by Nikki Ash
“Was she as easy as the dickwad said?”
I shake my head slowly. “Not at all. We were each other’s first. Before we went through it, I tried to tell her that I was leaving, but hormones, man. Those things are a bitch when you’re a teenager and haven’t learned self-control. For the next week, we screwed as if our lives depended on it. In her car, the lake house, on the boat, in the lake. She unleashed a beast. I didn’t want to stop, and I also didn’t want to tell her I was leaving.
“When I finally found the nerve to tell her I had already enlisted before I moved to Holyoak, she cried. I cried. I had a good thing going but also knew, deep down, good things end. When I turned eighteen, I would have no place to live and needed to take care of myself. It was hard for her to understand because she had everything. Come fall, she would leave for college, and I’d be,” I pause. “I’d be nowhere, with no one. It wasn’t like I could go to college with her, and there was no way I had the money even to enroll.
“Charlotte drove me to the bus station. She never asked me to write or call, so I figured she intended to move on. I wasn’t in any place where I could ask her to stay or wait for me, ya know. I climbed aboard, sat where I couldn’t see her, and just pushed her out of my mind.”
“I wonder what she wants,” Mitch says. “Maybe she missed the D!” He laughs at his joke and jabs me a few times.
I slow the car down when I see the sign for the border. I was so lost in recalling my time with Charlotte I never stopped in Burlington to rest or refuel. I pull off on the last exit before the border and turn into the first gas station I see.
“Good, I gotta piss,” Mitch says ever so eloquently. When the tank is full, I head into the store and use the restroom before deciding to stock up on some road snacks. It’ll be late when we get to Montreal, and only bars will likely be open. Food options might be scarce until the morning.
Mitch is standing by the car when I come out. We both get in, grab our passports, and head back toward the interstate.
“Why do you think she wants to talk to you?”
I shrug. “I have no idea. I honestly haven’t thought about her until I saw the exit,” I pause and shake my head. “No, that’s not true. I thought about her all through basic and at graduation when I saw all those girlfriends there. It made me wonder if she would’ve come if I had asked her.”
Chapter Four
Charlotte
Throughout dinner, my grandma reaches over and squeezes my hand. Aside from Krew, she’s the only one who knows Arla’s dad is in town or was. However, she is the only one who supported me from the beginning when I told my family that I was pregnant. My parents wanted me to give Arla up for adoption, but my grandma was adamant I make the best decision for me.
I was barely eighteen and recently graduated from high school. I had big plans for my future. More so, my parents had plans for my life, and they definitely didn’t want an unwanted and unplanned pregnancy with an absentee father. My dad was up for reelection as mayor, and he feared he would lose votes once people saw that his picture-perfect family wasn’t so perfect. That’s what the Carmichael’s are—perfect. It’s all my family knows.
Our roots are deep and generational. My great-great-grandfather worked his fingers to the bone to provide for his family. He bought his first piece of land in Holyoak and built a three-room shack in front of what everyone in town considered a swamp. When he wasn’t fishing, he worked the land, and when he wasn’t working, he dug around the swamp. Somehow, he knew the swamp would turn out to be his gem. He slowly bought the land next to him, and then another piece. By the time my great-grandfather started working, more land was purchased and then developed. Soon, the Carmichael’s owned a bank and grocery store. Every year, their property grew. My great uncle would build houses, another would cut the lumber, and another would give a future homeowner the loan. In a nutshell, they created a monopoly.
And while all of this is going on, they’re still digging in the swamp and turning it into a lake, which is now one of the most popular vacation spots in New England. It seems my great-great-grandfather saw more than a swamp.
We are the family people strive to be—the big happy, close-knit family who are always together, who are always smiling. We are the upper-class people read about in magazines, the high society, elitist. We are rich and expected to marry rich. My mother comes from a high-powered family from Boston. My aunt’s father is one of the highest-ranking senators for New Hampshire. So, when I announced my pregnancy, there wasn’t a single person happy for me. Not even my grandma, but she accepted it and told me she would support my decision. Whatever it was going to be.
I don’t remember when I decided to keep Arla. I think it was after my first ultrasound. My doctor knew adoption was on the table and suggested that I look at the wall during my ultrasound. I couldn’t. I wanted to see what this baby growing inside of me, the one making me sick at night, looked like. It’s odd to say I fell in love with a blob, but I did.
Telling my parents was not easy. It was harder than telling them I was pregnant. Once I started showing, I moved to my grandparents and hid out. Not because I was embarrassed, but to keep the questions at bay. No one really suspected anything because I should’ve been in college. And then one day, I’m pushing a stroller down the street. People talked. They asked questions. Most of which weren’t answered. I let people think whatever they wanted.
My plate disappears, startling me. I look up to find Arla and my grandma clearing the table. “I can do this,” I tell them.
“Gramps said it’s my turn to clean the table,” Arla says as she stacks plates on top of each other.
