Giftchild (16 page)

"Think about it," Mom said. "Lily was different. She didn't have a relationship with any of us before."

Or after. "You're just mad that I slept with him," I said.

Dad leaned his elbows on the table. "It's not about that. Think about how hard this will be on everyone if Rodney is there with you while you go through this pregnancy."

"What about open adoption?" I said. "That's what you were going to do with Lily."

"Right," Mom said. "And you'll have basically that same arrangement with us, because you'll be in the baby's life regardless. But it's one thing for you. It's another to pretend like you and Rodney can just be together and then place your baby with us like it's no big deal. He'll get attached."

I frowned. Attached, like Lily. "You're afraid if he's around, he'll take the baby from you."

"If he's around," Mom said, "legally, he can."

I took a deep breath, looking at Dad. "Is that true?"

Dad wobbled a hand. "California law says that the father has rights if he demonstrates a commitment during your pregnancy. And if he exercises those rights, you won't be able to place the baby for adoption."

My stomach sank. A commitment. Like offering to marry me.

Even though the baby was mine, they were still afraid. And they were going to drive Rodney from my life rather than live in that fear.

And given Rodney's history of reactions, I couldn't be sure they were wrong.

"So what do you want me to do?" I asked.

"We'll all meet together," Dad said. "And we'll offer to adopt the baby, and explain to Rodney that this means he'll have to back off. If you run into each other at school, fine. But other than that, he needs to be out of your life until the adoption is finished."

Mom gave me a wary look. I got the message. She'd agree to take the baby, but only on this condition: that I push Rodney even farther away than I already had.

"What if Rodney won't agree to that?" I asked.

Mom's fingernails tapped her water glass. "He's more likely to if you tell him it's what you want."

The blood drained from my face. Tell Rodney I wanted him to leave me alone? "And if I don't?"

Mom sighed. "Are you ready to be a parent with him?"

Oh, heavens. This had all seemed so much simpler before I got pregnant. At this point, I just wanted my boyfriend back. "No," I said quietly.

Dad spoke softly. I recognized the tone—it was the same voice he'd used when I was eight, and he had to tell me that my cat had been run over by a car. "Only you can decide what you want to do," he said. "But if you want your mother and me to adopt the baby, this is the way it has to be."

Mom took Dad's hand on top of the table. I looked at them, their fingers clasped together.

They were parents. Rodney and I weren't even close to ready to take care of a baby.

The waitress brought the tray over and propped it up next to our table. "One Caesar salad," the waitress said, putting it down in front of me. It didn't have anchovies on it, but one look at the lettuce told me that this was clearly not food. It was some plastic impostor, some cardboard stage prop. Surely not something my mother expected me to put in my mouth.

But she seemed to have given up on the food. As she watched me, I could tell she was only waiting for my answer.

"We'll have to talk to Rodney about it," I said.

Mom and Dad both nodded.

I breathed in deep. That would buy me time to be honest with Rodney, to be sure that he knew exactly what he was doing if he let my parents eject him from our lives.

Chapter Twelve

Week Five

After school, I sat in Dad's office, looking at Rodney's photos. I'd checked the chess room at lunch; he hadn't been at school. Instead, in the folder, I found a set of photos of high rises, and some candids at an outdoor café. I paused on one of a couple holding hands across a bistro table with a big salad between them. I wanted to say that it should have been Rodney and me, but he didn't like salad.

Not only had he gone shooting without me, he'd skipped school to do it. Rodney wasn't much for ditching; he said he was too lazy for make-up work.

So today, he'd been avoiding me.

I wasn't sure where Rodney had taken the pictures, but I guessed it was somewhere in San Jose. I wondered if he'd told his parents he was sick and then left after they went to work, or if he'd just left for school at the normal time and gone shooting instead.

Either way, I had to talk to him. In person would have been better, but I couldn't exactly show up on his doorstep when he was asking for space and clearly going to great trouble to avoid me.

I returned to the folder with Rodney's bridge pictures. He hadn't left me a note, but I could tell from the work history that he'd opened each of the ones that I'd edited between eight and nine AM this morning.

He might be avoiding me, but he was paying attention.

I pulled out my phone.
You weren't at school today
, I texted.
Are you okay?
Stupid question. I deleted the last part without sending it, and replaced it with
I need to talk to you
.

After I hit send, I cringed. Now I sounded self-centered. I sent a quick follow-up text.
I'm sorry.

I leaned back in Dad's chair. Needy
and
self-centered. There was just no good way to talk to Rodney without showcasing what a total ass I was.

It took a few minutes, but finally he texted back.
Give me a couple of days, okay?

I sighed. The only way I was going to get to talk to him was if I confronted him with the ugly truth.

Again.

My parents want to talk to your parents
, I said.
Have you told them?

No
, he answered.
I'll do it tonight. Or is that too late?

It's fine. I'll tell my parents not to call until after that. I have some information for you though. About your rights.

K
, Rodney replied.

I held my breath.
So can I call you?

Rodney took an eternity to answer. As he did, I saw one of the photos in our folder update, and I scrolled through to see which one it was.

The couple with the salad. Rodney had put a filter over it that blurred the edges, leaving only the space between them in focus.

No
, he answered, finally.
Not yet
.

I hesitated, my finger on the reply button. I wanted to tell him it couldn't wait. But he'd asked for space—the same thing he'd given me for years. I couldn't push it.

It was Rodney who taught me that.

The next morning, Mom made me toast and eggs for breakfast, and presented me with a prenatal vitamin. "Every day," she said.

I took it and pointed to the food. "I can't eat that."

"Try," Mom said. Mom went into her bedroom and came back with a book with a baby on the cover. "Read this," she said. "It's got lots of information about what to expect from your body, and what kind of nutrition you need to give to the baby."

