Laura Abbot - You're My Baby

Over dinner they agreed to obtain the marriage license in another county the next morning and be quietly married on Saturday. Further, she consented to live in his home. Naturally they would maintain separate bank accounts and, for legal purposes, Pam would retain her maiden name. Besides, all the school rosters would already list her as Carver. That way, she said, it would be easier when…

But he noticed she didn’t complete the sentence.

Then, clearing his throat nervously, he said, “I guess I need to reassure you about something. This is a business deal. I wouldn’t expect we’d, uh, have—”

“Sex.” She completed his thought. “Of course not. That never crossed my mind. We’re just friends, and friends we’ll remain.”

With all the details committed to writing, they dug into the meal with gusto. Pam even apologized for her hearty appetite. “The little guy needs to grow,” Grant suggested.

“Little guy?” She looked up with a smile that turned him to mush. “It could be a girl, you know.”

“Do you have a preference?”

“Healthy. That’s my preference.”

He couldn’t get over it. Here they sat, talking babies, as if it was the most natural of conversation topics. He hadn’t discussed babies, not really, since Shelley was pregnant with Andy. And to tell the truth, for all his brave front, the thought of Pam’s pregnancy terrified him. What if something went wrong?

“How about the house tour? We’ll have to figure out where to put your stuff and where you’ll…sleep.” Leading the way toward the house, he cursed under his breath. The word “sleep” echoed and reechoed with each step he took. And the visuals were equally disturbing.

Pam stopped at the kitchen stoop. “That’s a problem, isn’t it?” She furrowed her brow. “Unless you plan to tell Andy about our little charade.”

He groaned. “No, that can’t happen. Everybody, and I mean everybody, has to believe we’re for real, especially for you and the baby.”

“Then we’ll simply have to work something out.”

He held open the back door and she stepped into the small kitchen and stood, speechless, studying the aqua sink and countertop, the cocoa-brown appliances, the wallpaper sporting aqua and brown steaming coffee cups on a yellow background. With a sinking feeling, he saw it from her fresh viewpoint. “Uh, I haven’t gotten around to doing much with the kitchen.”

She tried a smile. “Vintage 70s decor. All we need is the Brady Bunch.”

“Maybe, um, we could redecorate.”

“Don’t be silly, it’s only for a year.”

“Oh, yeah.” Why hadn’t he realized how dated and ugly his kitchen was? He hastened to put distance between him and the Martha Stewart disaster. “Down this hallway on the left is the dining and living room combination.” He stopped and made a vague gesture. “The master bedroom, bath and den are on the right. What first?”

“And up there?” She gestured at the staircase.

“Two bedrooms and a bath.”

“Where does Andy sleep?”

“Upstairs.”

“I guess, then, you’d better show me the master bedroom.”

He stood aside and let her precede him. The plaid bedspread was drawn barracks-tight over the king-size mattress. His dresser top was bare except for a pewter dish for pocket change, a small portable television set and a basketball trophy. The bedside table sported a lamp, an alarm clock and the biography he was reading. The bare wood floor suddenly looked utilitarian. When, after a few moments, she hadn’t said anything, he couldn’t stand it. “Well?”

She screwed up her face as if searching for the word. “Spartan. Masculine.”

“Is that bad?”

She shrugged, then smiled. “C’mon, you’ve seen my place. The kindest thing that can be said of my taste is organized chaos.”

“But you can bring your things.” He looked around helplessly. “Do whatever you like.”

“Plants?”

He nodded.

“Wall hangings?”

“Sure.”

“A big, old braided rug?”

“Why not?”

“A nest for Viola and Sebastian in the corner?”

“In here?”

“My kitties always sleep with me.”

That stopped him. The darned felines were going to be better off than he was. “Uh, where did you have in mind for us to sleep?”

“Show me the den.”

He led her through the bathroom to the small room crowded by his desk, bookcase and a beat-up daybed. He noticed her studying the bed. “I suppose I could sleep in here,” she said, eyeing the sagging mattress dubiously.

“I thought I would.”

“Grant, look at it. You’re a foot taller than that thing is long. If anyone’s going to sleep in here, it’ll be me.”

“Okay, we’ll try it that way, but I don’t want you and Barney to be uncomfortable.”

“Barney?”

He reddened. “You know. The baby.”

She shook her head, seemingly bemused. “Or Barnette, don’t forget.” She started back through the bathroom, then stopped. “Are you sure you’re ready to share a bathroom with a woman again?”

He had a sudden disturbing image of wet hosiery, like slimy tentacles, draped all over the towel rack and shower curtain rod. He gulped. “I’m sure.”

By the time they reached the living room, which she proclaimed “austere,” he was worn-out.

“I don’t want to intrude into your lifestyle, but—”

“Nonsense,” he said. “This will be your home, too. I want you to be comfortable.”

She sank down into the brown tweed sofa he’d bought at a going-out-of-business sale. It had been cheap and matched his cushy, man-size rust recliner.

She eyed the mantel. “Do you think we could get a shelf for those?” Move his team pictures and state championship trophies? He enjoyed looking at them while he watched TV. “Sure, if that’s what you’d like.”

Her eyes, like some malevolent detecting device, raked the room. “And maybe we could move your chair and turn the sofa this other way, so my chair would fit.”

