A Necessary End (35 page)

I
was in the bathtub all night, fully clothed. At first, I was too distraught to move. All I could think of was an empty nursery, the black hole that would become my life. To be without love or purpose—is there any worse fate?

Then I began running scenarios, calculating odds. Gabe might be the poker player, but I'm a better gambler. I won't shove all-in when a smaller wager will do. That said, I'm not afraid to push when I need to.

See? I did learn something sitting next to Gabe for all those televised tournaments. He didn't understand how I could find it so boring. For me, there was nothing really at stake. Money doesn't count.

I can't blame Leah. I could see tonight that she's still that eight-year-old girl who got the family pulled right out from under her. She wants what everyone wants, and she has to create it herself out of whole cloth. She might have concocted this whole plan just to give Trevor an entire year to change his mind, at our expense (literally). If that's true, I have to say touché. It's a plan worthy of a younger me. If she hates me, I can understand that. After all, I am her natural rival.

What's Trevor's excuse? He has loving parents and a house full of siblings. He still doesn't want to be a father, but he's too chickenshit to tell Leah. He should be able to see the situation clearly; he knows that I'm the best person for the job.

But obviously, he doesn't care about what's best for Michael. So I just need to bring his selfishness to the foreground. I have a week to do it.

I can't trust Gabe or his offer to work together. He betrayed me, telling Leah who knows what about Michael's suicide. He's probably thrilled that Leah's going to take Michael off his hands. If he pretends to put up a fight, he thinks I'll forgive him.

That means I'm in this alone, just as I have been ever since our first adoption profile. Otherwise, how could Gabe have been so detached from the Patty fiasco? He should have been incensed, just like I was. We should have been in
that
together.

I need Michael in my life. I'm his mother. I've earned the title, loving and caring for him since the day he was born.

Gabe's right about one thing: Trevor's the fulcrum. Leah doesn't want to be a single mom, she wants a family. So it stands to reason that if I can get Trevor to back out (which is what he wants to do anyway), then Leah will back out, too. Their family was going to break down soon enough anyway; by accelerating the pace, I ensure that Michael doesn't get caught in the crossfire.

I didn't sleep at all, but after formulating my next steps, I'm mildly refreshed. It helps to take a shower and do my makeup and hair. I have the time, after all. Leah and Trevor are on baby duty and have been all night.

In the adjoining bedroom, I see that Gabe is actually asleep. Irritating, but it confirms my assessment. He doesn't really care about any of this.

I make my way through the house. The door to the nursery is ajar, and I see that Leah is also asleep, upright in the glider. Michael is in his crib, and as I push the door open farther, he turns his head
toward me. He's only just learned to follow sounds and movements. He smiles and lets out a gurgle. My baby. My love.

I tiptoe past Leah and pick him up. I hear the soft whoosh of gas releasing. That's how comfortable he is with me, with his mama.

I'm not going to lose him. No way.

I carry him out of the room, taking care not to disturb Leah. But I'm not sure where to go. Trevor is snoring away on the couch, Gabe is still in bed, and I'm surely not going to take Michael into Leah's room.

I feed Michael in the dining room, hoping he won't make any sudden loud noises and wake Trevor. I want to go to work on Trevor soon, but I'm still pushing through my anger. A morning to myself—a morning for just Michael and me—is what I need most.

But I'm not going to get it. Trevor wakes up languidly, one limb at a time. For the grand finale, his head pops up and he lights on Michael and me.

“Good morning,” I say, hoping it doesn't come out oxymoronic.

“Morning.” His voice betrays nothing of last night. Scratching himself furtively, he bypasses us on his way to the kitchen. Then he joins me at the table with a mixing bowl, a box of granola, and a gallon jug of milk. He proceeds to pour himself what must be five servings of granola (granola Gabe and I paid for), dousing it with an oceanic quantity of milk.

I don't want enmity between us—I can't afford it—but he seems so completely at home that resentment can't help but bubble to the surface. We had an arrangement, and he violated it without apology. Hell, without even giving me a heads-up.

