My dad lets out a loud laugh.
“He is,” my mom says. “He’s just an addict, and your daughter was his first high. That boy would’ve run right into traffic if she said she needed him to.”
My dad looks at me. “I’ll pay you fifty bucks to do it.”
“Michael!”
“Geez, okay, don’t bite my head off, woman,” he says, squeezing my shoulder as he says, “I’ll throw in some free babysitting, too.”
My mom laughs. “You’ll be babysitting for free as it is, Gramps.”
He makes a face, mumbling, “Gonna need a better nickname.”
Before my dad can walk away, I ask, “What made you get better?”
He sighs. “You did, kiddo.”
“Me?”
“I ruined your birthday,” he says. “Forgot it was your birthday. Came home wasted, ate your cake before you could, passed out on the couch and pissed myself. Your mother snapped and tried to kill me for it.”
“I didn’t try,” my mom says. “What your father is leaving out is that I kicked him out that morning, but he didn’t respect my wishes to stay gone.”
“In my defense, I got drunk and forgot I wasn’t supposed to be there.”
“How is that a defense?”
“Guess it’s not.”
“Anyway, I threatened him so he wouldn’t forget again.”
“I woke up to you pouring liquor on me,” he says. “Then you pulled out matches and threatened to light my ass up!”
“Exactly,” she says. “I threatened.”
I vaguely remember the cake thing, but I don’t remember that. “So mom scared you sober?”
“Oh, no, as scary as she can be, that wasn’t it,” he says. “After she put down the matches, I apologized to you. I told you I was sorry, and you said…”
He trails off, so my mom chimes in. “You told him you didn’t care about his sorry because he wasn’t your dad anymore, you decided you didn’t want a dad because all they ever did was stuff to be sorry for, so he could go.”
“You were only five,” he says. “You weren’t mad. You were just done.”
“That did it? But almost being set on fire didn’t?”
“Your mother tried to kill me because she loved me and wanted her husband back,” he says, ignoring her when she again says she didn’t try. “You decided you didn’t want me anymore. I was like a broken toy that you never liked, so you were okay with your mother tossing it out. I loved you, but I’d never given you a reason to love me. I had to make a change.”
“Which Jonathan will do, too,” my mom says.
“We’ll see,” my dad says. “But hey, if he doesn’t we never have to see him again, so win-win?”
“I swear, Michael, I should’ve just struck that match.”
They’re both joking. It’s nice, seeing them happy, knowing they survived everything thrown at them. I can’t imagine a life where we aren’t a family.
I rub my stomach, feeling those soft nudges as the baby moves around.
Six months turns to seven and then comes eight. I work, eat, and sleep. Wash, rinse, and repeat. Before I know it, summer is upon us. I’m nine months pregnant, those soft nudges full-blown roundhouse kicks.
My water breaks the morning of my due date, right on time, but it still feels too early for me. I’m nowhere near ready. I’ve got a crib and diapers and all the things she'll need, but I’ve yet to figure out how to be a mom.
And I’m terrified. I’ve never been so scared in my life. My mother’s beside me, and my father’s in the waiting room, and your sister shows up, because she’s excited to be an aunt, but you’re not here, and I knew you wouldn’t be. I told myself that every day. But as the pain tears me apart, and people are yelling at me to push, push, push, there’s nobody in the world I need more.
I can’t do it without you.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
But then she’s here, and she’s screaming, and I’m crying, and the second they hand her to me, the world tilts again. And that’s it. I know for an absolute fact that I will love this beautiful little being for the rest of my life. Until my dying breath, I’ll fight to keep her happy, to protect her heart from breaking, because she’s the greatest creation that’s ever existed, and we made her.
She’s born at 6:07 in the evening. Exactly. Born on the fourth of July. They tell me you came to the hospital the next morning, as the sun was still rising outside. Our little one was in the nursery, and I was sleeping while I had the chance. You went straight to see her, staring through the glass as she slept.
You asked about signing her birth certificate, about putting yourself down as the father, but they told you to go through me. So you came to my room—or so they tell me, because I never saw you. The door was open, and you stood in the doorway for a long while, watching me sleep, before you walked away.
You left without holding your daughter.
You left before finding out her name.
So you don’t know this, but that girl? That beautiful little one wrapped in pink in the nursery? Her name is Madison Jacqueline Garfield, and someday, you’re going to know her. Someday, she’s going to call you her daddy. And when that happens, she’s going to steal your heart, and you’ll get that chance you asked for. But you need to be ready, Jonathan, because she’s here, and she's waiting. Don't make her wait too long before finding your way home.
Chapter 29
KENNEDY
I glance at my watch for the tenth time in the past five minutes, letting out a deep sigh as I shift around in my chair. In three short minutes, it’ll be three o’clock.
“He’s not coming,” Meghan says.
She’s sitting to the right of me, an empty seat between us, reserved for a notably absent Jonathan. I’ve called him a dozen times in the past half hour, but all I get is his generic voicemail. The person you’re calling isn’t available.
I’ve left a few messages, telling him he better hurry, but I’ve heard nothing.
“He’ll be here,” I say. “He promised.”
“He better come,” my father says from his seat to my left. “If the boy knows what’s good for him.”
There’s a scoff from behind me, a familiar voice muttering, “If we’re counting on Cunningham using his brain, we’re probably going to be disappointed.”
I turn around, seeing Mrs. McKleski sitting there, knitting... yes, she’s knitting. I’m not even sure why she’s here. It’s an afterschool kindergarten presentation. My gaze scans the small auditorium, surprised by how many people have come to see a handful of little kids do a play about the weather.
Glancing back at Mrs. McKleski, I ask, “What are you doing here?”
“Your father invited me,” she says.
I look at my father, who shrugs. “It’s my granddaughter’s big day. I wanted people to know about it.”
“How many people did you invite?”
“Half the town,” Mrs. McKleski answers for him.
Shaking my head, I look at the time. 2:59.
I call Jonathan again. Voicemail.
The teacher comes out along the edge of the stage, in front of the big curtain, the moment the time changes, hitting three o’clock.
Sighing, I hang up without leaving a message, putting my phone away. There’s nothing more I can do. I hear the kids moving around behind the curtain, getting into place, and all I can think about is how crushed Maddie’s about to be when she realizes he hasn’t shown up yet.
The curtain opens, the play starting.
Maddie stands along the back of the stage, wearing her costume—white from head-to-toe, with a fluffy tutu and cutout cardboard snowflakes strapped to her back like wings.
She smiles excitedly, waving at us, but it doesn’t take long before she notices the glaringly vacant seat. My father is recording it, and I should tell him to stop, because I’m not sure her first broken heart is something any of us will want to relive, but I can’t get those words to form. I can’t bring myself to say it.