“You’re a good girl, Arla.” My grandma kisses my daughter on top of her head and looks at me. I don’t need to know what’s going through her mind right now, she’s already given me her two cents. She’s a little upset with me right now because I didn’t return Jack’s call. By the time my shock and surprise wore off, I deduced he was halfway to Canada and didn’t want to bother him or ask him to turn around. Plus, I need to think about what I’m going to say. How do you tell someone you haven’t seen in ten years that they have a daughter? I would’ve told him earlier, but it seems you can’t walk into a recruiter’s and ask for someone’s address. I asked my uncle, the senator, but he wouldn’t help. Something about compromising his job. I think my parents told him to ignore my request. I don’t have proof, just suspicion.
I finally rise from my seat and start helping with dinner clean-up. My grandfather has retired to the den to watch some sport program. He’s a diehard anything New England fan and will watch whatever comes onto one of the many channels. Sundays, at my grandparents, are crazy. Their house is full of people, and the dining room table turns into a buffet. If you come over, you must bring a dish or something to share.
Once the table is clear, and all the dishes are in the dishwasher, I tell Arla it’s time to head home. She groans and drags her feet toward the entryway. I used to be the same way when it was time to leave here. “Go, give Gramps a kiss.”
She heads toward the living room and says, “Mom says I have to leave now, Gramps. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Bye, Bum.”
Arla returns to the kitchen and dramatically throws her arms around my grandmother’s waist. Arla does this every time she leaves here or my parents. She makes it seem like she’s never going to see them again.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Grandma says as she kisses Arla the top of her head. Next, it's my turn. I pull my grandma into my arms and tell her that I love her.
“Please call him,” she says softly into my ear. I nod against her.
It takes Arla and me less than five minutes to drive from my grandparents to our home. Our house, like many of my family members, faces the lake. And while I don’t have lake frontage, I do have access and a dock. As soon as we get inside, Arla drops her backpack and heads to her room. She has a routine to follow, and I rarely need to get on her to take care of her stuff. I smil
e as soon as I hear the shower start. While she’s showering, I putter around my living room. I go from sitting, to standing, to moving the pile of gossip magazines from their usual place next to the couch to the kitchen table and then back again. I decide to start the pellet stove, even though it’s not cold out, and pull a bottle of red wine from my small rack. I definitely need some liquid courage to get through the rest of the night.
The shower stops, and Arla appears moments later dressed in her bathrobe and her hairbrush in her hand. She gives it to me and then sits down on the floor. Quietly, I brush her long blonde hair, working through a few snags and snarls.
“I think I want to cut my hair.”
My heart seizes. I love her long hair and have only cut it once since she was born. “How come?” I ask, trying to remain calm.
She shrugs. “Pippa got her hair cut.”
“Pippa got gum in her hair, and Aunt Caroline had no choice but to cut Pippa’s hair.”
“Oh.”
“But if you still want a haircut, we can make an appointment.”
Arla shrugs again. “Maybe. I’ll think about it.”
My hope is that this subject matter is now closed, and my heart can return to a somewhat regular beat, although this is likely to change when I find the courage to make a phone call tonight. Part of me hopes Jack doesn’t answer, while the other half hopes he does so I can get the news out there and let him figure out what he wants to do. The question plaguing my mind right now is whether I tell him over the phone or not. There isn’t some handbook on how to say to the father of your nine-year-old daughter that he, in fact, has a child. Believe me, if there was, I’d have pages dog-eared, tabbed, and highlighted.
Arla and I snuggle on the couch together and watch a show before I tuck her in for the night. We read her favorite story, Rugby and Rosie, which we’ve done every night since she was three. After I shut her light off, I head back to the kitchen and finally open the bottle of wine I pulled out earlier. I pour more than customary into the glass and take a sip while looking out my kitchen window.
My phone rings, and I jump, sloshing my drink. “Shit,” I mutter as I rush back into the living room. My heart pounds rapidly, echoing in my ears until a wave of relief washes over me when I see my cousin Frankie’s name on my screen. “Hello.”
“Krew said I needed to call you.” Frankie may be family, but also one of my best friends. We are only a few months apart in age and grew up together.
“I’m sure he did.” I sit down with a heavy sigh and set my glass on the table next to the couch. “Jack came through town today. Krew served him at Lottie’s and told him to call me. He did, but I didn’t answer because it was an unknown number. He left a message and asked me to call him.”
“Holy shit.”
“My sentiments exactly. I’m nervous. What if he hates me?”
“How can he? He left, and you had no idea how to get a hold of him. It’s not like you didn’t try.”
“I know, but I always wonder if I could’ve tried harder.”
“Lottie, you can’t second guess yourself. Even that lady he lived with had no idea how to get in touch with him. We tried everything we could think of.”
I sigh and lean back into the cushion. “I know. Should I tell him I want to see him or just tell him over the phone about Arla?”
Frankie is quiet for a minute and then says, “As much as it’s going to suck for him to hear this over the phone, I think you need to tell him. If you invite him back to Holyoak, he may decline or think you want to see him. I know you want to tell him in person about Arla, but if he’s married or something or needs time to process this, he should be able to decide if he wants to come to Holyoak.”
“What if he doesn’t want to meet her?”
“That’s a bridge we will cross after you tell him. If he doesn’t, you go on telling Arla the same thing you’ve told her from the beginning. You haven’t lied to her.”
