Another Piece of My Heart (40 page)

“About how my father hates me?”

She shakes her head. “He doesn’t hate you.”

I look up sharply. “You weren’t there. You didn’t hear him!”

“Emily. I know you heard that he hates you, and I understand that’s how it feels. I think he was shocked and scared, and he probably said some terrible things that he didn’t mean.”

“He meant it,” I whisper, wincing at the pain of the memory. “You didn’t see the look in his eyes. I saw hatred. He doesn’t want anything to do with me. My own father!” Tears start to well up again as I think about it.

“He loves Cal,” Mom says. “He was simply panicking at losing Cal.”

“He said he would fight me for as long as it took.” I look at my mom, waiting to see her reaction, and I want her to feel angry on my behalf. I want her to stand up for me. I want her to protect me.

“Which bit hurts more?” she asks softly.

“What?” Of all the things she could have said, I was not expecting that.

“Which is harder for you? That you think your father hates you, or that he’ll fight for Cal in court?”

“Both. He’ll fight me. That’s the same as hate.”

“It isn’t, Emily. It isn’t about fighting you. Okay, let me ask it differently. Does it hurt more that you think your father hates you or that you might lose Cal?”

Wow. Talk about getting to the crux of the matter. I know what I should say. I know what I should feel. I just don’t know if I can say it out loud.

“It’s important, Em,” my mom coaxes. And I wonder suddenly if she knows what I really feel.

“Both,” I say finally, because I don’t know how to say it, but my mom pushes me.

“And if you absolutely had to pick one, if your life depended on it, which one would you pick?”

I look up at my mom. “Cal?” I say, and I can’t help asking it in a question. I can’t say it as a statement because I know it’s not true, and I am sure that somehow she’s psychic, and she knows it’s not true.

“So it hurts more that you could lose Cal than that your father hates you?”

“Oh my
God
!” Diversionary tactics are called for. “You just said it yourself! You said it yourself.
He hates me.
”

“No. I’m trying to understand what’s really going on here. Em, you adore your father. You’ve always adored him. When you were a tiny baby, he was the one you always wanted to go to.” Her face softens at the memory of me as a baby, and I sit rapt, because the one thing I love more than anything else is hearing about when I was a baby. “I’d walk into the room, holding you in my arms, and as soon as you saw your father, your face would light up, and you’d stretch your arms out to go to him.”

More. I want more. I need more. Especially now.

“Your first word wasn’t, like all the other babies, Mama, but Dada. And you’ve always been inseparable. I imagine that thinking he hates you must be incredibly painful.”

I nod. I can’t speak because there’s suddenly a huge lump in my throat, and my eyes start to drip big wet tears silently, and I lay my head on my arms, on the table, and squeeze them shut.

“And I imagine”—my mom lays a hand on my arm—“that’s even more painful than the thought of losing Cal, isn’t it?”

For a while I don’t move. And then I nod. Almost imperceptibly. But I do. Because she knows.

“I think you feel an extraordinary amount of pressure, now that you’re home, to be Cal’s mother. I understand why you’ve stayed away, and I understand that in coming back, you have to revisit your past even when you might not want to.”

“I do want to be with Cal.” I lift my head then and look her in the eyes.

“I know you do,” my mom murmurs. “And you should. But being with him as a beloved aunt, or a sister, is very different from being a mother. Let me tell you something, Emily.” She sighs. “Not wanting to raise a child doesn’t mean you don’t love him.” She closes her eyes for a second, almost as if she’s praying, before continuing.

“Michael loves you, and I know you love him. It’s very easy, when you’re first in love, to get swept away in romantic fantasies of what your life will be like.”

I smile slightly. That’s exactly what we’ve both been doing. I’ve been fantasizing about a wedding, and Michael? He’s been fantasizing about Cal.

“Some of those fantasies, I’m sure, involve Cal,” my mom says, and I honestly don’t know how in the hell she knows. “The three of you forming an instant happy family. Going off to London now! So exciting, and you must be thinking of all the things the three of you can do!”

I nod, because that’s exactly what Michael’s been talking about.

