What You Left Behind (3 page)

There's so much noise. I pace around my room, bouncing Hope on my hip, rubbing her back, trying to soothe her. The vibrations from her little crying body seep into me. The music pumping through my earphones is like Febreze—it covers the sounds of Hope's crying and Mom's office music, but it doesn't erase it. It's an illusion. I still know the noise is there—outside me, inside me—and all this trying to fool my brain into thinking otherwise is a giant waste of time. And probably causing cancer.

Fuck. Why'd I have to go and think that?

I put Hope in her swing, pull off my earphones, wipe the baby drool from my cheek, and run my finger over my laptop trackpad. The
Futurama
screen saver vanishes, and I pull up Google. But I don't know what to type. “Guy named Michael with a son named Ryden Brooks” doesn't bring up much.

Mom doesn't like to talk about my father. She wouldn't admit that, and she's actually told me many, many times since I was a little kid that if I have any questions about him, I should ask her. But I get the feeling that talking about him makes her sad, so I've tried not to ask many questions. Sparing her that pain is one small way I'm able to take care of her.

Here's what I do know about him:

His first name is Michael.

He was twenty years old when Mom got pregnant with me; she was eighteen, still in high school.

They met at a concert in Boston, which was where he lived. They were together for four months, and he drove back and forth the two hours between her town in Vermont and the city to see her.

He left her when she told him she was keeping the baby.

Mom graduated from high school with a giant belly (I've seen the pictures). She didn't get to go to college.

I don't know what he does for a living.

I don't know his last name.

I don't know what he looks like.

I don't know if he has other kids or not.

I don't know anything.

I've thought about him a lot over the years. I've sort of come up with this vague, faceless image of him in my mind—a guy who wears his hair longish, like me, who's a little bit taller than I am, who plays a musical instrument (maybe the piano), runs marathons, and travels the world doing something really important.

I know it's stupid.

At different points in my life, I've found myself hoping he would come looking for me—not to replace my mom or anything, but to, I don't know…complete the picture? Tell me how to, like,
exist
in the world. Things Mom couldn't know. Guy things. But I never seriously considered looking for him.

Meg thought I should. She was always trying to convince me to track Michael down and fill in that blank in my mind. I think it had something to do with her own parents being so cold and distant—both to each other and to their kids. I think she imagined that somewhere in my unknown, I might find the happiness she'd never been afforded. But meeting him was always something I knew I would do
someday
. I never felt any sort of urgency.

Until now. Hope changed everything.

Because now it's not about me being curious. It's about me being
deficient
. A clueless, shitty excuse for a father with a baby who won't stop crying.

I really need to talk to Mom.

The computer monitor flashes the time: 12:14 p.m.

I could go knock on her office door, but I don't want to drop the Michael bomb in the middle of her workday. I'll talk to her tonight.

I look at the clock again, and it hits me. There's somewhere else I could be right now.

Before I can really think about what I'm doing, I run around the house collecting things to pack in Hope's diaper bag—diapers, wipes, baby sunscreen, ointment, bottles, burp cloths, a change of clothes (please, God, no explosive diarrhea today), three pacifiers and five teething rings (enough to replace the ones she'll inevitably throw on the ground), her baby sun hat, and the freakish green monster—and throw on my bathing suit and a T-shirt.

Hope whines as I transfer her from her swing to her car seat, but the motion has calmed her some and she's not all out crying, so hey, win. With her in one hand, her diaper bag in the other, and a beach towel tossed over my shoulder, I peek my head into Mom's office.

“We're going out!” I shout over the P!nk song Mom's singing along to. “Be back by five.”

She looks surprised. “Okay, well, have—” But before she can finish, I've pulled the door closed and am on my way.

I drive toward the lake.

Press down on gas.

Check mirror.

Flip blinker.

Merge.

Press gas harder.

Just
keep
moving
forward, Ryden.

