By the time he’d paid the check, my dad had asked me exactly two questions about myself. “You freeze your ass off up in Boise?” and “You get along with your mother?” When we left the restaurant, he didn’t even offer to walk me to the motel where my mother waited to console me.
When I burst into our motel room, I wailed, “How could you let a man like that get you pregnant?”
She’d hugged me, her familiar smell of menthol Virginia Slims a comfort. “Oh honey,” she said. “Hot young men with swagger sometimes turn into middle-aged blowhards.”
Now a gush of water hit the bathroom sink. Nate. If he was the twins’ sperm donor, they would never suffer the disillusionment I’d felt when I encountered my bio dad in the flesh. They already adored him.
My thoughts picked up speed like a skateboarder bombing down Fuller Avenue toward Hollywood Boulevard. Was it possible Nate knew he was the twins’ dad? I dismissed the idea instantly. He wasn’t a psycho—if he was their father and knew it, he wouldn’t keep it a secret from me.
If I told Nate what I suspected, he might react badly. And if he discovered I’d committed multiple felonies, he could actually want to have some say in Phoebe and Alice’s lives. Then again, what self-respecting bachelor would want custody of seven-year-old twins? Butif Lucia (aka Principal Cruz) found out what I’d been up to of late,shemight want to take the kids.
Ever since I first saw those two heartbeats on the sonogram monitor, I’d called every shot with regards to the twins. Breastfeeding or formula? Co-sleeping or no? How much screen time was too much screen time? My own mother had provided input, but ultimately every choice had been mine alone. Every time I heard a nightmarish co-parenting story from a divorced friend, I’d felt grateful not to have to compromise. I was an imperfect parent, but I knew what was best for my girls. I wasn’t about to give that up—no matter what else I had to relinquish.
Nate stepped out of the bathroom, naked and painfully beautiful in the dim light. He was smiling, hair tousled, eyes dreamy. “Now,” he said, “what did you want to tell me?”
I sat up, grabbing frantically for his clothes. “You have to leave,” I said.
His face fell as I tossed him his jeans. “I thought we were—?”
I scrambled to explain my sudden vibe shift. “I don’t want the twins to see you when they get up.”
“Could we talk for a minute?” he said. “Before I go?”
His bewildered expression ripped my heart from my chest. I wanted to tell him being with him was better than rollerblading on the Venice Beach Boardwalk, or laughing on a patio in the sun with friends, or even crushing a stand-up set. But sometimes the hardest thing is the necessary thing. To protect my kids, I could lift a car. I could move to my hometown and work a job I absolutely hated. I could push away the sexiest, sweetest man I’d ever been with.
“Alice wakes up at two every morning from a nightmare where SpongeBob is stranded on land and is drying out. So I need you out of here,” I said. “You understand.”
Thirty
Monday
I woke up with a profound feeling of sadness and dread. Little Sister seemed to sense my mood, staring at me with woeful eyes until I’d locked him in his makeshift crate (aka the bathroom). Next I hurried the twins to the bus stop before embarking on a few overdue errands.
As I waited in line at the post office to mail back two pairs of too-small Velcro low-tops I’d bought for the twins, I dove headfirst into Google to read about sperm donor rights (or hopefully lack thereof). Of course I’d heard the spiel at the donor clinic eight years ago, but back then I’d been distracted by visions of babies dancing in my head. Now all pertinent state statutes I found online reassured me I had full parental authority and autonomy. Thank God.
My phone vibrated in my hands.
Nate:I had a great time with you last night. Like really great. But it felt kind of weird at the end. Want to talk?
A pipe bomb of heartsickness went off inside me. But I slid my phone into my pocket without texting him back.
As I walked through my front door an hour later, Little Sister frisked joyfully at my feet, but all I saw was carnage. The faux delicacies my mother had lovingly collected over the years were now in masticated tatters all over the carpet. Plastic fried eggs with fake browned edges,a packet of wooden French fries, and a slice of quiche Lorraine with lifelike bacon bits had all been gnawed to pieces.
The grief I normally kept at bay crashed in, and I felt with a piercing clarity that my mom was never, ever coming back. I floated outside my body and up to a corner of the ceiling, where I watched myself sobbing and yelling, “What have you done!” at the dog, who stared up at me with his head tilted as if concerned for my well-being.
A knock sounded on the door and Emmylou sailed in wearing her favorite shimmery green silk robe. “You okay?” One look at me and she could see I was not okay at all. “The dog was barking and barking while you were gone so I let him out of the bathroom.”
“Why would you do that?” I said. “Why would you come in here without asking?”
“You told me where you keep the spare key. I was trying to help.”
“That wasn’t helpful! He chewed up my mom’s stuff!”
“Oh, toots,” Emmylou began, but she paused. “You know, this might be the Universe sending you a sign. It’s time for you to stop living in a museum.”
“A what?” Surely I had not heard her right.
“I know you miss your mother. But staying in a shrine isn’t helping you and the girls move on. Why don’t you throw some of this junk out? Make this place your own. It’s time. Past time.”
