#disuphere things

She had then down in her calendar.  September 3, 2001.  She never expected them to be anything more than a prospective student, and a prospective parent of a student.  But something was there between them.  Lena could feel it.

A spark, upon that introduction.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.  Hi, I’m Lena Adams, the assistant vice principal.”

“Hi, I’m Stef Foster,”

Their handshake lasted a little too long.  Neither one could look away from the other.  In the end, professionalism won out, and Lena focused on what she was here to do.

Next, she introduced herself to Brandon.  A quiet boy with brown hair and serious green eyes.  He offered a shy, “hi,” at Stef’s prompting but not much more than that.

He passed the kindergarten proficiency exam with flying colors.

“Welcome to Anchor Beach,” she told them both at the end of the visit.

--

Over the next few months, when Stef arrived to pick up Brandon from school, she hung around.  They’d had a few conversations, but as Brandon was an exceptionally good student and a sweet boy,  there had no need for conferences or meetings about academic or conduct issues.

Still, Lena sensed that Stef was coming up with questions specifically so she would have an excuse to speak to Lena.  She’s twenty-six, and has been around the block a few times - knows what it looks like when she’s being flirted with.  

But Lena also knows that Stef hesitated when Lena asked if her husband would be joining them.  She has a ring line, but no ring.  And Brandon talks about his “Mom and Dad” all the time.  In the same sentence.

So when Stef drops by again in December, leaning on the car in the parking lot, Lena has got to set her straight:

“I’m not doing this.  I’m not.  I’m not getting involved with a married woman.  Women like you, you are just passing through, but this is where I live, Stef.”

Stef, though, surprises her.  Admitting she’s told her ex-husband, her father and most of her friends that she’s a lesbian.  She called Lena “a woman that I can’t live without.”

And Lena made room in her house.  Converted her office to a bedroom for Brandon in a hurry.

They moved in just in time for Christmas.

--

On Christmas night, Stef gets a call.

 “It’s work, I knew it…” Brandon sighs, knowing.

“It’s work.  You’re right.  Be back soon, B.  Be a good boy for Lena.” Stef urges.

“I will,” Brandon nods.

That night at home isn’t much different than any other.  Brandon doesn’t want to take a shower, because he wants to keep playing with his Christmas toys, but Lena convinced him with the promise of watching How the Grinch Stole Christmas again.

“You’re not my real mom, you know?” Brandon said, looking at her quizzically after Lena draped an arm around him on the couch.  “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t have to…” Lena had ventured, feeling stung but determined.  “But can I?”

“You are right now,” Brandon points out.  “I’m trying to watch this,” he says, scooting to the end of the couch.

When the movie ends, Lena tucks Brandon into bed.  “You know... before my dad got married to my mom?  He was married to someone else.  They had a son.”

Brandon listens.

“His name is Nate, and he’s my older brother, but he never treated me like family.  He was mean to me.  Mean to my mom.”

“Probably, ‘cause he just wanted his life to go back to how it was before.  When it was him and his dad and his own mom.  Having another mom or dad?  It just makes you miss yours more.”

“Is that why you don’t want me to cuddle you?” Lena asks.

“No…  ‘Cause, what if my dad finds out and he gets really sad?  We used to sit together and watch TV.”

“Does it bother you that I put my arm around you?” Lena wonders.

Brandon shrugs.  He wipes his eyes.  “It just makes me miss Daddy,” he says, lying down to face the wall.  “Night, Lena.”

“Good night, Brandon.  Merry Christmas.”

Lena passes the time picking up the house and waiting for Stef.  She’s in bed by the time Lena hears the key in the lock.  Hears the keys set down, feels the bed give as Stef crawls in and whispers:

“I had to help take a kid from their family on Christmas night…”

Lena rolls over.  “Oh, God.  Honey, I’m sorry.  Are you okay?”

“I am.  I just...couldn’t stop thinking the whole night, you know, we’ve gotta do something about this…”

“Like what?” Lena wonders, lost.

“Well...what if we went through the process?  Became licensed foster parents?” Stef asks.

Lena smiles but it doesn’t reach her eyes.  She’s been hoping they’ll talk about options.  Options that will lead to pregnancy.  So that Lena can know the joy Stef experienced with Brandon.  Carrying a baby.  Birthing a baby.  If anything, her conversation and interaction with Brandon tonight just made the thoughts grow stronger:

Lena wants - has always wanted - to be a biological mother to someone.  To have those family ties that Stef already has.

But she keeps quiet.  Shelves the dream for the time being.

And they move forward.

Nine months later, after a conversation with now 6 year old Brandon, they start the process.  Take the classes.

Lena Adams is about to venture into foster parenting.

--

February 1, 2004, Lena’s entire world tilts.  Everything spills off it’s surface, including her, and she is left clinging to its edge.

Because that’s the day Stef goes to work in the morning, as usual, and comes back in the evening with twins:  Mariana and Jesus Gutierrez.  They’re five years old and nothing like the lost four-year-old they fostered for 24 hours.  Nothing like the sweet newborn baby they loved and gave a home to for 8 months.

They go from silent and watchful to wild in five seconds flat.  Mariana tells Lena, “You have black hair like our real mom,” and her heart breaks a little.

At this rate, it feels like Lena will not be anybody’s ‘real mom.’

--

Four years later, and Lena is reeling.  They somehow had managed to adopt Jesus and Mariana after a tumultuous two and a half years, where they were bounced back and forth to their bio mom’s custody and came back to them more hurt each time.

They’d had 8 months of relative peace, living in their new home on Villa Mariposa, when Jesus disappeared the first week of fourth grade.

It’s like a nightmare that won’t end.

The last thing she ever expects is for another sibling pair to show up in November of 2008.  Eleven year old Callie and seven year old Jude, of course, deserve a home, and safety and permanency, but every time Lena lets herself think of talking about insemination?  About possibly getting pregnant?  There are more foster kids.

And Lena can’t think about foster kids without thinking about Jesus, out there somewhere.  Or not out there anywhere.  Both possibilities devastate Lena because of her own guilt over not knowing he was missing.

That, combined with the feeling that her dream is about to wither and die has Lena lashing out at Stef one night, when all the kids are at Mom and Dad’s for the night.

“Really?  Did you really think putting our names back on the board at the agency was the way to go, Stef?” Lena seethes.

“I’m sorry.  I thought we made that decision together,” Stef snaps.

“After we adopted one of the kids from that system and lost him.” Lena insists.

“We didn’t lose him, Lena.  He…  Something happened.  It’s not our fault.” Stef tries.

“I never thought we’d be here again.  With more foster kids, after all this…” Lena manages, holding back tears.

“Lena, what’s wrong, love?” Stef asks, coming to her in the kitchen.

“Do you know...how long...I’ve wanted a baby?’ Lena sniffs.

Stef’s mouth opens.  She glances around confused.  “We have babies, love.  We have...so many babies…”

(Lena doesn’t miss how Stef skirts around having to assign a number to just how many children they have.  Because what do they say?  Five?  Four?  1 biological, 1 adopted, 2 fostered and 1 lost?)

“I mean...I want to carry a baby, Stef.  I want to have a baby.  Myself.  Our baby.  You got to have Brandon, and I just...ever since I moved in with you...I thought..we’d have the conversation, and I just…”  Lena breaks down.

Stef holds her as she cries.

“I love our family.  I love our kids.  But it’s not the family I imagined.  It’s not complete yet.  I want to have a baby…”

“We can’t replace Jesus, Lena,” Stef warns gentle.

“No.  This is...I’ve wanted this baby since before Jesus.  I’ve wanted this baby my entire life, Stef.”

“Our life is so complicated already, honey.  Are you sure you want this?  What if...what if Jesus comes back someday?  What will he think if he sees we’ve moved on?  With a baby, no less…”

“You didn’t have any of these concerns bringing Callie and Jude into the house…” Lena points out.

“Because they came the way he and Mariana did,” Stef explains, impatient.  “He’d understand.”

“Is it Jesus you’re worried about in this scenario, or is it you?  Do you not want me to have a baby?”

“I want you to have everything you want.  I don’t want to be the reason you don’t have a baby,” Stef remarks, sighing.  “So, what do we do next?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Lena says, drying her tears.

--

It’s harder than Lena expects, looking at potential donors on a screen and trying to discern who would be best based on the most basic facts.  Not only that, she’s been hoping that with time, Stef will come around to the idea.  Be a bit more enthusiastic about expanding the family.  But even looking at potential donors online, Stef has reservations.  Wants a donor who shares more of her own “characteristics.”

“You mean white,” Lena points out, disappointed.

“And smart, and charming,” Stef starts to list.

“The thing is, Stef, I’m half-white.  So if we look for a donor who is also white, the baby won’t end up looking like me at all.  Not that it has to look like me, it’s just…”

“No, no…  African-American, it is,” Stef says, less than thrilled.

“You have Brandon,” Lena tells Stef quietly.  “Honey, you see yourself every day in him.  Callie and Jude are white.  And I’m the only one who...who’s biracial.”

“The twins are biracial,” Stef points out, before she can stop herself.

“Stef, that’s not the point.  This is important to me.  To have someone in the family who’s like me.  Can’t you see that?”  (But maybe she can’t.  Maybe Stef has never been the only one in her family.)

“I can see that.  I told you, it’s fine.  You’re having the baby, Lena.  You choose the donor.  I’m just along for the ride.”

“No, you’re not.  You’re not just along for the ride.  You’re going to be this baby’s mom.  And I want you involved.  I want you on board.  Can you do that, please?  Can you be happy for me?” Lena all but begs.

“That you wanna have a baby that looks nothing like me?  Sure.  I’m thrilled, Lena.”  Stef snaps, quiet.

Before she can say anymore, Stef stands up and leaves her office.  So much for having lunch together.

--

It doesn’t take long for Lena to decide the anonymous donor site is just too impersonal.  Wants to know the kind of person the father is.

That’s how Lena settles on Timothy.  He’s an English teacher at Anchor Beach.  Smart.  Funny.  Kind.  All qualities she hopes for her own baby to possess.  But getting Stef behind this development is harder still.

“You think I want you going to work every day and seeing our baby’s father?” Stef hisses.

“Kinda like you see Mike?” Lena pushes back.

“That’s different, and you know it.  Our life has enough challenges in it right now.  Do you really want to open the door to someone else in our lives?  In our baby’s life?”

“If it means knowing our child’s history?  Yes,” Lena says definitively.  “You know how many questions Mariana and Callie and Jude have about their biological parents.  About characteristics they can’t place.  Wouldn’t it be nice to have answers for one child.  This child?”

Stef wavers.  “For medical reasons...yes.  I’ll give you that.  But, Lena, if Timothy thinks saying yes to this means he gets to be involved in parenting decisions?  Gets to visit?  Anything like that?  No.  I think we need to have him sign a contract.  Keep things official.”

Lena blows out a breath.  “We can’t lose another one.  You’re right.  This way, we’ll know the history, but be protected from potential attempts at involvement down the road.”

--

In August, 2009, Callie and Jude’s adoption is finalized.

Lena invites Timothy to the party.  With all the other guests, he’ll blend in, and he’ll be able to slip away and do his thing undetected.

She smiles and hugs Callie and Jude, all the while feeling the odd mix of the ache at Jesus’s absence and the excitement at the possibility of their family growing again.

--

On October 16, 2009, two months after Callie and Jude are officially Adams Fosters, Lena talks to Stef, and they make the decision to tell the kids.

Lena’s just over two months along.  Her belly’s swelling slightly already.  She’s been to the doctor.  Knows it measures an inch in length.  It’s in there.  Her baby is in there.

“Kids, we have something to tell you,” Stef says.  She pauses once she has all of their attention.  Nods at Lena.

“I’m going to have a baby…” Lena says, hesitating.

“How?” Callie blurts.  “I mean, don’t you need a man for that?”

“She means adopting, right?  That’s how all the kids come into this family,” Brandon remarks, dryly.

“Two girls can’t have a baby, right, Callie?” Jude asks.

“No,” Callie shakes her head.  “I think Brandon’s right.  I think they’re adopting.”

“Are you?” Mariana presses.  “Adopting?  Or what do you mean?”

“I mean…  There are ways that two mommies can have a baby if they want to.  There are nice men out there who want to help.”