Before too long, I'm pulling my beat-up 2002 Mercury Sable into the makeshift parking lot at the southeastern side of the lake and lugging Hope (who drifted off to sleep during the drive—double win) and all her crap down to the beach. It's not until I crest the hill that I stop. There's a ton of people here. Probably the entire entering senior class plus their friends/girlfriends/boyfriends from other years. Oh yeah. This is what summer is like.

There's a beach volleyball game going, the girls are lounging in bikinis on their towels, and there's a keg set up right in the middle of it all. Almost everyone has a red Solo cup in their hands. There's no one here over the age of twenty, and no one under fifteen or so. Except Hope.

The exhaustion haze clears, and I come back to myself.
What
the
hell
am
I
doing?
We can't be here. I may not be the world's most qualified parent, but even
I
know you probably shouldn't bring a baby to a keg party.

I take one last look at the scene below, then turn to go back to the car. Instead I collide with Shoshanna and Dave. Perfect.

No one says anything for a long second. Shoshanna looks from me to Hope and back to me, clearly trying to find something to say, and Dave just unabashedly stares, literally openmouthed, at the baby.

I sigh. “Yeah, so, this is Hope.” I lift her car seat to give them a better view, as Hope brushes her little clenched fists against her face in her sleep.

They still don't say anything. It's like they've never seen a baby before.

“Anyway, we're gonna go.”

I move to duck around the statues that used to be Shoshanna and Dave, but suddenly Shoshanna animates. “Oh. My. God. Ryden. She. Is.
Adorable
!
” “Adorable” comes out in a high-pitched squeal, and my poor, battered eardrums cringe.

“Um. Thanks.” It feels weird taking credit for something like that. All I did was have sex with Meg. Genetics did the rest.

“Look at her, sleeping there like a little angel!” Shoshanna says. “Look at those tiny fingernails! And those chubby cheeks! Come on. We
have
to introduce her to everyone.” She pulls me by the wrist, and before I know it, we're skidding down the hill to the beach. My flip-flops sink into the soft, hot sand, and I have the sudden urge to roll around in it and cover my entire body in its warmth.

“Hey, everybody!” Shoshanna yells, waving her hands to get people's attention. “Ryden Brooks is here!”

And then I'm being swarmed by people I used to know—the soccer guys, the varsity cheerleaders, the student government officers—and it takes everything I have to smile and act like everything's great, and yes, I'm
so
glad to see them too, and yes, this is my kid, and
please
don't wake her up.

Matt Boyd, the new captain of the varsity soccer team (that should have been me, but the vote was held at soccer camp this summer, and you can't win a contest when you're not there), tries to give me a fist bump, but it doesn't really work so well since my hands are kinda full. “Training starts Monday, Brooks,” he says. His nose is covered in not-blended-in sunscreen, and he's wearing a puka shell necklace.
Douche.
“You ready?”

As if I didn't know that training starts Monday. As if I haven't been trying to figure out how to make the schedule work all damn summer. Our soccer team is one of the top-ranked teams in the country, so practices are pretty intense. I may have gotten a pass on camp this year—for obvious reasons—but there's no way in hell Coach O'Toole is going to give me any leeway on the regular practice schedule. Practices are from nine to four, five days a week for the two weeks before school starts, and then from two fifteen to four thirty after school every day. Those are Mom's work hours. How's she supposed to keep a steady hand for her calligraphy with a baby in her arms?

“Yeah, man,” I tell Matt. “I'm ready.”

And then they're dispersing again, going back to their beer and their games, laughing and making out and grilling hamburgers. They're doing fine without me. A few groups of people whisper to each other as they glance my way. I'm nothing more than a novelty.

I don't know what I was thinking coming here. I guess I thought I could, for a moment, go back to being “Ryden Brooks,” instead of “Hope's dad.” But that's who I'll be for the rest of my life. Even if I don't have the first clue how to do it.