“I thought we were friends,” I say, aiming to sound hurt rather than reproachful.

He looks at me with surprise. “We are.”

What do I say to that? The boy was born without a clue.

He yawns histrionically. “Rough night.” Like I'm going to sympathize. Ingrate. “Leah kept bouncing up to take care of Michael
every time he cried. I finally moved back to the couch.” What happened to our deal about his staying on the couch every night?

“That's called parenting.”

“Not complaining, just sayin' is all.” He captures a large spoonful of cereal. “Leah and I were talking about looking at some apartments this afternoon.”

“Apartments in the Bay Area?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you were going to bring her back to Rhode Island with you.”

He shrugs. “Things change.”

“Now you like it here?”

Another shrug. “Are you okay with watching Michael? He'd be kind of a distraction if we had to haul him around all day.”

“Babies take up a lot of time and energy. You get that, right?” If they think they're going to move up the street and use me for free babysitting . . . well, I might be available. But I'm not shooting for a consolation prize.

It's slightly humiliating. Being asked to watch him, like I'm already just the babysitter instead of the mother, like Leah has already taken over that role. But for today, more time with Michael is all I want. I tell Trevor, “Absolutely. I'd love to watch him. Whatever you need.”

He grins through a mouthful of granola. Disgusting.

It's not too soon to enact my plan, not when I've only got a week. “I want Michael to get the best start in life. Of course I prefer it to be with me, but if I can't have that, I'm going to support you. I don't want you taking Michael to some crappy motel or something. So if you need more time to find a place, if it's longer than a week, that's okay, too.”

“Rad. You are, like, the most adaptable person ever.”

He's seemingly the most gullible. But I know things aren't always what they seem. “The thing is, a baby's helpless. Completely and totally
dependent. You've got to be ready to do everything for him, put him first at all times.”

He shifts in his chair with what I hope is discomfort but might just be a quest for better positioning. He looks pretty ergonomically unsound. You can get away with that at his age. If I sat like that, I'd wind up in traction.

As he chews, I go on. “I was thinking last night about selflessness. Because that's what a baby needs, you know? Selflessness, for me, is recognizing that as much as I love Michael, I might not be what's best for him. It might be best for him to be raised by the people who are genetically related to him.” He stares at me, moon-eyed, as bile circulates in my mouth. I wonder if I've gone too far.

“Damn,” he says finally. “That is selfless.” He returns to his cereal.

“I was also thinking about that story you told me. About what happened to Leah when she was eight.”

“You didn't tell Gabe, did you?”

“No. I'm keeping it between us.” He looks relieved. “I was thinking that Leah has suffered so much, and she's going to want to make sure Michael doesn't suffer at all. That'll make her a good mother, because she'll always put him first, above everything in the world.”

I'm trying to underscore the level of sacrifice that parenting requires, since I know he's not remotely equal to the task, but perhaps more important, that Leah will give her all to Michael and there won't be anything left for Trevor. I can't tell if I'm getting through. He's nodding with a faraway look. The subtitles could read, “Sure, Mom.” But I'm okay with that. This is just my first sally.

I've only got a week, guaranteed, but it could easily become two, or three. Finding an affordable apartment in the Bay Area won't be easy for two unemployed people and a baby.

Leah makes a wary entrance. I manage a no-hard-feelings smile and a “Good morning.” Trevor tells her that I'm going to watch Michael that afternoon, and she nods, like it was a given, rendering thanks irrelevant.

“We're going to take him to the park this morning,” she says. Then, an afterthought, “If that's okay.”

She's not really asking for permission and we both know it. Still, it's a greater courtesy than she extended last night, “He'll like that,” I say. “Do you want me to do a run-through of the diaper bag with you?”

“I remember from last time.” Trevor's finished eating, so she takes his bowl and refills it with granola, sloshing milk over the top. “It's like a trough,” she says, and he starts making pig noises. Michael turns his head to watch them, recognizing humor in progress. He really will like going to the park with them (fortunate for him, unfortunate for me).

