“I wrote her a letter and went to see her. She wouldn’t read it.”
“That’s harsh. Maybe she’ll read it now that you left.”
“She wouldn’t take it from me. Or look at me. She was in pajamas at six o’clock. Who does that?”
“People who like pajamas,” Jeremiah said. “What did she say?”
“She can’t be with me. That was it. Said she had the flu and was waiting for soup delivery. Hey, can you drive me over there? I wanna make sure she’s okay.”
“Great idea. I was thinking I’d drive you over to her place at eleven at night shitfaced drunk. Because if she didn’t want to see you when you brought her a love letter, she’ll for sure want to hang out now,” Jeremiah said.
“You’re a real smartass. You’re enjoying this aren’t you?”
“Your pain? No. You acting like an idiot, kind of,” he said, “but in the morning you’ll thank me for not letting you wake her up now.”
“I don’t want her to have the flu. Even if she’s not with me,” I said forlornly.
“Oh God. Here we go. You’re a sad drunk. I remember this.”
“I am not. You’re a loud, obnoxious drunk,” I said peevishly.
“Yeah, I am. Those were the good old days,” he laughed.
He swung his car into the parking lot and let me out near my cabin.
“Guess you’re leaving town,” he said then. “You know I wish you’d stay.”
“Yeah,” I sighed, “thank you for the ride. For picking me up and giving me hell, and not letting me make things worse.”
“Anytime, brother, “ he said, and drove away toward the house he and Maggie had built.
I went in the cabin and started doing pushups beside the bed. I knew if I tried to sleep, I’d just dream of her. I dreaded the naughty dreams of Layla now as much as the nightmares of Afghanistan. Because I was starting to realize I might never recover from either.
20
Layla
“In conclusion, I’m deeply thankful for the support and collaboration of my team at the health department and especially Dr. Novak’s mentorship and guidance. We look forward to bringing the outpatient addiction and trauma recovery program to the community starting in November. This grant will allow us to reach hundred of local survivors and help support them on the path to recovery from addiction and the residual impact of trauma in their lives. Thank you all for coming today,” I said and as they applauded, I took my seat.
I smiled at Dr. Novak, who nodded her approval. I was so excited to head up the committee to develop the grant-funded program. Dr. Novak took the podium for a brief q&a session and thanked the grantors again on behalf of us all. I touched my belly as secretly as I could. Hear that, baby? Mommy did a good job at work. That bonus is gonna get you a nice crib. I smiled to myself.
Maggie came up behind me, “Hey, I snuck in.”
“Dodging daycare duty already?” I said.
“I love my daycare center. I just love you, too. You gave a great speech. Congratulations!”
“Thanks,” I said. “It means so much that you came.”
“I’ve got to head back now, but I owe you a margarita on Monday. Are you coming?”
“Yeah, I’ll be there,” I said.
I hadn’t told her yet because of Tyler being Jeremiah’s brother. I knew she would keep a secret if I asked, but I didn’t want to put her in that position of keeping a secret from her husband for me. Sarah Jo knew, and my doctor knew. In a way, it was a bittersweet feeling. I had this baby all to myself. It was a special closeness, having this secret, knowing my life was changing so rapidly. I talked to the baby sometimes, just in my mind if I was at work, or aloud at home. If I sang along to the radio, I told the baby about the song. At the same time, I was sometimes bent double by sadness and loneliness and the knowledge that this is how it would be forever. Me, on my own, looking after the baby. No one to lean on. No one the share the good stuff with.
After work, I went to the grocery store. I was out of prenatal vitamins already. That happens when you spend the first week gagging on them and throwing them up—you have to take another one then. So it was time to refill those and to pick up some popsicles. Some boxes of popsicles. If the dipshit manufacturers would just make a box of only the orange ones, I wouldn’t have to buy five boxes at once. Because this baby loved orange popsicles. It was all I craved. I could even eat salad with chicken in it for the nutrients if I told myself I could have some popsicles afterward.
I was trying to talk myself into getting orange juice and freezing it into pops for a healthier, less sugary alternative. I stood at the refrigerator case, staring past my six boxes of popsicles at the orange juice display. I fished the prenatal vitamins out from under the popsicles because getting cold couldn’t be good for the vitamins. I plopped them on top of my purse in the front of the cart and debated whether to try orange juice or not. But no, it was the syrupy sweet orange taste that made my mouth water, the sugary popsicle flavor. I backed away from the juice and went the other way.
I heard my name.
“Layla,” he said.
I froze. That voice skated up my spine and lit up nerve endings that had been very silent for weeks and weeks. I looked over my shoulder, nodded at Tyler and turned to go.
“Wait,” he said.
Tyler was holding a loaf of bread—a far cry from the boards he’d been balancing on a shoulder when we met. I looked him up and down, his sleeves rolled up and his worn out jeans. It hurt to look at him. The ache went deep. He was looking at me so hard I had to look away.
I followed his eyes to my cart, knew he saw the vitamins. He reached out and picked up the box, looked at me questioningly. I felt my face flush. I tried to snatch them back. It was an instinct, like I could rewind what just happened and walk away.
“Are you pregnant?” he asked, his low voice barely above a whisper.
There was no use lying now. “Yes,” I said. There was nothing for it but to brazen it out.
21
Tyler
“Mine?” I managed to ask.
“Yes,” she said, “what did you think?” I shook my head.
“I don’t know what to think.”
I was too stunned. Layla was having my baby. And she’d kept it from me.
“So, let me get this straight,” I said, feeling anger warm me as the shock wore off, “you knew you were having my baby. You didn’t trust me enough to even tell me. Did it ever occur to you that I would want to know this? That I wanted you and I would want this baby? That I fucking told you I loved you. What more did you want from me? What else am I supposed to do to prove I’m good enough to be a father?”
She turned pale. I saw her throat work as she tried to swallow. Her hand tightened on the cart, but it rolled a little and she seemed wobbly. My arm snaked around her waist, holding her up. She held on to my arm, her eyes wide with alarm. Her lips were pale, too.
“You need to sit down,” I said decisively. I reached over and grabbed a case of soda off a shelf and then another. I set them side by side so she could sit on them, then I lowered her onto them. “Okay?” I said.