My mom was reading The Island Packet newspaper with a cup of coffee.
“Mom,” I said, startled. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”
She looked up. Her eyes were stark and red rimmed. Next to her was my father’s camera. She’d unpacked the box when I’d told her to take it away.
Swallowing, I went to the coffee maker.
“I offered to travel with him, you know?”
“Who?”
“Your father. It wasn’t that I was holding him back. He had this idea we’d travel together. Sail around the world as soon as we could get a bigger boat. We’d be gypsies together. See every part of the world. But he deposited us back here, a place I thought I’d left behind forever. He had a brief moment of wanting to settle down, I guess, when I was pregnant with you. At first, he was so excited. Intrigued even. He’d get on his knees and press his face to my belly, talking to you. Singing to you. Playing jazz loud enough to be sure you heard it. But then he started taking these assignments. At first, because of the pregnancy, it was tough to be able to go. Then after you came, you were too young for some of the places. I argued you’d be fine. People in those places have babies, I’d tell him. They make do. We’ll handle it. Then the places became more dangerous. Of course he’d go. You and I, we’d stay. I worried so much. But it was like he became a junkie for those trips. After two to three weeks back here, he’d get restless again. He loved us Jazz. He loved me. He loved you. But he had a gypsy soul. He couldn’t live unless he was wild and free and testing every new boundary. Being in the most dangerous places and surviving.”
My mom’s hands shook as she reached for her coffee. “He loved going to those places, taking the most dangerous and unfathomable pictures possible. He loved that more than he loved us. And that’s just the hard fucking truth, Jessica. He died doing what he loved doing best.”
She finished her monologue and set her coffee cup down.
“You don’t even know how he died. What if he wasn’t doing what he loved best?” My voice sounded strained to my ears.
“I don’t know,” she agreed. “But I know your father. I know that whatever situation he was in that led to his death, he’d put himself there out of choice. He never made the safe choice. He always pushed the boundary. And if he could have picked a way to go, that’s the way he would have wanted it.”
I sucked my lips between my teeth, willing my stinging eyes not to leak again. I couldn’t think about it anymore. Surely there were no tears left. My mind shifted to Joey as for a split second I found myself wanting to share this conversation with him. It was an evil twist of time that had made me confide in him about my father, share the boat, share my memories, and ugh, share my body. All in the weeks running up to me losing my father forever. Now memories of my dad would forever be mixed up with what I’d shared with Joey. I hated him for that. I hated them both for that.
I added milk to my coffee and came and sat down opposite my remaining parent. At least she’d stuck around. Suddenly, I felt overwhelmingly sad for her, and for us. My damn father had been a complete dick. He’d made life plans with Mom, then bailed and left her to bring me up on her own. What about her plans and dreams? Memories of talking to Joey surfaced. What mattered to my mom?
“So why aren’t you at work?” I asked.
“Because I put in a transfer request to a new physician. Martin and I are no longer seeing each other.” She took a sip of coffee. “You can gloat,” she said.
“Why would I want to gloat?” I asked.
Mom shrugged. “You could say I told you so.”
“Well, you’re not the only one to make poor choices. You could very well be a grandmother soon.”
My mom went pale and set her coffee down.
“On the night we lost Dad,” I went on. “I could have very well thrown my future away.”
IN THE DAYS following sleeping with Joey and losing my father on the same night, my mom and I grew closer than we had ever been.
And so when I got my period, she was the first person I told. But after ten days I hadn’t stopped bleeding.
Mom took me to the gynecologist and held my hand while the doctor told me she’d given me a pregnancy test and it was positive.
I had elevated pregnancy hormones, but with the bleeding like it was, my body was probably spontaneously aborting the fetus. The way the doctor spoke was all so clinical. I was grateful because I couldn’t feel anything anyway. Someone else inside my head took the news. It had been like this since a few days after everything happened. I couldn’t feel much of anything either good or bad.
Apparently, I’d need another test in three to five days to determine if the hormone levels were indeed going down. My mom worked for a doctor in the hospital and our insurance wouldn’t pay for an ultrasound. Go figure.
As we left the office and made our way back out to the main waiting area, my mother’s hand gripped mine so hard, I lost feeling. “There’s no point worrying yet,” she said firmly.