I got home to an empty house and it already felt lonely. I was tired and saddened by the lack of laughter echoing from the rooms. I already missed Laura. I hoped, above hope, she wasn’t too rattled by the fire.
I did the mental geography. If she left this morning she should be somewhere near Albuquerque
I was rummaging through the refrigerator, reminding myself of the nutritional benefits of peanut butter and saltine crackers when someone rapped on the door. Looking up, I saw Matt staring into the home from the front window. I had a fleeting fantasy he might have been keeping an eye out to see when I was getting home. This pleased my sorry ego and I couldn’t hide the grin on my face as I approached the door.
“How’s it going?” He asked, lazily crossing his arms and leaning on the doorframe. His blue eyes twinkled. It hadn’t escaped my notice. This was the third time this week he had made an effort to see me. I half grinned a response and invited him in, giving him a run-down on Laura’s impromptu visit to her father. He shook his head, “Laura has more guts than anyone I had ever met.”
“Considering you were a Marine,” I started. He nodded.
“Yep, even considering I was a Marine.”
“How was your day?” He asked, scooting himself on to the barstool and accepting a glass of water from me.
I told him about Amy’s visit at Price Bargains and the surreal pow-wow at Selma
After he was done, I asked him the same, “And, how was your day?”
“I am so glad you asked.” He grinned at me. “I am looking to celebrate and hoping you would be willing join me.” He whipped out his wallet and took out a folded sheet of paper. Handing it to me, he said, “I saw my oncologist today. I made him write this down for me so I could stare at it whenever I wanted to.”
It said, “As of August 8, Matt Hayden’s cancer has been in remission for one year.” I looked up and couldn’t suppress my smile—which wasn’t nearly as wide as his.
“Only four more years until I am considered cancer free.” He supplied, looking radiant.
“Well, this is certainly great news.” I was hedging. In Shades Crest, I would have been the first to suggest going out and celebrating—which Matt did mention—I reminded myself. But right now my funds were extremely low and I didn’t feel like I could treat, or even hold my own end of the bill if I was invited out. I wondered if Matt would consider a picnic with peanut butter and jelly and bottled water as decent party fodder.
As if he could read my thoughts, he flashed me his drop-dead smile, which was almost as phenomenal as his backside. “I was wondering, Miss Cavanaugh, if I could take you out to dinner tonight?”
I felt the color creep past my ears, meeting somewhere near my nose. Wasn’t it just last week we had both declared neither was interested in dating? Again, listening to my thoughts, he added, “I couldn’t think of a friend I would rather share this news with.” Which, I am sure was a bold-faced lie, but my sorry ego enjoyed that too.
Matt took me to a Bronson’s Steak House in the Arrowhead area. The food was fabulous. The prime rib melted in my mouth. Matt had a beer, I opted for tea. As great as the food was, the company was even better.
Matt had grown up in Ohio and moved out here after being discharged because his wife’s family had lived here and Phoenix
Here’s the thing about a great date—or in this case, let’s just define this as two friends having dinner. I don’t like the evening to end. It is always awkward. If I am having a great time, and he seems to be having a great time, in the past, it might end in the morning with an exchange of phone numbers or in one case or two an introduction of first names. But, now older and wiser, if neither has anywhere to be in the morning, would it be so wrong to invite him to sit on Laura’s porch swing and just visit for a little bit longer?
Did it suggest, as Mother used to carefully tell me, I wanted to do things, which would lead to a reputation? It wasn’t my intention, but darn it! I was having fun. Hell, sitting on the floor playing Scrabble would work for me if it meant we could hang out a little bit longer. It had been a long time since I found I could laugh so easily. Long before Preston . Long before college.
I was considering this when Matt stopped at a red light and leaned toward me. “You know what would make this night magical?” he asked in a sultry whisper. I looked at him, afraid any answer would be the wrong one—or worse, the right one. I uttered something non-committal. Matt picked up a stray strand of my hair and placed it gently behind my ear, letting the backs of his fingers caress my jawbone. He stared at me for a moment before he said in that same sexy voice, “ice cream.” His face broke into a wide grin. The moment was broken. I realized then I had been holding my breath and my libido instantly gone into mourning.
We ended up in his back patio. He on one lounge chair, me poised inches away in the other, my sandals flicked off next to the footrest, and both of us, gazing through the light pollution at the view of the few stars the city hadn’t stolen. I had no idea what time it was and was vaguely aware I had something to do in the morning.
“So tell me,” Matt started. He had been asking me more about the ridiculousness I had seen in my less than two weeks as a real estate agent. “What’s the draw?”
I chuckled, “The challenge I guess.” I looked at him, a bit sheepishly, “Besides, I need to pay off a few bills. I owe quite a bit of money.”
“What bills?”
