Chapter Eleven November Six #2
“Mmhm. And the little girl... Well, she has special needs. We’ve found out that some might not affect her as much as he thought, but yeah.
He didn’t know that, and he still took her in.
He’s her father. Legally. His name is on her birth certificate.
” Or it will be soon, I think to myself, knowing that the birth certificate request is in process, even if we’re waiting a few weeks to decide if my name will be on it, too.
I don’t care if it seems “shady” to some people.
They don’t know the story. They don’t know that there are different versions of right and wrong.
Giving Laurel to strangers is wrong. She’s Artie’s daughter at heart.
I was legally Barton’s child, I suppose.
Born to his wife while he was still her husband.
If I’d been born in a hospital, I suppose they would have put his name on the birth certificate, and I would be legally bound to him forever.
I can’t think of anything more wrong than the way he raised me, or anything more right than the loving way Artie is trying to raise Laurel.
“He’s patient. He found out that I’d never been a nanny before, Lesha, and he didn’t lose his temper, or fire me, or threaten me.
He’s only ever offered to help me. He’s teaching me to cook.
I’m going to ask him to teach me how to drive so I can get my license.
” I stand up straighter and walk taller in my new clothes, ones that Chloe says are “vintage” but that I love—clingy ribbed sweaters, low jeans that hug my hips, and platform boots that fit my half-hooved feet. “I’m happy. For the first time ever.”
Lesha lets out a long sigh that has some muttered curses tossed in. “I’m glad, I guess. But promise me you’re not going to do anything stupid, like run off and have a quickie wedding. Or sleep with him because he’s the first decent man you’ve ever met.”
I’m silent. I want to be with Artie, and I want to have a family of my own.
I don’t want to rush... But part of me feels like I was imprisoned for all of my life and that if something goes wrong—I could end up back there.
I want all of the experiences now, while I’m free and happy, even if I’m also scared to have them.
“Tell me you didn’t?” Lesha hisses.
“Didn’t what?”
“Sleep with this dude!”
“No! But... but I kissed him. I wanted to! And he wasn’t pushy, Lesha. I promise.” I blush and smile at the memory of his awed face, his almost reverent gaze. “He looked up at me like I was some kind of goddess.”
“Is this guy some weak ass little nerd who can’t get a date and you’re the only woman he’s ever set eyes on or something?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I demand, stung.
“Nothing about you! Just him. He sounds good, but if a little kiss spins his head that much... Look, just make sure you take your time. Don’t do anything stupid or rash.
He might seem nice, and I admit the man is juggling a whole battle royale of stress and hardships.
I don’t want you to get hurt by jumping in with both feet on for him to then yank the trampoline away. ”
I squint into the afternoon sun, trying to follow that mix of praise, caution, and metaphor. I can tell Lesha is worried about me. Really worried. She cares about me.
I’m glowing again. “You really are my friend,” I whisper. “My first one.”
“Damn straight I am.”
“M-maybe you could come over around the holidays and meet him? I bet you’d like him.”
“I bet I would,” her voice softens. “But promise you’ll take things slow?”
“I promise.” We chat for a while longer, but in my mind, one little phrase keeps repeating.
Slow is relative.
My life before this was painfully slow, and yet it all blurred together in a gray, cold mass of shouting, lingering fried-fish odors, and huddling in my room, arms wrapped around myself, wondering if I would ever experience a hug.
Someone’s love, real love. I didn’t even let myself finish those dangerous thoughts until I was enrolled in my online courses.
And then this week...
My life is on fast forward, but every minute drips slowly like the syrup Artie puts on my frozen waffles, thick, sweet, and lingering. I can remember every little detail.
Especially that kiss.
A cold wind blows, and snaps me out of my reverie. It’s nothing like Alaska’s icy gales, but I still worry that Laurel shouldn’t be out for too long, even all bundled up, even with her krampus genetics.
“Let’s go home and have a bath and stories? Then we’ll make music on your new xylophone. Guess what? We’re going out to dinner. Yes. Immy’s going to get all dressed up, and so are you.”
Laurel lets out a volley of shrieks and coos that would melt a glacier’s heart. She’s so adorable.
And I like my nickname. Immy. Kinda sounds like Mommy, I think in my heart of hearts, a place where fantasies are allowed to live.
“OH, WOW.” I GASP WHEN I see Imogene come down the stairs at seven.
