I cross all my fingers. Please.
There’s a pause.
“Well,” Grandpa says. “How much are we talking here?”
“It’s over four hundred dollars a week,” I admit. “I know it’s a lot, but—”
“Ryden, I’m sorry,” Grandpa says right away. Can’t he even take some time to think about it first? “We would help you if we could, but we just don’t have that kind of money.”
“I understand,” I mumble.
“How about this—we’ll send you a check for a hundred dollars. I know it’s not much, but it will help.”
“Yeah. It will.” Not enough though. Not nearly enough. “Thanks.”
“And please bring that little cutie around to visit us soon,” Grandma chimes in.
“I will. I promise.” I pause, debating whether to ask them my next question. Oh, fuck it. “Do you guys remember my father?”
“Your father?” Grandpa repeats.
“Yeah.”
“If I ever meet that bastard, I’m going to wring his neck with my bare hands until he’s pleading for mercy.” Jesus, Grandpa. He’s shouting now; his bald head is probably beet red and shiny with sweat, his veiny, wrinkled hand surely gripping the phone way too tightly.
“Never mind, it’s okay,” I say, not wanting Grandpa to rage himself into a heart attack. One death on my hands is more than enough, thank you very much. But then his words sink in. “If you ever meet him? You mean see him again, right?”
“Never met him, never want to.” The disgust in Grandpa’s voice is heavy.
I let all the air out of my lungs. Michael must have been even more elusive than I thought. “So you don’t have any information about him?”
“Information? Not a chance. He never even saw fit to grant us the courtesy of an introduction, Ryden. We could see him every day—he could be our mailman, for crying out loud—and we wouldn’t know it.”
Another dead end.
“Okay, well, thanks anyway. And thanks for the money.”
I hang up the phone. A hundred dollars. I mean, it’s a hundred dollars I didn’t have yesterday. But that money will only pay for one day of day care.
What the fuck am I going to do?
Humans should be more like deer: a few minutes after they’re born, they start to walk; a week later, they start going to look for food with their mothers; and a year after that, they’re on their own. Simple.
I don’t want to go to Mom—not yet. If I let her take over the plans, soccer will be the first thing to go.
A thought creeps into the back of my brain: if it’s this hard to figure out what to do with Hope now, what’s it going to be like when I’m at UCLA? I highly doubt Mom will move to California with me, and I can’t leave Hope here with her. That’s just…not an option. Even if Mom were willing. And even though it would be easier. It’s the same reason I wouldn’t consider giving Hope up for adoption—Hope is Meg’s baby. There’s no way in hell I’m giving away anything—or anyone—that’s part of her. No matter that the alternative is pretty sucky. Plus, my mom didn’t give me up for adoption or leave me with her parents while she went off and did stuff. And I’m really glad about that, even though I know having me made her life really difficult.
Hope’s lying in her crib, babbling to herself, swatting at her mobile. At some point while I was on the phone, the crying stopped. I lean over the top of her crib and place my hand on her chubby belly. Her heartbeat pulses under my fingertips.
One of the all-time craziest moments of my unusually crazy life was when Meg and I heard that heartbeat for the first time. The doctor had a machine at the office. Before Hope had arms and legs and everything, she had that heartbeat. It was loud and it was strong. It was the first tangible proof I had that she was real and that she was here to stay.
I pull my hand away and sigh. If I’m going to keep soccer, which I am, I need to come up with a solution—for this summer, for the school year, for college, for all of it—and fast.
I stare at the photo of me and Meg on my computer desktop. It was taken at one of my games last season. She looks so happy. And healthy. And alive.
There is one other thing I could try…
It’s not going to work. But I’m kind of out of options.
I put Hope in her car seat—she starts crying immediately—and bring her into the bathroom with me. I shave, brush my teeth and rinse with Listerine, and pluck the two rogue hairs between my eyebrows. Then I get in the shower. The sound of the water slightly drowns out the sound of her crying, and I stand under the stream and try to focus on each individual drop pounding down on my head.
Today, I wash my hair.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m standing on Meg’s front porch. Being back here after all this time makes me want to throw up.