Say Yes (Something More) (17 page)

I repress a laugh at the way Manny’s mouth falls open. These kids are naughty demons, but they’re damn cute.

“Come on.” Doc stands up and walks over to my brothers. “Time for bed.”

“I want to stay up with Sissy,” Manny squeals as Doc hoists him into his arms.  

Doc heaves an exasperated groan. “You can see Sissy in the morning.”

Manny squeals and leans so far back, I fear he may fall out of his father’s arms.

“Enough, Manny!” Doc scolds.

“But I wanna kiss Sissy goodnight.”

Okay, whatever was left of my shattered heart becomes a puddle of goo at my feet. I rise from my chair as Manny practically launches himself into my arms.

“Goodnight, Sissy,” he says as he kisses my cheek. Then he whispers into my ear. “I want a nice dragon, not a scary one. ‘K?”

“Okay,” I whisper back, squeezing him tight. I hold my brother for maybe longer than I should, but for some reason I don’t want to let him go.

I feel Gio tugging on my jeans, so I kiss Manny on the forehead and hand him to his dad before lifting Gio into my arms.

“Goodnight, big boy,” I say to him as he wraps his arms around me.

“Goodnight,” he whispers back before planting a sloppy kiss on my cheek. “I love you, Sissy.”

Emotion clogs my throat as I whisper back hoarsely, “I love you, too.”

I don’t know how Doc manages, but he takes Gio from me, balancing both boys on his hips. I turn my back and wipe my eyes as Jenny kisses the boys goodnight.

When I hear her tell each of them she loves them, and they say it back, I feel like I’m intruding on a tender family moment. That bothers me more than I want to admit. Then it hits me: I want to be part of this family, to share the love and kisses with these adorable little boys and the woman who birthed me.  

My stupid eyes are still leaking as Doc and the kids leave the dining room. I’ve still got my back to Jenny as I grab a napkin off the table and blow my nose. I don’t know why I’m so emotional, and I’m not in the mood to assess my feelings. These past few weeks have been too much for me, filled with too many lows and highs. My poor heart doesn’t know if it should be soaring or breaking.  

“They love you already,” Jenny says at my back in a watery voice.

I notice she’s crying, too.

“I love them, too,” I say.

Jenny pulls me into an embrace, and we both alternate between crying and laughing. That’s when I realize maybe this mom will be different than my old one. Maybe she’ll actually love me.

* * *

Jenny and I drink coffee in her spacious living room and eat the best ever pumpkin cheesecake with this delicious caramel and cinnamon streusel topping.

Jenny smiles over at me as she sips her coffee. She’s got a look in her eyes like she wants to talk, and the cheesecake settles in my stomach like a lead ball. I hope she doesn’t ask me questions about my past. About my parents. I don’t want to talk about them and ruin an otherwise enjoyable evening.

Doc has already claimed he was exhausted and gone to bed. I remember feeling awkward when he kissed Jenny goodnight. I don’t know what came over me, but I felt a pang of jealousy at the affectionate hug they shared, and I remember thinking Andrés and I could have created a happy home just like this one.

But no, I’ve been a complete idiot and thrown it all away, and though the thought of having kids still scares the heck out of me, I imagine what our children would have looked like. Would they have had mischievous smiles like my brothers? Would they have my green eyes and his thick lashes and tanned skin? Would they sneak cookies and give warm hugs and big, sloppy kisses?

“Christina, what happened between you and Vivian? Why aren’t you spending Thanksgiving with her?”

Jenny’s direct question pulls me back to reality, and I have to work hard to swallow a bite of cheesecake that lodges in my throat. I take several gulps of coffee and set it down on the tray with a shaky hand.

I was hoping she wouldn’t ask me about Vivian, AKA The Spitting Cobra. “We don’t see eye-to-eye on things.”

Big understatement, I know, but I’m trying to sound upbeat, and not at all like a girl who’s suffered a childhood of degradation and abuse. I don’t need Jenny knowing about my past. Not only am I uncomfortable talking about it, but I didn’t come here to lay on a guilt trip.  

Jenny sets her coffee down, eyeing me with an intensity that makes me feel awkward in my own skin. Somehow, I get the feeling she’s not going to let this one go.

