by Portia Moore
I grab the remote beside me and turn on the television in the hope that it will take my mind off of my complex thoughts. I think of Caylen. This is the longest I’ve been away from her. I miss her so much. I know Raven is taking great care of her. She would die before she let anything happen to her, but I still miss her.
I feel guilty for my lack of communication back home, but I’m just not ready to talk to anyone right now, but I realize how hypocritical it is for me being mad at Cal for something so similar.
I can’t begin to think of what this means if it’s all true. Whenever I do, I feel as if I’ll throw up or pass out. I don’t know anything about this Chris person, and he knows absolutely nothing about me. He’s in love with another woman, or he’s engaged to another woman. I can only imagine how his parents will explain me to him.
I think back to Mr. Scott’s words about the possibility that Chris won’t be able to handle the truth, the chance that it’ll make things worse. But what does that mean? Would Cal come back?
I’ve seen movies about split personalities, story arcs in the soap operas Raven watched when I was younger, but facing it in reality is something completely different.
A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. It’s probably housekeeping, which means Ms. Ritter is making sure I haven’t trashed her room. I lazily get up from my bed and open the door.
“I don’t need…” I start to say, but I freeze when I see the person looking back at me.
“Hi,” he says softly, his eyes as wide as mine.
My heart crawls up into my throat. Here—he’s here, standing in front of me. I try to move my eyes from his, but they’re locked there. I search for the intensity in his eyes that I haven’t seen in years, but there’s only uncertainty.
My hands are starting to shake, my body taking on directions of its own. I can feel my emotions swell from the bottom of my stomach, ready to overflow if I don’t gain some sort of control over them. I can’t blow up here; I can’t boil over. I have to use this time, if not for me, for Caylen. I have to see if this is him, if he’s playing me, if everything is a lie, or even worse—if it’s the truth.
Right now he has the upper hand, the element of surprise. I have to use this. I have to think… I jump out of my thoughts at the knocking on the door once again. I realize I unconsciously closed the door in his face. I can do this. I can do this.
“I’m sorry for coming like this. I-I just thought… I can come back later when you’re ready,” the timid voice says before his footsteps lead away from the door.
“No!” I quickly open the door and step out halfway to see him.
He turns around and slowly approaches me. With each step he takes, I feel my chest tighten, making it harder for me to breathe. My eyes avoid his now, inadvertently landing on his chest since that’s where I am height-wise.
“My parents said you were coming over tomorrow, but… I thought we… I wanted to talk to you alone if it’s okay.” He stumbles over his words.
I glance up and see that his eyes stare over my head; we seem to be using the same tactics. I try to respond, but nothing comes out, so I step back and gesture for him to come in. I take a deep breath as he passes me, and I steal a quick glance at him before I shut the door.
I reassure myself again that I can do this. I walk over to the sofa, trying to decide if I’d rather sit or stand, but my eyes still gravitate to him. I can’t believe it’s been almost two years since I’ve seen him, not including that disaster the other day. As much as I don’t want to look at him, I can’t help it at the same time.
I fold my arms across my chest and wait for him to say something. After all, he’s the one who came here. Our eyes meet, and the look in his scares me. They seem so familiar, yet foreign. He looks at me as if I’m a stranger.
Whenever Cal looked at me, even when I was upset with him or he was upset, there was always something that held me, something so intense that I hated it when I was angry and became enraptured with it when I wasn’t. But as I look into Chris’s eyes, I see confusion, something solemn and apologetic, and it terrifies me because Cal has never been any of those things. He never took anything back, and he rarely apologized.
The room seems to be filled with things that need to be said, questions that beg to be asked, at least on my part, but I don’t know what to say, where to begin. Where do you start with someone you’ve known for what seems like forever when, in fact, you don’t know them at all?
I convinced myself that if I had him alone, I could instantly know if this was all a lie. I tried to convince myself that it was a lie. And now, just from the look in his eyes that always gave away so little and so much about him, I do know. I don’t see Cal. I hold on to my wrist and squeeze, a nervous habit I’ve developed.
“I don’t really know what to say to you, or where to start,” he begins in a quiet tone, his eyes looking into mine for the first time, as if he’s seeing me for the first time almost. It only lasts a second before he looks away. He opens his mouth to say something else, but then stops, as if he’s at a loss for words completely.
I try to think of something to say, to cut through the dead silence in the room. There are so many things I want to say, but not to him. Not to the person standing in front of me. Tears cloud my vision, and I fight with everything in me to keep them from falling. I turn away from him and wipe my eyes quickly. I see that his eyes are glued to his feet. I realize I have to talk to him for who he is, someone I know nothing about, and that’s one of the hardest realizations I’ve come to.
“Um,” I try to say, but my throat burns. I look at the ceiling, trying to be stronger than I feel right now. “I don’t know what to say to you either, to be honest.” I’m angry at the new tears falling down my cheeks. I quickly wipe them away and notice how uncomfortable he looks. “Your parents told you everything?”
