Chapter 13
Halle
After sending my dad off this morning with lots of waves goodbye and the sad whimpering tears from one very unhappy granddaughter, Lenni and I kept busy the rest of the day getting some chores done and exploring Vancouver.
Since we’ve been having gorgeous fall weather, we decided to check out Stanley Park.
Lenni especially loved the rose gardens and walking along the Seawall, where people biked, walked, and ran around the waterfront.
It was a new experience for both of us to smell the briny scent of the English Bay in the air and listen to the squawk of seagulls as they flew overhead before diving into the lapping waves to catch their food.
Bedtime came too fast by Lenni’s estimation. While she takes her evening bath, I sit perched on the edge of the old porcelain tub and watch her play with the new rubber sea lion we picked up at one of the souvenir shops.
“Mama, where do baby sea lions come from?” she asks thoughtfully, dipping the toy underneath the waterline and then letting it go to pop back up to the surface.
“From their mommies’ tummies, just like human babies.”
She turns her attention to me, water dripping down the side of her cheek. I reach over and catch the water droplet with my fingers.
“Is that where I came from? Your tummy?”
I nod. “Yep. You were right in here.” I rub my lower stomach, which had been distended to the size of a basketball while I was pregnant with her.
Lenni squints in concentration. “How did I get out?”
I consider my response, not wanting to go too far in the details and end up freaking her out. These types of things can be a bit traumatizing for little kids, not to mention adding a string of questions sure to follow.
“Well, when a baby is ready to be born, a mommy goes into what’s called labor and has to go to the hospital.”
Lenni’s mouth puckers in an O. She lifts the bath toy in the air and examines it, flipping it over in her slick hands. I’m waiting for her follow-up question when my phone pings with a message notification.
It’s probably either my dad or Carm with their daily check-in. I reach toward where it sits on the top of the bathroom vanity, where I had put it earlier so it’d be out of the way of any splashing water.
But the phone nearly slips from my fingers when I see who it’s from. I blink down at the contact name on the display.
Hockey Boy.
Son of a biscuit. That’s not who I thought I’d get a message from tonight.
What the hell does he want?
Nope.
I don’t care.
I set the phone back down on the edge of the counter and peer at Lenni to make sure she’s okay, my head whirling over what Dane could possibly want with me.
My curiosity gets the best of me, and I know it will eat away at me if I don’t read that text this instant. I grab the phone again and tap the message box displaying his name, tentatively scanning it like it’s a snake ready to strike.
Although I had blocked his number for self-preservation after he was drafted, hoping it would save me from any pregnancy hormone slip-ups, I had unblocked it when Lenni was about two.
At the time, she’d fallen and we thought she had a broken arm.
When we went to the hospital, I was concerned I might need to know her father’s blood type, which meant I’d have to reach out to him.
Now as I stare at the phone and message, I wonder if I should’ve blocked it again.
Hockey Boy: Hey Cherry. Is this still your number?
Lenni splashes in the water, and some of it sluices over the edge, hitting my bare feet.
At the shock of both the water and the surprise text, I screech out in surprise, my attention drawn away from the additional texts that I hear ping, one after the other.
I put the phone back on the counter’s edge.
“Are you okay, Mama?” Lenni asks worriedly. I raise my eyes and give her a gentle smile.
“I’m fine, sweet pea. The water was just cold on my foot.” I lean down and dab at the droplets with the orange duck-hooded towel, replacing it on the hook on the wall when I’m done. “Ten more minutes, my little duckie.”
She giggles at this. “Mama, I’m a baby seal tonight.”
“Oops, that’s right. I forgot. You do look like a little sea lion.” I give her wet nose a bop with my fingertip, and she giggles some more. “Do you remember what the sign we read today said about sea lions?”
Lenni’s forehead wrinkles and furrows in concentration. We’d stopped at every sign along the path, and I’d read aloud each one, educating us both on the various lives of marine life in the bay.
She holds up the rubber seal toward me, wiggling it in her now pruning fingers. “They aren’t fish, but I don’t ‘member what they are.” Her lips form into a pout.
“That’s right. They aren’t fish. They’re called mammals. They’re warm-blooded, just like you and me. Fish are cold-blooded. And, because they’re mammals, they don’t lay eggs like fish do. They have babies.”