“I know,” I say quietly. When Arla first started asking about her father, I didn’t know what to say. Lying didn’t seem right, so I told her the truth. She knows I have no idea where he is but has always known his name. I thought that was important. “I’m going to call him or at least try,” I tell her. “I might need you to come over and actually dial the number.”
Frankie laughs. “Just let me know. I can be there in ten minutes. And call me when you’re done talking to him. I want to know everything!” Her excitement for my situation makes me smile.
“I’ll let you know.” I hang up, finish my glass of wine, and get a refill. There isn’t anything I can do about my nerves, the tightness in my throat, or how I feel like my life will change when I tell Jack he has a daughter.
I replay Jack’s voicemail and scribble his number down on the notepad I keep next to the couch. For a moment, it feels like I’m back in high school and inviting him over. Only we aren’t in history class. We’re adults with a massive bomb between us whose fuse is about to run out of space.
My thumb hovers over his number. I finally press it, close my eyes, and pray, I can do this. Jack answers on the second ring.
“Hey, Jack. It’s Charlotte.”
Chapter Five
Jack
The voice on the other end of the phone makes me speechless. Never in a million years did I think I’d ever speak to Charlotte again. As an eighteen-year-old leaving for basic training, I had zero expectations to carry on a relationship with her. Would it have been nice? Without a doubt. But I also wasn’t hurt that we ended. This was and still is how my life works. Aside from the Army, Mitch is my longest-lasting relationship.
“Hi . . . Charlotte.” It takes me a second to get her name out. I had zero expectations that she’d call me back, despite what Krew said, and I’m wholly unprepared to hear her voice. It’s like I remembered, soft and quiet, and can still get my heart racing. I point to the door of the hotel room, signaling to Mitch that I’m stepping out.
“Sorry I missed seeing you,” she says. “What dumb luck it is that you’d come in on the one day I’m not there.”
“Yeah,” I sigh. “I guess luck has never been on my side.”
“No, I guess it hasn’t.” There’s a long, awkward pause until she clears her throat. “Is this a good time to talk? I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
“No, not at all. I’m happy to hear from you.” I imagine she’s smiling on the other end. Like she mentioned earlier, it seems luck has never been on our side.
“How have you been?” she asks.
“Good, I guess. I’m in the Army and currently stationed in Italy.”
“Wow, Italy. I bet it’s beautiful.”
Not nearly as beautiful as I thought you were when we were together. “It has its moments, just like any other place. So, what about you? Are you married?” As soon as the question comes out of my mouth, I want to take it back. Of course, I want to know, but it shouldn’t be the first question I ask her. “I’m sorry, that was a bit rude.”
“It’s fine,” she says with a hint of laughter in her voice. “I’m not married. Are you?”
“No, I’m not either.”
“Good . . . I mean, oh.” There’s another pause. “I’m sorry, this seems really awkward, doesn’t it?”
“It does, but only because it’s been ten years or so since we’ve spoken. I’m sure we have a lot to tell each other and probably some stuff we’d rather not say.”
“You’re probably right. To answer your other question, obviously, I still live in Holyoak, and like I said earlier, I work at Lottie’s—well, run it mostly. My grandfather handed it over a few years back.”
“Did you major in restaurant management or whatever the degree would be? If I remember correctly, you were headed off to Boston for college.”
“Yeah, I never went. I stayed home instead.”
“How come?”
Charlotte’s deep inhale echoes in my ear. “Jack,” she says my name tenderly, sending shivers down my spine. “I have
something to tell you,” she pauses.
My heart sinks as I wait for her to finish. “Go ahead.”
“I have a daughter. Her name is Arla. She’s nine-years-old. And she . . .” There’s another pause and what I believe to be a sniffle. Is Charlotte crying? “She’s yours. You’re her father.”
My mouth opens to say something, anything, but there are no words. It’s like my brain has stopped working. The silence grows between us. Only the sound of us breathing can be heard. Surely, I didn’t hear her right. There is no way Charlotte said the words I’m replaying over in my mind.
“Jack, this isn’t how I wanted to tell you. When I found out—”
I interrupt her and ask, “Can you repeat what you said?”
“Which part?”
“The important part.”
“We have a daughter. A beautiful, energetic, smart, and amazing daughter.”
“Daughter,” I mutter. “Are you sure—” I stop myself before I insult Charlotte further. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean that the way it sounds. I just . . . I don’t know what to say.”
There’s some movement on her end, and I definitely sense that she’s crying, making me wish we were having this conversation in person. Damn it, why couldn’t she have asked if I was coming back to town? I would’ve, for her.
“I know it’s a lot to take in. I can send you a picture of her if you want. I think she looks like you. The only pictures I have of us together are from that summer before you left. We were both so young.”
“I’d love to see her,” I tell Charlotte. “What did you say her name was again?”
“Arla,” she says. “Arla Mae Carmichael. I named her after my grandma.”
“Arla,” I say her name slowly. It’s cute, different, and I find myself smiling when I think of her name. I bet she’s the only Arla in her class.
