Chapter 14
I make it back to the apartment quickly, but I don’t move.
Not yet. The shoebox of letters sits in my passenger seat, all but begging to be opened.
Unable to wait a minute longer, I pry open the lid.
Lifting out the top letter, I unfold it, my eyes sweeping down the page.
Her handwriting can only be described as that of an artist, full of loops, words ending on a flourish, and I allow my eyes to trace the way she’s written my name.
Seeing my name in her handwriting makes me smile.
Dear Tyler,
If you’re reading this, it means the universe came through for us, against all the odds. It also means you probably have a lot of questions, rightfully so. One of my co-workers told me writing letters might help process all these hormonal emotions I’ve been feeling, so here goes.
My grandparents didn’t talk to me about the birds and the bees.
Everything I learned was through friends, books, or TV shows.
Somewhere along the way, I missed the small, yet very important fact that antibiotics can mess with birth control.
So, SURPRISE. (Imagine jazz hands here to divert from how serious this topic is) I’m now twelve weeks pregnant.
I’m due February 4, and according to the doctor, our baby is the size of a lime. Tyler, there’s a tiny human-shaped lime growing inside of me, evidence of one perfect night with you. It truly was perfect, wasn’t it? I hope you feel the same.
During the first few weeks I couldn’t keep anything down, but now that I’m in my second trimester, I’m able to eat normal again.
And good grief do I crave the craziest things.
Apples dipped in a Wendy’s Frosty. Singing River doesn’t have a Wendy’s, so every day when I get off work, I drive thirty minutes to the nearest one.
Crazy, right? But the lime wants what the lime wants. I’m not about to argue with him or her.
That brings me to another thing. Once I got used to the idea of having a baby, I was excited.
But parenting alone in a city where I knew no one did not sound like my idea of a good time.
I moved back in with my grandparents here in Singing River and accepted a job teaching art at the high school.
People have been great, though. So far, I haven’t been forced to don the proverbial Scarlet A or hang my head in shame before Mawmaw’s church congregation.
Despite those tiny mercies, this hasn’t been easy.
I don’t miss the looks some people cast in my direction.
Most days I feel like everyone looks at me like I’m a dejected puppy.
Cute, but not worth the cost of having. One day, while in the throes of a pity party, I admitted this to my grandmother.
She reminded me we can do hard things. That’s something she’s always told me.
I hope she’s right. Some days I’m not so sure.
All that to say, this is most likely the first of many letters. Wherever you are in the world, I hope you’re doing well. I’m sure you’re out there saving the day like Superman. Or, as I like to say, Clark.
Till next time,
Jo (and our little lime)
P.S. Enjoy the drawing.
There’s so much of the girl I met years ago written here, humor wrapped around each word. Quite possibly deflecting from harder emotions she was carrying at the time. I even detect her anxiety and fear in between the lines.
At the bottom, she’s drawn a green lime with a speech bubble reading Hey, Dad!
I read over the letter two more times before eventually folding it and placing it back on top of the stack.
Several seconds pass while I try to pull myself together.
It goes without saying, it wasn’t just one night for her either.
Granted, it was for completely different reasons, but still, she wrote letters.
That’s got to mean something, right? The first line of this letter echoes a thought that’s been vying for my attention since I first laid eyes on her downtown.
The universe came through for us, against all the odds.
Refusing to get my hopes up too soon, I mull over the rest of the letter.
If Jo was twelve weeks pregnant at that time, it was probably late summer…
August, maybe? Around that time, I was helping Austin navigate a recording contract, watching all his dreams become reality. Meanwhile, Jo’s dreams were crushed.
My mind conjures up all the art and photos hanging on Jo’s walls, an evening spent telling whoops and poops around a dinner table.
How hard she’s willing to fight for her art program.
No, maybe all those dreams weren’t crushed.
Despite whatever she’s been through over the years, the unfiltered joy she feels as a mother shines through.
Maybe she learned to form new dreams around a different reality.
This box of letters is a window to Jo’s past and to Abby’s beginning. I’d love to savor them, read one a day, but my hand moves of its own accord, unfolding the next letter.
Dear Tyler,
Our lime has now grown to the size of a mango. Also, she’s a girl. I had my ultrasound this morning. I tucked a copy of it in this letter, you know, in case you ever read this. Or not. Whatever. It’s foolish of me to entertain that possibility.
Anyway, our baby girl is the size of a mango, and she’s now developing fingerprints and growing hair.
I think last night I felt her kick, but I can’t be sure.
It was the tiniest of flutters. The human body is wild…
with its capacity to bring forth new life.
My body is quickly changing with this pregnancy, and I’m trying to make peace with it.
But you should see my stomach. It looks like a road map with all the stretch marks.
But this is just part of being pregnant.
My grandmother taught me to sew last week, and over one weekend we made two pairs of maternity pants.
My car’s transmission went out, so I don’t have much money for maternity clothes, but the ones we whipped up are cute!
