MOM LEFT MY SOUL A crime scene.
Marred with nightmares, bad habits, which I've tried to scour, bleach and burn away in the last four years she's been gone. But her fingerprints are still on me—in the shadowiest corners, escaping notice. I didn't realise until black light was shone on them.
The black light being Suki's pregnancy, and the fingerprints being the iron conviction I don't want kids. Ever.
The news drove a wedge into my head and cracked it open, opening my worst fears to cold air. Maybe I would have adopted this stance regardless of my mother walking out on her own kid. But when I think of the idea of parenting, all that comes to mind is her silhouette exiting through the front door.
Parenting means being responsible for someone. Parenting means having someone place their trust into you. Parenting means the constant risk of fucking up some innocent kid's life or breaking their heart beyond repair.
Mom has never come back to Carsonville.
She calls at the signposted annual events of importance, and messages in the interim. I hate that I start looking forward to birthdays and holidays so I can hear her voice. I feel guilty for missing her so acutely. She doesn't deserve my longing.
She frequently asks me to visit. She is willing to buy an inter-city bus ticket for me, but not willing to drive an hour to see her fucking son. This is always her modus operandi. She tries to plug up the holes in her parenting with wads of cash.
Dad says in the good ol' days, she used her lucrative job as evidence of her being there for the family. She balanced quality time, loyalty and showing up against six figures in a bank account. While I appreciated all the hard work she did, it wasn't the same.
She put a roof over our heads, but a house doesn't make a home.
Dad told me the man she had an affair with thought in similar, transactional terms. The other man bought the pair of them an apartment in Boston. Dad had to travel there to sort out the divorce proceedings; he kept all the property and his car. We sold all the things Mom left behind, like clothes, books and jewelry. Their wedding rings.
Parenting means holding the hearts of your children in your hands. Bad parenting means crushing them.
And I don't trust myself enough to not become a bad parent. The thought of making a kid—my kid—cry terrifies me. I'm not ready. I'm not adaptable.
I'm not like Suki.
She goes to church on Sundays. She never misses her commitments. She wants to be an archaeologist. She's from a wholesome, complete family, and strong enough to carry two hearts inside her.
I shouldn't be obsessing over this. The first priority is the ultrasound tomorrow, a fast-flying week after I found out, but when I'm alone my thoughts run away from me.
The way Suki nurtures her hobbies and dreams is like parenting in miniature. She's exhausted after ballroom lessons, but she never quits. She sticks religiously to the cello rehearsal routine she made even when her fingers bleed then form calluses. She's in Honors everything and she's planned out the AP classes she'll take in senior year. Disciplined. Responsible.
Meanwhile, I spent freshman year jumping off buildings and being a smartass to teachers.
How could I be a father?
I'm aware that there are other options to parenting. Adoption and abortion—none of which is my call to make, though I will be there for Suki no matter what she chooses. I try not to let myself consider anything other than this. Before we tackle those decisions, the first priority is the ultrasound.
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