5. Luke #2
“I think I’m going to faint.” Her mom fans herself with a cloth napkin.
“What have you done?” Her dad’s voice booms with anger, making his daughter flinch. “You’re throwing away your whole life for what? Some college fling? You can get that thing taken care of you know? You can have other babies.”
Bertie looks ready to explode. Her face becomes covered in red splotches.
“Don’t you dare talk to her like that,” I finally interject.
“Your daughter is a wonderful, kind person, and she knows she has choices. She’s chosen to keep our baby and I’m going to support her in every way I can.
It’s terrible to see that neither of you can do the same.
You clearly look down at me, and sure I’m poor and I grew up with a single mom, and we have a house that probably fits in the foyer of this one, but guess what?
She loves me. I’ve never doubted the way my mom feels about me.
You might have all the money in the world, but it clearly doesn’t buy decency. You’re both despicable people.”
Bertie inhales a shaky breath and looks up at me with eyes brimming with tears. “Thank you.”
“We’re leaving,” I announce.
“Bertie,” her mom squawks as we turn to leave. “You can’t just go!”
“We can and we will,” I fire back.
I won’t let them talk to Bertie like that. She doesn’t deserve it.
“Are we really leaving?” she asks me when we reach the foyer. “Our flight isn’t until tonight.”
“Yes. I can’t stand to stay here another second and listen to them degrade you. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather sit at the airport all day.”
Her shoulders visibly deflate. “No, I don’t want to be here either.”
I’m sure she wasn’t expecting her parents to be excited about the pregnancy, but I also don’t think she expected things to go the way they did.
“It shouldn’t take us long to get our stuff packed up and we can leave.”
She nods woodenly in response. Her light blue eyes are sad and a little lost. “I’ll find Jeffrey and see if he can reschedule our flights. If anyone can do it, it’s that man.”
I give her a small smile. “I can pack your bag if you need me to.”
She gives a small shake of her head. “No, it’s fine. I have some clothes I left here before that I might as well bring with me.”
I want to do more to help her, but I think other than getting her the hell out of here there isn’t much I can do.
We go our separate ways and I hate leaving her—half-worried her mother or father is going to corner her, but considering neither opted to follow after us, chances are they sadly don’t care that much. I don’t know what I would’ve done if my mom was as indifferent to me as these two are to Bertie.
It makes sense why she made me promise that our child would never feel unloved by us.
I throw my toiletries into my bag—my clothes from yesterday were already packed away—and zip it up. Easy peasy.
I know Bertie didn’t want help, but I let myself into her room to wait.
There’s nothing personal in the space, like she said.
There are no photos of Bertie as a child or teen.
No sign of awards won or sports played. There’s not one single thing in here to show a sign that anyone has ever lived in this space.
I know she said her parents have many homes, but I wonder if in any of them there’s anything to signify the daughter they have.
A few minutes later she enters the room, and if she’s surprised to see me sitting in the armchair in the corner she doesn’t show it.
She closes the door softly behind her and heads straight for the closet. She wheels out a giant carryon suitcase and then proceeds to put everything from her closet inside. To many, it probably wouldn’t seem like many clothes—but to me, it’s a lot.
“I feel like you’re judging my wardrobe,” she says in a slightly teasing tone, like she’s too tired to fully jest with me.
“I’m not judging. Just wondering when you have the time to wear all these things.”
“I love clothes,” is all she says by response. Then she groans, “Ugh, and maternity clothes are so ugly. I hope I can wear most of my regular clothes through this pregnancy.”
She’s not even showing yet, so it’s hard to wrap my head around the fact that soon enough she’ll be round and there will be no hiding that she’s pregnant.
“Did Jeffrey get the flights figured out?” I ask.
“Yeah.” She shakes a green blouse type thing, wrinkles her nose at it, and tosses it in the suitcase anyway. “It’s not until the afternoon, but it’s better than what we had before. It’s not like I’m going to ask to use the company plane.”
Of course they have a plane. Why wouldn’t they?
“Are you sure you don’t want some help?” I ask when she rips a white and yellow sundress viciously off a hanger.
“No. I’m fine. Promise.” She tries to instill some happiness into her tone, but I’m not buying it.
I’ll let her work through whatever she needs to on her own and when she’s ready, I’ll be here for her to talk to.
When she finishes packing, we find Jeffrey downstairs waiting to drive us to the airport.
The ride there is silent, but when we reach the drop-off for departures the man gets out of the car and pulls Bertie in for a long hug. It’s the kind of hug a parent should give. He whispers something in her ear and she sniffles, wiping beneath her nose.
As Bertie walks away, wheeling that ginormous suitcase behind her—despite me telling her before we left that I would handle it—Jeffrey clears his throat and extends his hand to me.
“Take care of her.” There’s a demand there, but also genuine concern. “She’s a good girl. She deserves the world.”
I shake his hand. “I want to give her the world.”
“Good,” is all he says before releasing my hand and getting in the car.
I spot Bertie just through the doors and I hurry to catch up with her.