My stitches were all wonky, but Mawmaw saw them and said, “You’ll never notice it on a galloping horse.
” Did my grandmother call me a galloping horse?
:) This coming weekend we’re attempting maternity tops.
I’m sure you don’t care about my prowess at the sewing machine, so I’ll end for now. Hope you’re doing well out there in the universe.
Josie
Minutes pass with me staring at the ultrasound picture.
It’s not clear to me what’s on the black and white paper, but still, it feels sacred.
A piece of Abby’s beginning. I don’t even realize I’m crying until wetness falls onto the thermal image.
Not wanting it to get ruined, I tuck it into the letter, fold it, and slide it back in the stack.
Though I’m grateful for these letters, they’re also a reminder that each day we don’t tell Abby the truth is another day where I’m not in Abby’s life as her father.
I get it, though. This would be a lot for anyone to handle, much less a teenage girl.
I don’t know the first damn thing about teenagers, but I’m pretty sure learning the identity of your absent father requires more than a few days spent together.
Absent father.
The word makes my stomach roil. All my life I’ve done everything possible to do the right thing.
To be beyond reproach. I’m the guy my friends and family can count on, the responsible one who will make sure everything goes as planned.
Meanwhile, a kid was out there thinking she was fatherless.
It makes me question everything I’ve thought about myself.
Not only the man I thought I was, but that night, too.
I regret nothing other than the minor personal details we left out. Which happened to become major details. Why didn’t I at least give Jo my last name? That would have made it possible to find me.
The only thing making this easier is this box of letters. Whoever suggested that to Jo deserves my thanks. They’ve given me a glimpse into a past I was absent from, and while reading, I hang on every word, rereading each one multiple times like somehow they hold the power to turn back time.
My tears come in choked breaths at what a gift Jo has given me.
To her they might be a box of letters, but to me they’re everything.
I pull my glasses from my face to clean them, then reach for the next ink-ridden page.
I read one after the other, until I come to one that includes a photo.
Forcing myself to read the letter first, I clutch the photo in my other hand like a lifeline to the past.
Dear Tyler,
I look like I swallowed a beach ball. Included is photo evidence of this. My feet are swollen and our dear daughter’s favorite game is let’s kick Mom’s bladder. I’m in the final stretch with two weeks to go. Wish me luck. You don’t know how desperately I wish you were here.
Josie
The photo I’m gripping shows Jo, looking as stunning as ever.
Long blonde hair draped across one shoulder, with faded purple streaks still peeking through.
She’s smiling at whoever stands behind the camera, both hands holding her enormous baby bump.
I lose track of time staring at it, agreeing with her sentiment.
I wish I’d been there. Rather than placing it back in the box, I pull my wallet out, tuck it inside, and start on the next letter.
Dear Tyler,
Our daughter was born today. I labored for sixteen hours until finally they did an emergency C-section. Abby was in distress, and they couldn’t wait much longer.
Oh, I named her Abigail Nicole Thomas. Thomas is my last name, by the way. Guess we probably should have told each other that bit of information. :)
Abby is without a doubt the most beautiful baby I’ve ever seen.
God, I wish you could see her. She has a head full of dark hair like her father, and earlier, when the nurses wheeled her into my room, her eyes opened, bright and curious.
I think I already see a hint of you in them.
The nurses told me eye color won’t be known for months, but I swear she has your eyes. I just know it.
The minute I had my hands on her, I unwrapped her swaddle and kissed all ten of her tiny fingers and toes.
Her teensy tiny hand wrapped around my finger, and I whispered into her ear, “it’s you and me kid.
I’ll love you with my whole heart.” She’s the most perfect creature to ever exist, Tyler.
The first and only love of my life. There are no words to thank you for this gift you’ve given to me. I wish you were here to meet her.
Josie
Overcome by an insatiable desire to see into the past through Jo’s words on a page, I reach for another letter.
Tyler,
Abby is a colicky baby. I can almost count on it, like clockwork. 7 p.m. each and every night, it begins. She cries for hours until her cries turn to sniffles with the saddest little gasps in between.
A couple of nights ago, I got the idea that perhaps driving in the car would calm her. So that’s what we did. I buckled a wailing Abby in and we drove down one street of Singing River and up the next.
And guess what! It worked! But then I got scared she’d start right back when I lifted her from her car seat. So I drove and I drove, until eventually my low fuel light lit up and I was forced to head home.
Still, I was scared to wake her. I sat in my driveway, my eyes studying the star-laden sky.
Did you know that every human is made of stardust?
Tiny particles of past stars are in each of us.
I like to think that maybe you and I share the very same star stuff which would explain that night, wouldn’t it?
I know I sound like a silly romantic, but it’s a nice thought regardless.
Looking up at the night sky, thinking about the wonder of it all, I did it again.
I know at this point most would call me delusional, but I made a wish.
What wish, you ask? Once again, I wished the universe would find a way for me to keep you.
Were you wishing on that very star Tyler?
I choose to believe you might have been.
Josie