Life Interrupted (8 page)

             
After Gracie was born, the feelings only got larger, more persistent, more overwhelming until I wanted nothing more than to shut my eyes and close myself off from them, from her, from everything until I felt nothing.  I’ve never been a sad person, never been someone who felt weighted down or burdened by the things around me.  If there was something in my way, I fought it, battled, waged a war until I got through.  I stupidly assumed that I would do that with being a teen mom, too.

             
The reality was that I couldn’t deal with how hard it was.  Plain and simple.  Being a mom was fucking hard and it took too much goddamned effort.  I wanted my life back, the life that was me before Gracie, me before Marcus, me before that night with Tripp that had served as a catalyst to everything I was going through.  I wanted
me
back, the one who had hopes and dreams and a future ahead of her, not the one who was sitting in the hospital with a newborn next to her and a nurse frowning because I chose the bottle over the breast.

             
I believe my response was a snarled “I gave her my life, I don’t think she needs my nipples, too.”  That was the last conversation we had about formula versus breast milk. 

People came and went in the hospital, fawning over the baby, even over me, congratulating me, praising me, giving me advice and presents. 
I did my best to respond, to break through the fog that seemed to settle over me like a wet blanket and drag me down, but my success rate wasn’t great, and eventually, I stopped trying.  When we got home, it got worse.  I didn’t hold my daughter unless there was someone in there who handed her to me.  When she cried, I let her, waiting for Stacy or my mom to come and get her while I would pretend to be asleep until she stopped.

             
Her first month of life, I listened while my mom rocked her and walked her at night when she was fussy, fed her when she was hungry, cooed at her when she was awake, but I never left my bed.  Even in the morning when my mom would come into my room and tell me she was going to work, I’d ask her to call G because I didn’t feel good. 

             
I remember hearing Stacy, G, and my mom all argue about it when I got up to go to the bathroom one night and G told her I wasn’t just tired, that I was depressed and I wasn’t sliding out of it.  My mother said she thought it was the normal baby blues, that she would wait, give me more time to adjust.  When I went in for my check up, the doctor asked me some very specific questions and then pulled my mother aside when we were leaving.  I have no idea what he said to her, but after that day she started watching me more closely, asking me more things about how I was feeling, what I was thinking.

             
They tried everything to get me out of bed each day, to get me interested in anything, and I remember thinking
why can’t you just leave me alone?
As time progressed, I wouldn’t see anyone; not Katie, not Tripp, even Ms. Flynn came by but I always had a reason I wasn’t ready to see them—I was still fat (forget that I’d dropped the baby weight and more since I wasn’t eating), I was still tired, I was still recovering from labor.  Ultimately, it was Stacy who saved me.

             
“Rachel Maria Reynolds, you are going to get your ass out of this bed and put on those jeans and that shirt.  If you don’t,” she said when I went to roll over, “I’m going to come back and I’m going to make sure you get up.  I brought Tripp with me, so don’t think I’m lying.”

             
I stayed where I was and true to her word, ten minutes later Tripp was hauling me from bed despite my protests, walking me to the shower where he deposited me and turned the water on high.  And cold.

             
I struggled, flopping around, pushing, shoving, screaming, but he held me there, wiping at my face as the water streamed down it, talking to me the entire time, bringing me back just with the sound of his voice.  When I broke down and started crying, Stacy was there, curling in the shower with me, both of us dressed, both of us soaked as the cold water continued to pelt us.

             
“You’re going to be okay, Rae, you’re going to be okay.” She said it over and over again that day and the next as she drove me to her friend’s counseling practice where I started seeing someone once a week.  She said it that whole second month, and then the third, dropping by every day, calling every two hours, reminding me about my counseling appointments, my online courses, my vitamins, my workouts.  Slowly, she brought me back to life, and even though I still couldn’t be with Gracie by myself—
wouldn’t
be with her—I could sit and watch G feed her, drink coffee while Stacy gave her a bath, read a story while my mom rocked her.

             
By the end of month five, my counselor got me to realize the thing that was going to set me free: I wasn’t the old me, and I wasn’t ever going to be again.  I had to deal with that, take back the parts of my life that I could and move on.  And I had to choose whether or not I was going to move on with or without Gracie.

             
When Gracie hit six months, Stacy brought me to the university women’s building. There were only a few people there, some as young as me, some that looked Stacy’s age, some that were older.  Wondering if she was staging an intervention, I kept my arms crossed and my mouth closed as we took two chairs on the end of the half circle.  The woman who was scheduled to speak was no older than thirty-five, her eyes dark and round, her hair an odd mixture of red and brown.  She was small, the epitome of petite, I remember thinking.  But her voice was strong, commanding, and she captivated me from her first word until her last. 