He sighs, still avoiding eye contact. “They told me they’ve been lying to me all of this time. That when I didn’t remember things, another person was living my life for me, that they felt they should keep it from me,” he says with obvious bitterness. “Everyone I know and trust has been lying to me. My parents, my so-called doctor.” His mouth forms into a frown.
“Welcome to the club,” I mumble, rubbing my temples. I’ve had a continuous headache since I got here.
There’s another period of silence. I notice he’s wearing scuffed work boots. His jacket is clean, but it’s apparent that it’s been worn more than casually. His hair is different too, shorter almost. He looks like a model for Old Navy, so much more innocent than Cal. No dark colors, no mystery; it’s almost as if what you see is what you get.
“I should have known something was wrong,” he says quietly, his words snapping me from my thoughts once more. “I would wake up and days, sometimes months had gone by. I should have known it was bigger than they were telling me. They made it seem like I was okay, like they had me under control. I thought my treatments were working. I didn’t know how bad it’d gotten.” It’s as if he’s talking to himself instead of me. “The people I trusted most lied to me.”
“You can’t blame yourself. It’s human nature to want to believe things are always good. When I talked to your parents, they thought they were doing what was best for you. Your interest was the only one they were looking out for.”
He looks at me, a little surprised. I’m surprised myself; I don’t know why I just said that. I barely know the Scotts, and we didn’t exactly get off on the right foot, but it seems they truly love him—so much that they’d screw anyone else over for him. Though they did horrible things, they did it all for him.
“I didn’t expect for you defend them. Especially after… they lied to you too,” he says uncertainly.
“I’m not defending them,” I say quickly. “What they did was wrong; it hurt a lot of people. But I don’t think they did it to be malicious or cruel. They thought they were protecting you. As a parent, you’d do anything to protect your child from what you believe could hurt
them. If I was in their situation, and I believed that I could keep you safe by lying to you, I would have.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, then he turns his attention to his pocket and pulls something out. He walks closer to me, and I swallow every nerve in my body. I feel my breathing speed up. I know he must think that I’m crazy, but his expression doesn’t show it. His earlier facial expression softens, and I find myself stepping away from him. He notices my discomfort and stops walking toward me, instead reaching out his hand.
“My mom said…” He drifts off, and I notice he’s holding the picture I gave Mrs. Scott of Caylen.
I feel a small smile spread across my face. His eyes are still locked on the picture, his expression a cross between puzzlement and worry.
“Caylen,” I say softly, touching her face on the picture. When I look up, I notice his eyes are on me, and we both look away.
“You named her after him… after Cal?” he asks.
I nod mechanically. His eyes stay locked on the picture as he makes his way over to the sofa and sits down.
“How old is she?” He releases a breath that he seems to have been holding in for a while.
“She just had her first birthday three days ago,” I tell him, sitting on the edge of the sofa, feeling more at ease with Caylen as the topic.
His eyebrow rises, and he turns fully toward me. “You’ve been raising her alone.” He looks at me sympathetically, which I feel angry about for some reason.
“No. My aunt and friends have been there since the beginning to help me with her. She doesn’t lack anything,” I explain.
“But a father,” he says quietly. He said it, not me. “Is… is she okay?”
“She’s fine.” I smile, missing her the more I think about her.
“I-I mean is… is she healthy?”
“As a one-year-old can be.”
“Are you sure?”
I frown as my gaze goes toward him. “Of course I’m sure,” I tell him, a bit annoyed. I’m her mother; I think I would know if she wasn’t.
“She doesn’t do anything strange?”
“Like what?”
“In general?”
“Caylen isn’t strange,” I tell him sharply.
“No, I didn’t mean that. I just wanted to make sure she was okay,” he says, trying to clean up his words.
I stand. “She’s been okay an entire year of her life without you making sure she was okay. I’ve made sure she’s okay!” I sound more bitter than I intend, but I’ve raised her alone since birth, and he thinks I wouldn’t know if my daughter was okay.
“I didn’t mean anything by it. I-I don’t know what I meant,” he says, seemingly genuine.
He offers the picture to me. I feel guilty for some reason, and it dawns on me he’s referring to his mental condition, even though it may be over-reaching. I guess that’s something I’ll need to worry about sooner or later, if this is hereditary, but that’ll have to go to the back of my queue of things to go crazy over.
“I’m sorry. I overreacted,” I say apologetically, “I’m-I’m just not used to this, all of this… It’s all—”
“No, it was my fault. I was out of line. I shouldn’t have asked such a stupid question,” he cuts me off.
Silence fills the air again, and we both sigh.
“She’s fine. She’s a perfectly normal, healthy one-year-old.” He turns his attention back to the picture with a slight smile at first, then it spreads widely. It’s almost as if half the worry from his expression is gone. It’s the first time he’s smiled since… well, in a long time.
Actually, it’s the first smile I’ve seen from him… from Chris, but it’s still one that I’ve missed. He sits down on the sofa again, and I cautiously sit beside him, looking at Caylen’s picture in his hand.
“She has your eyes. They turn like yours do,” I say cautiously, almost as if the comment is too personal to be allowed.
He looks uncomfortable. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. I knew I shouldn’t have…
“I-I mean I…” I stumble further, embarrassing us both until he looks up from the picture and smiles at me.
