The next day, we went to Dad’s after church for Sunday dinner.
“Where’s Jackson?” he asked when I found him in the kitchen. Hank ran around me and threw himself into his grandfather’s arms.
“Savannah,” I answered.
“You’re kidding,” he said from around the squeeze he gave to his youngest grandson, then scooted him back to the family room so he could “talk to your mama.”
Sounds of a televised baseball pregame started up from behind me. “Trav,” I called over my shoulder. “Turn that down a decibel.”
“Sorry,” he called back.
I looked back at Dad. “No, I’m not,” I said before reaching into the cabinet for a glass.
“And if I know my daughter—and I do—you are none too happy about that fact.” Dad reached into the refrigerator and brought out the iced tea pitcher and a plate of burgers.
I took the pitcher and prepared a glass of tea. “Want one?” I asked.
“Already got one,” he said, nodding toward a glass I hadn’t noticed.
“Dad?” I began, then took a sip and placed the glass on the counter. “Do you think it’s too late for me to go back to school?”
Dad paused, studying me. “I don’t think it’s ever too late. But what are your thoughts?”
I crooked my finger, letting Dad know that I wanted him to follow me. We walked from the kitchen, through the dining room and living room, and then down a long hallway, past bedrooms and baths, and into one richly paneled room Dad referred to as his “library.”
“Felicia,” he said behind me. “What are we doing? I’ve got burgers to cook.”
“Look,” I said, pointing to the wall behind the massive desk, which sat in the middle of the room and faced the door. “What do you see?”
“My diplomas,” he answered matter-of-factly.
I walked around the desk, sat in the tufted soft-leather chair, my hands resting over the arms. “Do you know,” I began, then swiveled the chair to face the wall, “that when I was a little girl, I used to come in here. Sit. Look up at these diplomas.” I swung around again. My father had slid his hands into his khaki pants pockets. His face looked unsure, as if I’d just relayed news he’d never expected to hear. “I used to sit and think about what mine would look like, maybe even hanging next to yours.” I stood and walked toward him. “Having a diploma was everything because I wanted you—I wanted you and Mom to be proud—” Just as Jackson hoped his father would have been proud, had he lived to see the accomplishments of his youngest son.
“Sweetheart—”
“No, Dad. Just listen. I know you’re proud of me no matter what—”
“You’ve done amazing things, Leesh. You and Jackson both.”
I shook my head. He didn’t get it. He couldn’t fully understand. He’d gone to college. Met Mom. Graduated and then got married. They’d waited two years before getting pregnant with me. He’d done it all . . . his way. “I wanted to go to college.” I raised my hands. “And I know that I went. But, if you remember, I wanted to go Georgia—”
“Yes, but I think your wanting to go there may have had more to do with Jackson than academics.”
“Granted, but it was still a dream. A dream I never got to finish.” I sat up straighter. “And before you say anything, I know I went to Southern, but what I wanted more than going was—I wanted to finish college. I wanted to have a career in law, but what I got was a job and . . . who knows? If I could have stayed the course, in time, maybe I would have even gone back to get my JD.” I looked down at my father’s desk, to the chaos of papers and pens and paper clips and books on veterinary medicine. “I love my kids,” I whispered, tears now stinging my eyes.
Dad crossed the room to wrap me in his arms while I squeezed my eyes to keep the tears from continuing. “I know you do. And you’re a good mother. A great mother.”
“And I wouldn’t trade them . . .”
“I know you wouldn’t.”
“But, Dad—”
He stepped back. “Felicia, isn’t what you do enough? Isn’t it exactly what you would have done with the degree you went to Southern to get in the first place? What you’re doing now?”
“It’s just a piece of paper. I know. But it says I accomplished something. And I know that the firm has personally trained me and sent me to a few workshops and—that’s just it, Dad. When I was at those workshops . . . when I sat in those classrooms and listened to the instructors . . . I remembered being back at Southern and I so wanted to—” I shook my head. “No one ever asked me, really.”
“Asked you what?”
