“I want to be honest with you,” Ashlee says. “I think it’s going to be more of a battle than we hoped it would be.”
I lean against the car, needing its support, while Ashlee tells me what her private investigator discovered about Rachel. Which is … nothing. She actually seems to have turned her life around. At least, on paper. She did rehab, attends weekly AA meetings, holds several volunteer positions in the community, and, of course, has the wealthy tech bigwig husband to create the ideal two-parent household. They live in a big house zoned to a great school.
Rachel may be clean now, she may look great on paper, but I can’t help but feel like her underlying issues are still, well, issues. At any point, she could have called me or come by the house. She could have initiated contact personally, rather than through legal channels. It doesn’t seem like the priority is to be a mom to Jo, but more like Rachel simply doesn’t want me to have her daughter. She doesn’t want me to win.
But if we’re stacking the odds and placing bets, my money might be on Rachel. She has three things I don’t: the indisputable biological title of mother, money, and a husband.
But I could have a husband. One with money.
I feel ill even considering Pat’s proposal in this context. It makes me feel like I’m no better than one of those cleat chasers. Tabitha’s words come to mind, and I know what people would think of me if I married Pat. But he could provide me with two out of those three things Rachel has that I currently don’t.
I bite the inside of my cheek. I don’t want to use Pat. I never wanted to use Pat. Yet I am desperate to keep Jo. Not for selfish reasons, though it would kill me to lose her. I cannot imagine a world in which Rachel, a virtual stranger, is the best choice for Jo.
The thing is: I want to marry Pat for me too. The idea is so alluring. Pat is so alluring. My heart wants him. My body wants him. That deep soul-place only Pat has ever reached wants him. The feral cat most definitely wants him.
But I am terrified to let him in again. He seems more mature. He seems sincere. Whether Pat can truly remain in one place or a place like Sheet Cake long term is anyone’s guess. And I can’t allow myself or Jo to be hurt when he bails.
Maybe he won’t bail. Maybe he really has changed.
Is he a risk I can bet on?
“Are you still with me?” Ashlee asks.
“Yep. Just processing.”
“I am going to make the best case we can for you. You’ve raised Jo all these years. She’s happy and healthy and has roots here with you. Abandonment isn’t looked at kindly.”
“Yeah, but Rachel is her biological mom. And like you said, Rachel has the stable life and the financial security I don’t have.”
“I wish I could say that’s not true, but those things certainly are factors.”
Ashlee goes quiet for a moment, and I tilt my head back, looking up at the pinprick stars punching through the deep velvet sky. Most nights, the starry sky soothes me and gives me perspective. Feeling small in the universe leaves me with a strange sense of peace, like my problems can’t be SO huge.
Tonight, it’s not working. A garbage truck has backed up to the curb of my life and emptied 30,000 pounds of trash onto my front lawn. Not even the stars can make my problems look small tonight.
“Thanks for everything, Ashlee.”
“Don’t sound like we’ve already lost, Lindy.”
But it’s hard to muster up any kind of hope.
After we hang up, I give myself a few minutes to just breathe. The early October air is crisp, not quite cool. Even so, I feel cold down to my bones.
When I unlock the door, I’m greeted with the sight of a sparklingly clean kitchen. I almost have to shade my eyes from the shine coming off the counters. Even the floor sparkles. This can mean only one thing: Deedee and her boyfriend must have broken up. Again.
The teenage babysitter in question has not only scrubbed every conceivable surface but dealt with the pile of dirty dishes that had been growing like a small, filthy city in my sink.
I wish when I was feeling sad, I took solace in something productive like cleaning. Usually, I keep it simple—wallowing in pints of ice cream or disappearing into a black hole of research online, like finding all the women George Clooney has been romantically linked to. That one distracted me for a good week.
I find Deedee in the first-floor bathroom scrubbing the grout with a toothbrush. Unfortunately, it looks like MY toothbrush. On the plus side, my grout has never looked better. It’s apparently white underneath all the dirt. Who knew? I’m both disgusted and kind of amazed by this.
I lean on the door frame. “Huh. I always thought the grout was gray.”
Deedee jumps up like she’s been caught going through my underwear drawer rather than scrubbing my grimy tile. “Oh, my word! You scared the dickens out of me!”
Deedee talks like she stepped straight out of another decade, which I usually find amusing, but tonight I’m distracted by her red-rimmed eyes. Looks like my theory about a breakup with Mark is indeed correct. As if to illustrate the point, she wipes away a tear, and we both pretend not to notice.
“Sorry,” I tell her. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Want me to finish?”
I look down, seeing the clear line of how far she reached with the scrubbing. “Nah. I’ll do it later.”
Later, as in never.
Deedee tucks her honey-colored hair behind her ear and sets my ruined toothbrush on the counter. We reconvene in the kitchen, where she picks up her purse, playing nervously with the strap while I pay her through an app. I’m grateful for technology like this, because it allows me to pretend like money isn’t real. If money isn’t real, my money problems aren’t real. Everyone wins!
“I hope it’s okay I straightened up,” Deedee says. With someone else, I’d think they were fishing for a compliment. But I can tell Deedee wonders if she overstepped a boundary.
“It looks great in here. I wish I could pay you double since you did the work of a babysitter and a housekeeper.”