Brandon coughs.  “...Timothy…”

“Excuse me?” Stef asks.

“What?  He was in your bathroom.  Not exactly subtle, Moms…”

“I mean…” Lena repeats.  “I’m...pregnant…”

“No way…” Mariana’s in awe, as Lena nods.  “Seriously, you are?  When is it coming?”

“The end of June,” Lena says, smiling.  Mariana and Jude are thrilled.  Callie and Brandon are more reserved.

“Where will it sleep?” Callie asks.  “Not in Jesus’s room…”

All eyes turn toward her.

“No.  Not in Jesus’s room.  That stays as it is.  We’re not replacing your brother.  Understood, my babies?” Stef checks.

Four heads bob up and down.

“Okay.  Now, let’s finish our dinner before it gets cold.” Stef says.

--

Starting in December, Lena develops some scary complications.  Heavy bleeding.  She’s terrified that at just 20 weeks, she’s losing the baby.  But an ultrasound shows that its still there.

No, not it.

She.

The ultrasound tech accidentally gender-revealed on what almost was the worst night of Lena’s life.  Right up there next to the first night Jesus was missing.

They think of names.  Lena wants more than anything for Stef to feel a part of this process.  A part of this baby’s life.

“Why don’t you name her?” Lena offers.

“Me?  I’m awful at picking names.  Back when Brandon was born?  I’d made a foolish promise to my dad that if he was a boy, I’d name him Frank.  He’s never forgiven me for not following through on that…”

“That could work…” Lena ventures.

“You wanna name our daughter Frank?” Stef laughs.  It’s been forever since Lena’s heard her laugh.

“Francesca?” Lena asks.  “Frankie, for short?”

“Well, that...is…” Stef manages, clearing her throat.  “That is kinda cute.  And my dad would be over the moon.  Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Hey Frankie,” Stef calls softly into Lena’s belly.  “It’s your mom.  Do us a favor and stay inside a few more months.  We really wanna meet you.”

--

As much as Lena tries to do absolutely everything the doctors recommend, the bleeding episodes continue.  Finally, at the very end of February, Lena’s hospitalized with four months of the pregnancy to go.

It’s boring.

Agonizing to be away from the kids.  From Stef.

But it’s also a break, from constant stress.  She finds herself catching up with friends, and her mom.  Getting rest she’s needed for the last two years.  

Frankie is monitored closely.  She’s growing.  Her heart rate is strong.  But she needs to make it to at least 28 weeks if she’s gonna have a chance at surviving.

So Lena prays.

And waits.

--

Frankie listens to Lena, but only just.  On the morning of April 2nd, 2010, 28 weeks along, Lena bleeds again and Frankie goes into distress.  They do an emergency C-section at 9:30 AM.  Stef is at work.  

(They’re expecting this in a bit less than three months, not now.)

Francesca Rose Adams Foster weighs 2 pounds, 4 ounces.  She is 12 inches long.  

By the time anyone can alert Stef about what’s happening, it’s been hours.  Lena hasn’t been able to see Frankie.

And by the time she can?  Lena is not sure she wants to.  At least, not alone.

Stef comes, hours later, shocked at the turn of events, but glad that Lena and Frankie are okay for the time being.

“I kinda wanted to cut the cord,” Stef admits, quietly to Lena.

“I know.” Lena nods.  

“I’ll bring the kids by soon.  So they can see her.” Stef promises.

“Maybe you should wait.  You know?  Until Frankie is stronger?” Lena ventures.

--

Days turn to weeks.

The first time Lena can hold Frankie, she is terrified.  The NICU is full of babies just as small as Frankie - even smaller sometimes.  Even sicker.  There are monitors beeping and Lena’s anxiety goes off the charts whenever a baby goes into distress because what if that was Frankie?

Lena’s terrified to hold her daughter because she’s so small.  Because of the wires and tubes.  Because they’ve made sure it’s dark and very quiet, and urged Lena not to speak, because babies this small can become overstimulated easily.

She spends the whole time praying Frankie will not break.

--

Lena is released but Frankie is not.

Weeks turn to months.  They finally manage to get all four kids to the hospital to visit.

Mariana comes whenever she is allowed, hating that she has to have an adult with her.  She’s constantly asking who is with Frankie.  Insisting that she shouldn’t be left alone.

“You know, that happened to Jesus and me…” she ventures, quiet, upon learning that Frankie’s by herself with no parents around for the time being.

“Miss Thang, being neglected is not the same thing as what’s happening to Frankie now. She’s resting.  She needs quiet.  If she were home, she’d need to sleep a lot, too.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Mariana sighs cryptically.  “Can I go be with her?  Please?  I’ll be quiet, I swear,” Mariana begs.

“Honey, kids aren’t allowed in the NICU unaccompanied.” Lena says apologetically.

“So, accompany me.  I’m twelve now.  Maybe if they knew that, they’d let me in alone.”

“No, honey, I don’t think so…” Lena tells her.

Mariana pouts.

“Come on.  Let’s go together,” Lena encourages, taking Mariana’s hand.  

“You know, Jesus and I were here,” Mariana says when they arrive at the window to the NICU.

“What do you mean?” Lena asks.

“When we were babies.  We were early like Frankie.  We were alone.  In a place like this with a lot of beeping,” she shudders.

“Mariana, that was a long time ago.  Just because this is Frankie’s story doesn’t mean it’s yours.  You have your own story.” Lena says, trying  to reassure her.

“But that is my story,” Mariana says, hurt.  She turns to look at Lena.  “Why do you think I keep asking to see Frankie?  It’s because I know what it was like.  We both do.  It’s lonely.”

“Mariana.  There is no way a baby can remember that far back, okay?” Lena sighs.  “And I feel bad enough that we can’t get here as often as I’d like to, so let’s just enjoy the time we have with Frankie, okay?  No more stories?”

Mariana sighs, and walks up to the incubator, in a yellow paper gown.  Sticks her hand in the hole in the side of the plastic incubator, offering a gloved finger for Frankie to grasp.

“It’s Mari.  I’m your big sister.  It’s okay.  You’re not alone.  I’ll come as much as  I can, okay?  I promise.”

Lena watches, amazed as tiny, two month old Frankie squeezes Mariana’s finger.

--

Frankie comes home a month later.  She’s small as a newborn at 3 months old.

It’s just before Callie’s thirteenth birthday, and she says she already got her birthday wish.

“Why?  You never visited her,” Mariana accuses, cradling Frankie.

“Hey, hey, this is supposed to be a happy time.  Mariana, share Francesca with the rest of the family please, love,” Stef advises.  

Reluctantly, Mariana passes her to Callie.

--

Lena finds herself grieving hard on the day Francesca turns 1.

Jesus has been gone over three and a half years.  And though none of them have any plans to touch his room, magical thinking that has led them to keep it like a time capsule seems to have done nothing.  It doesn’t look like their sweet boy is ever coming back.

He’ll never meet his sister.

Never see her take a handful of cake with her bare hand and offer it to Mariana, saying “Ah-na-na!” sweetly as she offers it.

Mariana takes the cake crumbs from her baby sister, beaming.  “Thank you so much, Frankie!  Oh my gosh, did you guys hear that?” she asks, her brown eyes bright with tears.  “Her first word was my name.”  Mariana turns back to Frankie, who caresses Mariana’s cheek with a cakey fist.  “Your brother’s first word was my name, too,” she tells Frankie softly.  “Your brother, Jesus.”

Frankie grins.

Mariana grins back, cake in her hands.  Tears on her face.

--

The following year, so much has changed.

Jesus has been home for five months.  They’ve lived in the house successfully as a family of eight for just three.

Frankie is has a CP diagnosis that Lena still feels is probably her fault, more often than not.

On Frankie’s second birthday, Jesus hides in his room, headphones on.  He’s still ridiculously small for nearly fourteen.  Lena and Stef want to be able to have a nice family party but they know by now that holidays and birthdays are hard on Jesus.  That it’s best for all of them to just leave him be.

Lena walks Frankie to Jesus’s doorway, holding her hands and peers inside the beads.  Now the presents have been cleaned up, the cake’s been eaten and all the guests are gone, the house is notably quieter.

Still, Lena’s disappointed to find Jesus rocking himself back and forth hard against his bedroom wall.

She knows Stef would go inside and physically stop Jesus from doing this but she has Frankie.  She can’t risk her baby’s safety.  There’s so much they don’t yet know about Jesus and what he’s capable of.

“Jesus, can you come here, please?” Lena asks.

He doesn’t respond.

“Frankie, you wanna tell Jesus what you got for you birthday, love?” Lena asks her daughter.

“Toys!” Frankie cries happily.  “Buddy, toys!”

Jesus blinks.  Stops rocking slowly.  “What kinda toys?” he asks, standing up and approaching them cautiously.

“See?” Frankie asks, showing off a new stuffed animal.

“Yeah, I see,” Jesus nods.  “Happy birthday,” he offers.  “Birthday hug?”

Lena’s about to object when Frankie thrusts out her arms and lunges for Jesus.  

“Okay, buddy,” he says, taking her in his arms as gently as ever, and giving her a squeeze.  “I’m glad I get to be home for your birthday,” he whispers.

Frankie slobbers on Jesus’s cheek, her approximation of a kiss.

Jesus smiles.

--

When Frankie turns three there is no party.  Not one at home anyway.  Mom decides to throw one at her house, to spare Jesus the trauma of party decorations and guests.  It sounds over the top, and Lena hates how he removes himself from everything that might be remotely fun and family-oriented.

She gets that he can’t help it, but once in a while it would just be nice, to be able to be a regular family, not Stef and Jesus at home and the rest of them here watching Frankie open her new doctor kit and enjoying cake and pizza afterward.

Lena wonders if their family will ever be the same again?

--

On the day Frankie turns 4, she comes into Lena and Stef’s room early and tries to climb into their bed.  Something hard smacks Lena in the face.

“Ouch.  What is going on?”  She blinks awake seeing Frankie’s leg brace lying beside her own head.  The straps, previously white are now bright with color.

“Francesca Rose, why does your brace look like this?” Lena asks.

“It’s my birthday brace!  Jesus made it for me!  He’s my best buddy!  See?  It gots all my favorite colors!  Purple and green, and orange and red, and yellow and pink and brown and---”

“Honey, I see that, but you need that to walk.  It’s not a toy to color on.  We’re gonna talk to Jesus about that.  And I’m going to see what I can do about cleaning this off…”

“No, I like it,” she pouts.  “Don’t clean it.”

Lena pauses.  Scoops Frankie up on the bed with her.  “You like it?” she asks, because better to keep her talking.  Jesus did not have a tolerance for fits children threw.  And Frankie doesn’t have the self-control yet to avoid them altogether.

“Yes,” Frankie says, touching one strap lovingly.

“Why do you like it?” Lena wonders.

“‘Cause it’s nice and fun.  It’s like me.  The other way makes me different.”

“It’s okay to be different,” Lena tells Frankie honestly.

“I know, but this way makes me better-different,” Frankie explains.  “This is my best birthday present,” she says, clutching the brace.  “I’m gonna go show Mariana!”

“Happy birthday, Frankie,” Lena calls after her.

“Happy birthday, Mama!  Bye!  See you later!” Frankie returns, her voice light.

“See you later,” Lena echoes, feeling something in her heart mend.

She’s finally someone’s Mama.

He’s always wanted to be a dad, see.  And wanting that made him too eager to marry the first woman he thought he could start a life with.

Carla’s younger, sure.  Twenty to his thirty.  But they got along.  Had fun together.  She was such a nice person.  Everybody said so.  Everybody in town.  Carla had a reputation for being well-liked.  She was fun.  A free spirit.  So, pregnancy got her down a little bit.  Morning sickness and all that.  

When they got the first ultrasound?  Their baby was nothing but a tiny speck.

“Just like a little Pearl,” Carla had remarked.

“Honey, we don’t know if it’s gonna be a girl or not.  Right now, it’s just a baby.”

“Oh, she’ll be a girl, all right,” Carla had said in that way she had of convincing everybody around her to listen to her.  “She’ll listen to me because I’m her mom.”

Sure enough, Carla’s right.  They’re having a girl.  Even though Paris suggested the name Evangeline, after his great grandmother who raised him, Carla had scoffed and Paris had tried not to show how deeply her reaction hurt.