His innocent question caught me by surprise. I looked at him in the dim light, ready to give a flip answer. Instead, the words came out before I had a chance to think about it. It was like I was in a stranger’s body listing to someone else tell a story I knew too well.
I looked down, studying my hands, afraid to meet his gaze. “First semester of my junior year of college I went to a party with some friends.” I started. I could feel him looking at my head, silently encouraging me to continue. “I was drinking amaretto sours—something I had never touched before or after. After belting back my fair share and probably everyone else in the East Bay
I struggled to tell the story silently haunted me for years. I found it strange even to my own ears. I told him everything. All of it. His opinion of me be damned.
I started by sharing what it was like to grow up in the public light. Being a politician’s child, I was required to act the part. Of course, this didn’t end when Dad dy left office. My public Tina had better be squeaky clean. This was expected of Jimmy and me long after Dad dy went into private practice, his name long forgotten by his constituents. Long after the cameras stopped flashing and long after Patrick Cavanaugh’s legacy entrenched into the history books.
Mother worked diligently training us how to behave. Mother worked hard behind the scenes fitting our life into the perfect mold—a mold she and Dad dy created. She and Dad dy were proud of. And, I was proud of them too. They earned everything they wanted out of life. They deserved their good name.
I explained to Matt about Mother’s preoccupation with perceptions and how I thought breaking the news I was pregnant to them would shatter their life. The news would be devastating in a way that only sounds ridiculous unless you grew up like I did.
Part of the luxury of growing up the way I did, was I never paid attention to my actions. Everything was fixable through somebody’s contacts. There was a price for it. And, it was a price my parents were willing to pay and one where I knew my place.
Until I was 20 I never gave much thought to this. I took for granted what I had, never thinking about what it meant to others. Now, I was faced with a challenge I never expected. I was faced with the responsibility of another life.
This baby was not a blessed event. I was knocked up. It wasn’t the union Mother had so delicately explained to me right after my twelfth birthday. It was drunken sex with a stranger, causing the egg and sperm to hook up, creating a small being. The innocent bystander to my frivolity. My pregnancy happened because I lived like I was invincible. The fact is, this wasn’t the first, second or third time I had played Russian roulette with my body. But, it was the wake up call.
When I found out I was pregnant, my world stood still. I was confused and never more alone than I felt at then. Consequences now mattered. I avoided everyone in my life, changing my courses second semester to include evening classes, hiding at the library instead of going home. I would make excuses for missing family obligations, assuring Mother I was attending mass on Saturday night with friends.
I hid the pregnancy under baggy clothes. And, while I didn’t see much of her, when I did, she cornered me. Mother would share her displeasure of my frumpy look, bribing me with a new wardrobe if I would just stop dressing like a slob. I didn’t dare tell her. I did everything I could to stay away, not wanting to face my parents, embarrass my family and confront the disapproval I deserved.
When summer came, I slipped off to our lake home in Tahoe and worked in the same resort I worked at every summer. I was relieved for a reason to get away from Mother’s prying eyes and continual nagging. When Mother and Dad dy asked me to come visit on my days off, I was full of excuses and managed to avoid them completely.
I didn’t think about the pregnancy in the terms of a baby. I thought about it as an inconvenience I was hiding the best I could. It wasn’t until Tahoe that I started thinking of the ramifications.
I needed to figure out what to do. Originally, I was going to put the baby up for adoption. I interviewed three very sweet couples, all whom would have made fine parents. All of whom offered to pay my medical expenses.
But, as time wore on during my last trimester, I learned what women before me had learned. The baby was mine. I was going to be a mother. There was no doubt about my attachment. Adoption became a moot option. The bond between me and my child was set. One day, while showering I looked down to see a small hand push on the inside of my belly. Five fingers! I was breathless as I recognized the little hand belonging to a little person.
I became convinced I was having a girl and gave her a name. Elaina—after my grandmother. I never considered it might be a boy. I found when I said her name, she kicked, responding to my voice. It was our special game.
Living in panic mode, I had no idea what I was going to do once the baby was born. I suspected, once the initial shock wore off (Hi, I am back from Tahoe and here is your new grandchild!), surely Mother and Dad dy would be thrilled to have a grandchild.
As much as fantasy played in my head, the other scenario seemed more likely. Mother being in denial about my bastard child. It wasn’t scripted into the carefully staged production she expected to be played out in Shades Crest’s society pages. And, improvisation from her daughter would never be tolerated.
I figured the gossip around Shades Crest would be more devastating to her than the joy of having a grandchild. The fact is, people weren’t important to her. So, I braced myself for the choice I knew I would be making. And, there was only one answer: Elaina. College, my parents and all I had known were nothing compared to what I knew I had in store.