“Fantasies aren’t reality, Emily. I could sit here and tell you how hard it is to raise a child, particularly when you’re living far away from home and haven’t got your mom around to hand the baby over to when it all gets too much. I could fill your head with horror stories, but I won’t, because I think you’ve got swept up in pressure, and fantasy.”

“I haven’t,” I say. Weakly.

“I think you feel obligated to take Cal even though you don’t really want to. I think you are caught up in a fantasy, but that deep down you know it’s not going to work out.”

I know she’s staring at me, but I can’t look her in the eye.

“Listen to me, Emily. Leaving him here doesn’t mean you don’t love him. It also doesn’t mean you’re abandoning him. We all love him, we’re all playing a part in raising him, and you can, too. Sometimes…”

I look at my mom, only to see her wince.

“Sometimes, leaving the ones we love is the only way we can take care of ourselves, and it’s the hardest thing in the world to do. But sometimes it’s the right thing to do.” She reaches out for my hand, and I let her take it, remembering when I was tiny, before she started drinking, when all I wanted was to hold my mommy’s hand.

“I know. I did it. Remember when I first got sober? I couldn’t see you. I had to leave you for a while to take care of myself. It didn’t mean I didn’t love you.” Tears are streaming down her face as she says this. “It meant I loved you
more
. I loved you
enough
to leave you. Do you understand?”

“No.” I shake my head as I stare at our hands, fingers intertwined, and now I am crying, too.

“I loved you enough to take care of myself because it was only by taking care of myself that I could be a better mother, that I was able to take care of you. You have your whole life ahead of you. You can start again in London, go to school, get a job, have fun being with Michael instead of trying to juggle school and caring for a three-year-old. You can live the life you’re supposed to instead of struggling, because it will be a struggle.

“And you can be in Cal’s life. Not because you feel you have to be but because you want to be. It takes a village, and we’re all here doing it together. Don’t take him away. It’s not the right thing to do.

“Oh, Emily,” she says finally. “I love you so much. I see you as this talented, bright, beautiful girl who is itching to spread her wings. A child will hold you back, and I know you know that. I know you know that leaving him here is the right thing, but you feel guilty about admitting it.”

And she squeezes my hand and keeps squeezing it for a long time.

“I’m right,” she whispers, after many minutes. “Aren’t I?”

The weight lifts from my shoulders as I look up at her, finally, finally, able to meet her eyes. I nod.

“But how do I tell Michael?” I whisper. “He’s the one who wants this. He’s the one constantly talking about the three of us. What if he doesn’t want me without Cal? What if he dumps me. And…” I stop, thinking again about my father.

“How do I tell Dad? He never wants to speak to me again.” And I let my mother take me in her arms and hold me as I weep.

Mostly with relief.

Fifty-eight

My head is pounding. It feels like the hangover to end all hangovers, but as I gradually force my poor, swollen eyes open, I remember that I didn’t drink. Not alcohol, not this time, but too many tears and too much emotion.

I get up and go to the bathroom, gasping when I look at myself in the mirror, then crawl back into bed, burrowing under to where it’s warm, glad that my mom is downstairs and that for the first time in what feels like ages, I feel safe.

My mom knocks on the door, then pushes it open.

“Em? I’ve brought you some coffee. You awake?”

“I am now.” I sit up in bed, and my mom puts the coffee on the bedside table and sits down on the bed. She squeezes my leg under the comforter, and smiles at me as if I were a little girl, and I realize that this is what my childhood with her would have been like if she had been sober; this is how I would have felt: safe, secure, loved.

“Michael phoned. He said he’s been trying your cell but it’s going straight to voice mail.” I pick up my cell and sure enough, it’s out of juice. It’s not like the service is great anyway—the likelihood of my getting a call in this house is practically nil.

“He says to call him back on the office number in London. I’ve got the number downstairs.” She smiles, then leaves the room, pulling the door closed softly behind her as I gaze at my old posters on the wall—Siouxsie Sioux glaring down at me, Robert Smith’s kohl-ringed eyes from classic posters of The Cure—and wonder what the hell I’m going to say.

I have to tell Michael. Today. Now. Last night was huge. It was truly as if my mom could see inside my head, and she voiced all the things I’d been too terrified to admit, even to myself.