“I have to know.” She gets up from the sofa and sits beside me, placing her hand on mine. “Was she good to you?”

I avert my gaze. “It doesn’t matter,” I mumble as I lean back, wishing I could disappear beneath the thick padding of the oversized chair.

I can feel her gaze boring into me.

“Of course it does.” She squeezes my hand harder. “Your answer isn’t reassuring.”

I think I should probably make something up, but I don’t want to lie. Besides, how can I make up some fictitious fairytale when I don’t know what a fairytale childhood is supposed to feel like? I can’t think of what else to say, so I look away.

“I shouldn’t have let you go. I should have found a way.” Jenny’s voice is thick with emotion as she turns her gaze toward our joined hands.

I steal a glimpse at her face and see tears cascading down her cheeks. I hate watching her cry, and now I’m getting choked up, too.  

“But you said in your letter you were just a teenager when you had me,” I say, wanting so badly to believe she had no other options when she gave me up.   

She nods and wipes her eyes. “I was.”

“So were you a minor?” I ask, though some part of me doesn’t want to know the answer. What if she was forced? What if my dad raped more girls than just me? The thought of it makes me feel dirty inside, and not just my flesh and bones, but my very soul, tainted by that evil man.

She smiles weakly, squeezing my hand. “I was seventeen when I got pregnant and eighteen when I had you.”

I turn my palm up and grip her hand tightly, needing to know the answer but not wanting to know at the same time.

“Did he…” I swallow past the lump of granite lodged in my throat. “Was it… What happened between you and my dad?”

I can’t say it. I can’t say the word “rape” but when I see the look of pain flash in her eyes, my heart sinks to my stomach.

“It’s a long story, sweetheart,” she says.  

The damn of emotions welling up inside me breaks open, and I feel as if I may drown in sorrow. I see it now, that look in her eyes. He raped her. I’m a rape baby. Why did she ask me to come here? Why would she want to see me, a reminder of my disgusting father?

“Did he rape you?” I ask on a sob, but I already know. I
know.

“Christina, I….” Her mouth falls open as she looks at me with a deer-in-the-headlights expression. “Christina.” She shudders as she looks away. “It was a long time ago,” she murmurs.  

I jump from my seat and clench my hands. Anger and shame wash over me, infusing me with a heat so powerful, I fear I may explode. “He did. He raped you.” I point a shaky finger at her. “Is that why you never called me?”

She wipes her eyes with the backs of her hands and stands up. Her arms tremble as she tilts her chin and looks into my eyes. “I signed a contract. I wasn’t allowed to contact you, at least, not while your father was alive. I only learned of his death last year. That’s when I found your website and started talking you.”

She still doesn’t confirm if she’s been raped, and there are other pieces to this puzzle that don’t fit. “Why didn’t you tell me last year that you were my mother?”

Jenny lays a hand on my shoulder. “What was I supposed to say?” she asks with a sigh. “I didn’t want you to know the circumstances of your birth. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Tell me what happened.” I say, but she turns from me and shakes her head. She wraps her arms around herself as she walks toward the bay window. I can tell this is hard for her, but I deserve to know the truth. “Don’t worry about my feelings,” I add. “I already know my father was an asshole.” I’m unable to keep the bitterness from my voice at that last part.  

Jenny clutches the fabric of the heavy drapes with one hand while looking out the window. “My father was a mechanic. He worked for your father’s boat dealership. My father was also a drunk. We were constantly on the move because he’d go from one job to another. My mother lived on sleeping pills and anti-depressants. I didn’t have much when I was growing up. Some days, we’d have nothing in the fridge. I remember going to school hungry and cold, until I was old enough to get a job and feed and clothe myself.”

Omigod. My birth mother had an even worse childhood than I did. All this time I thought nobody’s childhood could have been worse than mine. My parents were abusive and unloving, but I never went without food, and The Cobra bought me a new wardrobe every season. I’m barely aware of my feet propelling me forward, until I’m standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Jenny.

She turns and strokes my cheek with the side of her hand before pushing a stray tendril of hair behind my ear. Such a simple gesture, but it’s the most motherly thing any woman has ever done for me.   