I already have Laurel in a pretty romper suit with cozy footies covering her little hooves. She’s adorable.
“Do you like it?” Imogene asks, still slowly gliding towards me.
Clinging dark green velvet. Faux white fur trim at the hem. White boots that hug her calves and draw my attention to the fact that her legs are incredible.
All of her body is incredible, but it’s her shy smile mixed with sparkling, hopeful eyes that make me feel like a shabby scruff, unworthy of having her in my life, let alone as my date.
“You look fantastic,” I whisper, plucking at my one good shirt.
I made an effort. Shaved. Wet my hair and smoothed the overgrown bangs back.
Made sure I was wearing my best clothes, even though I’m worried about spilling on my only interview shirt.
“Thank you. Chloe said these are vintage. They’d be worth more if they weren’t worn out in some places.”
“You’d never know there was anything wrong with them. They look stunning on you. Shall we?” I offer my arm, and Imogene picks up her purse, then frowns and puts it down. “What’s wrong?” I steel myself to hear that she’s changed her mind.
“This purse was my mother’s. I don’t remember her at all, but if the stories Sarah told me are true, she didn’t want me.
Didn’t love me. When I found this, I thought it was so precious, a connection to her.
B-but I don’t think I want to carry it with me tonight.
Tonight is a fresh start. With only good things,” she says, putting it down gently.
“I might keep it. I might throw it out.”
“You know, you keep talking about how cool Chloe’s Curiosities is, but I’ve never been there. Next payday, let’s go buy you a purse. Or, we can go to the mall.”
“Ooh. A mall.” Imogene bites her lip, her smile crooked and excited.
My heart tumbles and seesaws in my chest. “I made reservations,” I say.
Immy takes my arm, and we leave together, Laurel starting to drift off in her carrier.
DINNER IS DELICIOUS, but the company is even better.
While Laurel sleeps, we talk in low voices about work, and the library, the book club, and how smart Laurel is, and how fast she’s growing, about how it’s so adorable how her tiny tail tip flips back and forth when she’s falling asleep, if we think she’s been extra fussy, and could she be teething already?
My hand rests on the white tablecloth next to the round glass candleholder.
Imogene lets her hand rest next to mine. Then under mine.
“Thank you for letting me be a total dad nerd,” I laugh, head dipping to study my manicotti. “No one else would get how excited I am about her.”
“I’m just as excited. I feel like she’s mine, too. Is that okay to say?”
Anyone else? No. Her? I don’t even hesitate. “It’s perfect. I hope you always feel that way.”
“I will.” Imogene laces her fingers through mine and squeezes.
Holy crap, she’s strong.
Why did my mind just picture her in a superhero costume and my body scream into a full-on raging Babe Alert? I drink water like I’ve been crossing a desert.
Imogene’s thumb strokes over the back of my hand in an absentminded circle. “You know how you said you love Laurel so much, and you’re willing to sacrifice for her, not because you had great parents, but because you didn’t?”
I nod, wondering when I said that—or rather, which time.
I never talked much as a kid, and I was practically nonverbal as the gawky foster kid in high school who could never afford the fancy clothes or cool bookbag, was never invited to parties, never on any sports teams. But with Imogene, I talk all the time.
She’s become more than just a roommate or someone who watches my baby.
She’s like my best friend. She looks up to me for helping her and helping Laurel, but I look up to her because she’s incredibly strong, resilient, and still so caring despite everything she’s been through.
“I know I’ve talked your ear off about that. ”
“It’s okay! I never had anyone to talk to growing up. You probably wish I’d stop chattering, huh?”
I shake my head emphatically. “Not for a second. I love talking to you. You’re like my best friend.”
Imogene gasps. “Really?”
Is that lame to admit? I don’t care. I nod. “Really.”
“You’re mine, too. And that’s why I can tell you that I love Laurel like you do. Not because someone showed me how to be a loving nanny, or even a mother. Just because... Well. No one should grow up like I did, with no hugs, no bedtime kisses, no smiles...”
Oh, God. She breaks my heart while owning it.
I hurt picturing Imogene like that, and I imagine Laurel without parents who love and protect her, and.
.. I can’t breathe right. Can’t see straight.
“I wish I could go back in time and give that little Imogene a happy home with someone to love her. Keep her safe. Make sure she had a great life.”
“I’m not little, but you do that. I do feel happy and safe here.”