AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I see her living a good life. She’s living with family, with an aunt who loves her and takes care of her the way her mother would have. I hope it’s warm where she is. Hope she’s somewhere like Florida or the Carolinas because she told me she hated Pennsylvania in winter—said the gray sky and the howling wind made her feel lonely. Yeah, I can picture her in some sunny place. I can hear that tinny singing voice of hers trying and failing to hit the high notes along with Adele as she drives down some coastline. I bet she still dances all the time, moves her hips in that way that used to slay me. In my fantasy she’s at an all-girls school, but in reality I know she’s probably the new girl in town that every boy wants to get to know. But the girl I knew had her priorities straight, so I’m sure she’s focused on kicking ass in school and finishing up her college applications right about now.
Smiling to myself, I can picture Charlotte Mason getting ready to take on the world.
* * *
Charlotte
If you go out our back door and walk about a hundred paces to the left, there’s a boulder with a flat surface big enough to lie down on. It’s where I’m curled up right now on this chilly November afternoon. It’s four o’clock. Janelle has come to call it the witching hour.
Ethan will be seven months old tomorrow. And it’s not like he cries all day, he doesn’t. In fact, he’s a dream most of the time. But there’s something about this time of day that frays his nerves, and as a result of the high-pitched squeals that will not stop, it frays mine too.
About ten minutes ago I gave Janelle a look, grabbed the afghan off the back of the couch and walked outside, leaving Ethan in her care. My head and body are resting on solid rock and it’s the most relaxed I’ve felt all day.
Everyone tells you motherhood is hard. In fact, you hear it so often that you begin to ignore people when they start droning on about the lack of sleep, the anxiety, blah, blah, blah. I am currently wearing the baggy sweats I fell asleep in last night, I’m sure my hair looks like I fixed it with an egg beater, and my nostrils are being assaulted by the smell of stale breast milk. Ethan spit up on me earlier today. Several hours ago, in fact, and I still haven’t mustered up the energy required to shower or change.
Not every day is like this. Usually I get four hours between feedings, and after Ethan burps I fall back into a coma-like sleep right along with him. But last night I woke up off and on all night.
There are times when I’m plagued by anxiety over things that truly should worry me, and other times when I know I’m worrying over nothing. Last night I kept waking up breathless, thinking the baby was in bed with me and I’d rolled over onto him and he’d suffocated. He was safely in his co-sleeper each and every time. There are other nights when I lie awake fearful that he’ll die in his sleep—that the operation didn’t work and his poor little heart can’t pump blood the way it needs to keep him alive. I worry that he won’t be able to run around and play sports when he’s older, making mental notes at four in the morning to sign him up for lessons so he can learn to play a musical instrument. I worry that I’m not producing enough breastmilk, even though I’m leaking like a damn faucet and Ethan’s gaining weight at a healthy rate. I worry that we’re too far away from a decent hospital if and when something does go wrong. I worry that I’ll drop him. I just worry.
It’s days like today that I thank the Lord above for Janelle. I’m convinced she’s my fairy godmother. We are a team taking care of Ethan together. Since I’m breastfeeding I have the night shifts, but she makes sure to give me plenty of opportunities to rest throughout the day and she takes care of basically everything else. I feel bad when I see her hauling the laundry downstairs or cleaning out the diaper pail, but the guilt is offset by the delight I feel every time I see her rocking Ethan in the comfy glider chair she bought for us. Janelle looks blissed out and content when he is in her arms, looking up at her smiling.
Just a few more minutes. That’s all I need to recharge before I go back in there. Sitting up, I see my name and think back to the day I etched it into the surface with my pocket knife. I was mad as hell that afternoon. For the most part I was completely ignored during my short stint at Franklin Murphy Memorial High, but that day some girl yelled out the word slut as she passed me in the crowded hallway. I was never a fighter to begin with, but you really can’t throw down when you’re sporting a baby bump. I held my chin up and kept on walking, silently cursing the heat and color creeping up my neck and across my face as her friends and a few other morons laughed.
I wasn’t angry at her as I stabbed at the stone, doing a messy job of scratching a C into the surface. My fury was directed at him. He should be here. He should be enduring this shit storm alongside me. There I sat, wearing the ultimate mom jeans: faded blue denim with an elastic panel that pretty much stretched from my waist down to my crotch—so hot—topped off with a baggy flannel button-down of Janelle’s because my boobs now looked obscene in my own shirts. I never cared much about how I dressed or looked before, but maybe that was because I never had to. It takes carrying a watermelon around every day to appreciate how rocking your body was before pregnancy. And though I really wasn’t looking to make friends in this new town, the loneliness had been getting to me. Back then, Janelle and I were still feeling each other out. We weren’t relaxed around one another the way we are now. I remember feeling so alone that day. Simon was more than just a boyfriend, more than the first boy I’ve ever loved—he was my friend. I missed him, but the longing quickly morphed into anger and resentment.