It hurts, giving him up even for a few hours. I'm nervous the whole time. What if they run off with him? What if he falls off the swing and hits his head? What if they forgot important things? For example, what happens if they run out of milk?

Leah will have that one covered, at least, being the supplier of milk. I don't think she pumped this morning; I never saw her carrying milk to the refrigerator. So it's possible she's started breast-feeding him already, in preparation for their exit. She's already becoming his mother, fully.

It's an excruciating two hours. I can't imagine it being for good, never seeing Michael again, or perhaps worse, being relegated to occasional babysitting duties. Watching him grow up from down the street, being his almost-adoptive mother, which is the same as being nothing. I'm not equipped to love him part-time, at the discretion of Leah. I couldn't live like that. But could I live without him totally? What would hurt more? Right now, it all seems intolerable.

When they come back, I'm in the living room, the TV on and unwatched. “How was the park?” I ask them. I try to sound upbeat, auntlike. There's no word for that, is there? “Avuncular” is only for men. Gabe can be avuncular. I'll be nothing.

Stop it. This is not over.

“Michael digs swinging,” Trevor says. I'm pretty sure he doesn't get the difference between hanging out and parenting. I need to elucidate that for him, bit by bit.

Leah looks happy, too. “He liked the sandbox even better.” She's talking more to Trevor than me.

I need to let her think she's won. That I'm waving the white flag, that I'll be her babysitter if that's all I can get, that I believe she could be the best mother for Michael. But it sticks in my teeth, like grit.

“I wouldn't have even thought to put him in the sandbox,” I say, like it's brilliant. His every orifice is being buffed as we speak.

“Yeah, little dude was into the sandbox. I put him on his belly, like this.” Trevor lies down and flails his arms and legs like a turtle. Leah laughs at the imitation, and I force myself to laugh, too. See? No hard feelings. We're one big happy family.

I'm knotted up until they finally leave to apartment hunt. Then I get to hold Michael close and smell his hair. I'm grateful for every feeding, every diaper change, every smile. I put him on the blanket on the floor and watch him do his flail—Trevor's impression was right on, actually—and I try not to cry. This is not the last time, I tell myself. This is not the end.

It's hard to tear myself away, even though it's time for Summer Jackson and I really need to watch. I need to stay one step ahead.

Summer looks into the camera with utmost seriousness and says, “Those of you who've been following the Joy Ellison story know that I've had my suspicions about her husband, Brad Ellison. You know Joy's remains have been found. Well, today, my instincts were borne out. Brad Ellison has been arrested for the murder of his estranged wife. On the phone, we have Sergeant Loomis, of the Denver police. Welcome, Sergeant.”

Summer embarks on a series of questions that are all designed to further validate her instincts. In prosecutorial fashion, she never asks anything unless she already knows the answer. She probes about Brad's non-alibi, his girlfriend, his poor work attendance, his failure
to report Joy missing until months had passed, the past DV charge, his stints in rehab, the angry Facebook messages he wrote her—all of it circumstantial, none of it suggesting why he might have actually wanted Joy dead. But I have to admit, put that way, it's persuasive. Apparently, circumstantial and inconclusive is good enough for Sergeant Loomis. There's no mention of any forensic evidence from Joy's remains.

My first reaction is relief: If they've made an arrest, they're not looking into other suspects, and certainly not looking anywhere as far afield as California. Perhaps the particulars of Joy's scams have never come to light, which means that Brad's non-motive is the only motive going.

My second reaction is that an innocent man is being held for a crime I committed.

But since he is innocent, since there's no physical evidence and no motive, can't any halfwit defense attorney get him off? If he's actually convicted, it's a sign he was guilty of something. He physically abused Joy; he put her in the hospital at least three times. This might just be karma. Besides, who marries the devil? A lesser demon, most likely.