She was a teen mom, an unwed teen mom
whose own mother had turned her back on her when she found out.  Alone, she was forced to have and raise her baby by herself, with the on again off again support of the baby’s father. At seventeen, six months after having her son, struggling with what she now recognized as post-partum and just the regular worries, fears, and desires of a teenage girl, she gave the baby to his paternal grandparents and went back to her own life.  Only, her life was never her own after that and in the back of her mind was always the image of her little boy with his long fingers and full head of thick black hair, just like his mama.  She’d done what she thought was easier when she didn’t think she could do any more, but the reality was that she had wanted her baby.  Still wanted him, all those months later.

             
It took her five years and four months to get him back, and another two years of intense therapy to forgive herself for giving up on him in the first place.

             
“I didn’t give him up for adoption, I just gave him up.”

             
Like I was giving my daughter up.  When I walked out of that auditorium and got into Stacy’s car, I gripped her hand and held it the entire way home.

             
It was Stacy who spoke first when she parked in the driveway and we sat there, me staring at the house and seeing the baby inside, the same baby I couldn’t quite feel anything for.  Knowing I should and didn’t only made it harder.

             
“I wouldn’t have been as strong as you, Rae.”

             
I scoffed out a laugh because I knew this me was weak, weighed down by ghosts and feelings, anything but strong.  “I’m serious.  If I had gotten pregnant in high school, I wouldn’t have had the baby.”  I turned my head to look at her then, the sister who had always been so perfect, so right in everything she did, and wondered what the hell she was telling me.  “Having a baby at sixteen would have been admitting that I had done something wrong, something that I shouldn’t have.  I would have done anything to avoid that—I still do.  But watching you, seeing everything you’ve gone through, I envy your strength, Rae, just like I envy your beautiful baby.”  Then she leaned over and kissed my cheek.  “It’s going to be okay.
You’re
going to be okay.”

             
Six months later, I sit in the airport waiting for a flight to another state to play in a tournament that’s supposed to be moving my life forward.  And it might, but while I sit here and I stare at the little face on my phone that’s kissing her own reflection as my mom tells her to wave to me, I know that no matter where my life goes, I took that first step forward just over six months ago when I walked in and hugged my baby girl for the first time.

It’s been
just over a week since I saw Gabriella in the locker room with Gracie, so when I step out of practice and see Marcus standing outside of my Explorer, I can’t say I’m surprised but I am irritated, especially when he continues to lean against the driver’s side door as I approach.  His long frame is covered in a thick black pea coat with a hood and black jeans that end in black combat boots.  There’s a beanie on his head in the same black and it hangs off the back, showing off his neck tat and the gauges in his ears.  Two years ago when we hooked up, all I really remember was thinking he was beautiful and the opposite of Tripp, with his dark looks and silent and brooding demeanor.  How right I was. 

             
I shared few words with him before we did the deed and fewer since, but now I can see what I didn’t at sixteen and heartbroken: Marcus Kash isn’t the bad-boy who’s running from demons, he’s the one running toward them and no girl is going to change that, not even the one who’s had his daughter.

My daughter
, I remind myself.  And I never knew or cared enough about Marcus to want to change him. I watch him as I think this and note that even though I don’t know him well, I know him enough to see that he’s dropped some weight and his eyes have gotten darker, his skin more sallow, which tells me without a doubt that Tripp is right.  Marcus is getting in deeper.

             
“Flow, how lovely to see you’re alone today.”

             
His voice is sugary sweet, but I know that’s a façade.  What’s beneath is a deep-seated anger that can bubble over quickly and quite deadly.  A year and a half ago his goal was to scare me, intimidate me, make me
think
he would hurt me.  Now looking at him, I see that it might not be so easy this time.  I’m also not an emotionally charged pregnant mess this time, so instead of cowering, I raise my brow and cross my arms, stopping just in front of him.

             
“What do you want?”

             
“Same thing I wanted last year: for you to stop spreading fucking rumors.”

             
He pushes off of the Explorer so he’s standing closer and I hate that I take a step back.  He smirks as if he knows he intimidates me and I plant my feet, refusing to back down again.  Smart or not, I won’t run from him, I won’t cower.  I’m a fighter and he better understand that.  Because I need to remind myself, too, I meet his eyes dead on and lean toward him. 