Butterflies start to go crazy in my stomach. I silently pray that my cheeks aren’t as red as I think they are. He turns his attention away from me, pretending not to notice, then his smile disappears into an almost worried stare.
“How are we supposed to deal with this?” he asks quietly, as though he is uncertain of what more to say. “I-I don’t know how to deal with this…” He wrings his hands as he lets out a sigh of frustration before standing again. “You don’t know anything about me. I don’t know anything about you. And this Cal guy…” He covers his face, exasperated. “I mean… I have a daughter I don’t even remember…” He laughs angrily. “Years of my life. All of these things happened, and I don’t remember any of it. No one bothered to tell me. What am I supposed to do with this?” He anxiously begins pacing the room. “I’m trying. I really am. I thought if I could make the first step in talking to you that I could do it, but…”
I can see the confusion in his face, the worry, the uncertainty. He’s just as lost as I am, maybe even more. I don’t know what to say to change that, or if I can say anything to change it. I’m not used to seeing him so frantic and on edge. This isn’t the him I’m used to at all.
“I know this is hard for you. I can’t begin to imagine what you’re going through right now,” I say honestly, trying to comfort him in some form.
“I don’t know anything about you.” His tone is apologetic, but his eyes and expression are compassionate.
Still his words hurt; they feel like a knife penetrating my heart. That familiar face is looking back at me, but his eyes show no sign of recognition, nor do his words.
“But when you look at me, it’s like you know everything about me,” he says. His eyes are on me, staring into mine as if he’s trying to see inside me, as though if he stared hard enough, he’d have the answers to all his questions. “I have enough trouble with one life. How am I supposed to deal with one I don’t know anything about? One that… that isn’t really mine?”
I open my mouth to respond to him then realize that he thinks this is easier for me. He doesn’t realize what I’ve been through… what I’m going through. I pause, trying to carefully choose my words so as not to agitate or overwhelm him.
“When your parents told me about you,” I begin warily, “it was the hardest thing I’ve ever experienced, the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to listen to. I was hurt and confused; I didn’t even believe them… I didn’t want to believe them.” I clench my wrist as I continue. “I’m still hurt. I am still confused. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say to…to you.” I hear my voice crack.
He turns around to face me.
“I can’t compromise with someone I don’t know either.” I take a few breaths to try to steady my heartbeat, but it’s futile as my pulse continues to race. I can feel his eyes on me and I continue to stare at the floor. “When you look at me… it’s as if I’m a burden… a problem, and you have no idea how much that hurts.” I swallow the lump in my throat, hot tears in my eyes as I finally look up at him.
He looks as if he’s going to say something then doesn’t. His eyes take my place and become glued to the floor.
“I don’t blame you for it,” I quickly add. “I can’t… but you have to understand that you have Cal’s…” I laugh as the tears are unavoidable, but I try to maintain a steady voice as I continue. “You… you have his smile, his voice, his eyes…”
I feel myself smile through my tears when I think back to when Cal would smile at me, without being condescending, manipulative, or arrogant—those rare moments when he’d truly smile.
“When I look at you… I can’t help but see him. And it hurts knowing that you weren’t the one who stole my heart when you first smiled at me, who took me bungee jumping on our first date, that you weren’t the one who told me I’m the only woman you’v
e ever loved. But you’re… you’re not him, and you’re in love with someone else.” I feel embarrassed as tears stream down my cheeks, but he needs to see them, to know that I’m a person. “So I’m sort of having a hard time with this.” I chuckle, finally wiping away some of the fallen tears.
“Even knowing all of it, I don’t how I’m supposed to get past it,” I explain. “How I’m supposed to deal with this… if I even can, but I’m willing to try because of that little girl in that picture. I’d do anything for her, including giving up the only person I’ve ever been in love with…”
He looks at me, dumbfounded. I feel myself starting to break down, and I take a deep breath, wiping away all of my tears once more, commanding my eyes to stop it. I walk over to him, forcing myself to see someone new, to not see Cal, but to see… Chris.
“I-I’m sorry. Please don’t cry.” His voice is shaky, his expression one I’ve never seen before.
I see him looking around nervously. He searches his pocket and pulls out a napkin, the rough kind that usually comes from a fast food restaurant. I take it and wipe my eyes.
“I know you didn’t ask for this,” I say. “I know this isn’t your fault. And I know that you want to believe none of this is your problem, but it is, and it’s mine too… but it’s not Caylen’s. I’m willing to accept that you’re not Cal, that you aren’t my husband; I can learn to do that. But I can’t relieve you of being Caylen’s father. You’re part of her.” I speak sternly enough to get the point across, yet tenderly enough to not frighten him. “And that’s all I’m really sure about. That’s all that I can think of to say to you.”
The silence returns.
I walk over to the sofa and sit down, resting my head in my hands. A few minutes later, I feel him sit beside me. I look over at him. He’s in deep thought with his hands clasped together. I’ve never seen him… Cal… like this before. Cal never let me know when anything was wrong except that one occasion; when he was upset about anything, he always tried to hide it. He was very good at doing that.