“I guess.” What was it with women? Did they come wired with the rearranging-furniture gene? Just as he acknowledged his irritation, she relaxed against the sofa, spreading her arms in a gesture of contentment. “It’s going to be fine, Grant, really fine.”

He sought the comfort of his recliner before answering. “I hope so. But it may require more patience than we imagined.”

She eyed him thoughtfully. “Having second thoughts? It’s not too late.”

Second thoughts? Not about her. She looked just right sitting in his living room, even if she was discussing upsetting his ordered existence. “No. I want to marry you, Pam.” Then, grinning, he added, “And that’s my final answer.”

She pulled her knees up to her chest and propped her chin on them, a peaceful expression on her face. “Good,” she said softly.

They sat in silence for several minutes, and he thought how pleasant it was to have this kind of quiet companionship. Finally she spoke up. “If we’re going to hit the county clerk’s office before our eleven-o’clock upper-school meeting, I think you’d better take me home soon.”

“I will, but first…” Curiosity had been eating at him for several days, waiting to be satisfied. “Could you tell me about the man? The father?” Needing to risk the rest, he blurted out the difficult question, “Do you love him?”

SLOWLY PAM EASED her feet to the floor, caught off guard by the question, by Grant’s sudden earnestness and by her own disturbing flashbacks. Steven—devilishly handsome in an intense, scholarly sort of way. High cheekbones, dark eyes, thick black hair, and long, tapering fingers with a magic of their own. She couldn’t resist him, even after he told her the truth. But love?

In fairness, she owed Grant an honest answer. This man, not Steven, would be the baby’s father on record. She focused on the emotions Grant’s question had aroused—joy, passion, sadness, resignation. “In a nostalgic, romantic sense, a part of me will always love him. I would never have been intimate with him otherwise.”

She paused, remembering the yearning and pain in Steven’s brown eyes, recalling the apology he’d tried to voice before she had hushed him—before they had come together in mutual need and desire. Pam looked directly at Grant. “I was not promiscuous. Nor did I intend to get pregnant.”

“Have you reconsidered telling him about the baby?”

“No.” She paused, letting the sound of the word die away. “And I won’t. Fate threw us together in unusual circumstances. But he never deceived me.”

Grant appeared to be mulling over what she’d said. He probably wasn’t even aware of the furrow on his brow.

She pulled forth her deepest, most painful memory—one she’d never considered sharing. Until now. “I knew he was married. That he had two daughters, ten and twelve. He’d told me all about Julie, his wife.” Why couldn’t she catch her breath? “But what he said didn’t register until I saw her for myself.”

So vivid and distressing was the memory she was hardly aware of her surroundings or of the man sitting across from her. She struggled to go on. “He was being honored by the university. His family had flown in for the occasion. I hadn’t intended to go, but at the last minute, I couldn’t help myself. That’s when I saw her. That’s when I truly realized why he could never see me again. Never have anything further to do with me.”

“If this is too difficult, Pam—”

“No. I need to tell you.” She drew a deep breath, then went on. “He loves his wife. Dearly, devotedly. I saw that when he pushed her wheelchair onto the platform. When he leaned down to kiss her so very tenderly.” Tears filled her eyes. “Grant, she’s paralyzed from the shoulders down. A skiing accident.” She pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed her cheeks. “Now do you see? I was lonely. He was a kind man with needs. I guess you could say nature took its course, and here I am—pregnant. Even so there’s no decision to be made. What do you suppose knowing about the baby would do to her? To him?” She let the question hang in the air before continuing. “I’ve given this considerable thought, and I know the time may come when, either for personal or medical reasons, my child will need the truth. But I’ll wait until that day arrives.”

He ran his hands up and down the arms of the recliner before speaking. “Thank you. I know it wasn’t easy for you to talk about this. After tonight, I won’t ask you any more questions about him. It’s just that, well, for the baby’s sake, I didn’t want there to be, you know, complications down the road.”

His earnest, troubled face swam before her. She was missing something implied by the faltering nature of his explanation. Was he prepared to care for this baby? To want to claim more than merely the title of “father”? Could he be thinking beyond the one year limit of their agreement?

SUNDAY AFTERNOON of Labor Day weekend Pam stood in her living room knee-deep in boxes. It was difficult to know what to take with her and what to put in storage. As if sensing an impending shift in their tranquility, Viola and Sebastian scampered from chair to table to windowsill, unsettled by the disruption of their space. Pam could empathize.

She studied the solid gold band on her left hand as if it were an encoded alien object. Though small, it served as the exclamation mark on her life-changing circumstances.

The wedding had gone off flawlessly, if you could call a three-minute ceremony in a farmhouse living room with two elderly ladies as witnesses—one playing a dirgelike rendition of “Oh, Promise Me” on a wheezing pump organ—a wedding. But it would do, Pam rationalized. She was beyond virginal wedding dresses, a flower-bedecked church and multiple chiffon-clad bridesmaids. At least she would be able to tell her son or daughter about the ceremony. About the champagne-hued tea dress she’d worn, about Grant standing tall and resolute in his navy suit and about the chaste kiss he’d dropped on her cheek at the urging of the beaming justice of the peace.