“She’s a baby, Paris.  I don’t want her named after some old lady from the 1800’s.  It’s 1983!”

One afternoon in June, Paris gets home to find Carla gone, and a note, left on the door, in Carla’s handwriting:  

“St. Joseph’s.  Baby.  Water broke at store.  Hurry.”

Paris doesn’t remember making the drive to the hospital.  Stopping by the receptionist’s desk.  Being told Carla West was in labor and delivery, and he was welcome to wait in the waiting room.

He just remembers pacing.  Pacing and pacing and pacing.  Trying  to tune into the news on in the corner about how there’s about to be a U.S. woman going up in space for the first time.

Paris finds himself thinking of Pearl.  Imagining possibilities for her.  She could be an astronaut someday.  Paris is not naive.  He knows this is not an ideal world.  But he would like to make it as close to one as possible for his daughter.

It’s just after 9 PM when somebody comes to speak to him.  Informs him that he has a beautiful baby daughter.  He goes to Carla first, who asks him to go write the baby’s name out for the birth certificate:

“Pearl Marie,” she insists, spelling it out for him like he’s not, in fact, ten years her senior.

(He knows, very well, that Marie is Carla’s grandmother’s middle name, as well as her own.  Her hypocrisy in this strikes him like a blow.)

“I got it,” he answers, and walks out of the room.  To the nursery, where a nurse holds up his tiny baby, Pearl.

He takes a good look at her, crying and perfect.  God, Paris has never seen a more amazing baby.  He taps on the door, and asks to come and have a closer look.

“Please, I’m a new dad,” he all but begs.  “Carla West’s my wife. Just had a baby girl.”

“Of course.  Baby Girl West is right here.  Does she have a name yet?” a nurse asks, picking up baby Pearl and handing her to Paris to hold.

“She sure does.  Her name is Pearl Evangeline West.”  He takes his time.  Spells it carefully.  Knows it will be a few days before Carla knows anything, and by then, it will be too late to change it.

“Marie means bitter, baby, and you are not bitter.  You are a bringer of good news.  Just like your great, great grandma was.  Yes, you are.”

In his arms, Pearl stirs and opens her eyes, squinting at the bright lights.  Her tiny hand finds his big old finger.  Grabs on.  Holds tight.

“Hello, Pearl.  I’m your daddy,” Paris tells her, soft.  Gentle.  He feels filled with certainty that this will be the greatest thing he will ever be.  The biggest job he will ever have.  His most important responsibility.  “Are you gonna be an astronaut?” he asks.

Pearl yawns.  Her eyes fall closed.  She’s still holding onto Paris’s finger.

Somewhere, a nurse snaps a picture with a Polaroid camera.  Paris in a rocking chair.  His arms full of sleeping baby Pearl, clinging onto his finger.  When he knows he’s been gone too long, Paris reluctantly puts Pearl back.  Tucks the Polaroid into his jeans.

Goes back to Carla.

--

On June 12th, they come home, a family of three.

Carla is exhausted, and still angry about his giving the ‘wrong name’ for Pearl’s birth certificate.  Paris is a pretty patient guy.  He’ll blame her current mood on the hormones.  

“It ain’t the wrong name, honey.  It’s her name,” Paris points out.

“It’s Pearl Marie.  I told you,” Carla snaps.

“I can take her.  Hold her for a bit,” Paris offers.  “You can get some rest.”

“Oh no.  Who knows what else you’re gonna do?  Change her birth date?” Carla jeers, holding onto Pearl tighter, so she fusses.

“Carla, that’s not…  Come on…” Paris hates that he’s all but begging to hold his own baby.  But what else can he do right now?  Might as well let Carla simmer down a little.

--

Turns out, there is one huge chunk of time where Carla cannot be bothered to hoard baby Pearl.  And that’s anytime between about 8 PM and 8 AM.  So, Paris is up at 10 PM, and midnight, and 2 AM and 4 AM, and 6 AM.  Heating up formula.  Changing diapers.  Singing to Pearl.

It’s exhausting, especially as there ain’t no such thing as paternity leave.  So he’s got to be out the door at 8:30 AM to work a full day, after making sure Carla’s awake to take the baby.

But the half a dozen times Paris is up at night?  That’s their time.  When Pearl looks wide awake, and smiles at him at 4 AM, Paris can’t help but smile back.

It’s these times, late at night, while Pearl’s taking her bottle like a champ that Paris talks to her about himself.  (“Confession time, baby, your daddy? Is smart.  And that’s how I know you’ll be smart, too.  Maybe not book-smart like your old dad.  But maybe you’ll be people-smart.  Or street-smart.  Everybody’s some kind of smart.  Including you.”)   He tells Pearl about his family, knowing just how little Carla likes to associate with them.

But if Paris has anything to say about it?  Pearl is gonna know where she’s from.  Her family.  Her people.

--

Things start to decline in the marriage, even while Pearl flourishes.  

Standing at 6 months.  Full on running 3 months later.  Never even crawled.

She talks for the first time at 9 months old, running up to Paris as he arrives home from work with an exuberant, “Hi, Dada!”

Paris scoops her up, and greets her, equally happy to see her.  “Hi, Pearl!  How you doin’?  You good?”

She nods, and wraps chubby arms around his neck.

(Carla, of course, is livid that Pearl’s first word is not Mama, like it “should be.”  Paris tries to ignore it.  Tries to protect baby Pearl from the onslaught of negativity.

Pearl’s two, speaking full sentences and reading The Cat in the Hat like a pro.  But Carla seems completely unprepared for what to do when Pearl reaches her end at McDonald’s one afternoon.  She wants to play on the playground and doesn’t seem interested in eating her food.

“I’m gonna slide and merry-go-round,” Pearl tells them, as Paris manages to convince Pearl to eat one French fry by covering it in ketchup and offering it to her.

“God, Paris.  She’s two years old.  She’s not a baby.”

Paris sits back.  “Do you hear yourself?”

“I’m gonna slide and merry-go-rooouund!” Pearl insists.

“After you eat your food!” Carla snaps, in a mocking voice.

Though, she’s just a toddler, Pearl knows when she’s being teased.  The lip comes out.  Her eyes fill with tears.

“Pearl, McDonald’s is a treat.  If you can’t be happy, we can’t come here anymore,” Carla warns.

Paris’s heart breaks, as he watches Pearl, unable to keep it together and at naptime, no less, breaking into tears.

Carla wastes no time scooping her out of the booth and carrying her to the car.  She falls asleep on the drive home.

--

The next time Paris is coming back from work, he makes a stop at a local store and cases their toy aisle.  Until he finds what he is looking for.  A grumpy Care Bear with a sad cloud on its front.  Paris buys it, knowing some things, you gotta make an exception for, even if money’s tight.

Carla’s getting her hair cut a few hours later when Paris gives the toy to Pearl:

“This is for you.  I know Mommy told you you had to be happy all the time--”

“--or no McDonald’s,” Pearl remembers, sad.

“Right.  But this right here?  This is a special friend named Grumpy Bear.  See, how he’s not smiling?”

Pearl studies the bear, concern showing in her eyes.

“Well, that’s because Grumpy Bear wants you to know if you’re grumpy, you can tell him.  Or you can tell Daddy, too.”

“He can’t go to McDonald’s…” Pearl says, regretful, cuddling the bear.

“He absolutely can go to McDonald’s,” Paris corrects her, gentle.  “But how about, before we go, we talk about what’s gonna happen when we get there.”

“Okay,” Pearl agrees with a smile that melts Paris’s heart.  He talks her through how they’ll tell what they want.  Then, they’ll get their food.  Then, they’ll eat their food, and then they’ll play on the slide and the merry-go-round.

He writes it all on a receipt in simple words.  Gives it to her to carry.  He can hear her talking to Grumpy Bear in the car:

“Don’t worry, Grumpy.  We get to go to McDonald’s.  We don’t have to be happy all the time.  See?  Look at this list.  This is what we’re gonna do.”  She shows the bear the list, talking him through all the steps.

When they get there, Pearl still wants to slide, but Paris is able to reason with her, by making quick work of ordering their food and then pointing out that they’re already one step closer to getting to play on the playground.

He occupies her by asking if she can read NO SWEAT, written on his hat.  She correctly reads NO and almost reads SWEAT.

“No sweat means something is easy,” Paris explains.

“Not hard?” Pearl checks.

“Not hard,” he confirms.

“That’s why your hat says NO SWEAT?  Because going to McDonald’s is easy?” Pearl asks.

“That’s right.  Know what else is easy?” he asks.

“What?” Pearl asks, standing Grumpy Bear on the table.

“Loving you.  You’re such a good girl.  You’re smart and kind.  You’re curious.”

“Like Curious George!” Pearl pipes up.  “Pearl was curious…” she quotes, except that line originally had George, the monkey’s name in it.

“That’s right!” Paris laughs.  “And you can have all the feelings you have.  Because feelings are good.”

“Okay, Daddy,” Pearl beams.

Their food comes.

They eat.  

He catches her as she slides down the biggest slide.

Pushes her on the merry-go-round.

She falls asleep again in the car on the way home, but at the end of a much better day.

--

It’s two years later.  October 24th, 1987.  

Pearl’s four and has just started kindergarten.  Paris has spent the last couple of years talking to lawyers, and anybody who will listen about his situation.  About the state of their marriage that has only gotten more and more awful.  About the effect that it’s having on Pearl.

But it’s no use.  Everyone he talks to says if he divorces Carla, custody will likely stay with her.  No judge awards it to fathers unless there’s significant abuse or neglect.

And even though he’s glad it hasn’t gotten that bad, he also knows, the verbal and emotional wounds Pearl has already, thanks to her mom, will last.  Even though they don’t scar, the damage will be there.

Paris thinks long and hard about what to do.  Actually has Pearl in the car.  Just picked her up from school.  And it would be so easy.  So, so easy to just drive away with her.  To let Carla find the papers in the mail when she gets home from work today.

But Paris can’t do that.  So, he talks to Pearl on the way home, like always.  Tells her he loves her.  Tells her he will see her later.  Gives her a kiss.  And drops her off with the neighbor, who babysits her while he and Carla work.

“Bye, Daddy!” Pearl calls, smiling.

“Bye, Pearl.  I’ll see you real soon.  I promise.”

(But he doesn’t.

Carla’s madder than a wet hen when she finds out about the divorce.)

And what’s worse?  As he’s pulling into a motel for the night?  He finds Grumpy Bear, on the floor in the back seat of the car.

Paris brushes him off.  Brings him inside.  He’ll go to the post office in the morning.  Mail it first thing.

How could she tell Mama the real truth?

When she gets home and gets into her room, she shuts the door hard and goes on her bed and covers her head with the pillow.  Wants to never come out ever.

Changing her name from Frankie to Francesca she thought would help things.  And it had, but only a little.  It hadn’t helped this.  

She tries cuddling in Mariana’s empty bed because sometimes it helps to imagine her sister there instead of off at college like she and Callie really are.  But even Mariana’s bed and the magical powers Francesca was sure it used to have don’t work.

All her dreams seem stupid now.

A dancer, with CP?  Really?  How could that ever be?  When this is the way her life really is?  An artist?  Yeah, she likes to color but so what?  So even what?

There’s a tap on her door.

“What?” Francesca calls.

“Hey, buddy?  What’s up, are you okay?  Thought we were gonna get your homework done ASAP so you’d have the weekend free,” Jesus calls through the door.

“You don’t have to,” she calls, letting him off the hook.  Jesus is 20.  It was just him and Mariana’s birthday last week.  They Skyped.  The point is, Jesus probably doesn’t want to be doing third grade homework.

“Can you come out and talk to me?” he asks.  “The door’s kinda freaking me out.”

Francesca sighs and gets off the bed.  She knows by now Jesus is really worried about things like closed doors and bedrooms and beds and all kinds of things.  So Francesca opens the door.  Looks up at him, still holding on to the handle.

“Why this face?” Jesus asks.

Francesca shrugs.

“Need privacy?  Should we hang out on the porch?” he asks.

Another shrug.  But it’s going down the stairs with their railing and their carpet pieces that reminds Francesca Jesus might be the perfect person to talk to about this after all.

