20. Deleted account
CHAPTER 20
Deleted account
Amelia didn’t return on Monday like she planned. I kind of expected it, so when she called a month ago to inform me, I was not surprised. The only issue is waiting for her return, which might not happen soon. Ashley is home, so they have family trips and girls’ hangouts to plan.
On the bright side, it means I don’t have to mention Mr Dissick. She doesn’t have to know he was here, that he hugged me, and my body recognised him before I remembered how much I loathed his existence.
Jason and I agreed not to mention it to her. By now, he must have pieced it together, but it’s still my choice to tell Amelia about the encounter. How dare he walk in there like it’s a regular date at a pub and hug me? What does he think I am? A doormat who waited for her ex?
I wrench my laptop open. I don’t care what his story is. I don’t forgive him. My heart pounds as an image of him flashes through my mind. His blues lit up when they saw me. He looked happy, almost expectant. His fame must have got into his head if he thinks I’ll willingly open my arms and heart to him.
My laptop comes to life, and I smile at my screen. That was the purpose of having Mace as the screensaver. To smile each time I see it. It’s no different this time as I open the folder I created after Amelia travelled. We don’t speak as much as I would like. Mace and I miss her.
There is a list of countries for us to visit on my screen. I may have started this because of her, but she’s right. We need a break. We can start in Europe. I sit straighter on the chair and tilt the laptop towards me. From the mirror, I spy on Mace. Amelia wasn’t here when he turned nine months old, but she called. I don’t want to believe she’s lying about her prolonged stay at home. Maybe I’m lying to myself. But… she’s okay. She must be okay. She will be okay.
The phone on the pile of books rings. Dad. He’s here. He wants to spend some time with his grandson, but I think it’s an excuse to watch me. He has been acting oddly since last month. Does he know something about Amelia that I don’t? If she has issues, she will tell me first. The phone stops ringing before I answer. It vibrates with a text. Dad is five minutes away.
I take a picture of the list on my screen and text it to Amelia for her opinions. We can start travelling next year. Maybe start with Paris. Standing, I grin at my son through the mirror. On his hands and knees, he glides forward. What the—? The laptop nearly slips from my hand.
Mace hears the commotion and looks up. He crawled. My son crawled. I dump the gadget and kneel in front of him. “Do it again,” I say in a shaky voice. “Do it for Mama, Macey.”
His palms slap onto the rug. He sways a little and pushes forward. A hand goes over my lips when he crawls away from me. Heat spreads through my chest. I jump in excitement, too giddy to stand still.
My baby is crawling.
Soon, he will be walking and talking and he will be an adult wanting to leave me.
Tears flood my eyes. I sniff quietly, ambling towards the table to get my phone. I’m a mix of emotions while recording him. He is unaware and content in his ignorance as he explores the room on his knees and hands. I send two videos to Amelia and one to our group chat. The girls are offline. My phone beeps in my hand. Dad is here. I snatch Mace off the floor, taking the stairs two at a time. My body thrums with excitement, and I almost miss the last stair.
Mace struggles in my arm. I let him down to open the door. Dad smiles on seeing me, and I pull him in by his outstretched arms. Mace is in the middle of the living room, but this time, he’s seated. The centre table is empty. I know better than to leave anything within his reach.
“Mace walked,” I tell Dad.
He pauses, his shoes halfway off his socked feet. “Walked?”
I facepalm. “Crawled. I mean, crawled.”
Joy spills to my voice. Dad goes to his grandson and tries to pick him up, but Mace crawls out of reach. We share a glance. That boy has no idea the amount of joy and colour he brings to our lives. I rush to the kitchen and microwave the leftover lunch for Dad. On my return, Dad and Mace are cuddled in the chair, having a chat in baby language. They look up and wave when I clear my throat. My heart swells. I pull the table closer to Dad and drop the tray.
Mace points at the food and giggles, sending spit down the corners of his lips. He has more teeth now. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I open my arms, and Mace does a happy dance.
Mr Dissick is missing out on these moments, and it’s all his fault. Is it? Yes. Yes, it is . But he doesn’t know about Mace. Still his fault. Mace crawls to me. I make a face, and he laughs. The room is quiet except for the sound of a spoon meeting a plate. I feel Dad’s gaze on me while he eats.
“What is it?” I blurt out when I can’t take the stare anymore. He scoops porridge into his mouth, and I pull Mace up to sit him on my leg. “Do you have something to tell me?”
Dad drops his spoon on the tray. “I was hoping you had something to tell me.”
The silence is deafening, even Mace shuts up. I should have put on the TV. I stare at Dad, my brows drawing together with confusion. His jacket wrinkles as he folds his arms on his chest.
“About what?” I whisper when he reveals nothing. It’s about Amelia, right? Dad shrugs. I shake my head slowly. “Come on, Dad. Don’t do this to me. What is it? Just tell me already.”
“I was wondering if you had any visitors.”
“Visitors?” I ask as I join him on the couch. “No. Should I have got any visitors?”
