After (19 page)

Devon feels the heaviness pressing into her now, the same heaviness she’d felt that last night with him. The feeling a mixture of disappointment, regret, dread, and a stubborn determination. And sadness. His eyes, bright with his own tears, the open pleading there. His voice holding the heaviness she’d felt.

“Was he there with you on the night of the birth?”

Dom. Another question. Always more questions.

“No,” Devon says slowly. An image breaks free—lights too bright, her bathroom floor, the clutter and blood—streaks through her mind. She shoves it away. “No!” She swallows, then says softer, “No, he wasn’t with me. I . . . I was alone. He’d gone back to . . . about a week later, he went back home because summer was over.”

Dom frowns, puzzled. “A week later?”

Devon rubs at her eyes. “Yeah. A week later, after we’d . . . you know . . . ” Her voice trails off. She squeezes her eyes shut to close off the new pictures in her head. How he’d held her, kissed her. The things he’d whispered as he touched her.

“Had sex,” Dom finishes.

The words are a shock to hear, give Devon a jolt. So blunt and crude. Devon resists the urge to cover her ears.

“
Quit hiding behind words.
” Dom’s words, Dom’s voice, stern and annoyed and in her head. So Devon nods yes. Because isn’t that what they did, after all—“had sex”? Two words: a verb tied to its object.

“So, how many times did you—the two of you—have sex, Devon?”

“Just that once,” Devon says softly. “After that, he called and left messages, texted me, but I never answered them.”

Devon sees herself then. Remembers sitting on her bed, her cell phone on her lap, staring at the caller ID—his caller ID—as it rang. Counting each successive ring, all five of them. Waiting through the pause as her voice message picked up, imagining the silly one Kait had left on it once and Devon had kept: “This is Devon’s celly! It’s time to leave your telly!” (Kait’s girly giggle, then click). Then listening for her cell to make its obnoxious jingle—the indication that she’d just received a voice message—before finally putting it to her ear and hearing his recorded voice: “Devon? It’s me again. Hey, we don’t have to do anything, okay? I just want to see you. Please. I’m going back home in a couple days . . . Don’t leave it like this.” (His voice cracks.) “Call me? Please?”

Her hand, it could have grabbed the phone. Her thumb, it could have pressed the green Talk button. Her mouth, it could have formed the words to explain. Or say good-bye, to at least do that. But she just sat there, in her room, the blinds pulled tight. And her cell rang and rang, unanswered. The text messages came, one by one. And Devon never responded. Felt nothing.

“So, yeah.” Devon stretches her legs out in front of her. “And then he went back home, I guess. And that was that. I never saw him again.”

“So, you only had sex
one
time?” Dom asks.

“Yep.” Devon takes in a long breath, blows it out. “The one and only time, ever, in my whole entire life.”

Dom doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then, “And that was . . . when?” Dom counts on her fingers, back from April. “July?”

The summer air, Devon remembers how its warmth had felt on her skin that night. Watching the late sunset over Commencement Bay from the balcony of his dad’s loft apartment—like fire spread across the water—and the stars’ brightness poking through the darkening sky.

“The beginning of August, actually,” Devon whispers. She remembers the date exactly—August eighth. But she doesn’t tell Dom this.

“And did you—the two of you—use any kind of protection? A condom? Or—”

Devon turns to look at Dom, sharply. “No!”

“He didn’t offer—”

“No! It wasn’t like that. It just . . . happened. We didn’t plan, we . . .” Devon looks back down at her knees, hugs herself. “I just don’t . . . want to talk about it anymore.”

Dom and Devon, they sit side by side, saying nothing for a while. Then Dom says, “So,
you
were the one who ended the relationship. Not him.” She’s silent again, thoughtful. “Why didn’t you want to talk to him, Devon? See him again.”

Devon swallows. “I couldn’t. I wanted to forget I ever knew him, forget that anything ever happened.”

“Why? Did he hurt you?”

“No! Because!” Devon jumps up, crosses the room, leans against the wall there, her back to Dom. “Because I made a promise.”

“To whom, Devon?”

Devon’s body starts to shake again. She feels the tears in the corners of her eyes, the achy lump in her throat swell. She drops her forehead to the wall, closes her eyes. “Myself.” Her voice squeaks, her shoulders tremble.