She waits til they get outside and sit on the porch swing together.

Jesus swings them a little bit.

Francesca picks at her hangnail and looks at the plants on the porch.  Not at Jesus.  Because she might start crying.

“Buddy, I’m on your side, okay?  Whatever it is,” Jesus promises.

“You don’t like Anchor Beach,” Francesca points out.

“That’s true,” Jesus nods.  “I definitely don’t like Anchor Beach.  But let’s say you were having a problem at school…  I’d still wanna help.”

“You’re a grown up now, right?” she checks.

“Yeah…” Jesus nods again.

“So, if you came and talked to other adults?  They’d have to listen to you?” Francesca wonders.

“Are adults hassling you?” Jesus checks.  “Giving you a hard time?”

“This one.  Mrs. Robbins?  She’s my gym teacher.  And next week’s Track and Field Day.  And she told me when I was just about to leave gym today that I couldn’t get ribbons.”

“What do you mean?” Jesus asks.  

Francesca finally turns to look at him, her nose wrinkled like she can smell garbage.  “She said I could only get stickers.”

“Like...you have to get stickers but everybody else gets ribbons?” Jesus asks, his eyes serious.  

Francesca nods.  “I mean, she didn’t make anybody else stay at the end, just me.”

“Could you get anymore info?” Jesus asks, and Francesca loves how he knows how to ask questions that don’t make her feel like it was on her to do everything.  

“Well...I asked her why...even though, you know, I’m not supposed to talk back to teachers…” Francesca admits.

“That’s not talking back, buddy.  That’s asking a legit question,” Jesus reassures.

Francesca inches closer to Jesus, and he moves one arm.  Leaves it, in case Francesca might want to cuddle.  She does.

“Did she say anything back?” Jesus wonders, putting his arm around her.

“Mmm...just that like...some events had to be adapted?” Francesca says it like a question.  “I mean, she’s the teacher.  She makes the rules.  So maybe it’s fair this way…” Francesca says, trying to convince herself.

“But does it feel fair to you?” Jesus asks.

Francesca shakes her head.  Tries to mash down her tears that wanna come.

“You can let it out,” Jesus tells her, quiet.  “I can deal.”

Francesca sniffs once, and then it’s like all the tears in the world are there.  Falling out of her eyes.  Mama stops by but Jesus just says he’s got this, and then Mama keeps going in the house.

“I didn’t want Mama to know…” Francesca admits after a bit.

“No?” Jesus checks.

“Mm-mm,” Francesca confirms.  “‘Cause if I get Mama involved, all the kids will say - and maybe even Mrs. Robbins - that because Mama’s the vice principal, that’s the reason I got ribbons.”

“Come on,” Jesus says, standing up from the swing and offering his hand.

“Where?” Francesca asks.

“To talk to your teacher,” Jesus says.

“You don’t have a car.  Jude has it.” Francesca points out.

“So?” Jesus asks.

“So, you hate walking to Anchor Beach…” Francesca reminds him, just in case Jesus forgot.

“I’m doing okay.  I’ve got my meds, so I can stay calm,” he reassures.  “And we’re going together.  Not by ourselves.  That’s important.”

Finally, Frankie relents and takes Jesus’s hand.  They start walking down the sidewalk together.  It’s a quick walk, but Jesus lets them go Francesca’s speed (sloth) not Jesus’s (gazelle).

They get to school in 15 minutes not 3 like when Jude runs there with Francesca on his back.  Francesca checks on Jesus.  He seems okay.

“You’re not gonna yell, are you?” Francesca checks.  “Or, like, embarrass me?”

Jesus stops short of going inside.  He sits on a big log thing with her.  “Okay.  This is good.  Let’s talk this through.  What do you want to have happen inside?”

“For Mrs. Robbins to let me have red, white and blue ribbons like everybody else.  Not baby red, yellow and blue stickers.  And for it to be because she knows it’s fair not because Mama’s the principal or another reason like that.”

“Well, we can’t control what she does.  But we can control what we say.  I’m gonna go find Principal Sanchez.  It’s still Sanchez, right?” he double checks.

“Yeah,” Francesca nods.

They walk inside.  And Jesus stops in the office.  Principal Sanchez is still there.  

“Jesus Adams Foster.  To what do I owe this pleasure?” she asks, and it’s super weird because their principal never usually talks like that.  Plus?  Jesus wasn’t that good of a student at Anchor Beach.  He even said.  It’s because of what happened to him.  That everyone treats him different.

Kinda like how everyone treats her different.  Except for different reasons.

“We need to speak with you...and the third grade gym teacher.  A Mrs. Robbins?  Is she still here?” Jesus checks.

“She is not,” Principal Sanchez says after clicking buttons and checking on her phone.  “She left for the day.  What can I help you with?”

Jesus raises his eyebrows at Francesca.  Probably to see if it’s okay to tell the Principal what’s going on without Mrs. Robbins.  It actually makes Francesca feel better this way.  She nods.

“Have a seat,” the principal invites.

Francesca gulps.  She hates being in the principal’s office.  Having Jesus with her helps, but just a little.

They sit down.  She really wants to sit on Jesus’s lap or in his chair next to him, but Francesca tries to be brave and sits in her own chair.

“You wanna tell your principal what Mrs. Robbins said to you today?” Jesus asks.

Francesca takes a deep breath.  She keeps looking at Jesus because it’s way easier to talk to him than it is to talk to Principal Sanchez.

“She asked me to wait a minute after class.  So all the other kids left, and then she said, ‘Francesca, I have to let you know that you won’t be able to earn a red, white or blue ribbon like the other kids on Track and Field Day.’”

Jesus looks concerned, and then he nods at her to keep going.  “Do you wanna share the rest?” he asks.

“You mean, like, when I asked why?” Francesca double-checks.

Jesus nods.

“So, I asked why...and she said, ‘Because we’re going to have to modify some of the events.’”  

Francesca keeps looking at Jesus.  He nods again, for her to finish, if she wants.

“The last thing she said is, ‘But you’ll still be able to earn a red, yellow or blue sticker!’”  Finally, feeling braver, Francesca turns to Principal Sanchez, “But stickers aren’t the same as ribbons.”

Principal Sanchez looks at Jesus.  “I’m sure you’re aware, we are a Charter school.”

“Yeah, I’m aware,” Jesus nods, like the principal said something obvious, which she did.  (Everybody knows Anchor Beach is a Charter School, it’s in the name!)

“So, I’m sure you know that while Charter schools are required by law to provide a fair and appropriate education to students with disabilities, a teacher is within her rights to make determinations on matters like this that don’t have to do with academia.”

Jesus shakes his head.  “I’m sorry.  I don’t follow.”

(Neither does Francesca.  Principal Sanchez uses way too many big words.)

“The students aren’t being graded on Track and Field Day,” Principal Sanchez says.  “As such, if Francesca’s not completing the events in the distance or time required to earn a ribbon, Mrs. Robbins is not legally obligated to provide her with one.  The stickers are a courtesy.”

Francesca doesn’t understand most of that, except that it sounds like Mrs. Robbins is going to be able to get away with giving Francesca baby stickers after all.

“The stickers are condescending,” Jesus says, his voice low and soft, but sure.  “And pitying.  And Francesca deserves to earn ribbons.  Like everyone else.”

“But it isn’t fair to the other kids,” Principal Sanchez objects.  “To have them know that there’s a child doing less work and getting rewarded for it?”

Francesca’s heart beats fast.  She knows that really is what the kids will think.

“It isn’t fair to Francesca,” Jesus maintains.  “Because, what you’re saying right now is...in order for her to have a chance at earning ribbons?  She’d have to finish events in unfair times. Do things unrealistic distances.  And that would take all the fun out of it.  She’d be working her tail off and come home exhausted!  Asking her to do these events without accommodating her is setting her up to fail.”

“We are accommodating her.” Principal Sanchez maintains.

“And punishing her for it,” Jesus insists.

Principal Sanchez raises her eyebrows.  

“You are.  You’re punishing her for needing help.  And that’s not a lesson I want my little sis learning.”

Francesca bites her lip.  She’s not so sure Jesus is gonna convince the principal.

“Come on,” he says, extending his hand.  

Francesca sighs and slides off the chair.  Takes Jesus’s hand.

“Anything else you wanna say?” Jesus asks.  “Or want me to say?”

Francesca turns, blinking back tears.  “Maybe the other kids will learn to help other kids.  To treat them with the same kind of respect and human stuff as everybody else.  You know...if you let me earn ribbons…”

Jesus says “good job” and squeezes her shoulders.  

They’re almost out the door, when Principal Sanchez says, “Wait.”

--

The next week, the sun is super hot in the sky.  All the kids are in their red shirts.  Mama’s here, but she’s watching all the kids.  Francesca glances at the sidelines.  Sees Jesus sitting by the edges with Dr. Hitchens, who is here just for fun, and for support for Jesus.  Even though, he’s too old to go see her now.

Jesus is here for Francesca.

She glances up at the bar above her.  (She’s so small she has to be lifted up.)  Mrs. Robbins says “Go!” and Francesca’s left alone on the bar, hanging on for as long as she can.  Jesus is cheering super loud on the sidelines.

At first it’s so super hard, Francesca’s sure she’s gonna fall, and then it gets easier.  She thinks about the note Principal Sanchez wrote that said Mrs. Robbins needed to give Francesca ribbons the same as other kids.  It was signed in her loopy cursive.  And dated, and had her email and office number, too, for if Mrs. Robbins had questions.

Be a sloth, Francesca.  Be a sloth. Sloths are so good at hanging and you’re so good at hanging, you could hang out here all day.

On Monday, everything had changed.  Mrs. Robbins was like, “My mistake, Francesca.  You’ll earn ribbons.”

She’s still hanging on, but it’s getting harder.  All the kids are cheering and it’s loud in her ears.  But she can hear Jesus the loudest.

When her arms give out, Mrs. Robbins is there to lift her down.

She waits until Francesca’s steady on her feet and announces loud enough for everybody to hear:

“1 minute and 27 seconds!  That’s a record, my dear!” Mrs. Robbins cheers.

The whole crowd of all the other kids are cheering, too, so Mrs. Robbins can’t hear Francesca ask at first.

“What’s that?” she wonders.

“With help?  Is it because you adapted for me?” Francesca checks.

“No way.  You hung out up there longer than any other student.”

It takes a minute for the pieces to click.  She went last.

“Wait.  So, I won?  For real?  I won this?” she asks.

“For real, you won this!  Come over here and get your ribbon!”

But Francesca runs past Mrs. Robbins at the ribbon-table and right to Jesus who hugs her so tight.

“Jesus!  I won!  I set the record!  I hung by my arms the longest in the whole school!” Francesca exclaims.

“I am so proud of you!  So, so proud!  Get up there!  Go get your ribbon!” Jesus says, smiling big at her.

She turns, and goes to the table.  And gets her real, actual ribbon she earned herself.

Everyone’s clapping.  

But she runs back to Jesus for another hug.

He asks Dr. Hitchens and Francesca if it’s okay for the doc to take a picture of him and Francesca and her first place arm hang ribbon.

Francesca says, “You bet it is.”

She presses her face right against Jesus’s.  

Holds up her ribbon.

Smiles.

That’s because kids at school just think he’s a bad kid.  He’s always in trouble for being out of his seat.  For talking.  For not focusing.  But it’s not his fault.  He just can’t.  

Now, he’s spraying the hose on Mari and Lexi and they’re screaming and laughing.  Brandon and Aidan dart through in their swim trunks.  Moms are out here by the garage watching.

Because it’s gonna be his and Mari’s adoption day tomorrow?  They get to pick family movie tonight.  So it’s The Pacifier time!  If Jesus can just convince Mariana that they don’t need to watch High School Musical again.

The hose is wrenched away from Jesus suddenly and he’s soaked.  His shirt.  His shorts.  Even his shoes and lucky pink laces.  Brandon’s got a mean smirk on his face.  Jesus narrows his eyes.  Goes into attack-mode.

Jesus jumps on Brandon, tackling him to the ground and jerking the hose away from him.  

“Hey!” Brandon yells.  “Mom!  Jesus is fighting!”

“No, I’m not!  You took my hose you freakin’ stupidhead!”  Jesus can’t call Brandon the names he really wants, or he’ll get grounded forever, so he’s stuck using baby ones he heard on Lilo & Stitch.

