Life Interrupted (20 page)

             
She looks at me and I can see something in her eyes that’s never been there before, or that I never bothered to look at, something that makes her look vulnerable beneath all of the strength.  Human.  That’s the scary part—no matter how tough we are, we’re still human, and insecurities, fears, needs can only be ignored for so long before they have to be acknowledged and dealt with, like wrinkles and stretch marks.  Bastards.  “What about after, when you had the time, did it hurt then, or were you always this sure that being without him was best?”

             
“I haven’t been positive of anything since the day your father and I found out we were pregnant with Stacy.”  My mouth falls open and I gape at her as she smiles and leans back.  “Flow, I don’t know how I feel about your father—I didn’t know how I felt about him then, but I knew I needed to be with him to bring my children into the world.  When he left, I wasn’t surprised, but I can’t say that made the sting less.  I was married and he was glad to be leaving, that’s hard to take.  On top of that, I was scared that you and Stacy would blame me for not being enough and that made it even harder to be alone.  When you didn’t, when we started to find our rhythm as a family, I realized it didn’t matter if I missed him because I had you two and I never wanted you to feel like you had less.”

             
“So would you say you were better off without him?”

             
She looks at me then, looks hard as if she understands what I’m really asking and then shakes her head.  “No, I wouldn’t.  Whatever your father’s faults, he tried,” she explains when I frown.  “I knew he was young, immature, needy, and I still had a family with him, a great family.  He gave me as much as he could for as long as he could and when he left, he didn’t disappear.  He might not always be here, but he’s here sometimes and that means something.”

I don’t go to see Tripp after my conversation with my mother.  Instead, I find myself cruising up highway 99 until I reach Monmouth, the town thirty minutes north of Corvallis where my dad lives.  We don’t see each other often, but I’ve been here a time or two in the past few years to say hello, to let him see Gracie.

When I knock on the door and he answers with a smile, I’m reminded of why it’s hard to hate my father.  No matter how long it’s been since
he’s made the effort to see me or since we’ve talked, he acts as though we see each other all of the time.  There are never any awkward moments or made up excuses, any diatribes or apologies on why he hasn’t been around.  Sam Reynolds doesn’t make false promises, which in the grand scheme, is better than broken ones I guess.

“Rae, come in.”  He stands back and opens the door wider to let me in, looking down and then back up at me.  “No Gracie?”

For a second I want to laugh.  It’s almost eight o’clock at night.  Even if she wasn’t sick, she’s not even two.  Why would she be awake? Instead, I shake my head.  “No, she had the flu so she’s already in bed.  Mom’s home watching her,” I add and he nods. 

“How’s Leigh?”

And again, no bitterness, no acid tone, nothing but plain curiosity.  It’s as if they’re casual friends instead of exes with two children.

“Good.  Busy.  It’s the end of the year, her grad students are getting ready to be done, her regulars are choosing their specific fields, she’s getting new TAs for next year.”

“She always was busy.  Tell her I say hello and I thoroughly enjoyed her paper on the dying population of beavers and its effects on our ecosystem.”

“Sure.” 

“Coffee? I just made some.  We can sit in the kitchen and you can tell me how you and my granddaughter are.”

I nod and follow him back, noting the new touches to his house that are surely because of the female influence of his fiancée.  Candles on the tables, bowls
and pretty knick-knacks on new shelves, flowers in the dining and living rooms.  His writing cave of dark corners and dusty furniture has somehow blossomed into a warm home and I stop and stare for a minute when we get to the kitchen, which is sparkling clean and welcoming.

He smiles and pours two mugs full, addin
g a bit of milk to mine.  “Lucy’s a neat freak.  She’s also adamant that a home is meant to be lived in, not just used.  Made me clean for a week before she would move in, and now she lectures me daily about keeping it a welcoming environment for the baby.”

He smiles as he says it and my throat closes.  “Are you excited?”  I take a breath when I sit down.  “For the baby?”

He nods and sips from his cup.  “It’s always a happy time when you realize you’ve created life.”

“Not always
.”

He sets his cup down and leans back, his fingers playing with the handle as he stares at me.  Coloring
wise, I resemble my mother the most.  I’m dark like she is, with the olive skin, and rich, thick hair, but staring at my father I notice that my features are similar to his, the high cheekbones, straight, pointed nose.  The eyes.  Now, I wonder what else I got from him. 

“Dad, why did you leave?”