“It’s okay, Devon,” Dom says. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not! Because I promised myself every single day of my life. I
promised
myself, that I’d never end up like my mom. And when I . . . when I did
it
. . . with him . . . when I let it happen . . .” Devon’s voice is thick, she feels it grating against the lump in her throat. “Oh, God! I was just like her.”

Pictures churn in her brain, a jumble of morphing images. His arms. His muscles strong and safe, his hands gentle. His lips touching her face, her lips touching his. She lies back, pulls him over her. Their eyes, so much there. Their hearts beating, their breaths matching, only fabric between them. Her hands. Stroking his hair, his cheek, his back. Her eyes close then, her mind turns off. She lets herself fall away. Lets her body take over.

Devon bites the collar of her orange jumpsuit, feels it rough between her teeth. “Exactly like her.” Her tears are rolling now, down her cheeks. She brushes her eyes against her shoulder, the motion quick and rough, leaving a wet spot there. “I hate her!”

There, she’d said it. The relief she feels saying those three words, it’s there in her chest, opening a small space around her heart. Devon hates her mom for leaving her all those nights alone, lying tiny and afraid under her blankets, straining her ears for the sound of a key turning in the lock. Hates her mom for the times when that sound never came, when Devon was left to those solitary mornings, left to dress with clothes she’d pulled from the dirty clothes pile, left to pour Cap’n Crunch and skim milk into a bowl, then lock the door on the empty apartment. Left to walk to the bus stop alone so she wouldn’t be late for school. Hates her mom for the times when Devon had tiptoed down the hall, needing her mommy to hug away a bad dream or a scary night sound and finding some man lying there, beside her mom in the bed, the sheets rising and falling with his breathing. Hates her mom for the crappy apartments, the police sirens waking her as they passed through the streets late at night, the eviction notices and shut-off utilities, the cigarette smoke that permeated everything, the frozen TV dinners and ramen noodles. Hates her mom for pushing Brian—the one good guy she ever dated—out of their lives. The man who’d read Devon stories and took her to the library. Who’d watched her soccer games and created that glow-in-the-dark solar system on her ceiling and came to the holiday program at school to hear her sing her one-line solo in
Winter Wonderland
. Hates her for having to be the person her mom wasn’t, for her middle name “Sky.”

For not being here for her now.

“I think everyone reacts against their parents,” Dom is saying, “in one way or another.”

Devon turns around. Dom’s still sitting on the floor, her face contemplative and sad. Did Devon just tell Dom those things? Had she just opened up her mind and allowed all those memories to spill from her mouth?

“Yeah, I’ve had to deal with it, too, unfortunately. Not in the same way as you have, but it’s that old parent expectation thing. It’s why I’m here with you, actually, instead of with my dad in his big Seattle law firm.” When Dom says those last four words—“big Seattle law firm”—her lips twist, and she makes a bitter laugh. But then she pushes off the floor and to her feet, rubs the back of her neck and shrugs. “It’s just tough being someone’s kid sometimes.” She checks her watch. “Well, it’s time. I’ve got somewhere else I need to be.”

Devon watches Dom as she walks over to the table, starts gathering her papers and files together, places them neatly in her briefcase.

“I think we’ve made some real progress today.” Dom looks over her shoulder at Devon, smiles. “Good job. Really, really great. I mean it. You’ve given me a lot to work with.”

Devon looks down at her feet. She feels utterly wiped, suddenly. But also relieved, somehow. She envisions the rubberized mattress, her cell with the toilet in the corner. She could use a nap.

“I’ve arranged for a psychiatrist to talk with you this afternoon. I know it’s a lot for one day, but she’s agreed to testify for us as an expert witness at your hearing on Tuesday, and there’s just no other time that she can fit in meeting with you. I think you may remember her—Dr. Bacon?”

The woman with the long gray braid. Devon nods yes.

“Can you please look at me, Devon?”

Devon looks up at Dom.

“I need you to be open with her. As open as you were with me just now, okay? The things you told me today, about your mom specifically, I am going to share with her—”

Devon frowns, opens her mouth to protest.