“Hey, Jesus!  Let go of the hose!” Stef insists, pulling him off Brandon.  “Let go of the hose, I said.”

Jesus glares at her, dropping it in the grass.  “I hope it gets your shoes wet…” he mumbles.

“Excuse me, young man.  You need to apologize to Brandon.”

“Sorry,” Jesus says, with an attitude, not even looking at Brandon.

“And apologize to me, please...the right way…” Stef warns softly.

Jesus drags his eyes up from the grass and looks into Stef’s.  “Sorry.”  He tries not to make it sound like he’s whining but he can’t help it.  

“Go change your clothes.  Now, please.” Stef directs.

Lena walks with Jesus in the house, like he’s some baby that can’t be trusted in there alone.  “I got it,” he grumbles, shrugging her hand off his shoulder.  

When Lena doesn’t immediately tell him to lose the attitude, Jesus takes the chance to explain his side.

“Brandon took the hose from me!  He didn’t even ask!”  Jesus can’t keep his anger in.  Sometimes, Lena’s on their side more than Stef.  Because she knows how Brandon can be an ass sometimes, but Stef just lets him do whatever.

Jesus is pretty sure that’s what it’s like having a bio mom who actually cares about what you do.

“Go change, please.  Put your wet clothes in the laundry room.  Then come back out here and we’ll talk.”

Jesus races through changing clothes.  Lena sends him back to pick up his wet clothes off his and Brandon’s bedroom floor.  He’s getting the feeling she doesn’t really wanna talk to him at all.

But she sits down at the kitchen table with him, after all.  “Jesus, when somebody takes something from you, you tell us.”

“Last time, you just said, ‘Work it out.’” Jesus pouts.  (It’s true.  How’s he supposed to keep track?)

“Working it out is not jumping on your brother in the yard,” Lena reprimands lightly.

“He’s not my brother,” Jesus sulks.

“He’s a human being.  And one of our expectations here is no violence.  Jumping on someone is violent.”

“What about taking their stuff?!” Jesus asks, indignant.

“The hose--”

“Without asking!” Jesus insists, jumping to his feet.

“We’re not talking about Brandon right now, Jesus.  We’re talking about you.  Sit down, please.”

Jesus does, mad.  He buries his face in his arms.  

“You didn’t meet three of our family expectations,” Lena explains, regretful.

“What?!”  Jesus asks, sitting up, fast.  “Three?!  You just said no violence!  That’s one!”

“I am right here.  I understand you’re upset.  But I need you to lower your voice, because yelling is disrespectful,” Lena explains.  

But nothing even makes sense at all.  Jesus wishes he were like Mari who could just turn off her talking if she got scared enough or decided not to, but for Jesus, it doesn’t work like that.

“I can’t help it!” he keeps right on yelling.  “It’s not fair!”

“Not meeting family expectations has consequences.  You know that.  So, because you were violent, you touched someone else without asking first and hearing yes, and you used inappropriate language--”

“What inappropriate language?!” Jesus yells.  “I didn’t!”

“Stupidhead isn’t appropriate,” Lena maintains.  

Tears are in Jesus’s eyes and he swipes them away, angry.  He’d been trying not to get in trouble by saying stupidhead and he’s in trouble anyway?  This is so not fair.

“That means, you sit by us outside.  No more playing with the hose.  And no choosing the movie.  We make unsafe choices, we what?” Lena cues.

“Lose privileges…” Jesus mumbles.

Jesus swallows his tears, because crying’s not going to change anything.  He follows Lena back outside.  Sits right between her and Stef.  Brandon’s on the other side of Stef.  He has to sit out, too.  But when he tries to say sorry Jesus just ignores him.  Watches Mari and Lexi and Aidan play.

When Mariana hears that Jesus can’t help pick the movie, she’s glad.  Jesus can see it.  She smiles and picks out High School Musical.  Jesus still has to sit between Stef and Lena on the couch.  Brandon and Mariana get to be on the floor.

“How come Brandon doesn’t have to be on the couch?” Jesus asks Lena.

“Brandon broke one expectation, love, not three.” Stef explains.

Jesus thinks about it.  Brandon was allowed to go back and play with the hose and Jesus wasn’t.  This is his third consequence.  So maybe when it’s all used up, everything will be normal again…

His brain screeches to a stop as Stef and Lena get up and start dancing with Mari to Stick to the Status Quo.  Picking the movie together was because of his and Mari’s adoption tomorrow.  If Jesus lost picking the movie, he probably lost being adopted, too.

Jesus can feel his body start shaking a little bit.  If he can’t get adopted that means he’ll have to get sent away.  All by himself, without Mari, even.  That never happened.  It was the scariest thing Jesus could think of.  But he did this.  He broke their family expectations.  

Maybe, he broke their family, even.

So, when the movie’s done, it’s time for bed.  He gets hugs and kisses from Stef and Lena.  They say good night.  He’s pretty sure.  They say it every night, but Jesus isn’t really listening tonight.  They’re not acting like he has to go yet.

Maybe tomorrow.

Jesus waits until Brandon is sleeping.  He gets out of bed.  Goes to the laundry room and puts on jeans and a sweatshirt and his shoes with pink laces that are still a little wet.  He walks by Mari’s room.  Her door is open like always.  She’s sleeping inside.

It wouldn’t be right to leave without saying goodbye to her.

“Bye,” he says softly.

Mariana squints at him in the hallway light.  “What?”

“Just bye,” Jesus insists.  Then, he keeps going down the hall.  Down the stairs.  The front door is locked with a high chain Jesus can’t reach without a chair or something.  So he goes to the back.

“What are you doing?” Mariana asks.

“Go back to bed, Mari,” Jesus complains, easing the back door open.

“No.  Where are you going?  We’re not allowed outside without adults, Jesus, remember?”

“Have fun getting adopted tomorrow,” he tells her and means it.  Feels like everything in him is being sucked down a ginormous drain.

“What are you talking about?  Jesus, stop.” Mari says.  She’s slid her way in front of the sliding glass door, arms spread, blocking it.  “You can’t leave.  It’s Jesus-and-Mariana.  We have to get adopted together.  Otherwise, I don’t wanna be adopted at all.”

“Yeah, you do, now move out of my way.  I’m not in this family, so it doesn’t matter if I break the expectations…” he warns, but his heart’s not in it.  Besides, he could never hurt his sister.

Mariana takes a deep breath.  Jesus thinks she’s gonna scream at the top of her lungs, but instead she calls, loud: “I really need some Reese’s Pieces!”

Jesus is beyond confused until he sees Stef and Lena coming down the stairs looking alarmed.  “What is it, my baby?  What’s going on?” Stef asks.

It clicks then.  Mariana’s used her secret safe word.  Jesus never knew it before right now.  Mariana still doesn’t know his.  But Jesus is pretty sure she could guess it if she tried.  He likes knowing they both chose candy.

“Jesus thinks he’s not getting adopted and he’s not in this family,” Mariana reports, looking worried.

“Tattletale!” Jesus exclaims.  

“And he’s trying to run away, I think!”

“Stop tattling everything I do!” Jesus yells.

“Jesus?  Is this true?” Lena asks.

He turns on her.  “Like you don’t know!  You took away my privileges!”  

His throat and nose are burning but Jesus won’t cry.  It won’t help.  It never does.  He always gets sent away anyway.  But he never thought they’d send him away without his sister.

“Jesus.  Slow down, bud, okay?  You want Mariana to stay while we talk to you?” she asks.

He nods.  Thinks about his skateboard in the garage.  Or maybe his bike.  Wonders which one would take him farther away faster.

“You did lose privileges.  I told you which ones, right?  Do you remember?” Lena asks, her voice gentle.

“Sit by you, no more hose and no picking the movie,” he recites.  (Jesus remembers every bad thing he does.)

“Right.  So what makes you think that you’re not in this family?  That you’re not getting adopted tomorrow?  Jesus, I never said that.  I would never say that.”

“Picking the movie together was for getting adopted.  If I don’t get to pick the movie, I don’t get adopted.  Whatever.”  Jesus shrugs.

“Bud, you do get adopted tomorrow with your sister. You are in this family.  Getting to pick the movie tonight was never proof of you getting adopted.” Lena explains.

“It was to me,” Jesus says softly, not looking at her.

“Jesus,” Lena tries again.  “I am so sorry.  I should have explained that better.  You are being adopted tomorrow.  With Mariana.”

“But like...how sure are you?” Jesus checks.

“One-hundred percent positive,” Lena tells him.  “And family is not a privilege, honey.  It’s your right.”

“For you it’s a right,” Jesus corrects softly.  “For us, maybe, it feels like...more shaky.  Like...you guys know how bad we want a family.  How bad we wanna stay together.  And maybe if I was bad enough, you’d take that away, ‘cause of how you’re always saying in order for a consequence to be a consequence we have to care about losing it.”

“What are you saying, Jesus?” Lena asks.

“Nothing...just...I care about losing this.”

He swipes his arm roughly across his eyes again.

“You will never have to lose us, my baby,” Stef says.  “Now.  May I please cuddle you in my arms and cover you in kisses?” she asks.

Jesus takes a step back.  “No.  Maybe tomorrow.”

He reaches out for Mari’s hand, feeling relieved when her fingers grip his hand - lock to key.  

Halfway to the stairs, he turns and looks at Stef and Lena.  “Thank you for not making me go.  And for not taking away my adoption even though I was bad.”

“You’ve got a home with us forever, bud.”

“It’s not forever until tomorrow,” Jesus says, looking back over his shoulder.

Stef and Lena are following him and Mariana, maybe to tuck them back in - maybe just on their way to their own bed?  

“Sleep on it,” Lena encourages.  “Tomorrow will be here before you know it.”

“And then I’ll be your son forever?” Jesus checks.  (He’s let go of Mariana’s hand.  Stef is tucking her in again.  He’s getting tucked in by Lena.)  “You won’t forget about me?  Or give me away?”

“Not ever,” Lena insists.  

“Will you stay here?” Jesus asks, yawning.

“How about...we both promise to stay here?  No running away.  Even when we get scared.” Lena asks.

“If I really did run away, I’d never go by myself anyway.  I’d never go without Mari.”

“I know.  And I’d never go anywhere without you both either.  You’re my heart.  Both of you.”

“Okay,” Jesus sighs.  “Can you please stop talking so I can sleep?  So it can be tomorrow?”

“You bet.”

On the way out, she caught sight of the car - an eyesore if she’s ever seen one: lime green.  Four doors.  Parked right by the elementary school.  The driver’s got binoculars.

Nia normally wouldn’t confront anybody like this, much less a man, as a single woman.  But she has Mom’s great dane at her side.  Parks him right in the way of the man with the binoculars, spying on the schoolkids.

The driver rears back, realizing his view is obscured.  Startled by the dog.  It being the size of a small horse and all.

The man clears his throat.

“Excuse me?  Ma’am?  Would you mind moving your dog?”

“I would mind.  I would mind very much.  See, this is Vader.”  (Nia has the joy of seeing the man in the lime green car gulp.  Must know his Star Wars.)  “And Vader doesn’t take to men who lurk and spy on kids in the schoolyard.”

Vader gives the man the hairy eyeball.  Very effective.

“Okay.  Well, please tell Vader that this ain’t what it looks like.  I’m here because I’m checking on my daughter.  She’s ten.  But I can’t see her out here anywhere.  Maybe they moved...” he ventures under his breath, sounding lost at the possibility.

“Most people’d just go to the front desk and ask at the school.  Better yet, go home and knock on the door,” Nia points out, crossing her arms.

“Afraid I can’t do that, ma’am.  Her mother and I are estranged.  It’s a long story.  Any way I’ve tried to see her legally?  Gets blocked.  So I’m stuck out here.  Pair of binoculars and no dignity.”

“You sure you got a daughter?” Nia asks, still not willing to let Binoculars off the hook.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, and digs in his pocket.  “This is Pearl.  She was four here.  The last time I saw her.”

Nia stares at the picture.  At the man in it, who looks so much younger, despite the date on the front stating the picture was only taken six years earlier.  Both of them seem so happy.

After a minute, she extends a hand through the open window.  “Nia Major.”

