If It Makes You Happy(113)

It’s the fiftieth time she’s asked me that, and at this point, I huff out a laugh.

“Of course not.”

“Or mad at Josh?”

I exhale heavily. Josh—his Swiss roll self—wouldn’t be the worst option for her. I almost smile. Not many people could handle Emily. But he can.

“No,” I answer. “I won’t be mad at Josh.”

“What happened when you found out? You and Mom?”

“We were scared,” I confess. “Then, very quickly, we were happy. Because it led to you.”

She groans. “Dad, I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Michelle shifts on the opposite side of Emily, letting out a shaky exhale. I wonder if she’s nervous too.

“Michelle, did you ever … go through this?” Emily asks slowly.

“No,” Michelle answers honestly, then laughs lightly. “I was too uptight in high school to have a boyfriend.”

A short, giggly laugh bubbles out of Emily. “As if. I bet you were bangin’.”

“Far from it. You should have seen my prom dress. Very poofy.”

The two of them laugh together, and a delayed chuckle escapes me too.

“You went to prom?” Emily asks. “I thought you said you didn’t date.”

“I didn’t. I went alone.”

My heart sinks.

I wonder what Michelle was like in high school. I would have asked her to prom.

I’ve always considered the possibility of Emily getting pregnant. It was less about the act and more about her having to grow up too fast. I don’t want that for her. She’s my girl.

The moment she told me about her first boyfriend, my stomach plummeted down and has never really found its way back up. I always assumed it would be Tracy on the other side of her, talking through this with her with compassion. But it’s Michelle instead, and the way Emily lets out a funny laugh when Michelle talks soothes the ache in my soul.

When the laughter settles down, Emily audibly gulps. “What if Mom finds out?”

“Well,” I say through an exhale, “whenever you start to show, I imagine she’ll figure it out.”

Emily groans, as if that wasn’t in her list of possibilities. “I forgot about the whole belly thing.”

“You’ll be fine.”

Then, in a silence that lasts too long, Emily whispers, “What if I’m like Mom?”

It’s a gut-wrenching sentence. I stiffen and sigh. It’s long. It’s steady. It’s there to fill the loss of words.

“Your mom is a wonderful woman,” I say.

“She doesn’t like me.”

“She loves you,” I correct.

“She left us.”

“She was here at this moment sixteen years ago,” I say, poking the mattress. “And she knew she’d love you, no matter how it changed her life. She loves you like you wouldn’t believe. Life is complicated, Em. She had dreams, and she needed to go find them. But that doesn’t mean she loves you any less.”

Tracy is complicated. Flawed. But she spent fourteen years cherishing Emily. The first time she bounced Emily in her arms—the way her face lit up with happiness—is a memory I wish I could revisit countless times. It would be easy to fault her for leaving if I didn’t know how much she adored her children.

Her leaving and our divorce were inevitable. We had gotten married so young, with factors beyond our control. It was a time when shotgun weddings were the norm, not the exception.

The mattress shifts as Michelle reaches her arm up, finds my hand, and hooks her pinkie in mine. I have a theory she can read my mind, and she has yet to prove me wrong.

“I wonder if I’ll be a bad mom,” Emily murmurs.

“Impossible,” I say.

“Michelle, you were lucky,” Emily says. “You had Birdie.”

Michelle grows quiet. I squeeze her finger with mine.

“My mom was kind and generous, but sometimes it was complicated. All child-parent relationships are. She was … sad when I was younger. Very sad. And when she came out of it, she tried very hard to fix what she could.” Michelle exhales. “She did try.” The words sound as if she’s realizing them at the same time she says them. “She tried her best.”

The three of us listen to the ambient sounds of Bird & Breakfast. The clattering of flatware from the dining room. The creaking and thumping footsteps above our heads. The TV in the parlor, playing a 3rd Rock from the Sun rerun.

I look at my watch again. We’re past the ten-minute mark.

“All right,” I exhale. “You ready?”

Emily’s chest expands quickly, and she shakes her head. “No. You look. I can’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“I can’t,” she repeats, turning her head to face me with worried eyebrows.

I release my hand from Michelle’s and cup the top of Emily’s head. I kiss her forehead, then swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand. I stare at the two of them for a few moments, watching Michelle thread her fingers through my daughter’s stringy hair cascading over the bedspread. Emily scoots closer to Michelle.

My heart pounds as I walk into the bathroom. The small stick is resting half on the counter and half over the sink. I feel like I’m the bridge between Emily’s old life and potential new one. Earlier this month, we were playing in the snow. Now, I’m next to a toilet covered in pink shag, and reaching for a pregnancy test.