I pointed to my chest. “What I wanted to do. It was just assumed. And I—I was too shocked by my own behavior and my own circumstances to think it through.” I took a breath. “Jackson and I made the right decision, Dad. I do believe that. I’m just wondering now if it was the only decision.”
December 1998
As soon as I pulled into the restaurant’s parking lot—the little diner Jackson suggested we meet—I spotted him through the large window. Sitting in a booth. Head down. Shoulders slumped.
He knew. He had figured out why I wanted to talk to him. Why I would drive three-and-a-half hours to see him, six weeks after the fact.
Jackson turned then, looked out the window, and saw me too. He gave a funny sort of half smile, held up one hand in a mock wave, and I took a deep breath. The time had come. I had rehearsed all the way from Statesboro, saying, “I’m pregnant,” in about every conceivable way. But now, only time would tell how I’d actually say those two, hypocritical words.
How is it, I wondered as I stepped out of the car, that the same simple line—I’m pregnant—could spark such joy or such fear, such excitement or such anguish? How could they be both the words that ignited hope for a future or fear of being trapped by it?
I opened the café door and walked on shaky legs to where Jackson now slid out of the booth. “Hey,” he drew out, then leaned down to kiss my cheek as though we were old friends who happened to meet up in a student-driven restaurant that played music a hair too loud from overhead speakers.
The waitress sauntered over as soon as we sat. Jackson already had an oversized glass of half-consumed coke in front of him, so I said I’d have the same. Mainly because I needed to keep this meeting simple. Uncomplicated.
“Are you eating?” the waitress asked, more to Jackson than me.
I waited for his cue. “Leesh?” he asked.
I exhaled nervous laughter. Jackson had always ordered for us both. Had always known what I wanted. How had so much changed? “Uh—no. Just a coke.”
Jackson lifted his chin to the waitress. “We’re good,” he said.
As she walked away, I studied his face. And, I suppose, he studied mine. Both of us giving the other the floor but neither of us speaking. The waitress returned with my drink. I thanked her and she walked away.
“I guess you heard I’m dropping out of college.”
Prickles of confusion rushed over me. “What? No . . .”
“It’s the right thing to do.”
The right thing.
I wrapped my hands around the sweating drink while Jackson picked up the straw the waitress had left beside it. He tore the top precisely, then shoved the paper down as he’d done countless times in our dating life. He slipped the straw into my drink. “Here you go,” he said, which was what he’d always said.
Jackson. Steady as a rock. Sure as the sun. Always.
“But why?” I asked.
He grimaced against an inner torment. “Mom—Mom said she was going to sell Morgan’s. I couldn’t—I can’t let that happen, Leesh.” Tears formed in his eyes. “That store meant everything to Dad. If she were to sell it to someone who didn’t put the same love and care into it that he—well.” He shrugged. “We’ve set something up where I can purchase it by making payments to Mom, which will give her some spending money. You know, that kind of thing.” Jackson paused long enough to give a nod of confidence. “I can do this, Leesh. I can run Morgan’s and I can make an even better success of it than Dad did.” He exhaled, and with the air came the tiniest touch of self-assuredness. “I know I can.”
“But what about your education? Your degree?”
“It’s just a piece of paper. I’m here studying business.” His brow crinkled. “Well, some things you can’t teach. Some things you just have to do to learn.”
I took a long sip of my drink, felt it tickle and burn. But I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say. He’d just lost his beloved father. Now he felt the pressure of losing something that meant the world to the man who meant the world to him. And here I was, about to drop another burden onto his broad shoulders that looked as though they’d fold in two.
Jackson stared out the window for a minute, his jawline flexing, his lips drawn thin. “Besides . . . between the three of us kids, I’m the only one who can do it, you know? I’m the only one still in Bakersville. The only one not committed already to a job or a family.”
I nodded as he continued to stare, his eyes unfocused. He raked his teeth over his bottom lip, and then his head whipped back and his eyes found mine. “And I guess you’re here to tell me you’re pregnant, right?”