“Maybe?” Dad says. He palms his knees and lets out a strangled sigh. Our blues meet, and I flash him a small smile. He’s scaring me. Mace pushes the tip of my ponytail into his mouth. Getting him to cough it out is tough. When he finally does, he aims for the sleeve of my dress. “I gave Calum your house address. Well, I gave it to Dani. I haven’t spoken to him—”
I stop struggling with Mace. “Dad.”
He fists his hands, and his knuckles pale. Our reaction convinces Mace to stop his struggles. “I didn’t tell him about Mace, okay? But I was hoping he would see him when he comes.”
“Fine. Mr Dissick didn’t come here. I didn’t get any visitors. I told you guys he doesn’t care,” I say. That stupid image of him looking hurt when I yelled at him sneaks into my heart. Mace slides down to my lap, and I hug him from behind. “He didn’t care then. He doesn’t care now.”
Dad cups his face and groans. “Maybe you weren’t home when he checked? This was about a month ago, Cathie,” he says, voice hopeful. My chest sags with defeat. Hope is dangerous.
“He doesn’t care—” I stop myself. “Well, he never checked. He didn’t come here, Dad.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m not lying.” But I omit the fact we saw at the pub, and he looked heartbroken.
“Do you want me to contact Dani?”
“How do you even still have her contact?”
“She reached out,” Dad says. My lips pucker, and his eyes soften with tenderness. “I know you think you know what you’re doing. You think it’s the right thing, but I disagree with it, not all of it. Mace is losing out. Calum is, as well. It’s not his fault or yours. It’s all mine. I should never have hit him or let my anger get the best of me. Now, you’re no longer happy.”
“Because he broke my heart,” I whisper-yell.
Dad might have hit him, but he chose not to have anything to do with me after that incident. Mace turns in my arms. Wobbling to his feet, he reaches for my face with his tiny palms and brushes the tears on my cheek. His face contorts, and a cry tunnels out of his lips. I hug him.
“Shh.” My tears spill down his back. “It’s okay, Macey.” We don’t need Mr Dissick.
“I just want you to be okay,” Dad whispers from beside me.
Using the back of my palm to dab the tears on my cheek, I murmur, “I will be, as soon as all of you stop meddling. So, please stop.”
For the rest of Dad’s stay, we don’t mention Dani or her son. She reached out too late.
When it’s time for Dad to leave, he doesn’t let me walk him to the door. I don’t protest. The few hours spent with him have drained me. I know I put him in an uncomfortable position with my request, but it’s a small price for him to pay. After all, this started because of him.
I stay downstairs for a few hours. It’s late by the time we head up to our room. Dad’s words weigh heavy on me. Once Mace is in bed, I turn on my laptop and check the BC website.
Most users prefer the app, but you get a preview on the website and a prompt urging you to continue viewing in the app. Closing and opening my palm, I tap on his username and hold my breath. I haven’t checked since I saw him. I didn’t call. The page loads for a minute too long. A quick check shows the Wi-Fi is working fine. When it loads, it’s to an empty page.
Blood pumps faster to my heart, and my ears ring. I click the refresh button. Same thing. Two fingers automatically press to my temple as a pounding begins there. I scroll through the page and search for the title of his post. It returns with some results from [deleted account].
My heart stops. I search for another of Mr Dissick’s posts. It comes up with the same result.
He deleted his account.
Why?
My teeth sink into my bottom lip until it draws blood. I close the browser and open my Gmail. The draft I composed weeks ago but never sent sits where I left it. It’s now or never.
I can do this. I click on the email and hit send.
Anxiety pumps through my veins. I tap my fingers on the table, waiting for his reply while also expecting the worst. He deleted it because I yelled at him. Seriously? What a coward.
Why am I surprised? Running was his strong suit. He is adept at running from his problems. I shut the laptop and crawl into bed with my phone. I’ll get an email notification on it, anyway.
Minutes pass. I toss and turn in bed, but sleep avails me. Tired of my raging thoughts, I call Amelia, but she doesn’t respond. She should have contacted me after receiving the videos of Mace. The next stop is WhatsApp. Her last seen was yesterday. There are tons of messages in our group, probably from Taylor and Rose hyperventilating at Mace’s new skill.
What if I call Mr Dissick? No, I want him to see the pictures first. I tap on my contact list and scroll to the number saved as Do Not Call. Nervous laughter sputters out of my lips. I don’t know what I’ll say if he picks up. We can worry about small talk after I tell him about Mace.
The call doesn’t connect. I close a hand over my mouth, refusing to give that tiny voice in my head another moment of thought. My frustration bubbles and seeps into my veins. The second and third time, I get the same response. The number is unreachable. I glance at Mace’s crib.
He’s losing out with his father. I’m making him lose out. No. It’s not my fault. Dad shouldn’t have come here. I drop the phone on the bed and shut my eyes. A beep sounds beside me, and my eyelids open. I grab the phone and release a breath. There’s a notification on my screen.
Mr Dissick replied.
I open the email and my mind blanks. Words stare back at me, but I can’t process them.
Address not found.
Your message wasn’t delivered because the address couldn’t be found or is unable to receive mail.
Those words stay with me as the days roll by. I memorise them like I did his last email to me.