              His eyes flash to mine and he blinks twice, as if trying to recall what I’m talking about as he sits back and sips his coffee.  After a moment, he sets his cup down and clears his throat.  “The easiest answer is because I could.”

             
There it is again, that no excuse, no lie answer that I was just thinking was a benefit.  Now, it’s like a slap, the truth, the answer to a question you’re regretting asking.  My breath goes again but before I can stand to leave, he places his hand on mine, not holding me there, but making contact so I stare at him.  “Rae, I was young when your sister came around, and really, not much older when you did.  I was anything but healthy for you, and when I saw how much it hurt your mother to watch me be who I was, I decided I was going to stop hurting her so I left.  It might not be right, but it was the only way I could see to help her.”

             
“Pretty fucking generous of you,” I say, my voice barely audible.  There are no tears, but my breath is backing up in my lungs and unknown emotions are raging through me, blocking my already aching throat and forcing me to swallow several times.

             
He frowns, like my bad language offends him, which only makes me want to do it again.  “Your mother was—is—the strongest woman I know.  Raising you and Stacy was her dream.  I was ruining that because I couldn’t be the man she needed—more, I couldn’t be the father our children needed.  It made it hard on her, and it made it miserable for me.  So I left, sent money when I had enough, called when I thought it was appropriate, and watched from a distance as you and your sister grew up.”

             
I don’t know what I feel now that he’s said this—don’t know if I hate him or if I’ve somehow known this all along or if I should be grateful that unlike Katie’s mother, my father didn’t string me along.  When he left me, he left me, there was never any false hope.  Even now, he says the words as if they’re acceptable, even generous.  Whatever my feelings, I know one thing: his answer hurts.  I’ve been fine for the majority of my life with our relationship, but hearing him say that he wanted things to be easier, that he left because he was miserable, doesn’t make me feel better.  That coupled with the fact that he’s now awaiting a new baby—one he appears ready for—pisses me off, and since anger feels better than betrayal, I embrace it.

             
“Did you ever regret having us?” He shaking his head before I even finish the question, and that infuriates me even more.  “Then why? You say it was easier on us, but do you really think that? Or were you just too afraid to fucking stay?”

“Rae
,” he begins and I jerk to my feet, knocking my chair back and over so it slaps onto the wood floor. 

“No.  You don’t get to explain, to tell me why you’re sorry, why what you did was right.  Because it wasn’t right.  It’s still not.  Why don’t you call or come over? Or send a goddamn email? Fuck, Dad, anything.  Why couldn’t you give us anything?”

“Your mother,” he starts and I shake my head.

“She could have used you, Dad.  Even just once.  And so could Stacy and I.”

I turn to leave and then whirl around.  He hasn’t moved, but his face is visibly paler and his hands are gripped tightly around his coffee mug.  “I was young when I had Gracie.  I was a child, and I was scared.  You know why? Because I didn’t want to make her feel the way you made me feel my entire life—like an inconvenience, one who was never really wanted, only tolerated.”  He still doesn’t move, but I can hear his ragged breathing now, and I’m glad he finally appears affected.  “I came here because Tripp wants to be with me—me
and
Gracie.  He wants us to be his, and I pushed him away, I hurt him because I was scared that he would leave—that he deserved the chance to leave.  Somehow I got it in my head that people always leave, that I can only depend on me because that’s what I’ve watched Mom do, but he’s nothing like you.  He’s strong and loving, and even if we don’t work I know he’ll face me, he won’t run away.  Not like you did.”

He nods, as if he knows I won’t hear anything he says anyway.  But I would, and I hate that even now he won’t fight. 
That even now as I’m yelling at him, breaking open in front of him and defending myself the only way I know how, he won’t fight and he won’t take back his words.  It was easy for him to leave back then, and it’s easy for him to stay gone now. 

Turning, I walk out without another word, refusing to acknowledge what sounds like the echo of a sob when I reach the door.  Slamming it
hard behind me so that the windows shake, I take out my phone and text Tripp, my heart beating so fast my hands are shaking.  When he responds, I get into the car and head back down 99 toward home.

~

As I park my car at the curb, Tripp’s already waiting at the door for me and even though I know he’s mad, even though I know I need to explain, I walk straight up to him and wrap my arms around him, my face turning into the his neck as I breathe him in.  I can smell his soap on him, and when his arms come around me and bring me even closer, his lips finding my forehead, I close my eyes.