             
“I didn’t spread rumors, then or now.  Whatever your sister told you, I didn’t say anything.”

             
“There’s your first mistake, Flow.  Don’t fucking look at my sister, don’t fucking talk to my sister.”

“The very meaning of ‘I didn’t say anything’ is that I didn’t fucking talk to her, Marcus.  Pay attention.”  So
oo, maybe backing down and instigating are two different things.  Jesus, Rae, why don’t you just say
, Poke poke, little bear, are you irritated yet?

He takes a step closer until he can peer down at me and I clench my hands into fists.  “
Better watch your mouth, Flow, before you get what it’s asking for.  And don’t fucking bring that bastard baby around here anymore.  You wanted to have a baby, fine, but keep it the fuck to yourself.  Or I might just have to ask for my parental rights.”

             
All of that stuff about growing and thinking about my actions that I mentioned when faced with Lauren the other day? Yeah, apparently self-control only applies when I’m faced with a bitchy, hundred pound Chihuahua.  An out of control stoner (and do those even go into the same sentence? I mean, isn’t pot supposed to make a person lazy and relaxed?) who would like nothing more than to take a swing at me from the look of it? I charge straight ahead, like a freight train with no break and a wake of destruction already behind her. 

             
My hands lift to his chest and I shove him back and get into his face as he recovers from the stun.  “Get fucked, Marcus, and don’t ever threaten me or my daughter again.”  I’m vibrating like a plucked string, my entire body shaking with adrenaline, fueled by the deep seated fear that he’ll do just what he says and get to Gracie. 

             
When he pushes toward me this time, I plant my feet and brace, knowing from one glance at his face that he’s done intimidating me with words.  We’re practically alone, the winter darkness already falling across the overcast skies and shrouding us in shadows, proving to me that sometimes running is the answer, no matter how much I yearn to stand up.  Before I can turn to do that, two things happen: Marcus grips my wrist and yanks me closer, and I hear a voice say his name.  Just his name, but it’s enough to bring a slight hesitation in his grip.

             
When Katie steps to my side, she has her cell phone in her hand, ready and pointed at his face.  “Let her go, Marcus, or your face will be on every social site I can think of in the next twenty seconds with a caption that reads ‘baby daddy gets brutal’.”

             
A nervous laugh wants to escape my mouth but I hold it in, never letting my eyes leave Marcus’s face as I wait for him to release me.  After one more painful squeeze on my wrist, he shoves me away and stalks off to his car a few spaces over.  He doesn’t waste words, but he doesn’t have to.  I know this isn’t over permanently, but it’s over for now.  Katie and I turn to watch him, waiting until he’s sped off to release our breaths.

             
“Holy shit, Flow, that was intense.”

             
“Understatement.  Thanks for that, though.  Good thinking with the phone.  How’d you know it would work?”

             
“My dad’s a criminal.  There are no pictures of him because, according to my mother, he would never even let her take them.  She says that being invisible is what made him successful for so long.  Putting two and two together, I was pretty sure it would be the same for Marcus.”

             
The laugh escapes now and I put my arm around her shoulders, squeezing her tight before I drop my hands to my knees and breathe.  I feel her hand on my back and I close my eyes tightly for a minute. 

             
“You okay?” she asks.

             
I nod.  “Yeah, just jacked up, I guess.”  No need to mention terrified. 

             
“Well, you better hold onto your heart because here comes your bestie and he doesn’t look happy.”

             
Before I can translate what Katie’s said, I hear pounding feet and then feel myself being jerked up before I’m staring into those stormy blue eyes.  “What the hell just happened?” The gooey feeling that started the minute I saw his eyes hardens to stone a second later when he punctuates his words with a brisk shake.

“Oh, you know, a little family meeting.  Ironing out some paternity issues and all that.” My eyes narrows when he shakes me again
, and I feel my anger shift from Marcus to Tripp. I yank myself free of his grip. 

“Jesus, Rachel, what were you thinking?
Haven’t I told you not to talk to him? He’s dangerous and you better get that through your head before something happens to you.  Think about Gracie if you refuse to think about yourself.”

             
I’m momentarily speechless, and in the second it takes me to process what he’s said, Katie steps in, slamming Tripp on the shoulder with her fist and getting in his face until he’s forced to release me and step back.  “Fuck you, Jackson Herbert Jones the third, you little prick.  She was standing up for herself, defending herself as he grabbed her and scared the daylights out of her, which is why I yelled for you.  If I had known you were going to yell at her, I would have called for someone else, someone who’s not an asshole.”