Shoshanna runs off, strips down to her bikini, and jumps in the water. Dave claps me on the back and says, “You want some food?”

I shake my head. “Nah, man. I think I'm just gonna go.”

Dave nods. “Cool. See ya, Ryden.”

I'm working my way back up the hill, my feet sliding around in my sand-covered flip-flops, the back of my neck sweating from the sun and all the heavy stuff I'm carrying, when footsteps close in behind me and the diaper bag is suddenly snatched out of my hand.

“Hey, what the—” I stop short. “Alan.”

Alan Kang. Meg's best friend.

Shit.

• • •

I met Alan the day after I met Meg. Or re-met her, I guess. That part's in the journal too.

May 21.

Today was one of the most embarrassing days of my life. And you know I've had a lot of those. I started feeling sick in English (the one class I have with Ryden, of course) and had to run out before the bell. I refused to give myself permission to throw up until after I got to the bathroom, and luckily I made it to a toilet just in time… But what had Ryden thought about me running away with my hand over my mouth like that? I was mortified. And I really,
really
didn't want to have to explain about the chemo.

So then, ten minutes later, I left the bathroom…and Ryden was waiting for me! I think I may have actually gasped when I saw him there.
So
embarrassing, on every level.

That part's sorta funny to me, because what did
she
have to be embarrassed about? She threw up. It happens.
I
was the one feeling like a total tool, standing outside the bathroom, listening to the muffled sounds of her puking, clueless about what to do. I didn't know if I should go in or not. I mean, it was only a bathroom, right? Nothing I'd never seen before. But what if they were doing, like,
girl
stuff in there? Passing around tampons and stuff.

A few minutes went by, and the crowd in the hall started to thin out. I felt so useless. What if she needed someone to call the nurse? There had to have been other girls in there, but I wasn't sure if Meg would ask them for help or not. She kinda kept to herself.

The door swung open. It was Meg. And yup, she gasped. It made me smile.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

She nodded. I noticed she was chewing a piece of gum. “Were you waiting for me?”

“Yeah.” I held up her backpack. “What happened? Do you have the flu or something?”

“No. I'm fine.”

“Do you want to go to the nurse?”

“No!” she said, a little panicked. “It passed. Seriously, I'm fine. You should go to lunch. Thanks for your help.” She held out her hand for her bag.

A few minutes ago, she was spewing her guts, and I should've been grossed out, but she was still really pretty, with that crazy hair and soft-looking mouth.

“Can I walk you to lunch?” I asked.

She hesitated and narrowed her eyes. “Did you really friend Alan Kang on Facebook?”

“What?” How was that a response to my question?

She spoke slower. “Did…you…friend…Alan…on…Facebook?”

I held her gaze. “Yes.”

“Why?” It was like she was accusing me of something, like friending Alan Kang on Facebook was all part of some master scheme to take over the world.

“Because
you're
not on Facebook. I checked. And I saw you sitting at lunch with him yesterday and figured one degree of separation was better than nothing.”

Her eyes widened.

My Alan Kang Facebook recon mission had been surprisingly useful—his relationship status was “single.” Which meant Meg wasn't his girlfriend.

“So,” I repeated, “can I walk you to lunch?”

“One more question,” she said.

I waited.

“What about Shoshanna?”

Huh?
“What about her?”

“Shouldn't you be walking
her
to lunch instead?”

“Um, why?”

Meg's face got all flushed, and she looked down at her shoes. “Aren't you two…?”

I shook my head. “We broke up a couple of months ago.”

If I hadn't been looking so hard, I would've probably missed it. But there it was. Meg's features relaxed with the smallest hint of relief.

“So?” I asked. “Lunch?”

She met my gaze. “I have to go to my locker first.”

We started to walk. “Why?”

“Alan will be waiting for me there. And I need to get my lunch.”

“You bring your lunch?” I asked. Yeah, it was small talk, and yeah, it was awkward, but it was better than saying
nothing
.