Love's Awakening (4 page)

About a year ago, David arrived home with a gift. “Here,” David said, an impish and quite unusual light in his expression.

“A baby book?”

David’s lips tugged up. “Let’s have a baby soon. What do you say?”

Confusion washed through Celia. Before their wedding, before their engagement, they had talked about kids—or rather, the lack of them. David preferred not to have more children, and that was fine with Celia. She would rather have kids, but it wasn’t a make or break issue. Plenty of pros to not having kids, and this way, she wouldn’t have to gain tons of weight and watch her body crumble before her very eyes.

“A baby?” Celia asked. “Do you mean—I don’t understand.”

David’s grin widened. “Come on! Let’s have a baby.”

“A baby,” Celia repeated. She would not bring up David’s age. Life was unpredictable. She could die years before David. There was work, though. Celia was making inroads in her job, with her promotion to manager.

David deflated. “I was at the park today on my lunch break. Really cute kid there, maybe a year old. He kept saying ‘mama!' ‘mama!' I realized that…” David’s cheeks flushed. “Stupid, huh? Never mind. His smile was, I don’t know. He looked like Oliver. Hard to explain. I just…” David sighed. “You want kids. Now I do, too.”

David rarely was at a loss for words and hated to show weakness.
This
is
serious.
For
real.
David’s face had lit up in a way Celia saw only occasionally. The light in her husband’s expression was pure, unbridled, joyous.

Slowly, Celia wrapped her arms around David. “Sure,” she said. “Let’s have a baby.” Work would always be there. Family took priority.

The first page of the baby book held four pictures: David and Celia, two months pregnant, four months pregnant, six months pregnant and from only last week, eight months pregnant. The next few pages showed photos from the baby shower and copies of a couple of sonograms. Celia flipped back to the first page, focusing on the photo of her two months pregnant, her baby bump truly only a bump. David beamed in a pinstripe business suit and purple tie. His hand protectively covered Celia’s stomach. The photo was taken just before their marriage nosedived.

That
was
another
life.
Yesterday
was
another
life.

Celia wanted to cry. Tried to cry. Could not.
I’ll
cry
when
the
phone
call
comes.
It’s
happened.
Your
husband,
your
son’s
father,
passed
away.
Peacefully.

*****

Oliver liked the middle school Paul Joseph and Erin Elizabeth attended, although he wondered if they felt out of place there. Paul and Erin lived in Silver Spring, Maryland, and their school was full of white faces. Paul and Erin were fairly dark, although Erin was lighter than her brother. Just a bit lighter.

Paul’s baseball game was in the third inning when Oliver arrived, and the boy manned third base. Easy to tell which one he was: the only black face. For that reason too, identifying Erin and her parents in the stands was easy. Oliver sat as far from them as possible. He wore sunglasses and a hat to help conceal himself. He was in no way interested in interacting with Malcolm and Sherelle Thompson. Nor with Paul or Erin, for that matter. Oliver wasn’t supposed to be here, and he wouldn’t stay long.

No one important would see him.

Oliver had lied to Celia. Of course he had. What was he supposed to say?
This
kid
Paul,
you
don’t
know
him
and
never
will,
although
he
has
a
smile
like
yours,
has
a
baseball
game.
It’s
probably
the
only
game
of
his
I’ll
get
to
see
this
season.
So,
yeah,
I’m
going.

Silver Spring, on a map, did not seem too far from where Oliver lived in Alexandria, Virginia. Factor in D.C.-area traffic, though, and the trip easily could be on the far side of two hours. And that was one way.

Oliver couldn’t have done dinner with Celia, even if he wanted to.

Oliver got up to leave two innings after he arrived. Paul had belted out a single. He was a hustler, that one—took off like a bullet to first base and narrowly beat out the throw.

“Oliver?” The question came as Oliver strode past the concession stand on the way to his car.
Sherelle.
Shit.

Oliver pasted on a smile and turned around. Yep, Sherelle, with Erin, and Erin grinned at her mother. “See, Mom, I told you that was Oliver.” The girl bestowed a shy smile upon Oliver—the Celia smile, one end up more than the other. “Hey, Oliver,” she said.

Oliver stayed a few arms' lengths from the child. “Hey, Erin. You’re looking good.”

“Like my hair?” she asked eagerly. “I got tired of the cornrows.” The girl’s hair was nappy, but not a full Afro.

“I love your hair.” Oliver wished he could reach out and touch it. And touch the kid. Hug the kid.

Erin’s eyes shone. “Thanks, Oliver.”

“You should’ve let us know you were coming,” Sherelle said accusingly.

“Spur of the moment decision. It’s the only game I can make this year, so don’t worry.”

“What happened to your arm?” Erin asked.

“Clumsy me tripped down the steps. Forgot to tie a shoelace.”

“Ouch.”

Oliver laughed. “Yes, big ouch!”

“Can I sign your cast?”

“I don’t have a pen.”

“Mom has one. Don’t you?”

Sherelle, a shadow on her features, got a Sharpie from her purse.

Erin read the messages on Oliver’s cast. Ten messages by now. “You have a lot of friends,” she said.

“Don’t you?”

The girl looked up at Oliver and shrugged. “S'pose.” She found a patch of white space. “I don’t know what to write.”

“Draw a smiley face,” Sherelle suggested, so that was what Erin did. Upon further thought, she added her name:
Erin
E
. And then
Paul
J
.

“Perfect,” Oliver said. “Thank you.”

Erin bit her lip. “Don’t go. Have dinner with us after the game. Can he, Mom?”

“No, hon,” Sherelle said, her smile tight. “Oliver has to let us know first if he’s coming.”

“Your mother’s right,” Oliver said. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“You won’t,” Erin protested. “You weren’t even going to say hi.”

