But if we’re stacking the odds and placing bets, my money might be on Rachel. She has three things I don’t: the indisputable biological title of mother, money, and a husband.
But I could have a husband. One with money.
I feel ill even considering Pat’s proposal in this context. It makes me feel like I’m no better than one of those cleat chasers. Tabitha’s words come to mind, and I know what people would think of me if I married Pat. But he could provide me with two out of those three things Rachel has that I currently don’t.
I bite the inside of my cheek. I don’t want to use Pat. I never wanted to use Pat. Yet I am desperate to keep Jo. Not for selfish reasons, though it would kill me to lose her. I cannot imagine a world in which Rachel, a virtual stranger, is the best choice for Jo.
The thing is: I want to marry Pat for me too. The idea is so alluring. Pat is so alluring. My heart wants him. My body wants him. That deep soul-place only Pat has ever reached wants him. The feral cat most definitely wants him.
But I am terrified to let him in again. He seems more mature. He seems sincere. Whether Pat can truly remain in one place or a place like Sheet Cake long term is anyone’s guess. And I can’t allow myself or Jo to be hurt when he bails.
Maybe he won’t bail. Maybe he really has changed.
Is he a risk I can bet on?
“Are you still with me?” Ashlee asks.
“Yep. Just processing.”
“I am going to make the best case we can for you. You’ve raised Jo all these years. She’s happy and healthy and has roots here with you. Abandonment isn’t looked at kindly.”
“Yeah, but Rachel is her biological mom. And like you said, Rachel has the stable life and the financial security I don’t have.”
“I wish I could say that’s not true, but those things certainly are factors.”
Ashlee goes quiet for a moment, and I tilt my head back, looking up at the pinprick stars punching through the deep velvet sky. Most nights, the starry sky soothes me and gives me perspective. Feeling small in the universe leaves me with a strange sense of peace, like my problems can’t be SO huge.
Tonight, it’s not working. A garbage truck has backed up to the curb of my life and emptied 30,000 pounds of trash onto my front lawn. Not even the stars can make my problems look small tonight.
“Thanks for everything, Ashlee.”
“Don’t sound like we’ve already lost, Lindy.”
But it’s hard to muster up any kind of hope.
After we hang up, I give myself a few minutes to just breathe. The early October air is crisp, not quite cool. Even so, I feel cold down to my bones.
When I unlock the door, I’m greeted with the sight of a sparklingly clean kitchen. I almost have to shade my eyes from the shine coming off the counters. Even the floor sparkles. This can mean only one thing: Deedee and her boyfriend must have broken up. Again.
The teenage babysitter in question has not only scrubbed every conceivable surface but dealt with the pile of dirty dishes that had been growing like a small, filthy city in my sink.
I wish when I was feeling sad, I took solace in something productive like cleaning. Usually, I keep it simple—wallowing in pints of ice cream or disappearing into a black hole of research online, like finding all the women George Clooney has been romantically linked to. That one distracted me for a good week.
I find Deedee in the first-floor bathroom scrubbing the grout with a toothbrush. Unfortunately, it looks like MY toothbrush. On the plus side, my grout has never looked better. It’s apparently white underneath all the dirt. Who knew? I’m both disgusted and kind of amazed by this.
I lean on the door frame. “Huh. I always thought the grout was gray.”