizing he could only be talking about one thing. “I don’t want to talk about the birth,” I say.
“But—”
“Murphy. It’s off-limits. I’m sorry if that’s not fair, but no.” I can’t go there. I will never stop crying if I do. The memory is mine, and no matter how descriptive I am, there’s no way he can share it.
As the waitress delivers our sandwiches in red plastic baskets lined with checkered wax paper, Murphy grinds the ice in his cup with his straw, his jaw set. “Can you at least tell me if it was a girl or a boy?” he asks when she leaves. Neither of us touches our food.
I swallow. If only we could have started with a softball question. Perhaps: Why didn’t I see any stretch marks the day after Danny’s funeral? (Answer: You weren’t looking for them.) “I don’t know,” I say.
“I asked them to take the baby away right after. I didn’t hold it.” His face falls again. I feel like I have to give him something. So I say what I’ve never said out loud. “But I feel like it was a boy.”
He gets a little sparkle in his eye. I know he’s picturing tossing a baseball around with a hyperactive little boy with a mop of black hair. The sparkle vanishes as the daydream does, the anger from the impossibility settling in.
“Doesn’t it bother you that a piece of you, a piece of us is walking around in the world not knowing us? And we don’t know if he’s happy, or safe, or feeling abandoned?”
“Of course it does. It bothers me every day. Every single day I worry about that. And I’m really sorry to say it, but now you will too.” Even as I say it, I wonder if it’s true. All these years, I’ve envied Murphy for not knowing. I even resented him for it, even though it was my doing. But now, knowing that he knew I was pregnant, I wonder. Will it be the same for him? Will it stay with him, crashing into him at random times with varying degrees of strength? Or will he be able to shrug it off, like getting hit by a pitch? Take his base and forget about it by the time he gets his next at bat?
The silence after this stretches on and on until finally Murphy asks. “He would be, what, ten years old?”
An alarm sounds in my head, and I stiffen. “Nine,” I say.
“Do you know where he lives?”
I take a deep breath, hesitant to give him this one last piece of the story. It could change everything for so many people. “I do,” I say. “The adoption is technically closed. I haven’t had any contact with him or the adoptive parents whatsoever. It was my decision to close it, because I thought it would be best for the baby…less confusing…and it didn’t feel right for me to have contact without you knowing anything about it.” I bite on the inside of my cheek to stop from crying. “And I guess, if I’m honest, I thought it would be easier for me. I was stupid and young and thought if I didn’t have regular contact that it would be easier for me to pretend like it never happened, like he didn’t exist.”