Change
the
subject.
“You and your brother are getting birthday cards early,” Oliver said. “I mailed them today.”

Erin beamed. “Really?”

“Thirteen years old! Of course. What a huge birthday.”

“Come on, hon,” Sherelle said. “I’ll set something up with Oliver soon.” She gave Oliver a
look
and linked hands with her daughter. They walked off slowly, their hips sashaying. Sherelle laughed, and then Erin did too, and a painful, sickening heaviness constricted Oliver.

Chapter
Four

Throughout her pregnancy, Celia had wondered about the countless firsts coming her way. First diaper change. First breastfeed. First night at home with her baby. First time getting up in the night to answer the baby’s cries. First tooth. First word. First birthday. Well, the first birthday was technically the day of the birth, right?

Celia lay in bed, facing away from Janet. Facing the moon, the window. First night at home with Caleb. No crying baby. Other than gulping hungrily at her breasts, Caleb was an angel. That made Celia uneasy. She had gobbled new-mother books, devoured them. Read horror stories to prepare herself, because no matter how bad her baby might be, no matter how much he cried, fussed, spit, threw up, refused to eat, plenty of other people’s babies were worse. Now she wished he would cry so she would have something to do besides think and toss and turn.

Celia gave up and trundled out of bed. Moonlight filtered through the nursery windows, cloaking Caleb in a silver spacesuit. “Hey, little alien,” Celia said. She sat in the rocking chair, found a good angle through the bars of his crib, and watched her son sleep. He was tiny, a fly. Maybe she would go out tomorrow to buy a bassinet or a cradle. She probably would not go to the hospital. She would do everyone a favor if she stayed away from David. Her engagement ring and wedding ring were tucked away in the bottom drawer of her jewelry box, thanks to pregnancy bloating her fingers into Vienna sausages. Maybe these rings would wither and die in the drawer.

“I’ll do the best I can,” Celia told her son. Her chest hurt.
I’m
a
single
mother.
“I’ll screw up, but I’ll do my best for you. By you. Always.” Earlier, at the hospital, Celia had cradled Caleb and looked into his eyes. She would have liked to say love overfilled her heart, joy seized her being, all that mushy crap, but she had been too scared, too fretful, worrying about David.

She hauled herself from the chair and peered in at her son. His eyes fluttered open. “Hey, Caleb,” she whispered.

He made a little noise, and an intense loneliness pierced Celia. She checked the time.
12:52
a.m.,
April
3,
and
I
still
don’t
feel
like
his
mother.
I
don’t
feel
like
anyone.

She went into the bathroom and slipped her shirt off.
Let’s
see
these
elephant,
National
Geographic
breasts.
They were fascinating. She could gawk at them for hours because they were so awful. The blue veins on her breasts reminded her of the spider web on David’s scalp.
When
will
I
feel
like
a
woman
again?
She wet a finger with her tongue. She rubbed the slickness onto a nipple and pinched. The soreness made her cry out. Barely started breastfeeding, and she was ready to go off. She pulled her sweat pants down halfway. The stretch marks on her stomach created a forest of twigs.

Why
am
I
torturing
myself
like
this?
No
need
to
rub
it
in.

Celia checked the time again. One a.m. Oliver would probably be up; he was a night owl. No more letting Oliver get away with his lies. No more letting her stepson look at her in the way that said:
Bimbo
gold
digger.

Oliver answered on the second ring with a worried: “Celia?”

“I’m not an idiot,” Celia snapped. “You didn’t have class tonight.”

“I…but I did.”

“At least have the balls to say to my face: ‘Hey, you know what? Thanks for the dinner offer, but no thanks.’ I’d rather you tell me the truth than your lies. I’m not a fucking gold digger! I loved your father. I
love
your father.”

Oliver did not reply for a long while, but his silence was strangely reassuring. As long as Celia was on the phone, she would not have to return to Janet. Or to Caleb. Or seek refuge in an empty living room.

“I know,” Oliver whispered. “I know, Celia. I’m glad Dad had you.”

Celia reached for David’s toothbrush. Its bristles were fraying, so that was probably why he hadn’t taken it to the Holiday Inn.

“Are—are you okay?” Oliver asked. “I mean, uh, considering.”

“Your father needs a new toothbrush.”

“Oh.”

Another silence. Celia sat on the toilet. She lifted her gaze to the shower curtains, which were navy blue. Solid.

Boring.

Celia suddenly preferred something bright. Something colorful.

“Well, I’ll, you know, I’ll get Dad a toothbrush tomorrow,” Oliver said. “A fancy electric one, right? What color should I get?”

Tears sprang to Celia’s eyes, and she wiped them away. Oliver was sweet. Humoring her. Pretending David would need a toothbrush again one day. Well, hell. Oliver was probably doing it for himself too.

“I guess blue,” Oliver went on.

“Like the shower curtains.”

“The shower cur—okay. The shower curtains.”

“David hasn’t used electric toothbrushes in a while.”

“No problem. I’ll get a regular one.”

Celia heaved herself up. Time to try to sleep again. Time to face reality again. “Don’t worry about the toothbrush. I’ll get it. Anyway, I better go. Hope I didn’t wake you.”

“I don’t mind. And you didn’t wake me.”

Something in Oliver’s voice gave Celia pause. Something sad. Something lonely. “What were you doing when I called?” she asked.

Oliver sighed, long and heavy. “Looking at pictures.”

“Of your dad?”

“No, uh, just…”

“Lori?”

“No.”

Okay,
fine,
don’t
tell
me
about
the
pictures.
“So what happened with you and Lori?”

“We broke up.”

“Are you two finished for good this time?”

“We—yeah. We’re done. Look, Celia, I’ll call soon. I promise. We’ll do dinner or something.”