What is he doing today? It’s a game I play now and then. Is he at the library studying? On his way to catch dinner at Mike and Brandon’s place? As I make my way back across the yard towards the house, I think about how tragic and wild and awful this whole state of affairs is. He’s oblivious. He’s going to classes, study sessions and parties, ignorant to the fact that he is the father of a beautiful seven month-old boy. A fighter who braved five weeks in the hospital after his momma was discharged. A brave little peanut who lets doctors and nurses hook him up to machines that beep and buzz on a fairly regular basis. A sweet little trooper who laughs, coos, farts, burps and smiles his way through each and every day.
Janelle is singing James Taylor’sYou are My Only Oneas she rocks from side to side holding Ethan in one arm while she stirs a heavenly smelling venison stew with the other. The storm has passed. Ethan is content, holding her long braid in both of his chubby fists. He stares at her face as she sings those sweet words to him, studying her.
I’m smiling as I reach for Ethan, but the sorrow is heavy as he wiggles his body towards me and stretches his little arms out. As I snuggle him in close, I pray that I haven’t made a colossal mess out of everything. Simon will find out someday. He won’t be able to turn back time, won’t ever get to experience this. He’ll never know what it’s like to have a newborn Ethan sleep in his arms, never look on in wonder like I do when he feeds at my breast. He’ll never feel the rush of emotion that comes when Ethan looks right at you and smiles.
I’m pretty sure Simon will never forgive me for this, even though everything I’ve done has been for him.
Tomorrow we head back to the apartment Janelle has leased for the year. It’s just a few miles away from the hospital. We stayed there after I was discharged, visiting Ethan daily while waiting for him to get the green light to come home with us. Janelle says it makes sense to keep it for a while, as we have to be at the hospital every few months to meet with Ethan’s specialists. His echocardiograms have come back clear at every check-up so far, and his doctors use the phrasecautiously optimisticwhen they discuss his long-term prognosis. But I know he’s not out of the woods. There’s always the chance of a setback, so I pray for him nightly with the fervor of a zealot. And I’m like the germ gestapo, barring anyone from our home that so much as sniffles. The parish sponsored mommy-and-me group one town over? Over my dead body. There are so many things that are out of my control, like whether or not his aortic stenosis will rear its ugly head again and require some difficult, risky procedure. So anything that I can control, like keeping Ethan from getting some random infection, I’m going to do my best.
During those first few months in Ann Arbor, especially right after Ethan was born, I’d cue up the driving distance between Evanston and Ann Arbor on my phone. I wanted to see how close they were on the map, to study the line connecting us.
I used to think that time would lessen the pull he had on me. And maybe if there wasn’t a child involved that would have been the case, I would have moved on. But every time I look at Ethan I see Simon, and I’m not sad about that. Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment, but I don’t ever want to forget him.
Chapter Twenty
Simon
“You’re like a machine.” Finished with the meal, Professor Westfield lays his linen napkin back on the table. “And I’m not sure this is a good thing. What’s the rush? You have a four-year scholarship. I’d advise you to slow down and take the four years.” When I don’t answer, he adds, “Law school’s not going anywhere. It will still be there waiting for you.”
I was asking for suggestions on prep courses for the LSAT. And really, I should have turned it off for tonight. The topic wasn’t fitting for a holiday dinner, when normal people are feeling all sentimental and joy to the world-ish, but I’m not like them.
Yeah, I was already prepping for the LSAT because I was on track to earn my undergraduate in three years. Maybe other kids my age could stop and smell the roses, but I need to kill it on that test. No scholarship, no law school—it’s that simple.
“I’ll talk to you about it some other time.”
Brett raises an eyebrow and smiles at me as if to say:Nice going. He’s only a year older than me but acts like he already has the keys to the kingdom. He’s of the fake it ‘til you make it school of success. His “vintage” beamer and the upscale castoffs he wears from the thrift shops he trolls in Lake Forest don’t fool me—he’s another kid from the wrong side of tracks. Westfield seems to pick one golden child from each incoming class. We’re his lab rats, his nature versus nurture thesis project.
Across from me sits the freshman pet, an insanely smart girl from West Virginia who is only half-listening to the conversation as she studies Samantha. I can’t figure out if she has a thing for Samantha or if she’s looking to emulate her. I imagine she’s beating herself up over the misstep she’s made tonight. Everyone is in decked out in stylish holiday-themed threads, while West Virginia, dressed in black pants, a black button down and black sensible shoes, could easily be mistaken for a member of the catering staff. She’s a transplant, a gatecrasher just like me, whereas Samantha so obviously belongs in this room. Her sense of style, her cultured mannerisms and the easy way she navigates social situations leave no doubt that she was born into this. I want to lean over and whisper to the new girl:Don’t worry, you’ll get there. I know how intimidating this world can be to a newcomer.
“Samantha, are you still thinking of doing a semester abroad?”
“I’m considering it.”