I flipped through the first few chapters as I took microscopic bites of my toast. There was a section about morning sickness.
Eat what you can during your first trimester
, it said,
but don't stress too much.

I rolled my eyes. Mom was the one who should read this book. Though there was a big box in the third chapter singing the praises of the prenatal vitamin, so I gagged that down, along with a huge glass of water.

"Rodney's dad called last night," Mom said.

I swallowed. "What did he say?"

Mom sat down next to me at the table. "They agreed to come over to meet with us tonight." She folded her hands, her fingers knotting together. "Did you talk to Rodney about what we discussed?"

"Not yet," I said.

"Well, you have today at school," she said.

I nodded, and dropped the rest of my toast back on the plate. My body quivered. If Rodney wasn't talking to me, then I couldn't quiz him about what he was going to say to my parents, or tell him about what they did and didn't know. Asking him to keep secrets for me might further convince him he should stay away from me.

What would my parents say when
he
told them the pregnancy was all my idea to begin with?

Rodney wasn't in the chess room again, so I holed up in the library to finish up some homework that was due fifth period. I'd missed a couple of assignments and a lot of study time the last few weeks. We had another test coming up in physiology, and I'd memorized next to nothing. My brain felt like a brick wall—the information just bounced off. Still, I tried to focus, if only to have something to think about besides the imminent disaster.

I stayed buried in homework until six o'clock. I had my physiology charts spread across the table in front of me, with a copy of the practice test in hand. We were labeling respiratory anatomy. Maybe understanding the process would help me learn how to breathe again.

The doorbell rang, and my stomach turned. My mouth watered, and I thought about ducking into the bathroom and spending the meeting in front of the toilet. But no. I had to be there to convince my parents that there was a happy medium between refusing the child and driving Rodney even further out of my life. As much as I didn't want to, I had to face them when Rodney revealed my secret.

At least their reaction would be tempered with Rodney and his parents in the room.

Mom answered the door. I closed my eyes and breathed slowly in and out, trying to label my own lungs as I filled them with air. All I could come up with was the diaphragm, which was so obvious it probably wouldn't get me even a full point of credit.

"Penny?"

I looked up to see Dad standing in the doorway between the dining room and the living room. He'd changed out of his work clothes, but he'd missed a spider web in his hair—a sure sign he'd been crawling under a building today. Past him, Rodney and his parents were choosing seats in the living room.

Dad held a hand out to me. "Come on," he said.

I swallowed. Did I look as bad as I felt? I let him help me up, and joined him on his way into the living room.

Rodney sat on the far side of the love seat by the door, as far from his parents as possible. They'd taken the two arm chairs, leaving my parents the couch. When he looked at me, the corners of his mouth turned up ever so slightly, forming the most understated smile in history. My heart responded in opposite fashion—pounding in my chest, my nausea replaced by breathlessness.

Rodney's parents looked like they'd arrived straight from work; his dad in khakis and a pressed polo shirt that might have been casual if he wasn't trying so hard. His mother wore a blazer and skirt combination, her hair bobbed above her jawline.

Rodney once told me that his life's ambition was to have a job where he could wear the same thing to work that he wore on weekends, and looking at his parents, I couldn't blame him. Rodney didn't own anything but jeans.

The only seat left in the room was the other half of the love seat, next to Rodney. They'd all left it for me, no doubt so they could direct their disapproval at both of us at once.

As I walked across the room, Rodney's mom got up to give me a hug. I nearly cried into her shoulder, not because she cared, but because she wouldn't have hugged me if she knew I'd tricked her son into fathering a child.

He couldn't have told them. Was he going to lie to my parents about it, too? This was the difference between us: Rodney lied to protect me, and I lied because I couldn't stand for my parents to know the truth.

When I sat down next to him on the love seat, Rodney refused to look at me. His eyes had gone bloodshot at the corners; I wondered if he'd been sleeping. I put my hand over his on the cushion between us, and he didn't respond, but he also didn't pull away.

Dad looked at our hands, then shot me a look. I was supposed to be alienating Rodney, not reaching out to him. I sent him what I hoped was a pleading look, and he sighed.

There was an awkward silence, then, as everyone waited for someone else to speak.

"Well," Dad said. "Aren't we all excited to be here?"

My mom and Rodney's both laughed nervously.

Rodney's dad cleared his throat. "Kids sure do make messes for themselves."

My face burned. He talked like we were toddlers who'd spilled flour all over the floor.

I looked at Rodney, but he was giving his dad such a look of contempt that he didn't notice.

"I just want to say upfront," his dad went on, "that I think it's important that Rodney take responsibility."

I looked sideways at Rodney, wishing he'd let me call him the day before. He had a free pass to blame this all on me, and clearly he should have.

Rodney's dad kept talking—to my parents, not to us. "So often in these situations the boy is so disconnected from the consequences, and I want you to know we don't support that."

My mom picked at the arm of the chair. That wasn't what she wanted to hear at all, and at least we agreed on that, if not for the same reasons.

"So what are you saying?" I asked. "You want us to get married?"

All four of them looked at me.

"No," Rodney's dad said. "That's not what I—"

"You're not ready for that," Mom said.

My dad shook his head, and Rodney's mom added, "Absolutely not."

I looked at Rodney, but he stared at the floor. My heart ached. Everyone thought marriage was a bad idea—everyone but him.

"I just meant," Rodney's dad said, "that this is just as much his problem as yours." Rodney's dad finally looked at him, and as their eyes met, I could see the contempt was mutual. Some of that predated the pregnancy, but some of it was new.

My fingers tightened over Rodney's. Much as I didn't want to announce what I'd done, I couldn't let him take the fall for me. I had to choose my words carefully, if I didn't want to embarrass Rodney. "He already offered to take responsibility," I said. "That was his first reaction."