by West, Harper
When our time in class is over, the women leave class, and I tell them I’ll be back next week.
Finally. Silence.
I sit at the teacher’s desk in the classroom and check my phone.
Shit. There are about ten text messages from Patty.
Patty: Oliver is running a fever.
Patty: It’s not getting any better. Should I take him to the hospital?
Patty: He’s spit up several times.
Patty: I’m taking him to the hospital right now.
I call Patty in a panic.
“What’s going on?” I shout at her, “And why the hell didn’t you call me?”
“Your phone was turned off, Ms. Lawrence,” Patty explains, “I couldn’t reach you. And I didn’t know who else to call, so I just rushed little Oliver to the hospital. We’re at St. Catherine’s. They just took him in.”
Fuck. Fuck fuck fucking fuck.
I'm at a community college on Long Island. It's late enough that there won't be any traffic, but I took the train out here, and I have to get back into the city as soon as humanly possible. I can't wait an hour for the next train.
I start calling everyone I can think of. My mother and father are in Barbados on vacation, so they’re useless. I call my one friend from my old building, but she doesn’t pick up. I call one of my students who just left to see if she hadn’t gotten too far, but she doesn’t pick up either.
I call Mrs. Little.
“Ivy, dear,” she says, her voice hoarse, like she’d been woken up from a deep sleep.
“I’m so sorry to bother you at this time of night, Mrs. Little,” I start. It’s only ten in the evening, but to a seventy-year-old woman, that’s bedtime. “I’m just… it’s an emergency. Is there any way you could come out to Long Island to get me?”
I’m on the verge of tears.
“Sweetheart, I haven’t owned a car in ten years,” she says gently, “I’m so sorry.”
The tears come. My baby is in the hospital, and I’m stuck here in this godforsaken classroom.
“Why don’t you call the boys?” she suggests.
“I can’t do that,” I tell her, “I guess I’ll just have to wait for the next train.”
“What happened?” she finally asks.
I take a deep breath. “It’s the baby,” I confess, “I don’t know what exactly. My sitter told me that he was running a fever and throwing up. She couldn’t get to me, so she rushed him to the hospital.”
“Smart woman. Thank God for that.”
I nod. Patty has been a godsend, but this is hardly the time to get into that.
“But I was teaching my class at the community college when this all went down,” I say, “And now I can’t get back into the city.”
“I’m calling the boys,” she says finally.
“No,” I forbid her, “Don’t you dare do that.”
“Ivy, I’ve held my tongue for a long time now. Those boys have a right to know about Oliver. Especially when you need their help. You don’t have to do everything alone. You never did, but you chose to,” she says, getting very mom-like with me.
“You don’t understand,” I tell them, “They don’t want Oliver.”
“No, they weren’t ready for Oliver,” she assures me, “There’s a difference.”
“And they’re ready now?” I wonder.
“They’ve got big hearts,” she says, “They would love him if you gave them the chance.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“Do you want me to call them or do you want to do it yourself?” she asks.
“No,” I say, “I’ll do it.”
Mrs. Little and I say our goodbyes and hang up. I scroll through my contacts and hover over Logan’s name. Then Tyler’s. It’s late at night, so odds are that Tyler will be out partying. Logan is more likely to be home.
Shit. Of the two, Tyler is definitely the one less likely to give me hell and glare at me until I cave and tell him everything. He’s the more easy-going one. And since, in his words, he’s definitely not in love with me anymore, he’d be easier to deal with.
Tyler it is. I dial his number.
“Hello?” he answers.
“Tyler?”
“Who is this?” he asks.
“Did you seriously delete my number?” I ask, not sure if I’m offended. I mean, I’d delete an ex’s number too.
“What do you need, Ivy?” he asks.
“I’m on Long Island,” I start, wondering how much detail to give him, “And I need to get to St. Catherine’s. It’s an emergency.”
His tone gets serious. “What happened?” he asks, “Are you hurt?”
“Not me,” I say, “It’s a… a family member.”
“Your mom?”
“Does it matter who?” I spit out, getting indignant. “I just need to get there fast.”
“Well, I can’t help you, Ivy,” Tyler says, “I’ve had too much to drink to get behind the wheel right now. You should call Logan.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” I tell him.
Tyler unceremoniously hangs up on me, leaving me holding my phone to my ear, listening to nothing.
I bite the bullet and dial Logan.
He lets it ring a few times, which I know is just to make me sweat.
“What do you want?” he asks. His voice is low and gruff.
“I need your help,” I say meekly.
I don’t know how he makes this trip in the time that he does, but Logan arrives in record time, pulling up in front of the quad in a beautiful black Aston Martin. The car is so Logan it’s disgusting. Classically handsome, well-built, not too flashy, and reminiscent of James Bond.
There was a time when Logan would have gotten out to open the door for me, but I don’t dare assume he’ll do that tonight. I open my own door and climb into the passenger seat.
“Where are we going?” he asks. No greetings. No pleasantries. No nothing.