The day I went into labor, I was working at the gift shop when my water burst. One of the waitresses, Tamilyn, who had just finished her shift was kind enough to drive me to Carson City
Call it mother’s intuition or a gut feel. Even as we were driving out of the mountains into Carson City
The rest of that August day was a blur, I remember doctors and nurses not as people, but as shadowy objects, moving around me. Making decisions on my behalf. All the while someone with my voice was screaming, “Please tell me what is going on.”
In the operating room, the team of people were there to save the baby, but there was nobody for me. Oh how I wished, I had a friend that night.
Elaina was born with serious birth defects. She lived four hours—a miracle in itself. Everything about her was a miracle. Every moment of it was spent in my arms, me rocking her, telling her all I could, so she could absorb it and bring it to Heaven with her. I sat with her, refusing the truth I knew.
I held her until her last breath, telling her how lucky I was she had come in my life. The hospital priest came in, baptized her and performed last rights, mere moments before she left me.
Afterwards, one of the nurses who had assisted in the operating room came to see me in my hospital room. She held me tenderly, patting my hair, letting my tears saturate her shirt–the way I always suspected a mother would. All the while, I cried for my daughter. My Elaina.
I was doing a poor job of keeping my voice steady. I had already given up holding back the tears. They had been tucked into the same place as my story, “I made burial arrangements while I was there. I suppose I didn’t have to. But, my daughter deserved a proper burial. And, when I left, I got slapped with a very large hospital bill and the burial bill on top of everything else.”
I sniffed turning my hands in my lap, “In the four hours I held Elaina, I learned a truth mothers before me learned. My parents would have accepted me, Elaina or no Elaina. I never needed to go through my pregnancy alone. But, because I had gone so far, I never told them. I didn’t see a reason to cause them grief over a granddaughter they would never know. I didn’t tell them. I never told anyone.
“In those few hours I also had a moment of clarity. I came to fully appreciate my parents and their love and sacrifice. I understood what they had done because they were my parents. Everything every child takes for granted. I started examining the sheltered world I had and thinking about what I really wanted.”
I looked up at Matt, finally answering his question. “Here’s the thing. If I told my parents, the bills would have disappeared. But, she was my child. My responsibility. I owed her. My parents did a lot of really great things for me. But, this is something I needed to do myself. The debt incurred from Elaina’s birth and death is my own. I will pay it off.”
He said nothing. He did nothing. I could feel his blue eyes on me.
Another tear. Damn.
I didn’t tell him how for months I kept to myself, brokenhearted over the child I had for less than one day. I floundered around the following semester, lost and grief-stricken. I was not able to function. Getting out of bed was a major chore. As much as I wanted to do something—anything. I had no idea how to begin.
Much to my parent’s horror, I dropped out of college my senior year in college and just worked part-time and lived at home, wishing I could undo all leading up to my heartbreak. But, I also couldn’t put into words how the experience—holding my child for four hours changed me from a girl to a woman. I became independent. I grew up and realized what my obligations and roles were to be. I became grateful for the financial safety net my parents had given me, but I also become increasingly aware it was no longer my net and I had to find my own way.
“Then I met Preston . He was a distraction. And for that I am grateful. But, I never loved him. And, I wasn’t all that saddened about him when I found out he cheated on me,” I said. “And, I never even told him about the baby.”
I looked at Matt. “How sad is that? The man I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with, didn’t even know.” I gave him a half-smile. “After the wedding was called off I instantly reverted back to moping—the way I did right after I lost Elaina. Not because of Preston , but because I felt stuck. A week after the breakup, my mother came into my room, telling me I needed to get out and she was tired of me feeling sorry for myself. She was heading some charity event fashion show and thought it would be nice if I could come and make an appearance—for her. Those were her words. It was then I came to realize no matter what, I needed something different. I needed to do it for me. Anything. I wanted a change. I wanted a chance to grow past the life of comfort and convenience. I wanted to make it on my own.”
I didn’t share with Matt the rest. Preston and I never agreed on children. He didn’t want them “at least right away.” But, I suspect he would never have given in. Also, Preston was the only man I had sex with in the past four years—and never once did he ask me where I had gotten my scar.
“So,” I said, with a half-hearted smile, “There’s a few bills.”
Then, the wave of emotional exhaustion hit me, knocking me back into the moment. I always knew there would come a day when I shared this story. My biggest fear being the person who heard my burden would coddle me. Or worse, reject me because of my mistake. And, nobody—nobody—could possibly know what loosing a child is like unless it has happened to them.
To Matt’s credit. He did nothing. He didn’t reach out to me. He didn’t tell me what a tramp I was. And he didn’t say, “I’m so sorry,” which would have caused the precarious dam of tears to break. He just looked at me. And, as silly as it might sound, it was the most comforting thing he could have done.
Finally, he broke the silence. Standing up, he reached for my hand, pulling me to my feet. “We need that ice cream,” he said.
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