“Paris West,” he returns, shaking her hand.

--

Nia and Paris end up seeing each other here and there in town for years.  For a while, they go to the same church.  After a year, he finally accepts her invitation to go out for a cup of  coffee, but insists he’s not looking for anything other than a conversation partner.

Makes it clear that after his last relationship, his trust is good and dented.  And it’s gonna take a while to trust a woman again - even the good ones.

They have coffee once a week for a good year or two in a row.  She asks about Pearl.  He checks in on Vader.  They discuss life, and faith.  Things that matter.  Then, Nia’s job transfers her suddenly, and she’s got to take it or risk losing the position altogether.

It all happens so fast, there isn’t time to say goodbye to Paris in person.

They transition to letters.

He is her one constant, writing every single week, regardless of if Nia finds time to squeeze in a reply.  

In 2001, the letters stop.

--

It’s the end of January, 2002. Seven months shy of ten years to the day when Nia first caught Paris with the binoculars, checking on his daughter.  There’s a knock on her door.

It’s him.  “I wondered if you’d like to come out with me for a cup of coffee,” he says, like no time at all has passed.  “I mean, assuming you haven’t settled down…”

“Paris!” Nia greets, her smile so big it’s about to crack her face in two.  She throws her arms around him.  “You know settling doesn’t suit me.  I’ll get my coat.”

They go for coffee, just a cup.  Five hours later, they’re still there.

“So, how’s Pearl?  She’s got to be, what, in college now?  Have you all managed to reconnect?”

“I wouldn’t know,” he says, swallowing.  “I really wouldn’t have the faintest idea.”

“Why?  What happened?” Nia asks, concerned.  It’s been no secret for as long as they’ve been friends that he’s been holding onto this hope.  That once Pearl turned eighteen, she’d get in touch.  It’s why he hung around Brainerd so long.

“I keep writing her, Nia.  Not just holidays and birthdays.  I’ve written her every single week since the day I left.  Not one reply.  I’ve stopped by the house a time or two.  Driven by, but I never see her.  I don’t know if she’s forgotten me.  If she thinks I don’t care.  Or if her mother’s doing her best to keep us separated.  But I waited, Nia.  Seven months of waiting since she turned eighteen and nothing.  Not one word.”

“I’m sorry, Paris.  I know how much you love her,” Nia says and means it.

“So, I figured.  I spent enough time wallowing.  Time to get myself to Colorado and check in on my favorite person.”  He offers her a smile.

“What?” Nia looks around comically.  “Me?  I’m your favorite person?”

“That, you are,” he nods.  “So, I’m not getting any younger.  What do you say, we get ourselves married?”

“Uh…  Excuse me?” she stutters, nearly spitting out her coffee.

“I’m pushing 50 years old.  It’s time I start living my life again.  Wanna live it with me?” he asks.

--

They marry in August.

By September (and feeling about like Sarah in the Bible) Nia’s pregnant.  They pray together about what the baby’s name should be.  They can only come up with one option.

--

Levi Paris West is born on June 10, 2003 at 10:20 AM.  

He comes via scheduled C-section, and when the doctor says that’s the soonest available time, it doesn’t even hit Nia.  Not until after Levi’s been in the world several hours.

Not til Paris is holding him.  And Nia’s in the bed still recovering.

“You and your big sister share a birthday, you know that?” he asks little Levi.

Nia can’t respond.  She’s too spent to say anything.

In fact, it’s not til Lev’s about 2 months old that Nia can properly follow up about it.

“Paris,” she asks, finding him awake for Levi’s 4 AM feeding and taking care of everything before she’d been able to even fully wake up.

“Yes, dear?” he asks as Levi takes his bottle hungrily.

“Just wanna say...I didn’t know...about it being Pearl’s birthday and all.  I mean, I knew.  I just...I didn’t think about it.  And if it was hard for you…  Well, I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

Paris nods at her to come in. He stands, leaving the rocking chair free for her to sit in.

“Doesn’t bother me.  It was fate,” Paris says, walking easily back and forth, patting Levi’s back like a pro until a loud burp escapes.

“Fate?  Paris West, we don’t believe in fate,” Nia admonishes lightly, a smile on her lips.

“Whatever the case...I think it was the plan all along.  And how can I be upset about a miracle like this?  A little spirit meant to be?” Paris holds Levi close, rocking him.  

She falls asleep to him asking the baby, “Do you wanna be an astronaut?”

--

It’s September of 2004, and their baby, Levi is growing by leaps and bounds.  Nia gets the joy of learning more and more about his personality.  And so far?  She knows he loves Vader.

Everything Nia’s ever read says that Great Danes don’t live much past eight to ten years.  But Vader has defied expectation.  Eleven years old and going strong.  Lets Levi chase him and lie on him and all kinds of things.  There are moments it looks like the giant dog could gobble up tiny Levi in two bites, an instead, Vader’s tongue is out licking Levi’s whole face and Levi’s laughing a great big belly laugh.

Nia’s a little concerned.  That Levi’s not started talking yet.  She’s tried not to overthink it.  She’s heard it said that boys talk later than girls.  Nia has it on good authority that Levi understands a good deal of what she says.  And even what he doesn’t?  She makes sure to simplify, so he can get it.  Babies are smart.  Nia’s sure about this.

Paris is just getting home from a long day at work, when Vader (whom Paris affectionately calls “hellhound”) lets out a happy bark.  

Seconds later, a smaller human bark follows.

Nia double takes, at Levi waiting at the door with Vader.  Both barking in anticipation of seeing their daddy.

(A few months later, Levi’s real first word comes.  Surprising to absolutely no one?  It’s “Puppy.”  Vader licked him good for that.  It was like he knew.)

--

Levi’s just a little older than two years old when Nia finds the recipe for Mexican lasagna.  Has got to try it.  She sets Levi up on a chair next to her at the table while she arranges the ingredients in front of them.

When it’s time to get cooking, she sets Levi far back away from the stove, giving him the bag of shredded cheese to hold.  

“You hold onto that cheese for Mommy, okay?” she asks.

“‘Kay,” Levi answers.

“Good job,” Nia tells him and gets busy at the stove.  Seems like two seconds pass and she turns around.  Sees Paris with the video camera.  Baby Levi with an empty bag of cheese.

“Uh-oh!  Levi, where’s Mommy’s cheese at?” Nia asks, a smile on her face.

“Ah-gone!” he shows her the bag, with wide brown eyes, cheese crumbs all around his mouth.

“All gone?” she asks.  “Where’d it go?”  

“Ah-gone, Mommy!  Ah-gone!” Levi glances around.

“You gonna find it for Mommy?” Nia asks, gasping for breath through her laughter.

“‘Kay,” Levi nods, and climbs down off the chair, still toting the empty cheese wrapper in his fist.  He checks under the table.  In the garbage.  Even in Daddy’s pockets.

“No cheese?” Nia asks, drying her tears.

“No cheese, Mommy.  Sorry.”  Now, Levi looks contrite.

“Oh, it’s alright, son.  We’re gonna be just fine.”

Paris walks into the kitchen, hugs Nia.  Levi caught between them.  The baby reaches up for Paris’s hat that’s been around for at least 20 years, if Nia’s guess is correct.  Levi takes it off his Daddy.  Puts it on himself.  Grins.

“Tell Mommy, ‘No Sweat!’ Paris grins at Levi.

“Mommy, puppy eat that cheese…” Levi says, looking at Vader seriously.

--

They lose Vader when Levi’s 3.

It’s harder than Nia ever imagined.

Levi wants to sleep with the dog’s blanket.  Is convinced that when he is “all done playing” Vader will “come back.”

No matter what they say to Levi, they cannot convince him otherwise.

--

June, 2007 came and Levi turned four.  Had a Clifford the Big Red Dog party (of course.)  In September, he started preschool.  Was nervous to ever leave Nia’s side, but Paris promised to wait outside all day in case Levi needed him.

“Honey, don’t you think that’s a little over the top?” Nia asks.

Paris just raises his eyebrows.  Levi finally stops crying.  “You come to school with me?” he asks.

“You bet.  Daddy will be there.  All day.”

“Protecting me?” Levi asks, wiping his eyes.

“Yes, sir,” Paris nods.

They go out the door together.

That Friday, somehow, all of Paris’s precautions seem just extreme enough to protect their son.  Nia can’t look away from the news.

“Honey, did you hear?” she asks, when Paris calls from work.

“Hear what?” he asks.

“A little boy got kidnapped out in California,” Nia relays in a hush, aware that Levi’s in the back seat now.  That she just picked him up from preschool.  “I heard it on the scanner.”

“Say a prayer for him.  That’s about all we can do.” Paris says.

“That’s it, and that’s a lot,” Nia decides.  “Love you, baby,” she says, hanging up the call.

“Mommy?  Is that boy sleepin’” Levi wonders.

“What, Levi?”

“That California-boy?  Is he sleepin’?” her son persists, staring at her from the back seat, his brown eyes wide and innocent.

“I hope so, Levi.  I really do hope so.  Hagrid, get back,” Nia warns, waving their English Mastiff puppy to the back seat.  Hagrid ignores her and continues wedging his head in between the seats.

“Get back here, Hagrid,” Levi giggles.  

She was outgoing, precocious, fun.  He was shy and quiet.  Could barely get his name out of him when the teacher took roll call in the morning.  Looked fit to pass out when he was picked to be leader for the day, while Jaimie said her daily “Here!” with gusto.  Pride.  While Jaimie led the Pledge of Allegiance, never needing to be told her right hand from her left.

Michael never did either.  He always knew.

They didn’t really talk.  Boys and cooties.  (Cooties were real, 6-year-old Jaimie was positive.)  But when she tripped over her shoelaces and fell on the playground, and all the other kids laughed and pointed?  It was Michael who came and tied her shoe for her - double-knotting it like a pro.

Then asking “You okay?” and offering her a hand up.

Jaimie told him yes, she was.  But didn’t take his hand.

But she remembers one time.  There was a spelling test, and Michael, definitely the best speller in first grade, had that fit to pass out look again.  Sweating.  Shaky.  Breathing fast.

Before the test started, Jaimie nudged him, whispering:

“Y-O-U A-R-E S-M-A-R-T.”

Hoping none of the other kids could spell as fast or as well, and none would overhear.  None did.

And Michael calmed down.  And he aced that test.

--

Jaimie didn’t see Michael Williams again until high school.  

So much had changed.  She had changed.

But the best parts of Michael hadn’t.  She remembered being surprised seeing him at his locker the first day of school - the one right beside hers.

“Hey.  Remember me?” he asked quietly.

And for the first time in years, a genuine smile grew right there on Jaimie’s face.

“Of course,” she nodded.  “Yeah, I remember you.”

They caught up between classes when they could.  They didn’t have any together, but Jaimie wished they did.  Like, really wished.  She did have plenty of classes with Rozariah Miller, her best friend, since the fourth grade.  She had a twin brother, Royal, and the three of them hung out.  A lot.

The thing is, now, Jaimie was kinda wanting Michael to come hang out, too.  But she wasn’t sure how Roz and Royal were about to take it.

“Oh, Michael Williams?” Royal asks, lighting up when Jaimie tests the waters.  “He’s cool.  He’s in my Honors English class.  Knows every single answer.  You want me to see if he wants to hang?”

--

By sophomore year, they’re dating, though Jaimie’s mom was firm on the idea that she not date til she was 16.  Jaimie invited Michael over, so he and Mom could get to know each other a little bit.  So Mom could feel more at ease around him.

“I don’t want y’all going anywhere just the two of y’all and gettin’ all hot and heavy…” Mom warned.

“No, ma’am.” Michael answers, before Jaimie can utter one embarrassed word.

“We were just gonna hang out with the Millers.  You know, as friends…” Jaimie insists.

“As long as you kids stay together.  No sneaking off.  You hear?”

“Yes, ma’am.  I hear you,” Jaimie nods.  “Love you, Mama.”

“Love you, baby.  Michael, you seem like a sweet child, but if I hear one word about you treating Jaimie wrong, you’re gonna wish you hadn’t,” Mama warns.

“Yes, ma’am,” Michael nods.  “I mean, no, ma’am.  I’d never treat her wrong, ma’am.”