“Hospital,” I reply, “St. Catherine’s.”
He pulls out, back onto the road.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, looking genuinely concerned.
“Someone’s sick.”
“Who?”
“None of your business,” I tell him.
“Oliver?” he asks.
“Don’t start,” I say, getting antsy, “You made it clear all those years ago that Oliver was unwelcome in your life.”
“I don’t know who the fuck Oliver is,” Logan practically shouts, “Why don’t you let me meet the bastard before you decide that I’ll hate him.”
I hate the Logan just used the word bastard. It’s gutting me.
“Don’t you ever call him that again,” I order.
“What? Bastard?”
“Shut the fuck up, Logan. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“If you’d just fucking tell me,” he teased, “Then I’d know.”
I thought I’d be crying by now, but I’m not. I’m too angry to cry. Too angry to say anything, even. So Logan and I spend the rest of the ride in complete silence.
When we finally arrive at St. Catherine’s, I’m out the door before he even parks.
“Thank you, Logan,” I bid him before trying to slide out of the front seat.
His big arm pulls me back.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks.
“I have to go check on Oliver,” I explain.
“I’m coming with you,” he says, “Just let me park the fucking car.”
“You don’t have to come inside. I’m fine.”
“Ivy… please,” he says, his voice is soft. He’s not fighting with me anymore. “I have to know who it is that you left us for. I think it’ll help me move on. I need that closure. Just let me meet him. Please.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
“Fine,” I say.
Chapter 11
Logan
Ivy approaches the nurse at the desk and gives her name. She says that she’s looki
ng for ‘Oliver Lawrence.’
I’m confused. Oliver Lawrence. Ivy doesn’t have brothers or male cousins.
I’m even more confused when we’re directed towards the infants and children’s floor.
When we finally arrive at Oliver’s room, a woman is standing there. She’s young, maybe college age, and she’s crying.
“Ms. Lawrence, you’re finally here,” she says, rushing to Ivy for a hug. “I hope I did the right thing.”
“You did, Patty. Thank you,” Ivy reassures the woman in her arms.
As the women have their moment comforting each other, I finally notice the infant lying in the hospital bed receiving fluids and being monitored by machines.
“They think it was an allergic reaction to something,” Patty explains, “We’ll know exactly what when all his tests come back.”
I go over to him. God, he’s tiny. With five little fingers and five little toes.
And my eyes.
I look over at Ivy for confirmation.
“Logan,” she says slowly, “This is Oliver.”
I say nothing.
“He’s about nine months old.”
Still nothing. I don't need to do the math to know that he's mine or Tyler's. The cheekbones are pure Tyler.
I can’t believe it. I have a son. We have a son.He looks up at me with his bright blue eyes and blinks as he takes me in. I feel myself get choked up looking down at the little guy. My son.
“I have to go,” I announce suddenly, “You’ll be okay, right?”
Ivy nods. She looks confused.
“Okay then.” And with that, I unceremoniously make my exit.
I stop by the billing offices on the way back to my car to make sure that Oliver’s hospital stay is completely paid for and that Ivy won’t have to worry about anything. Then I head to my car and drive home.
I let myself into the apartment and Tyler is sprawled out on the sofa, looking a little worse for the wear.
“How much did you have to drink?” I ask him.
He rolls over on his side, his back to me. “Not so loud, man.”
“Get up, Tyler,” I snarl at him, “We have a situation.”
He rolls back towards me but keeps his arm over his eyes. “What kind of situation?”
“I found out who Oliver is,” I say.
“Great. Give me thirty minutes to make coffee and sober up. Then we can go over there and kick his ass.”
“Not happening.”
“Why?”
“Cause he’s a nine-month-old baby,” I say, “Our baby.”
Tyler looks confused. “You and me?”
“Get your head out of your ass, man," I tell him, getting him a glass of water and silently commanding him to drink the whole thing. "Ours and Ivy's. I don't know if he's yours or mine, but it hardly matters."
“Ivy was pregnant?”
“Yes,” I answer, “Oliver is Ivy’s and our son. She would have just discovered that she was pregnant when she left us.”
“Why didn’t she tell us?”
I shrug. “I have absolutely no idea.”
I rifle through my jacket pocket for my phone and scroll through my contacts.
“Who are you calling?”
“Art Connelly,” I say. Sure, it’s late, but with the amount of money I pay this man to handle my company’s legal issues and keep my name out of the press at all costs, he can damn well take my calls whenever they come in.
He doesn’t, though. His phones goes to voicemail.
“Art, this is Logan Rutledge,” I say to the machine, “I need to meet with you first thing tomorrow morning. This is regarding a parental custody issue.”
“Custody?” Tyler asks, eyes wide.
I finish my message to my lawyer and end the call.
“Yeah. Custody.”
“You’d actually fight Ivy for custody?” he asks.
“He's my son. Our son," I answer, "I want to be in his life, and I have absolutely every legal right to. Ivy gave birth to him in secret. She kept him from me. She was going to rob this child of a father figure. Two father figures," I explain to Tyler.
