Chapter 15
Fifteen
Addie smiles the kind of smile that brightens her whole face as she looks at me. Her eyes are the same clear blue as Gavin’s and shine just as bright.
And she has Down syndrome . . . and I didn’t know. Nobody told me.
Or maybe they did.
Maybe I wasn’t listening like I wasn’t listening when they tried telling me about Amanda and Greg.
Maybe one of the last times Amanda tried calling me was because she wanted to tell me and I never called her back.
How self-absorbed can I be?
“I’m sorry.” I sound like a robotic politician making a blanket statement following a tragedy. The clatter of the glass being swept into a dustpan plummets me back into my body. Because I broke a glass. Right. “If you can give me the artist’s name, I’ll replace it. Or just pay you.”
“Nonsense,” Nancy says. “You’re the one who said we have enough for everyone in town anyway.”
Gavin’s next to me, asking in a low voice, “You okay?”
I almost laugh. “Yeah, I’m—” I glance at Addie who’s looking at me with the happiest smile I’ve ever seen in my entire life. There’s no logical reason for it, yet it warms my heart just the same. “I didn’t know.”
“Know what?” he asks.
“Um.” I swallow. “Anything.”
His eyes narrow.
“I’m Addison Josephine Nickels,” Addie says, reaching a hand toward me. She’s wearing a cotton dress covered in flowers and her light hair is in two braids. She’s adorable.
“I’m Reese . . . Olivia Conway.” I have never sounded less confident in my life as I take her hand. “I’m sorry I broke the glass.”
“It’s okay.” She keeps pumping my hand and smiling. “We’re used to it with Uncle Gav.”
“Hey!” Gavin grabs her in a headlock and knuckles the crown of her head, making her laugh. “Take that back, you little buttcrack.”
“Gavin—” Nancy sighs, exasperated. “Will you stop calling her that?”
“Fine.” Gavin makes a face Addie snickers at. He releases his hold on her then pokes her belly. “But she’s still a little glass bubble.”
Addie beams at this weird title then says, “You’re a glass bubble.” Her gaze drifts to me and she pushes the bridge of her glasses. “Is Miss Reese a glass bubble?”
“Not sure, Ads.” I feel the full weight of their attention like a spotlight. “What do you think?”
She grins. “Yeah.”
Gavin winks. “Me too.”
What is happening?
To me, Addie says, “You’re pretty.”
I touch my own hair, self-conscious. Weirdly guilty even though I haven’t done a thing wrong. “Thank you. So are you.” I swallow. She is. She looks different, of course, but she’s darling. I see young Amanda there. Maybe Greg. “I like your dress.”
In a slow, somber voice, she says, “I’m a short, fat slut.”
My jaw drops, Gavin poorly stifles a chuckle, and Nancy says, “Addison Josephine Nickels, what did I tell you about saying that?” Nancy looks at me.
“The speech therapist encourages repeating movie lines to help with articulation—though she didn’t say that movie line—” She shoots Addie a warning look.
“Goldie Hawn says it in Overboard and Addie thinks it’s the funniest thing. ”
Addie laughs like it really is the funniest thing—it kind of is.
“She wants to be an actress,” Gavin fills in. “Comedy, clearly.” In a goofy voice he adds, “She has reel talent.”
“You’ll be great at it,” I say. “I haven’t watched Overboard in years.”
“We can watch it at Uncle Gav’s,” Addie offers.
“See,” Gavin says with a cheeky grin. “Everyone wants a date with Miss Reese.”
I don’t know if I agree, but I definitely don’t argue. The three of them slip into a movie-driven conversation, but I’m stuck in my head.
Dr. Cantor told me point-blank that I’m at a higher risk to have a child with the condition because I’m older, but it never occurred to me that it was a real possibility. Now, here with Addie, I see it very much is. And Amanda was younger.
Would I know what to do?
Would I find the right resources?
Would they be bullied? I’d probably end up in jail if that happened.
Addie looks so capable and happy, hanging onto Gavin like a monkey on a tree—they’ve obviously figured it out—but there are so many unknowns that come with a diagnosis like this, and it makes my head and heart hurt.
The therapy support needed—Nancy mentioned speech—in a town the size of Fontain is probably hard to come by.
We end up outside—me with the notebook Nancy refers to as her books and the manila envelope holding the copy of the offer—by the cars. I tell everyone goodbye—I need to gather my thoughts.