Nothing makes sense. He deleted his BC account and deactivated his email. His number is unreachable. I don’t know if to laugh at myself or curl into a ball and cry. I don’t know how to feel. I tug the cover over my head, curling into a foetal position. Everything is in shambles. Amelia doesn’t pick up my calls. Ashley doesn’t want me at their house. I’m pitifully clueless.
Jason.
He might know. I yank the cover off my head and dial his number. I haven’t seen him since the Saturday he visited. I didn’t get to see him perform. Mace sneezes. I push a hand into his crib, and he accepts it. He has no idea what I’ve done. That I saw his father. Will he forgive me if he finds out? Pushing myself closer to the edge of the bed, I peer into my son’s crib.
“Uncle Jason isn’t picking up,” I tell him. He pushes himself to his knees, and his hand locks around the railings of his crib. “What do you think? Do you want to visit New York? You might get to see your papa. Amelia will like that idea a lot, but she’s also not picking up.”
Mace’s mouth opens, and he murmurs something inaudible. I wipe the drool at the corners of his lips. Maybe I should add New York to the list. I’ve always wanted to visit there. I call Jason a third time. No reply. He might be at work. Has he spoken to Amelia? I give up after a fourth try. Mace bounces on the bed. He has become more active since learning how to crawl.
A sigh escapes me. I’m too tense to sit, so I help Mace down the bed and move to the table. I place my phone on the surface. Amelia’s name is on the screen, but the courage to hit the dial button evades me. The phone rings, making the decision for me. I pick up immediately, but we don’t talk. Relief floods my entire being, taking the form of happy tears down my cheeks.
She’s okay.
“Amelia Greene,” I finally say.
“Catherine Jenkins.”
Her voice kicks out the lingering fear. I laugh and grab a crawling Mace off the rug. He pinches my cheeks, a reminder for me to cut those nails off. Sitting him on my lap, I bring his hands to the table. He tries to touch my phone’s screen, but I lace our fingers. “Mace says hi.”
At the mention of Mace’s name, he looks up at me. His curls brush my chin. I run my fingers through them, and his lips spread in a smile when she mutters, “Hi, Macey darling. My love.”
Mace laughs. She’s not his love alone. She’s mine, too. Motherhood would have been tougher without her. The silence grows thick and uncomfortable. There are questions I’m scared to ask.
“What’s going on, Amelia?”
It takes a moment for her to mutter, “I can’t tell you right now. I want to, but I can’t.”
My heart must have stopped. I freeze, jolting back to reality when Mace bounces on my lap.
“Why not?” I ask, burying my fear.
“Because… because the answer might break your heart.”
“Then let it break.”
“Not yet,” Amelia says. The lump in my throat makes swallowing nearly impossible. My best friend worries too much about me. I want to let her know I can handle whatever this is, but she cuts in. “Please, just do this one thing for me, okay? Let me tell you when I’m ready.”
My eyes close. Tears roll down my cheeks. “Amelia.”
“Please.”
“When will you be ready?” I whisper.
“Today? Tomorrow? Never?” she says, even daring to chuckle. I bang the heel of my palm against my forehead and lower a restless Mace to the floor. She is fine. “I promise to tell you when I’m ready. I need some time to process everything that’s happening right now.”
“Okay. I’ll wait.”
“Promise?” Amelia asks. I place my pinky finger on the table, a sad smile lifting the corners of my lips. On the wall is a random quote I don’t remember where I saw it. We would have sealed the promise on a pinky finger if she were here with me. “Don’t do anything, Cathie.”
My eyes coast up to the framed quote. It’s silly. You don’t always need a plan. With no plan, nothing can go wrong. Tears flood my eyes, but they don’t drop. I can’t promise her that.
“Amelia,” I mutter.
“Please,” Amelia adds. The tears finally drop. I pat my cheeks dry with the back of my hands before Mace notices, or he’ll cry. “You know I never ask you for anything. Do this for me.”
I’m the pest in our relationship, which is why this hurts more. I want to be there for her, even if this is nothing. I rub my shaky hands over my knees. I can wait. I’ll text. I’ll call, that’s all.
“Okay. I’ll do nothing.” Waggling my finger, I whisper, “I swear on a pinky finger. Take care?”
Amelia sighs. “Of course. I love you, Cathie Jenkins.”
“I love you too, Amelia Greene.”
My best friend laughs, and I snort in reply. Her voice fades. When her breathing takes over, I end the call. Going on my knees, I tug Mace back by his ankles. He rolls onto his back and kicks his legs out. I tickle him, waiting for his laughter to push away the burden in my heart.
“I think Godmama Amelia is not okay,” I tell my son.
Mace’s blue eyes rake over my face. He sneezes and drags his legs back in before crawling away from me. My gaze roams the room, lingering on the wardrobe. If I start packing now, we will be in Wells Spring by evening. But I promised her. I leave Mace alone on the floor and grab my phone to text her. I don’t know what she’s going through, but she has me—us.
The message delivers, but I get no response. It doesn’t bother me. I repeat the same routine almost every day, texting her at random hours, asking if she’s ready, impatiently waiting for her to permit me to break my pinky promise to her.