Angie laughed, but it was sad and a little strained. “Do you and David want to keep the baby?”
“How can I know something like that? I want …” She sagged deeper in her chair and bowed her head. Angie could tell that she was crying. She made almost no sound, as though she’d learned to keep her tears inside. “It’s my mess. I got myself into it; I have to get myself out of it. Maybe Mrs. Mauk will let me stay here for a while longer.”
Angie squeezed her eyes shut, feeling tears of her own. Memories came at her hard—Lauren at Help-Your-Neighbor House, freezing cold, but asking for a coat for her mother … in the grocery store parking lot on a rainy night, pressing flyers on windshields … saying softly I can’t go to the homecoming dance and then hugging Angie for something as simple as a borrowed dress and some makeup.
Lauren was alone in the world. She was a good, responsible girl, and she’d do the right thing or die trying, but how could a seventeen-year-old possibly find the right way on so treacherous a road? She would need help.
She’s not your daughter, Angela.
You be careful with this girl.
It was good advice, and now, at this moment, Angie was terrified not to take it. She’d worked so hard to come out of the darkness of baby-wanting; how could she let herself slide backward? Could she stand by Lauren and watch her belly grow and grow? Could she survive the intimacies of another woman’s pregnancy—the morning sickness, the dreams that expanded with every gained pound, the wonder in tiny words like: She kicked me … he’s a little gymnast … here, touch my stomach …
And yet.
How could she turn Lauren away at a time like this?
“I’ll tell you what,” Angie said slowly, unable, really, to say anything else. “Why don’t you come live with me?”
Lauren gasped, looked up. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
“You’ll change your mind. You’ll see me get fatter and you’ll—”
“Have you ever trusted anyone?”
Lauren didn’t answer, but the truth was in her eyes.
“Trust me. Come to the cottage for a while, until you figure out your future. You need to be taken care of.”
“Taken care of.”
Angie heard the wonder in Lauren’s voice. It was such a simple thing—caring—but what a crater in the soul its absence must leave.
“I’ll clean your house and do the laundry. I can cook, too, and if you’ll show me what are weeds—”
“You don’t need to clean my house.” Angie smiled. Though the fear was still there, the nervous can I watch this up close tension, she felt good, too. She could make a difference in this girl’s life. Maybe she’d never be a mother; that didn’t mean she couldn’t act like one. “Just show up for work when you’re scheduled and keep your grades up. Okay?”
Lauren threw herself into Angie’s arms, holding her in a death grip. “Okay.”
Lauren packed her clothes and school uniforms (unnecessary now), her makeup and her mementos, and still there was room left over.
The last thing she packed was a small, framed photograph of her and her mother. In it, they looked like a pair of showgirls, with their faces poked through painted openings. In truth, Lauren didn’t remember ever posing for this picture. According to Mom, they’d been in Vegas at a truck stop on the way west. For years Lauren had tried to create a memory that matched the image, but one had never come.
It was the only picture of them together. She placed it safely between the layers of clothes and closed the suitcase. On the way downstairs, she stopped at Mrs. Mauk’s apartment.
“Here are the keys,” she said.
“Where are you going?”
Lauren grabbed the woman’s arm and led her to the window. Outside, on the street, Angie stood beside her car, looking up at the building. “That’s Angie Malone. I’m going to live with her.” She heard the wonder in her voice.
“I remember her.”
“You’ll sell the furniture for back rent, okay?”
“Okay.” Mrs. Mauk looked down at the keys, then up at her. Her smile was sad. “I’m sorry, Lauren. If there’s anything I can do to help …” She let the sentence trail off. They both knew it had nowhere to go.
Lauren appreciated it all the same. “You were good to us. Letting the rent be so late and everything.”
“You got a bum deal, kiddo. Your mom was a real piece of work.”
Lauren handed the manager a piece of paper. On it, she’d written Angie’s home address and phone number, as well as the restaurant’s information. “Here,” she said softly. “When my mom comes home, she’ll want to know where I am.” She heard the old neediness in her voice, that raggedy edge; she couldn’t help it.
“When?”
“When it falls apart with Jake—and it will fall apart—she’ll be back.”