“But it’s cruel, Logan,” he says, “You’re literally trying to take a child from his mother.”
“She's leaving the child with a babysitter every day, and he got sick and ended up in the hospital. He's apparently allergic to something. Probably something that this strange woman was feeding him," I explain, "The child would be better off with us."
“Excuse me?” Tyler says suddenly, “On what planet are you and I equipped to handle a baby?”
“We have the room,” I point out.
“Yes,” he agrees, “But you and I work all the time. And I’m not exactly ‘dad material.’”
“Still better off with us than with a sitter,” I say.
“And what are we going to do with the baby during the day? Leave him with Mrs. Little?” he asks.
“I trust Mrs. Little.”
“She’s not up to handling an infant.”
“Then we’ll figure something else out,” I say, too worked up to listen to reason. “You and I will take turns working from him. We can do this.”
I start to dial up Art again, but Tyler stops me.
“Don’t do this,” he implores me, “Think about what’s best for that baby.” Before I can once again tell him what I think is best for my son, he cuts me off again. “Babies need their mothers, Logan.”
Damn. He’s right.
My own mother was a piece of work. She was about seventeen when I was born, and my father was not much older. Neither was emotionally or financially prepared to be a parent and, as a result, I was raised by my grandparents until they were killed suddenly in a car accident when I was five.
By this time, my mother and father had discovered a love of drugs and alcohol and were almost constantly wasted. I suspect that they’d forgotten that they had a son and I was left to fend for myself in terms of making sure I got fed and clothed.
They never enrolled me in school. The thought hadn't occurred to them. But I was eight years old and hadn't started learning to read or write. Other kids in my apartment building were headed to school every morning, and I asked whether or not I should get on the bus too. My parents assured me that school was boring and not completely necessary. So I watched television or played video games instead.
Our apartment smelled. My parents never cleaned and rarely took out the trash. But during a particularly nasty heatwave one summer, the stench from our apartment started permeating through our walls and stinking up the neighbors’ apartments. It was then that the building’s superintendent was called and they took one look at the hoarder den that Stephen and Madison Rutledge lived in. He’d interrupted their World of Warcraft game, so my parents were ridiculously pissed when he told them to get their asses out of the apartment.
Then he spotted me.
I don’t even want to think about what I looked or smelled like. I was wearing clothes that were too small and probably hadn’t bathed in a week.
The super looked like he wanted to throttle my parents.
That’s when the system got involved. I was shuttled around to several different foster homes. Some good, some bad. But I was finally able to go to school and get into a routine.
One of my foster homes was next door to the Pearson’s, a remarkably wealthy couple with two children, and their son, Tyler, became my best friend quickly. Though even Tyler doesn’t know all the details of my painful upbringing.
My biological parents served some time in prison for neglect, and I have no idea where they are now. I have no desire to contact them and, surprisingly, given my current financial situation, they’ve made no effort to contact me. Tyler’s parents let me live with them through college until I had made enough money to set out on my own.
I shake my head, forcing myself back to the situation at hand.
“Not all women who have babies are fit to be mothers,” I remind him.
“Ivy is
not Madison,” he says.
I think about it. If it were me, my mother wouldn’t have noticed that I was sick and would probably have let it get much worse before she lifted a finger to help me. I remember how worried Ivy was. Tyler is right. Ivy loves her son.
“Maybe just weekends or something then,” I concede.
“You’re still going through with a custody fight?” he asks.
“I deserve to know my son,” I say, “And he deserves to be taken care of.”
I head into my bedroom to change and go to sleep, resolving to call Art first thing in the morning and get this all underway. My son will know who his father is, and I will be an active part of his life whether Ivy wants me there or not.
Chapter 12
Tyler
I text Ivy.
Tyler: Are you home?
A few minutes later, I get a reply.
Ivy: Yes. I just put Oliver to sleep.
Ivy: I’m sure Logan’s told you everything.
Tyler: Mostly. How is he?
Ivy: He’s fine. Doctors took good care of him and discharged him.
Tyler: Glad to hear it.
Tyler: Can I come over? I need to talk to you about something.
Ivy: I don’t know, Tyler. I’ve got a sick baby here. It’s not really a good time.
Tyler: It’s important. It’s about Logan.
I may not truly understand my feelings for Ivy, nor do I know how I feel about potentially being a parent, biological or otherwise, to her child. But I do feel that she has a right to know that Logan is coming after her for legal custody of Oliver so that she can prepare herself for what that means.
Ivy: Okay. Just for a minute, though. I’m so tired.
I slip out of the penthouse and take the elevator to Ivy’s floor. I opt to text her that I’m here rather than ring the doorbell or knock, lest wake up Oliver.
She answers, wearing a black camisole and pajama pants with little kittens on them. Her hair is thrown into a messy bun. She’s cleaned up all her makeup. She looks stressed and tired, but still insanely beautiful.
She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “What’s going on, Tyler?” she says. She sounds exasperated.