She grins, showing off a dimpled chin that immediately conjures Dane’s image in my mind and has me itching to read the other texts that came in.
Instead, I focus on Lenni. My priority.
“Just like you had me at the hospital?” she asks.
I nod. Most of the information I share may be too much for a four-year-old, but anytime I have the chance to provide her with educational lessons, I do.
The more I can expose her to tidbits about life, the smarter she’ll become.
Which is why I read to her every night, and we watch YouTube videos and get Google to answer when she asks questions that I can’t.
It’s sometimes daunting the sheer number of questions that float around that tiny head of hers. I often wonder what parents did before the internet came along. Did they have to carry around an encyclopedia everywhere they went to feed their child’s hungry brain?
And I can never get away with admitting I don’t have the answer. Lenni will simply push until she’s satisfied she understands. When I try saying, “I’m not sure, baby. I don’t know,” her immediate retort is, “Yes you do, Mama.”
She thinks I’m a quiz-show contestant with all the answers.
Don’t I wish.
The scariest question that she’s yet to ask—though I know it’s coming at some point—is, “Why don’t I have a daddy?”
As if right on cue, my phone pings again.
I swallow down the hard lump in my throat and shift my body away from Lenni, my knees bumping into the cabinet door of the vanity. I let out a grumbled curse under my breath and pick up the phone, using my body to covertly read the messages.
It’s ridiculous that I’m hiding the screen, considering she can’t read yet. But the secrecy involved with who it’s from instinctively has my body shielding to protect my daughter from the implications of the texts.
Taking a deep breath and allowing the sweet song about sunshine that Lenni sings calm my nerves, I look down at the phone and read through the three back-to-back texts Dane just sent me.
Hockey Boy: If this is still you…
Hockey Boy: I need to talk to you about something important.
Hockey Boy: And I need you to be honest with me.
It appears there’s a fourth coming, but right now it’s just ellipses on my screen. I try to look away—hoping to avoid what is surely coming. The question that has been left unanswered for over five years now.
The answer to which I never thought I’d have to explain.
My palms sweat, my breathing accelerates, and my eyes prickle with unshed tears that are likely to pour out.
This is the moment of truth. The moment I’ve been dreading and avoiding yet also quietly waiting for all these years.
The issue remains that I still don’t know if I want Lennon to find out who her father is.
It’s not that I don’t think she deserves the truth. It’s that I’m not certain if Dane deserves her, which sounds so cruel to say.
Dane has never been a bad guy.
In fact, he was always incredibly sweet to me. He was extremely considerate during my first time. He was patient and thoughtful. He wooed me with his charm and charisma. Dane probably would’ve made a good boyfriend.
The problem is his profession and his ability to stick around for Lenni. The demanding job of a professional hockey player creates issues around stability and doesn’t really support healthy relationships. How can it when players are on the road more than nine months out of every year?
I experienced that as a kid with my own father, who was rarely at home. It was my mom who kept our family together, and after she died, that responsibility fell to me.
I’ve never wanted that for my daughter. It’s not fair to Lennon or, frankly, to me.
I blink down at the screen, noticing it shake in my hand. My stomach is in knots and the pizza we ate for dinner is threatening to come back up.
I’m scared to read his next words.
I’m terrified of the consequences that the truth will create in our lives.
The text finally appears, and I want to climb into my bed and bury my head under the covers, ignore his question like it’s a pile of dirty laundry.
Hockey Boy: Is Lennon my daughter?
I stare down at those four words for what feels like forever, lost in the situation that has finally been realized and come to light. The fork in the road that clearly delineates a turning point in our lives.
It shouldn’t come as a surprise that he’s figured it out. It doesn’t take a detective to see they share a similarity in features and must be related in some way or another. Although I’ve never seen baby photos from Dane’s childhood, I’d venture to guess Lenni is a mirror image of him at this age.
How do I respond and begin this conversation that will inevitably change all our lives?
I flick my gaze over my shoulder and watch Lenni, who is now sitting with her knees bent, her toy perched at the top of her skinny legs as she makes it swan-dive into the water below.
My heart clenches at the realization that whatever I say, there will be consequences. Consequences that will be everlasting and change the course of Lenni’s life forever.
I lean over and place a kiss on top of her wet head, breathing in the sweet scent of baby shampoo, seeking some kind of solace before I open up Pandora’s box.
And then I type out my response.