Gavin laughs. “You’re driving us, remember?”
Right.
Addie climbs into the back seat, and Gavin once again folds himself into the passenger side of the Volkswagen—the car might have shrunk—and I roll down the windows.
The drive happens around me—trees and houses blow by in a blur of greens, blues, and whites—and I can’t pry my thoughts from Amanda.
And Greg. What it must have been like when they found out and how they handled the news.
If Amanda grieved or barely bat an eye. The guilt I feel—the humility over my own self-absorption—over not knowing about this—any of it—makes it impossible to think straight.
I’m worried about my potential inadequacy as a mother at the mere prospect of a child with special needs and Amanda faced it head on.
And I didn’t know.
My eyes flick to the rearview mirror, and Addie’s reflection smiles from the back seat. I catch a snippet of their conversation, Gavin saying, “Miss Reese lives in Chicago, Ads.”
“Where’s that?” she asks.
“A big city,” he explains. “In Illinois. That’s another state.”
“It’s cold there.” Am I shouting? I flick my gaze from the road to Gavin and his brows pinch; I’m shouting.
I park in Mom’s driveway, and we clamber out. “Well, bye,” I say awkwardly.
Wordlessly, Addie hugs me—this family and their hugs—but unlike when Gavin wrapped his arms around me and I pushed him away or when Nancy embraced me and I tolerated it to be nice, I am softened—to her. Amanda’s child. My desire to protect her is as instinctive as it is instant.
“It’s okay about the glass,” Addie says when she releases me. “We have a lot.”
“Thank you,” I tell her. “I’ll be more careful.”
Gavin tosses her his keys. She misses them then her fingers fumble to pick them up from the driveway.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” he tells her.
She trots to the house, and we watch her until she’s inside.
He looks at me. “You’re weird again.”
There’s no arguing with him this time. “I didn’t know she had Down syndrome.” The confession tumbles out of me. “I’m so sorry. If I would have known, I could’ve—”
“Wait—” Gavin’s eyes go wide. “Addie has Down syndrome?”
My stomach drops. Oh, God.
“What? I—I—” I can’t breathe. “I thought—”
Gavin laughs. “Relax, Reese, I’m kidding.”
“Oh.” A relieved exhale rushes out of me. “Right.”
“Don’t be sorry for that. We aren’t. What would you have done differently anyway?” He shrugs. “She’s just a person. Only difference between her and us is a chromosome.”
“Of course.” His simple statement is rooted in fact yet seems so profound. “I just . . . I just didn’t know.”
“Hey.” He nudges me. “It’s normal.”
It’s a stupid, cliché line, but it calms me. I look at him—really look at him—and it’s like, once again, I’m seeing him anew.
He’s not Gavin the child I knew twenty-some years ago—even though he is—and he’s not a guy younger than me who barbarically spits seeds and tells horrific jokes—even though he is that too—but he’s a man who has loved people and lost people and raises a child and takes care of his mom.
He’s an unknown. An enigma. Numbers I can’t compute.
“I have to go.” I gesture at him with the books. “Homework.”
“Thanks for today,” he says. “For even just looking.”
We stay there. A breath. Two. Three. If I wasn’t here as a means to get back to where I belong, I might wish he’d ask me out again. I might admit I like him chasing after me even though it doesn’t make a lick of sense.
He says, “See ya, Reese,” then heads to his house.
“Gavin,” I call.
He stops halfway and looks back.
“Amanda—” I swallow. “Was she happy? As a mom, I mean? And doing hair?”
“Loved being a mom more than life itself.” He yanks his hat off to reveal his unruly head of hair and smiles wide. “And the only person I’d let touch this head.”
He takes a few steps backward and I stop him again. “Your shop—” I call, not sure why it matters. “You know you’ll lose it when your mom sells.”
His slight smile turns rueful. “I’ve survived losing more.”
He’s right. A shed filled with lawn equipment, even if it is his dream, is nothing in the scheme of every person in his life who’s gone.
Inside Mom’s house, I close the front door and press my back to it, my heart bouncing like a Ping-Pong ball between my chest and the notebook hugged against it.
Less than a month in this town and I’m completely off-kilter.
“Reese Conway,” Mom barks from the kitchen. “Mind telling me why you stole information to have a sperm bank baby?”