“You still have quite some time,” the doctor said, pulling the blue rubber glove off of his hand and throwing it in the trash. Brandon sighed and collapsed into his chair.
I clutched the sides of the hospital bed where I was laying. “Thank you, doctor,” I managed and he left the room.
“How are you doing?” Brandon asked, patting the top of my hand. But I couldn’t say anything, I just stared towards the white wall. I was terrified. I can’t have a baby. This cannot be happening. For nine months I’d known about the baby but now it was real, soon there was going to be a living, breathing baby that I would need to feed and care for. I wasn’t ready for that. “Kate... Is everything all right?” Brandon leaned forward and tried to meet my eyes.
I can’t have the responsibility of a child. I wasn’t fit to be a mother. I sat up, “Oh, Brandon,” I said. “I can’t do this. I- I just can’t.” I started to climb out of the bed, taking my feet off the stands, by he held me down.
“You can’t leave,” he said.
“I have to. I can’t have this baby. I’m not ready to be a mother-” I choked a sob, unable to finish, and collapsed back onto the bed, my head in my hands.
Brandon patted my back and spoke soothingly, “Katie, you have to do this. But it’ll be all right and we will work it out-”
“No,” I spluttered. “I do all these things that make other people suffer. All I do is make mistakes. This baby doesn’t deserve a mother who can’t take care of it. Or parents who aren’t married. You don’t deserve to be stuck with me forever. You should be able to live your life, not be tied down-”
“Now hold on, Katie. Who are you to tell me what I should have in life? I’ve always wanted a family and I’m having a baby with the person I care about most in the world, I can’t a chance to spend the rest of my life with my best friend. Who cares if we aren’t married? I know I don’t. And this baby will have a mother and father who love it, and who are there for it. As for you, Katie, you are the most caring person I know. Any child would be lucky to have you as a mother.” I stared at him, dumbfounded after his speech.
“Oh, Brandon,” I managed and wrapped my arms around his neck.
He hugged me back and murmured into my shoulder, “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You didn’t make any mistakes, this babies a gift.” I knew he was wrong, I knew all I did was make mistakes. As if I hadn’t learned to be careful - I tried to be careful - but there were things I did that I just couldn’t erase.
But as for now I held onto Brandon and prayed that I would learn to care for this baby, to be a good mother so that my child’s life would be the one thing I don’t screw up.
2011
Guilt had taken up residence in my stomach and was growing increasingly irritating as the date drew closer. I had bought my daughters forgiveness with a pair of concert tickets. In no book was that good parenting.
Sam was chattering incessantly on her phone in the kitchen while I sat in the living room watching the news. At least she was talking to me again, I tried convincing myself. That was the goal, wasn’t it?
Sam’s conversation had begun as a question about a biology project but had converted into a topic about all the people who are her biology class. “Yeah, I know, he is so weird,” I heard Sam say from the other room, her voice faded below the newscaster, “Oh, hold on, I’m getting another call. Can I call you back?” And then, “Hello?”
I turned my attention to the T.V.. A ten-year-old boy had been hit by a car outside of his house. He was in the hospital in critical conditions. I turned off the T.V., watching it go black in a instant. There was always something bad going on in the world. I thought of the boys parents.
Sam’s voice carried loudly from the kitchen, “What? That’s so not fair! Did you try begging... That didn’t work?... But you have to go!” She sounded upset. I stood up, ready to go talk to her when she got off the phone. “But what about the tickets?” She was saying. “Nobody else can go, remember?... I can try asking, again... I know! I wanted you to go, too!... Did you try explaining to them that this is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Did you explain that it’s Brent Ryans!... I know, my mom doesn't understand either.”
Oh no, that must be Michelle, the girl Samantha was supposed to go to the Brent Ryans concert with. It sounded like she was canceling. I walked into the kitchen just as Sam was slamming closed her phone, looking distressed.
“Honey, is everything alright?”
“No,” she said mournfully. “Michelle can’t come to the concert. Nobody can come!” She sunk into the chair and began typing on her phone. I watched her, testing her reaction. Was she going to be mad at me again? I couldn’t allow that, I had to be the authority figure. Lay down the law, I thought.
Her phone buzzed and she continued typing furiously. Finally, she looked up at me, miserable. “No one can go!” She moaned, and buried her face in her hands. I shifted uncomfortably, looking at my daughter, trying to think of something to say. I patted her on the back. At my touch she looked up at me, her long, bottom lashes wet from the tears gathering in her eyes. She said, “Mommy, do you think you would want to go?”
I was torn. I knew that I didn’t need to make give her things, it wasn’t my job buy her things to make her happy and I knew that tone. Mommy was no longer used as a term of endearment but as a way to butter me up. Samantha was good at that.
I shifted my weight to my other foot while I thought. She said, “Maybe you’ll see that you don’t need to hate him anymore.” I had tried to hide my hatred towards Brent from Sam but it had proved nearly impossible so that it reached a point where I gave up. I sometimes wondered what she thought my reasoning was but I guess I had been to wrapped up in my own problems to care about what she thought.
But I didn’t want to go see Brent Ryans in concert, I didn’t think I could bear it. I hesitated, “It’s not the end of the world if you don’t go, is it?”
She frowned deeply, furrowed her brows and crossed her arms. “No,” she said, and turned away from me.
“Sam-” I put my hand on her shoulder but she shrugged it off.
“No, I get it. I like him and you don’t. You don’t need to go,” Sam climbed off the couch and up the stairs to her room. I heard the door slam.
shit