She drops her hand and looks back out the window.“My dad got me a job cleaning boats for your father.” Her voice cracks. She clutches the side of the drapes again. “I was working late one night. My father had already clocked out early and was down at the bar. Your father approached me. He said my father was a lazy drunk and he was going to fire him unless….”

I feel sick to my stomach. I understand why she can’t face me while she relays this story. She’s ashamed. Thinking back to the way I felt after my dad raped me, I can relate.

“So I gave in to him to save my father’s job. The irony is when my dad found out I was pregnant, he threw me out of the house. I was pregnant and homeless and running out of options. I went to your father, and I guess his wife had been having trouble conceiving, so they agreed to take me in. They told everyone I was their surrogate mom. They made up some elaborate hoax that I was a twenty-year-old college student, using the surrogacy to pay for tuition. They fed me, clothed me, and they even paid me. A lot of money. Enough that I could pursue my dream and study design in Paris.” She releases her hold on the drapes and smooths her hand down the fabric. “All I had to do was give you to them and walk away forever.”

Gawd, I feel like my heart has been slammed by a sledgehammer. I cannot not imagine having to endure what my birth mom went through. Not only did my dad rape her, but she was forced to live with him and give him her baby.

She turns, and there’s a fire in her eyes I haven’t seen before, reminding me of a trapped and wounded animal. “Christina, I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t have provided for you. Your father had money. He could give you things I could never give you. A life I’d never had. The kind of life I’d dreamed of as a child. What choice did I have?”  

None, I think to myself. She was young, broke, and alone. I would have probably done the same thing in her shoes. The only thing I don’t get is why she contacted me in the first place. Though I don’t look much like my dad, thank God, it’s still got to be hard seeing me as the reminder of her tragic past. Her rape baby.

I cast my gaze to the floor, feeling the tears slip over my eyelids and flow down my face. “My dad raped you, and you don’t resent me?”

She cups my chin and forces me to look into her emerald eyes. “How could I ever resent you?” Her lips tremble as she speaks. “You’re an innocent. You were just a baby. You’re still my baby.”

She pulls me into an embrace, and I hug her hard, crying against her shoulder as she rubs my back.

“It’s okay, baby,” she whispers into my ear.

But the love and tenderness she shows me only makes me cry harder. The kindness Mrs. Peterson has shown me over the years feels nothing like this hug from my mother. I realize what love Mrs. Peterson showed me was more out of pity. But my mom, my real mom, loves me, and as she holds me in her arms, whispering soothing words into my ear, it’s as if the pieces of my broken heart are somehow being fused back together. 

* * *

“I remember this dollhouse.”

It’s in the bedroom Jenny, no… my mom, has prepared for me. It’s the exact same dollhouse I had as a child.

Mom comes up beside me, and clasping her hands in front of her, smiles lovingly down at the pastel Victorian-style house. “Do you still have it?”

I shake my head and frown as I run the pad of my thumb over the ridges on the pale pink shutters. “No.”

Just when I think I’ve cried out all my tears, my eyes well over again from a wash of memories.

It was my seventh birthday. We’d just come home from a disastrous dinner at the country club. My mom and dad had caused a scene, fighting over something, probably one of my dad’s numerous affairs. I didn’t get to finish my slice of birthday cake before the waiter was asking us to leave.

I’d already opened the usual presents from my parents that morning—a few dolls, some designer purses and shoes—but those presents paled in comparison to the wooden dollhouse that was waiting for me on our front porch.

My mother said since there was no return address I couldn’t keep it. She said it wasn’t proper to accept gifts from strangers. My dad ignored her and carried the dollhouse up to my bedroom. I’m pretty sure I played with it most of the night.     

This dollhouse has to be an exact replica of the one from my childhood, from the pastel yellow trim to the baby blue paisley wallpaper. The details are amazing, and every little green shingle is just as I remember it.

I remember racing up to my bedroom every day after school and losing myself inside my imaginary world. I had assembled a family to live in the house, a happy family. One whose parents didn’t scream at each other on a daily basis, one whose mother gave her daughter hugs and kisses all day long. Then, two weeks later, I came home to find my beautiful present in pieces. My mother said a shelf had fallen on top of it. She blamed me for stacking it with too many toys and books.