I realized that so much of my thinking I should be a mother to Cal, even though I didn’t really want it, was because of guilt. What kind of a person must I be to have a kid and not feel anything toward it other than relief that someone else has stepped in to take care of him?

I knew, coming back home, that I’d have a place in his life, but I never thought, seriously, about taking him away. That was never part of my plan until Michael showed up.

And that’s when I started to feel guilty. Michael never said I was selfish, but I felt judged by him, and I felt like that was what he thought: how could I not want to raise my child?

Last night, my mom showed me that Cal is in the best place; there was no reason to feel guilt at not having maternal instincts, not wanting to mother. She showed me that Cal was in the best place for him, and I knew that. On some level, of course, I always knew that, but I was trying so hard to do the right thing.

And because she didn’t judge me, but understood, she has made it okay to be me, living exactly the life I’m living now. She’s made me realize that going to London, pursuing photography, or whatever else I may end up doing in my future,
is
the right thing. For me.

If anything, she said with a smile, it’s being self
less
. It’s not just better for me. It’s the right thing for Cal. And my parents. It is, to get slightly cheesy for a second, for the greater good of all concerned.

Except perhaps for Michael. I have no idea if he’ll understand. There’s a part of me that’s terrified he’ll change his mind about me, that he will think I am selfish, and cold. But then … I have never been able to shake the feeling that he is buying into the fantasy, and that perhaps, deep down, he might be as unsure as I have been.

I know on the surface he was the one who wanted this so much, and he was the one who said I couldn’t abandon Cal, but I’m not.

That’s the thing. I mean, I know I did, right? I know that for three years I showed no interest, but now I’ve met him, now I’ve come to know him. I’m happy to be his big sister.

And it’s not like I’m going to be seeing him a ton anyway, unless Michael decides to dump me and I end up living back at home in Mill Valley. Oh, God. That just cannot happen.

I love my family. I do. But when I’m home, I feel like I can’t breathe properly, I regress to a teenager, and I hate who that person was, I hate hearing myself talk in her voice. I know it’s not my parents’ fault. I know they were doing the best they could, but I think it’s better for all of us if I get on with my own life, away, if I’m free to be myself without the past coloring the present.

I love Michael. And I want to go to England with him. But not with Cal. I know he’ll be shocked. The more he talked about taking Cal with us, the more it seemed a fait accompli, and even though I think he wasn’t as sure as he seemed, what if I’m wrong?

What if he loves me
because
I have a child? What if he loves the idea of the whole package? He was the one who wanted us to be a ready-made family, who said I couldn’t walk away from Cal. So how’s he supposed to feel when I walk away not just once, but twice?

Because I’m not staying. If Michael ends it, I’m going back to Portland. The only thing I am totally certain of is that I’m not staying here.

The coffee is cold. I throw back the covers and step out of bed, feeling as if I have a weight the size of California on my shoulders, and I push my arms into the sleeves of a well-worn robe that I have had since I was about ten that doesn’t really fit me but it is the coziest, most comfortable thing I own.

The worn sisal on the stairs feels reassuringly familiar as I walk down, curling up on the sofa to make the call from the house line.

Please, God, please, please, God, let Michael understand. Let him still love me.

*   *   *

“So your mom said all these things and you realized she was right?” Michael’s voice sounds … weird. My own voice sounds weird; high and breathy, and I can’t tell what he thinks. I’ve told him everything, and as I wait for him to say more, I lift my right hand—the one not holding the phone—and I’m not that surprised to see it’s trembling.

“Yes.” My voice comes out in a whisper.
Jesus, Emily!
I think. Where is strong Emily? Who the hell is this scared, whispery girl freaking out? I take a mental deep breath, and the next time my voice comes out, it is back to normal.

“I don’t know what else to say. I know you’ve talked about this ready-made family, and I know you love … the idea of it, but that’s what it is. An idea. A fantasy. It’s like fantasizing about the grass always being greener, until you get there.” I look down at my legs, and run my hands over them, feeling the stubble, wondering, from this moment forward, if I’m going to be shaving them every day as I have since Michael and I got together, or whether I’m going to let the stubble grow in, not caring because no one’s going to be seeing my naked legs.