Dom puts her hand up. “Look, nothing that you’re going to tell Dr. Bacon will surprise her. Believe me, she’s seen everything. She’s been dealing with families and their issues for a long time now. It is
very
important that you cooperate with her. I can’t stress that enough. Do you understand?”

Devon nods, mumbles, “Okay.”

“I mean it, Devon.”

“
Okay.
”

“Okay, then.” Dom picks up her warm-up top from the floor and puts it on. Zips her briefcase, arranges it on her shoulder. “Oh, and Devon?”

“Yeah?”

“You never told me his name, you know.”

Devon pulls at her wristband. A flutter ignites in her gut. “I know.”

“Well?”

Devon brings her thumb up to her mouth, but encloses it in her fist instead.

“Devon. If he’s The Boy, then he’s the father of the baby.” She pauses, speaks softer. “Don’t you think he has a right to know?”

Devon presses her lips together. Slowly meets Dom’s eyes. Dom looks solid, like she could stand there all day if she must, even with that briefcase on her shoulder and places to go on her agenda and that shower to take. “Connor,” Devon whispers.

Devon’s heart made a little flutter when she’d said his name. After all this time, just his name on her lips, and her body reacts.

“Connor.” Dom nods. “Okay . . . and does Connor have a
last
name?”

Devon shrugs, looks down at the floor.

“He does, but not today, right?” Dom sighs. “Okay, Devon. Baby steps. Just Connor. For now.”

Dom puts her arm around Devon’s back, gives her shoulder a little squeeze. “Come on. Time to go. I think your school’s already started.”

Devon feels herself lean into Dom as they walk toward the conference room door. Dom reaches for its handle, pushes downward, popping the bolt. She holds the door open for Devon to step through first, taking a step back to let her pass.

“I’ll be in touch soon,” Dom says. She reaches out and gives Devon another light shoulder squeeze. “Have a good day, Devon.”

Devon watches Dom walk away, round the corner toward the pod’s entryway.

“You, too,” Devon whispers.

Devon approaches the classroom slowly; the door to it is open. From the entryway, she can already hear Ms. Coughran’s voice from inside the room:

“Ladies! Why is it that when we change activities you think it’s time to open your mouths? You want to do math facts for the entire day? Because I can definitely make that happen. . . .”

Devon stands in the doorway now, feels her heart speed up, under her arms grow moist. She hates walking into places late. Hates the moment when everybody stops what they’re doing and looks at her. Her mom doesn’t, though. She loves a grand entrance, loves it when people pause and take her all in.

Enough about her mom. She’s not here. It’s been exactly a week since Devon’s last seen her, been almost five full days spent in this place, and she hasn’t even bothered to call or leave a message. It doesn’t matter what her mom would do.

Devon raps on the open door three soft times.

Ms. Coughran, perched on her stool, turns toward the door. She smiles over at Devon, waves her inside. “Just grab that empty seat”—her arm is extended, a finger indicating—“over there.”

Devon turns her eyes, mentally connects the invisible dots between Ms. Coughran’s finger and the assigned seat.

Karma is there, one seat away from the only empty seat at that table, the only empty seat in the room, actually. Freshly sprung from Lockdown where she’d been for the past day and a half. And she’s watching Devon from under her heavy lids, a slight smile twisting her lips.

Devon gets a sinking feeling inside, a draining sort of dread.

“You’re just in time for our weekly health department’s presentation,” Ms. Coughran is saying. Then she addresses the room. “Did you hear that, ladies? We’re having a guest speaker. Allison should be here any minute. So that means I expect your behavior to be . . .”

Devon takes a breath and starts moving toward the table, careful to keep her eyes focused on that task and nothing else. She purposefully doesn’t acknowledge Karma’s stare.

A small girl who Devon doesn’t recognize is sitting beside Karma; she’s between Karma and the open seat. The girl’s hair is so blonde it looks white. Long and thin, like spider silk. Well, good. Devon won’t be sitting right beside Karma, at least.

Karma whispers something in the small girl’s ear, then gives her a shove. The girl quickly slides over, then ducks her head, long bangs veiling most of her face. Just as Devon arrives, Karma looks up, makes a big smile and pats the now empty seat beside her. “Right here, Dev,” she whispers. “Saved you a seat. Ain’t I sweet?”