--

Kids at school were mean.  To Rozariah and Royal, especially when they started going out as a whole group - the two of them - Jaimie and Michael.  Kids said the twins were dating each other.  Jaimie and Michael knew it was ridiculous.  Roz and Royal knew it, too, but their words still hurt.

They tried not to let it bother them as they’d go to the movies or for ice cream.

Before Jaimie knew it, it was the summer before senior year.  She and Michael had been dating 15 months.  Well, hanging out as a group, but still, it counted.

Michael had a way of paying attention to detail.  Of getting Jaimie exactly what she would have gotten herself.  He came into their aisle with a large bucket of popcorn, a Butterfinger and a Coke, all dropped off for her, as they settled in to check out this new Tom Hanks comedy, Big.

“How’d you know?” Jaimie asked, incredulous.

“I’m still pretty S-M-A-R-T…” Michael whispered in her ear.

Jaimie smirked, as he settled in between Royal and Roz, and Rozariah whispered in her ear.

“He knows what you like to eat!”

“Would you shut up?” Jaimie laughed.  “I know he knows what I like to eat!  We been dating each other more than a year.  If he didn’t know by now I’d be a little concerned.  Watch the movie…” But Jaimie’s heart still stuttered that extra beat thinking about how sweet it was.  For Michael to pay such close attention like he did.  That he cared so much about what made her happy.  Even if it was a giant tub of popcorn, a giant candy bar and a Coke.

“Fine,” Rozariah settles back in her seat and they watch.  All the while, Jaimie, tuned into Michael’s laugh.

At the end of the movie, they exit the theater, feeling that odd disappointment that it was time to face the real world again.  Jaimie went to Roz’s car, and before she could even open the door, Michael was there.

“I got it.  I got it.”

“Thanks.  And thank you...for the snacks…” she said, their faces just inches from each other.

They both leaned in, instinct.  Their lips touched.  “Mmm, you taste like grape soda.”

“You taste like Butterfinger, popcorn, and every one of my dreams, Jaimie Carter.”  He said, meaning every word.

Jaimie blushed and looked away.

“Okay, break it up, break it up,” Royal insisted comically butting between them.  “Michael, let’s go.”

“I’m going,” Michael echoed but remained rooted to the spot, staring at Jaimie.

“You wanna stand here in the parking lot while Jaimie, Roz and I go back home?  That’s cool,” Royal said easily, getting in his own car and revving the engine.

“See you back there,” Michael murmured.

“See you.” Jaimie whispered, her hand to her lips.

--

“You know, we dated for almost a decade?” Michael asked, alone in the dark of their first apartment.

“I do, in fact, know that,” Jaimie nodded, snuggled up to him in their too-small, perfect sized bed.  “It’s about time we did this…”

“What?  Got married?” Michael asked, leaning down to kiss her again.

“Mmm-hmm.  So happy Roz and Royal could come,” Jaimie remarked.

“Jaim, I love me a little R & R, okay?  But the two of them?  Have been on every single date with us.”

Jaimie wrinkled her brow.  “They have not.  We didn’t even go to college together.  It was you and me.”

“And you calling Rozariah every night after every single date.”

“Can I help it if she’s like my sister?” Jaimie scoffed.  “You called Royal.”

“He’s my man,” Michael said, feigning hurt.

“We don’t have to make our marriage a twin-free zone, do we?” Jaimie asked.  “I don’t wanna be one of those couples who has no friends outside of each other.”

“Nah, babe, I don’t want that either,” Michael agrees.  “But we’re best friends?”

“Always.”

--

Two years later, in October, Jaimie goes into labor at home.  

Thank God it’s a Saturday.  Thank God Michael’s there.  Because there is no way Jaimie would be able to do this alone.

Turns out, their baby waits for no one.  Not even her Mama to get to the car.  Jaimie stops as contractions seize her.  And cannot move.

Michael calls 911 because he can see the head.

“Michael Williams, don’t you dare pass out on me,” Jaimie gasps in the midst of contractions.

“They’re saying don’t push,” he says, and it’s ludicrous, because Jaimie is not in control right now.  

“She’s coming, Michael.  I have to push!”

She’s out in three.  Three pushes is all it takes to deliver their sweet baby, Dominique Nora Williams.  6:23 PM.  In their living room.  The ambulance arrives minutes later.

Dominique has a healthy cry.  She looks big.  (And weighs in later at a healthy eight pounds even.)  She has dark hair and beautiful brown eyes, which she opens to stare right at Jaimie.

They go home again as a family two days later.  The nursery she and Michael worked on together is perfect.  Decorated with pale yellow, white and gray.  Giraffes and elephants on the wallpaper border.

Jaimie doesn’t take naturally to being  a parent.  It’s hard.  Breastfeeding hurts - they never tell you that!  But Dom bites, especially when she starts cutting teeth.  Jaimie’s got all kinds of hormone problems, crying all the time, like Kirstie Alley in that Look Who’s Talking movie from the year they graduated high school.

(Oh, well, at least Jaimie knows she’s kinda normal.)

It helped that her mom was here to help the first couple weeks - thrilled that baby Dominique has her first name as a middle name.  Michael’s mom comes, too.  Later, and any help they can get is appreciated.

It takes until Dominique is about eight months old for Jaimie to even start feeling like she has a handle on things.

It hits her how lucky they are.  Dominique’s happy.  Babbling.  Eating well.  She’s loved.  She cries when she or Michael (especially Michael) even goes into the next room.  It’s hard on her that Daddy goes to work.  And she looks out the window each afternoon, slobbering on the glass in the window, pounding on it, screaming, “BabababaBABA!” until he gets there, swinging her into the air and making her giggle.

--

Her first real word comes just after she turns 1:

“I love you, baby,” Jaimie greets her, after naptime, one day.  (The same thing they say to her first thing in the morning, at night before bed, and several times throughout every day.)

“Awuy, bay-bee,” Dominique repeats, hugging Jaimie around the neck hard.

She reaches for Michael, who, thank God, came in behind her:

“Awuy, bay-bee,” she repeats, reaching and reaching for him.

“Dominique Williams.  Did you just say, ‘I love you, baby,’ to Mama and Daddy?” Jaimie asks, incredulous.

She nods, her head resting on Michael’s shoulder.

--

Jaimie doesn’t think much about it, until she has no choice but to think about it.

She’s mentioned it to Michael.  Briefly.  In a “a lot can change in eight years” kinda way in college when things started moving from kissing to more than kissing.

“Stuff happened to me.  As a kid, Michael.  And I don’t wanna talk about it.  Don’t know how to talk about it.  Just be careful.  And please don’t ask me.”

He’d respected that.  All these years and he’s never asked about it once.  He does ask if she’s okay, when she gets quiet, or worried.  But he’s never seen her panic.  She’s never seen it herself, ‘til it happens.  One day in January, 2001.

Two-year-old Dominique’s in the stroller, talking a mile a minute:

“Mama, I have gum?  Please?”

“Baby, I don’t want you having gum.  It’s gonna get everywhere,” Michael balks.

“I wanna have gum,” she whines.  “The ball kind.”

“Okay.  Let’s discuss it together, should we?” Jaimie interjects.

“Yes.  ‘Scuss it.  Annen I have it.”

“If we tell her what to do with it, she’ll learn.  Or she won’t,” Jaimie encourages.  “We can’t keep her in a bubble, Michael.”  

“But I want to,” Michael objects, sweetly, giving Jaimie a kiss.

“I know, but she’s a child, not a toy.  We gotta let her experience stuff.  Even gum…” she wrinkles her nose.

They talk to Dominique about gum.  Jaimie explains it’s a special candy that you chew.  “Not swallow.  When you’re done chewing, you spit it in a tissue.  Understand?”

“Yes, ma’am!” Dominique smiles.

“Good.  Now, you hang in there.  Do your best to be very good, and then on our way out, we’ll get a gumball.”

“I want yellow!”

“We don’t get to say what color we get,” Michael warns.  “Might be yellow.  But it might be another color.  Make sense?”

“But I want yellow gum, Daddy.”

“I hear you wanting yellow gum, babe, I do.  But Daddy can’t guarantee you yellow gum.  I’m sorry.”

“Yes, you can!  You big and strong!  For making yellow gum! ‘Kay, Daddy?”

Jaimie’s in the cereal aisle trying to pick out plain Cheerios without Dominique wanting every sugary kind there is, when she glances up.  Sees somebody who looks just like….

Her vision goes dim.  She can’t breathe.  Drops the cereal.  Turns desperate eyes to Michael.

“What is it?  Jaimie?” he asks.  

But she can’t answer.  Her eyes are full of fear, darting.  This is the part of life she never told Michael about so how will he know how serious this is?  Will he get it?  Will he believe her?  Help her?  God, she needs to get out of this damn store.  

Twenty-nine, and feeling every bit the child she’d been then.

“Okay.  It’s okay.  Jaim.  Leave the groceries.  We’ll go, okay?” he promises.

Jaimie clings to his arm as they leave the store.  Dominique’s sobbing and lunging at the gumball machine as they pass it.

“I bery good, Mama!  I bery good!” she sobs.

Jaimie’s crying, too.  

Somehow, Michael gets them all in the car.  Somehow, above the din, Michael can be heard, singing I Like to Be Told from Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood.  Dominique is a big fan.  And Jaimie and Michael are big fans of songs that help Dominique sort out what she’s feeling and why.

It fits for Jaimie, too.  Everybody could use a little warning before their life gets spun and turned on its head.

Michael takes the time to explain to Dominique, who he is sure, even if she can’t understand every single word, understands more than they think she does.  Says he knows she likes to be told what’s happening.  And sometimes surprise things happen.  

“Big feelings come, poof!  Like magic, and change our plans.  Even for mommies and daddies.  Sometimes big feelings come too fast to tell each other.  But we all love each other still.  And it’s gonna be okay.  Daddy says it’s gonna be okay.”

“I want yellow gum,” Dominique says, quiet, in between gasps.  Tears still drying on her face.

“I know you do, Dom. and I know we said you could.  Mommy’s having some big feelings right now, so we gotta be with her.  And I won’t forget your yellow gum.  I know that matters to you.”

“Mommy, you havin’ big feelings?” Dominique asks.  “You cry?”

Jaimie can’t answer.  

“She’s having some big feelings.  But it’s okay to have big feelings, right?”

Dominique hesitates.

“What do Mommy and Daddy say when you’re having big feelings?”

Dominique fidgets with her carseat strap.  

“We say, ‘It’s okay.  Your big feelings matter,” Michael tells her, giving Dominique the words.

Jaimie feels like such a failure.  She can’t do anything.  She’s scaring her baby.

Dominique is still whimpering as Michael pulls into the local Dollar Store parking lot.  Jaimie’s frozen in the seat, not ready to get out and face anybody.

“You gonna stay here?  Dominique and I are gonna be right back.”

Jaimie can’t imagine what Michael’s buying right now, but they did just leave all their groceries behind.

In minutes, they come back out.  Dominique singing, I Like to Be Told with Michael now.  In her little hands, she’s carrying bubbles.

When they get home (which Jaimie can’t recall) she, Michael and Dominique all hang out on the deck.  Michael blows bubbles and Dominique shrieks and runs around popping each one.

It’s the day Jaimie decides she’s gotta get some help.

--

Dominique turns 3 at the end of 2001.  Has a Dragon Tales party and then gets to sleep over at Grandma Nora’s for the first time.  She comes home talking about Sesame Street and gingerbread cookies and Garfield sleeping bags.

Produces pages and pages of paper where Dominique has printed, in all caps, the sentence, I AM DOM.  She is beyond proud of herself.  Beaming.

“I’m three and I can write now!” she shares.  “Look at all this I wrote!”

“That’s so good!  Dominique, we’re so proud of you!  Did you and Gran have a good time?”

She nods, snuggled up against them.

Jaimie and Michael hang up every single paper.

--

In 2003, sometime after Dominique turns 4, the teacher calls Jaimie and Michael in for a meeting.

“You know your daughter’s printing?” the teacher asks.

Jaimie can’t read her tone.  It’s cryptic.

“Yes, we encourage her at home,” Jaimie offers.

“You know she’s reading?”  Now, it’s clear.  The teacher, maybe 22, is scoffing.

“Starting to, yes,” Michael nods.  