“I’m sorry.”  Leaning back, I look into his eyes and say it again.
  “I’m sorry for not calling, for not asking for help, for making you worry.”

He nods his head, his hands coming up to frame my face.  “We need to talk, because I won’t be pushed to the side every time something big happens, Rachel.”  I nod, swallowing when I see the hurt on his face, feel the seriousness in his words.  He takes my hands and leads me through the quiet house and down the hall to his room.

              We haven’t been in here since the day he told me he wanted to be with me, which feels like a lifetime ago though it’s only been days.  I’m too restless to sit, so I go over by his bookcase and stand in front of it, staring at the spines of the books that are haphazardly placed there.  Tripp doesn’t join me right away, but leans back against his closed door and stares at me when I turn to face him. I’m wearing clothes designed for comfort more than fashion—dark stretchy jeans, Rainbows, a loose fitting gray razorback that flows out past my hips, with a sexless black razorback bra underneath—but I feel exposed, as if he always sees more than I want to show.  Despite that, or maybe because of it, I speak first this time.

             
“I went to see my dad tonight, and while I don’t want to get into the conversation I had with him, it did make me realize some things about myself, things that affect you, and I owe you an explanation.”  He nods, so I take a deep breath and begin.  “I wasn’t trying to hurt you yesterday by not asking for your help, but not calling you and not answering your calls
was
deliberate and I’m sorry.”  He doesn’t say anything, a tactic I know well, and the urge to squirm gets stronger. 

“
I’m not used to asking for help, not from anyone other than my family, and that’s hard enough.  Every time Mom or G or Stacy helps me I feel like I owe them something, and every time I wonder how I’m ever going to repay them for taking care of me, for taking care of Gracie, for all of the sacrifices they make to make my life and hers easier.  It’s hard to think of owing another person for that, too.”

             
Now he does speak, but he doesn’t move toward me, doesn’t come to make that physical connection he’s always making when we speak, even when we fight.  He stays across the room this time and I wonder about it.  “Do you really think people expect you to owe them, Rachel? That they help you because they want you to help them? Do you really believe they think it’s a sacrifice to help you?”

             
I shake my head, unnerved by how calm he is, how still.  “It’s not about what they think, it’s about what I think and I can’t stand needing so much help from so many people.  How am I ever going to make it on my own if people are always baling me out?”

             
“Why would you need to make it on your own?” He moves now, pushing away from the door as he steps toward me and I wish he had stayed away, wish that the look on his face was anything but beautiful and serious and believable.  “Don’t you trust any of us to stay with you, Rachel? To love you unconditionally, even when you’re being a pain in the ass?”

             
The melting inside of me that began when he started speaking hardens at the end of his statement and my eyes go to slits.  “Excuse me?”

             
“Which part do you need me to repeat?” He’s leaning forward now, his hands resting on the wall on either side of me and I want to shove him back but I stay still, knowing I’ll never win a physical struggle with him. 

             
“Wanting to be independent does
not
make me a pain in the ass.”

             
“You’re right.  It makes you selfish.”  Now I
am
speechless, even when he grips my waist and hauls me forward so I’m pressed up against him.  Off balance, I have no choice but to lean into his hands as they hold my arms, keeping me close. I go to speak but swallow back the words in shock as he gives me a gentle shake and his eyes burn into mine.  “Are you the only person allowed to love Gracie? To want to make her life better, happier, easier? Are you the only person she should be able to depend on? Is no one else allowed to love her? To make a sacrifice to show her that she’s worth it, that you’re both worth it?”

             
“That’s not what I said,” I start, but he shakes his head. 

             
“No, you don’t say anything, don’t ask for anything, don’t complain.  You do everything on your own, only giving up the reins when you have no other choice.  Did you let your mom stay up and rock Gracie last night?” he asks and I stand stock still.  “Did you call Stacy or G or Katie and ask them to come over so you could even just have someone with you? Did you call me? No, because you’re afraid that asking for help makes you weak, makes you less, and you’re afraid that we won’t stay.  That
I
won’t stay.”

             
“Not that you won’t,” I snap and his eyes narrow.  “That you shouldn’t.  We’re eighteen, Tripp, and she doesn’t belong to you.  How long before you realize that and everything changes? My own dad didn’t want me, something he admitted tonight.  It was too difficult to raise me and Stacy, his own daughters, so he left and let my mom do it.  Why would you want the responsibility of a baby that isn’t yours?”