Jack Who?

FIVE YEARS LATER

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Jack? Please call me when you can.
Sent 11:32 AM
     
Hey if this number is still Jack, please call, it’s really important. If it’s not, text back. Let me know? Thanks, this is Marissa
Sent 12:21 PM

 Ring: Ring: Ring:Ring:Ring
“Heh, voicemail suckers. Try again”...BEEEP
“Hi, Jack, it’s Marissa, can you please call me at your earliest convenience, it’s important.”
     

Hacking with a spatula at the ground beef browning in a skillet, she intently watched through the window contemplating her next inevitable move. It had to happen. There was no getting around it. Dread rose like bile in her throat every time she thought about it. The meat cooked, and she drained it before pouring in the spaghetti sauce then strained the noodles from the other pot.

     Was the waiting the hardest part?

     Her focus remained beyond the patio doors to the tiny backyard as she turned the sauce on low and then snatched her phone from the counter top. With a few clicks, she found the number and pressed send.

     “What?”

     The realization that a real voice and not a ‘sucker voicemail’ had answered stunned her into initial silence.

     “Jack? It’s Mar-”

     “Marissa who?”

     “We need to talk.” Ignoring his cool detachment, she prodded on and even contemplated a quick swig of the vodka atop the fridge.

     “We fucked once. I can’t think of anything we have to talk about.”

     Words colder than January gave her pause, and she wondered why she was being treated in such a hateful way before she dropped her bomb. “Actually, it was twice. And that’s what we need to talk about.”

     His end was so silent through a few beats of her heart, and then his words seemed wary. “I’m listening.”

     “I got pregnant.”

     The laugh roaring through the phone, in all of her scenarios, was not a possibility she had imagined. Because he wasn’t speaking, she took it as an opportunity to press on.

     “And I need to talk to you about your–”

     “Do not even say my kid. Because there is no way.”

     “The second time, in the shower, we didn’t use anything.” It felt wrong to bring such sweet memories into a hostile, hateful conversation, and she squeezed her eyes closed for a second, willing the actual image away before it became tainted.

     “We didn’t DO anything.”

     “We did enough.” Angrily, she forced the statement through gritted teeth. Was he really going to pretend ignorance and argue the notion that pulling away at the last second was adequate birth control?

     “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe this.” The words were still chilly, but the hardness left his tone, and she couldn’t get a grip on the new emotion.

     “Believe it since I’m looking at your child right now.” Continuously, she stared through the glass drawing strength from the tiny figure playing on the patio.

     The seconds ticked by, and only background sounds filtered through: the light pound of music, the whip of wind on the phone mic, the rumble of traffic. She didn’t know whether to imagine him in his car or standing on a porch at his home. Then he spoke, and both images dropped away.

     “Not mine, you’re not. You are not looking at my kid.” The denial was firm, and she wondered if he was willing it to be true, or if he actually believed it so.

     Dropping to a chair, she took in the brown eyes, large and innocent. Thick dark hair waved around his cheeky face, and she twisted a lock of her lighter strands. “You’re wrong.”

     “And you’re just now telling me? Three years later?! Bullshit!”

     “I NEVER wanted to have this conversation.” She didn’t correct him that it was now five, not three, years later. “I never wanted to bother you.” Here she stopped at the very idea that her child, the best thing to ever happen in her life, could be a bother. “I’m only calling you now because…”

     “Because?” he prompted, not as patient when she was the one letting the clock tick.

     “Because of–”

     “Money.” His tone was disparaging. “You are wanting money aren’t you?”

     “No!” Even though she had envisioned that deduction from him, it stung. “No. Well, sort of. But it’s–”

     “That’s what I thought.” Matter of factual was the retort. That drawl, even from hurtful words, still had the ability to tease her eardrums.

     “No it’s NOT what you thought– think. You see, our son–”

     “This conversation is over. Continue it with my legal guy if you must.”

     “Jack–” But the disconnect tone rang in her ear.

     Angry and embarrassed, she dropped the phone on the table and again squeezed her eyes closed, this time against the threat of tears. Once before, she had explained ‘Mommy crying’ to a toddler. That task had been enough to keep the water works at bay through even the most heartbreaking times—and, there had been a lot of those in his young life.

     Straightening to her feet, she slid open the door and forced a smile to the tot who was intently humming out car sounds. A massive collection of Hot Wheels and Matchbox cars were strewn about the wading pool. Kneeling beside him, she randomly picked one out and rolled it around for a few seconds before fiddling idly with the tires.

     “You ready to eat, sweetie?”

     When he nodded, she plucked him from the couple of inches of water, draping a towel on him as she settled him in a chair. A brown lab rose from the patio and plodded over to sit down again. The pet was never more than a couple of feet from his young master.

     Pulling at the Velcro straps, she slipped tiny braces on each leg before tightening them again.

     “Okay.” Helping him from the chair, she passed his crutches over. “Let’s get out of this sun and get into some spaghetti!”

     “Momma?” Mere minutes later, he was looking up at her, his face slightly smeared with marinara sauce. “Does surgery hurt?”

     “No. You’ll be asleep. Then, you’ll wake up and feel sick for a few days. But that won’t matter because you will know that soon you will be able to throw those crutches away.”

     “Will Bally sleep with me in the hospital?”

     Looking over the laptop and the bills she was paying, she frowned at the dog and hurriedly snatched her son’s utensil from his hand. “Tristan Jack Duplei! Do not feed Bally from your fork!”

     Tossing it into the sink and leaning back on her bar stool enough to reach a clean one, she passed it over. “Bally will stay home, and Aunt Liv will take care of her. Because we will only be away a few days, and a pup wouldn’t be happy without a backyard.”

     “Because Bally can’t use the potty.”

     “Because Bally can’t use the potty,” she agreed with his logic. Then, with a sweep of her pen, she signed the first hefty check sum– the down payment for medical procedures that would eventually allow her son to literally stand on his own two feet.

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