“She’s yelling out words during storytime.  It’s disruptive.  And her boasting about all the words she can print is hurting the other children’s feelings.”

“Are you suggesting we discourage her?” Michael asks, and Jaimie puts a hand on his arm.

“I got this.  Ma’am?  Dominique’s a good girl.  She really is.  She’s just proud of what she’s learning.”

“Maybe this isn’t the best place for her,” the teacher responds, finally coming to the point of the conference.

“You know what?” Jaimie asks.  “Maybe it isn’t.”

Michael follows her out, after Jaimie makes it official and withdraws Dominique.

In the car, he finally asks:  “So, what now?”

“I’m done with my counseling.  I can get a job anywhere, and you did just get that great offer in San Diego.  Maybe it’s time to make a move.”

He turns to her, and smiles, nervous.  “You know I don’t do change well.”

“I know,” she nods.

“But I’d go anywhere with you...and our gifted and talented daughter.”

She leans over.  Kisses him gently.  Briefly.

They get home and Dominique runs into their arms.  “Did my teacher tell you how smart I am?!” she asks, braids and beads bouncing everywhere.  Grandma Nora appears behind her.

“How smart are you?” Michael cues, knowing Dominique is asking to fill in this blank:

“S-M-A-R-T!”

“That’s right.  And your teacher told us you are so smart, you get to go to a whole different school!  What do you think of that?”

“With you and Mama, and Gran?” Dominique checks.

“Absolutely.  All of us together,” Michael reassures.

“Yay!”  Dominique cheers.  “We’re going on a adventure!” she wiggles to get put down and takes off.

“I think we made the right choice,” Michael muses.

Her birthday.  She’d come to them in June, just after school let out (as was her way) to let them know her earliest thoughts on all things birthday.  

Was always a big planner.

Is.

She is a big planner.  Jaimie knows she’s out there somewhere.

So, because Dominique loves a good plan - gets that from Michael - Jaimie’s just sure - she believed that they needed four months of lead time to get used to the idea that Dominique was over the bounce house thing this year, and would like to do something more grown up.

Turned out, Dom wasn’t wrong.  It took Micheael about three of the four months lamenting how their baby was growing up.  How Can She Be Over Bounce Houses eventually turned into Soon She’ll Want Earrings and then to She Won’t Be My Little Girl Anymore.

But once Michael worked through all the stages of dealing with the fact that babies grow up, he was so on board for that final month.  For all of September he was calling places every spare minute, doing research when he wasn’t working, about what was “in” or “cool” for 11 year olds these days.

And it was Michael who found (and booked) Zombie Detective.  A thing where you get two adults and however many children in a room and they have to stay away from the zombie and solve hidden clues to escape.

Jaimie hadn’t been sold on the idea.  Dominique was smart.  A natural at practically everything she tried.  She was easily bored.

But when they surprised her, and her two best friends - Jennah and Sharna - those three were like the Three Musketeers - Dominique was over the moon.  And Michael?  Was just as into it as she was.

They set a record, those two.  As Jennah and Sharna tried desperately to keep up and Jaimie stood back with her phone, recording.  (At the time, Michael was on her about joining in, but now?  Jaimie’s so glad she has that video.)

Jaimie watches it probably twenty times a day.  The look on Dom’s face - how she broke into the biggest smile when they figured out the final clue together and they escaped.

She looked right into the camera and said, “We did it, Mommy!  I got us out!”

Jaimie remembers the hug, just after the video cuts.  How Dominique felt, held safely against her.

“Ugh, my little zombie escape artist, I love you!  I am so proud of you!”

Now, Jaimie can’t stop being glad that she told Dominique she was loved.  That her mom was proud of her.  Never knowing that in seven days time, she’d just be gone.

--

Realizing Dominique was missing?  

That’s all a blur.

All a major blur.  

Michael remembers it was Saturday, a week to the day after Dominique turned eleven and together, they saved Dominique’s two best friends, and Jaimie from zombies.  (Totally worth the $350 he dropped reserving the whole room for just the five of them?  To have that moment with his baby girl?  Well, it was priceless…)

“Team Williams for the win!” he’d said, and she’d giggled.  

“We set the record?  Really?” she’d wondered, so excited.  So driven - always - to do her best, to be her best.

That memory screeches to a halt like a record on one of his grandmothers’ records on a bad day.

Time jumps.

It’s Saturday again.

Afternoon.  (He and Jaimie did drop off but pickup was a solo mission.)

He parked and waited, ‘cause Dominique hated it when he showed up early, telling her he wasn’t a regular dad, he was a cool dad.  So, he waited until she could not legitimately be embarrassed by her Cool Dad.  He walked in.

Saw other little girls walking out.

One, Jennah Solomon, Dominique’s first best friend, lights up when she sees his face.  “Mr. Williams!  Hi!  Is Dominique feeling better?”

His brain screeches again.  That record scratched.  Damaged.  Never playing the same again.

“What do you mean?” he’d asked, a smile still on his lips.  It falters.  “Did she get sick?  Is she hurt?”

“No, I mean...I don’t know.  She didn’t come in.”

“What do you mean she didn’t come in?” Michael asks, over-enunciating, and itching to hold onto Jennah by the shoulders.  “She was waiting for you by the doors, right?  You walked in together.”

“No, I came last minute.  No one was outside.  I came in and looked around.  She wasn’t there.”

A blur of looking for Dominique.  Of trying to remember what she had on.  Of tearing the car apart for the little directory sent home with all the names and numbers on it of all the girls Dom cheers with.

One after another.  After another.  As Michael called.  Asked and hoped and prayed and willed it - that somebody might know where Dominique was.

But none of the cheer moms had her at their house.  (One of the girls said, she’d seen Dominique talking to Brittany, but Michael reread the damn directory 17 times.

32 names.  

Not one Brittany.

Calling Jaimie, Michael felt frantic.  Like he’d swallowed stones.

“Babe, I just got to work.  What’s up?” Jaimie had asked, sounding so normal.

He dragged in a breath and said the words that would break her world:

“Dominique’s missing.  Nobody’s seen her in two hours, babe.”

“Michael, don’t play me like that.  She’s at cheerleading.  You gotta go pick her up.”

“I am.  I am here, Jaimie, but she isn’t.  I’m telling you.  Something happened.”

Silence.  Long.  Agonizing.

Then:

“I’m coming right now.”

Click.

--

They called police and they showed up.  Then they gave the third degree about what kind of girl Dominique was.  If she was the type to run away.  If there were family problems.  Jaimie answered each question as clearly and calmly as possible.  Shared that Dominique was a straight A student.  Didn’t matter.

When the cops left with a “she’ll turn up,” over their shoulder, Jaimie knew this wasn’t about to be any Jesus-Foster situation.  She’d thought about it before, of course, but living it…  Well, that was altogether different.

When they searched, it wasn’t strategic.  

Wasn’t with a plan.  They had no plan.  They had people.  They had neighbors.  Family was just plain too far away.

So, they called everybody they could think of.   Asked them to get out and drive around.  Look for Dom.  Call out for her.

Jaimie had been so positive that they’d find Dominique immediately.  That day.  Or that night.  When they didn’t?  Deep down, she started to panic.

For about a week, their neighborhood search party was strong.  Michael had printed countless MISSING flyers with a picture of Dominique from her birthday celebration a week ago.

Just like she promised her daughter two years ago, Jaimie took to Twitter.  Getting Dominique’s face out there.  Her description.  A number to call.  Their number.  Just in case anyone knew anything.

Michael had the phone book out, old school, looking up Brittanys.  Because eleven year old kids don’t pay attention to license plate numbers.  Details.  So all they know is so freakin’ little, it makes Jaimie’s throat ache:

Long blonde hair.  White.  Older.

But older could mean anything.

Eventually, the massive search presence dwindles.  Pretty soon, Jaimie and Michael are the only two driving around.  Keeping an eye out.  Michael has a stack of those posters in his back seat.  Puts them up wherever he can.

“I want Dominique to see.  To know we’re looking.”

But hours turned to days.  Days to weeks.  Weeks to months.  Halloween came first - Dom’s favorite holiday.  No sign.  Thanksgiving, and she wasn’t here to request Gran’s mac and cheese.  Christmas.  Jaimie had been sure Dominique would be home by Christmas, but no.  And after the New Year, something shifted.  Jaimie still looked every time she went out, but now?

She wasn’t so sure she’d like what they found.

Valentine’s Day.  St. Patrick’s Day.  Spring Break.  School letting out.  Summer.

Never, Jaimie, thought, crying in her car.

--

Friday, August 27th.  5:04 PM.  

10 months, 17 days, 7 hours and 4 minutes after he last saw Dominique, Michael’s phone rings.

By now, he’s stopped expecting it to be somebody who might know something.  Stopped expecting it to be Dominique, lost, scared, all by herself.

But his anxiety means that he cannot just let this unfamiliar number just go to voicemail without checking it out.

“Hello?” he asks.

“May I please speak to Michael Williams?” a voice asks.

“This is he,” he offers, distracted.

“I’m sorry to tell you this, sir, but your daughter, Dominique, has been injured in an accident.”

He blinks, his brain screeching back to that day in the zombie room - “I got us out!” - to that day almost 3 years ago when he and Jaimie had this talk with her and she asked why she’d go to the hospital, and if she would be hurt.

“Which hospital?” Michael blurts, grabbing the nearest pen and scribbling four letters: UCSD.

--

It’s night.

Several hours since Michael got that call, and Jaimie’s torn.  She can’t help but be happy that Dominique’s here.  She’s alive.  Somehow, she made it.  But she’s also hurt almost beyond what Jaimie can comprehend.

Burns over 45% of her body.  Her face, both arms, both legs.  She’s not been conscious yet.  They’re still waiting.  Hoping.  Praying. Willing her to pull through.  She’s come this far.

She’s wrapped from head to toe in gauze.

Michael about passed out when he saw her.  Or it could’ve been the other news the doctor gave them: Dominique, at almost 12 years old?  Had been pregnant.

“She told the EMTs to please save her baby after she passed along your number.  She was only about three weeks along.”

Didn’t take long for the doctors to give Michael something to help him rest.  But Jaimie’s up.  For the long haul.  Maybe, for the rest of her life.  

She sees movement out of the corner of her eye as she stares, blankly at the vending machine.  Turns.  A sweet elderly woman in a fancy hat and jacket approaches her.

“You’re that girl’s mother,” she says, knowing.

“I beg your pardon?” Jaimie asks, still not yet able to shake off the shock that after almost a year - yes - she is still someone’s mother.

“The little girl they brought in here,” the woman insists.  “She asked for help, you know.  To use my phone.”

“My daughter?” Jaimie stutters, confused.

“The one who they pulled from that burning van?  Yes.  I guarantee it,” the woman says.

“What happened?  What did Dominique tell you?”

“Just that she needed to make a call.  Needed to use the bathroom.  I could tell she was in trouble.  So, I told her ‘go ahead, and I’ll guard the door.’  She stayed in there as long as she could.  ‘Til those men she was with started hassling me.  Think she came out to protect me.  Then, they got her in the van, and a few seconds later?”

The woman’s face is so sad.

“Thank you, for helping her,” Jaimie offers, her voice breaking.

“Of course.”  The woman clasps Jaimie’s hand.  “Is she okay?  How can I pray for her?”

“Right now, we’re just praying she makes it through the night…” Jaimie manages.

“Oh.  Sit right down now.”

Jaimie does.  Feels herself enfolded in the impossibly frail but strong arms of this sweet, sweet stranger.

And as she falls apart, Jaimie thinks - this woman’s arms - they feel a little bit like wings.

--

Roberta becomes a fixture at the hospital in the coming months.  She brings food and just sits in the burn ICU waiting room.

Michael takes to her.

She reminds him of what he guesses his birth grandmother might be like.

It’s a relief, to have somewhere to be.  Because Dominique, through her horrifying ordeal, has become terrified of men.

All men.

Including Michael.

It breaks his heart, but he gets it.  As much as he can.  Roberta has a good amount of insight on “the men” and “the life” and could easily recognize Dominique was a young girl and in trouble.

“So you just give her space.  It’s not personal.  You follow her lead.  Take her cues.  And eventually?  She’ll come back to you.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Michael says, blinking tears from his eyes.  “Thank you.”