             
I can’t tell if his reaction is shame that Katie is right or because she used his real name (Herbert? Christ, why pass it down?), but Tripp crosses his arms and says nothing as she continues to light into him.  When she gets to an anatomical explanation about where he can shove his head that has me making a mental note to check her accuracy with my mother, I step in.

             
“Okay, Katie, down girl,” I say and she huffs out a breath before crossing her arms and glaring at Tripp.  Turning to him, I raise my brows and slap on some confidence.  “I’m fine, and though I appreciate what I think was your concern, don’t bother, I can take care of myself.”

             
He opens his mouth like he wants to say something but I hold my hands up.  “I have to go get Gracie, and you need to finish practice.  Do you need a ride?” I ask, praying he says no.  He shakes his head and I nod.  “Katie?”

             
She hesitates and then looks at Tripp before looking back at me.  “We’re supposed to meet Dean and Doug and some of their friends for dinner at seven, remember?”

             
Shit.  Tripp turns and walks back to practice without a word and I watch him go for a minute before turning to Katie.  “I can’t,” I say and she nods her head.  “It’s not because of him, but because I need to go and get Gracie, to see her, and I won’t be very good company.  I’ll call Dean and tell him,” I say and she waves me off. 

             
“We can reschedule.  Do you want me to call Doug, bag out and come home with you? It’s not like he’s really going to talk to me until next month when it’s
legal
anyway.”

             
I shake my head no.  “Go have fun.  I’ll call you later.  Don’t mention this to Doug, okay? I just…”

             
“Flow, I get it.  Are you sure you’re okay?”

             
I nod and she gives me one last hug and then heads over to her own car.  I wait until she’s inside, until she’s started her engine and drives off before I get into my own car and head toward G’s house and Gracie.

~

              A couple of hours later after dinnertime, playtime, bath time, and –thank Jesus—bedtime, I hear footsteps coming up the sidewalk in front of our house and I know it’s Tripp before he steps onto the porch and sits down.  He’s close enough that I can feel him pressed against my side, and for a minute I wish we were together so I could just lean on him and let him make this better.  How badly I just want to put my head on his shoulder and feel like this isn’t just my decision.

             
But it is, because she’s my daughter and mine alone. I need to remember that.

             
“What are you going to do?”

             
I shake my head, but I don’t look at him.  My eyes are fixated on the crack in the sidewalk in front of our porch steps.  It’s been there since I can remember, a crack that has now turned into a division in the sidewalk, a lip that trips unsuspecting people every day, and as I stare at it I wonder how long it will be before it starts to spread toward the house and its foundation, if it can get there.  If it will damage it.  How long can a crack spread before causing the entire structure it surrounds to fall?

             
“I don’t know,” I finally say.  “Wait and see if he really does what he threatened to do, if this was just his way of making sure I know he’s tuned in to what’s going on in case I get any idea of telling people.”

             
“I think you should press charges.”

             
“No.”

             
“Godammit, Rachel—”

             
“Don’t.”  I rip my eyes away from the sidewalk, away from the crack that is more a jagged hole now and stare at Tripp.  “I don’t want you to tell me why that’s the wrong choice, or what could happen.  I already know.”  My eyes burn with unshed tears as I stare unblinking at him.  “I don’t need a lecture or a reminder about why this could go wrong, Tripp.  I already fucking know, okay?”

             
He stares at me for a minute and then nods, reaching for my hand while his gaze stays steady on mine, those blue eyes anchoring me. 

             
“What do you need?” he asks and I release the breath I’m holding. 

             
“Just sit with me,” I say.  “Can you just sit with me?”

             
He nods and unlaces our fingers so he can reach his arm around me and pull me into his side so my head can rest on his shoulder.  As if he reads my mind, I feel his lips at my temple and for a minute, I sit there and breathe him in, reveling in the feeling of being held.

~

              An hour later Tripp refuses to leave and though I told him to, I’m grateful that he stays.  A part of me knows that I should call Dean, that I should explain why I cancelled, that I’m okay, but I’m not ready.  I don’t have any answers yet, so calling would be pointless. 

             
My mom’s just come home and already retreated to her study to grade projects (we share a funny moment when I ask her to be open minded and generous with Dean’s), and I’m in the kitchen slicing tomatoes for sandwiches when I hear the low rumble of Tripp’s voice coming from the entryway where he went to make a phone call.  To the Lovely Lauren, no doubt.  My knife slices down on the cutting board with a loud thwack.