Chapter 36 Patton #2
She flinches at my tone. “I did want you back. You were my son. You still are. I had every intention of approaching you and your foster family. But then I saw how happy you were . . . how your foster parents showered you with hugs and praise right after the show. They looked genuinely glad to be a part of your life. There were other kids there, too, high-fiving you for such a good performance. I’d never seen you so happy, so well taken care of . . . certainly never with me.”
“Happy?” I ask incredulously. “The person who was supposed to love me unconditionally abandoned me—a thought I took to bed with me every night, thanks to you—and you thought I was happy?”
Yes, I was lucky to have been placed with kind and supportive foster families over the years, but they never replaced my mother.
She’d made grave mistakes and terrible decisions with regards to my safety, but she was still the woman who’d sung me lullabies and hugged me the way only your own mother can.
“Aside from a criminal record, I had nothing, Patton. No job, no money, no place to sleep at night.” Her voice catches as she tips her head back, placing the heels of her hands over her eyes.
“You have no idea how much it broke me to walk away from you. But I did it because I thought it was the only way to give you a real chance.”
“You had strangers raise me. Is that what you call giving me a real chance?”
Her watery gaze meets mine before she quickly averts it, biting her chapped lips. “Do you think you would have become the man you are today, the movie star, if you’d been raised in another trailer park? Those strangers gave you the schooling and safety I never could.”
It was because of them that I met Nisha.
The thought tempers a bit of my incredulity and ire.
“When I tell you I had nothing, Patton, I’m not exaggerating. I couldn’t have given you the life you deserved, but they could. They did.” She waves a hand in my direction. “And look at you now; you’re exactly as you should have turned out.”
My stomach churns with mixed emotions as I lean back in the booth. A part of me understands what she means. I might even be able to empathize with her situation and her decision to some degree.
But forgiveness?
The other part of me knows I won’t get there today.
I forget how much time passes after that, words spilling between us slowly, mixed with hesitation and moments of silence. My coffee turns cold, and the donut sits untouched between us, a sweet confectionary in the middle of a bitter reckoning.
She tells me about her time in prison and life afterward, hopping from one job to the next without a landing pad. She tells me that she kicked the addiction to hard drugs a decade ago, but alcohol was still a crutch until four years ago, when she decided to get sober and find me.
And as much as I want to ask why it took her so long to decide to find me, I bite back the words. Because the answer won’t undo the damage, and it certainly won’t bring back those lost years.
So I just nod and let her talk. There’s something raw and earnest in her face when she speaks, like she’s clutching her sobriety with both hands, proof that she’s working harder than she ever has, proof that she deserves a second chance in both life and with me.
I get the sense that speaking about her past and being vulnerable doesn’t come easy to her.
“What about now?” I ask. “You’re working here at the waffle house. Why are you still living at the shelter?”
“I get more than just a bed at the shelter,” she says quietly. “They have counseling, support groups, and meals.” She smiles, playing with a strand of her hair. “They even have this sweet young lady who comes in to cut our hair on the weekends. Everyone at the shelter loves her.”
“Wait a minute.” My heart kicks my ribs like a soccer ball. “Are you at the shelter on the corner of Glen and Overton?”
“Yeah, the San Jose Safe Haven.”
My pulse spikes, and for a moment, I’m completely speechless.
Holy shit, what are the chances? Of all the shelters in the city, and all the women my mother could have crossed paths with, she had to meet my Nisha.
My hand reaches for my phone inside my suit jacket and then my pant pockets, coming up empty. I honestly can’t believe I’d forgotten about it all this time.
“How long have we been talking?” I ask, my voice sharper than I intend, a sense of foreboding churning inside my stomach.
Your girlfriend slash ex-wife slash the woman you want to spend the rest of your life with is about to have your baby any day now, dumbass! Why haven’t you had your phone on you?
“About two hours.”
Oh, God. I’m already sliding out of the booth. “I must have left my phone in my truck.”
“Patton?” Abigail’s soft voice barely registers over my racing thoughts. “What’s wrong?”
“She’s not just the girl who cuts your hair,” I say, rushing toward the door. “She’s my ex-wife, my girlfriend, the love of my fucking life . . . and she’s having my daughter.”
Outside, I yank open the door to my truck, spotting my phone right there in the cupholder. My stomach drops like a free-falling elevator when I see the numbers on the screen.
Thirty-one missed calls. Fifty-four text messages.
I remember checking my phone as soon as I got out of the meeting this morning, and aside from the usual “I love yous” exchanged with Nisha, there wasn’t anything urgent. And then I had to go and leave the damn thing behind!
“Shit.” My vision blurs as I scroll to the messages, all saying similar things, starting almost two hours ago.
Little Borealis
Patton, where are you? I need you to get to the hospital now! The baby is coming.
Little Borealis
Patton, please pick up! No one can find you, and I’m really worried.
Sarina Arora
Patton, please call back. Nisha needs you. She’s in labor.
Piper Menon
Dude! WHERE ARE YOU?? Once this baby is out, Nisha is going to spin-hook kick your face!
My throat tightens until every breath feels like it’s being forced through a straw, and my world feels like it’s shrinking to the point where I think I might faint.
Two hours.
Two hours of contractions, of pushing, and doing it all without me. My head swims.
How could I not have been there again?
I can only imagine what she must be thinking; how her past fears must all be rushing back, reminding her of all the times I wasn’t there before. My chest burns with both shame and anger at myself.
For almost eight years, I made it a mission to cross off every wish she left me on that list. From the moment I moved in across the street from her, I wanted to ensure she knew she had all of me, and that there is nothing more important to me besides her.
I’ve shown up, laughed until we cried, and made damn sure to be there every step of the way, no matter how big or small the moment.
And now I just threw her back into the same cyclone of fears I swore I’d end.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
I hit her contact number, but it goes straight to voicemail. I’m not sure of the words that stumble through my lips, some rushed out garbage apology that I deserve getting punched in the face for.
Then I call Sarina, then Piper. When neither answer, I dial Troy before I can think better of it.
“Patton, what the fuck!” Troy answers on the second ring. “Where the fuck are you?”
“Are you at the hospital?” I snap.
Fuck, is the baby here? Has everyone gotten to the hospital before me? Did I miss the birth of my kid all because I left my fucking phone in the car?
“I’m on my way, asshole, but why the fuck aren’t you there? Everyone’s been looking for you.”
I throw my ball cap to the ground. “Long story. I’m heading there now. Can you just tell me—” I take in a sharp inhale, scared to even ask. “Did she . . . did she already have the baby? Did I fucking miss my daughter’s birth?”
“I don’t know. Sarina said Nisha’s contractions were getting worse half an hour ago, but I haven’t heard from her since. But, Patton? You better hope they gave her the good drugs, because with this shit that you just pulled, she’s going to murder you.”
Yeah, and I deserve it.
As soon as I hang up, a pair of footsteps crunch behind me.
“Patton?” My mother’s small voice is laced with worry. “Is everything okay? Can I help in any way?”
For a moment, I think of saying no, but to my utter surprise, the words that emerge from my lips are completely different. “Do you want to meet your granddaughter?”
My mother’s face crumples, her trembling hands finding her mouth. “Yes, more than anything!”
“Then, let’s go!”
With my mother in the passenger seat beside me, I put the truck into gear. I’m just about to gun it out of the parking lot when Rachel rushes over with a bag waving in the air above her.
She hands it through the open window, grinning from ear to ear. “So, you’re having a girl!”
I give her a quick nod before peeling out of the lot, my tires spitting gravel, and my head spinning with the same prayer.
Please, please let me make it in time.