Chapter 7

In the morning, I’m actually feeling all right—which is crazy, considering how dead tired I am.

I spent a long time last night searching for a journal with a Ryden in the back. It was a fail, obviously. If Meg had left another journal here, I would have noticed it before now. Then I left Alan a voice mail asking if he’s found any journals at his place and fell asleep reading more of Meg’s red journal, the Mabel one, looking for a clue.

I was woken up by Hope an hour or two later. Same old story. But then something sort of miraculous happened. She was crying and crying, her sore little gums bared, two small white teeth only just starting to fight their way to the surface, her hands pulled into fists, making way more noise than a thing the size of a shoe box should be able to, and somehow I knew it was hunger crying, not teething crying, even though she had eaten right before I put her down. I knew it. So I made her some formula, pulled her into my lap, and she latched onto the bottle right away, her sobs subsiding almost instantaneously. It was like when my mom feeds her. Easy. Peaceful. Kind of awesome.

She went right back to sleep when her bottle was finished. It was the first time I’ve ever gotten her to do that on my own.

Since I was all amped up after that, I used the time to continue the Michael search.

Michael Taylor Boston 1998 Ryden Brooks: 160,000 results and clear from the first page that they were all scraps of completely unrelated nothingness. Sometimes the Internet can be ostentatiously useless.

So I switched missions and Googled UCLA day care. Way more productive. Turns out they have a campus day care that gives highly discounted rates to children of UCLA students if they meet the financial aid requirements. And hello, I’m poor as fuck.

It’s all going to work out. Today is the day that my life finally starts to get back on track.

I meet Mom in the kitchen. She looks up from her coffee and her book in surprise. (Mom reads a lot of paranormal trilogies. You’d think she was one of the girls at my school or something.) Then she takes in my practice gear and Hope all ready to go in her car seat, and her eyes narrow. “What are you doing?”

“Going to soccer practice.”

She blinks a few times, slowly, and then says, “You’re bringing the baby?”

“No. Alan’s gonna watch her.”

“You paying him?”

“No.”

“Ryden.”

“Mom.”

She sighs and puts down her coffee. “We need to talk, bud.” She pulls out the chair next to her.

I glance at the clock. “I can’t right now. I have to be at practice in an hour, and I still have to show Alan how to heat up bottles and shit.”

“I really don’t care. Sit down.”

I don’t have time for this. But I sit, because I know that tone of voice, and I know she’s not going to let me go until I listen to what she has to say. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

“Enough with the attitude, okay?” she says. “I’m on your side.”

“I know,” I mumble.

“Good. Now, explain this whole soccer thing to me. How on earth is that going to work?”

“The same way it always does.”

Mom gives me a look. “What did I say about the attitude?”

“I’m not trying to give you an attitude. I’m serious—soccer works the way it always does. I go to practice; I go to games; I come home. What’s to understand?”

“What’s to understand is that you have a daughter now, and a job. And school. We talked about this. You have obligations, Ryden. Important ones. Soccer’s going to have to go.”

I shake my head. “Soccer’s important. I can’t play in college if I don’t play this season.”

Mom stares at me, her eyes bugging out of her head, as if I told her I’ve decided to become a woman or something.

“What?” I ask.

“Buddy,” she says softer, putting her hand on mine, “you can’t go to UCLA. I thought you understood that.”

I yank my hand back. “The hell I can’t. That’s been the plan for almost two years! The coach wants me. When he called a couple of weeks ago, he said that they just need to see me play live, and then they’re going to make their official offer.”

“Things are different now.”

I push my chair back and get to my feet. “Do you honestly think I don’t know that?”

“I don’t know what you think, Ryden! You don’t talk to me like you used to. And you clearly haven’t been working to figure out the day care situation—”

“Not true! I told you, Alan is going to watch her.”

“Yeah, during soccer practice. I’m not talking about soccer practice. I’m talking about when you go back to school. Unless Alan graduated early, he’ll be going back to school in two weeks too. Which puts us no closer to a solution. This isn’t going to magically work itself out. This is real life, Ryden. You need to start acting like it.”

Now it’s my turn to stare at her. “I can’t believe you just said that. I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do. I’m trying everything I can think of to do right by Hope. I got a job. I haven’t seen any of my friends all summer, and when I have, it’s like they’re freaked out they’ll catch the fucked-up-life disease from me. Meg is gone. She’s gone, Mom, and she’s never coming back, and it’s all my fault.”

With no warning, all the bullshit inside me forces its way out in violent, hyperventilating gasps, and I’m suddenly reaching for my mom as she gets up from her chair, rubbing my back like she did when I was a little kid.

Goddammit. Today was supposed to be a good day.

“It’s okay, buddy,” Mom whispers. “Let it out.”

I don’t know how long we stand there like that, but eventually the shaking subsides and my lungs start working again. I pull away, slowly.

“Sit,” Mom says.

I do.

“Talk to me,” she says. “Please.”

And I do.

It’s not like any of it is really news to her—she obviously knows all the major plot points of the story. But I’ve never told her the little things about Meg, the things I loved most about her, like how she used to concentrate really hard on what the teacher was saying in class, as if she was eager to soak up as much knowledge as she possibly could. Or how she used to talk me into letting her braid my hair when we were alone and how she used to laugh at how ridiculous I looked when she was done. Or how she was the only person I’d ever seen eat ice cream (okay, sugar-free, organic frozen yogurt—Meg wouldn’t have eaten real ice cream) out of an ice-cream cone with a spoon.

I’ve never told her how Meg was always pushing me to track down Michael, how she thought there was some big question mark in my head where my dad’s face should be.

I’ve never told her that sometimes when I look at Hope’s face, really look at her, I feel sick to my stomach because she looks so much like Meg that it’s like being haunted by a ghost.

I’ve never told my mom how much I hate myself for how everything turned out, how much I regret having sex with Meg without a condom, knowing she had cancer and that things would be bad if she got pregnant, and how I should have pushed harder for her to have an abortion. Even if it meant Meg hated me forever, I should have done whatever it took to make her think of herself for once, to stop her from sacrificing herself like this.

But I tell her now.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen this way, Mom. Everything was supposed to be fine. Meg promised me! She was so sure she was going to make it.”

Before she got pregnant and after, during chemo and post-chemo, right up until the end, Meg never once believed she was going to die. And if I’m being honest, despite all our fighting about her decision to stop her treatment, deep down she had me convinced of it too. I really did believe she would make it through…right up until that horrible day late in the sixth month of her pregnancy when I looked at her face and realized pieces of her were already gone.

All Mom says is, “It’s okay, Ryden. It’s all going to be okay.” Even though I know she’s wrong—it won’t all be okay—it’s the best thing she can say to me. Because she’s not trying to contradict me or tell me it isn’t my fault or any of that crap. She’s letting my feelings stay my feelings. And I love her for it.

Mom deserves to know I’m not completely in denial and that I actually do think about our situation. “I called Grandma and Grandpa.”

She nods. “They told me.”

“They said they would send a hundred dollars.”

“That’s nice.”

There are a few moments of quiet. Oh, fuck it. Might as well tell her everything.

“And I went to Meg’s house to ask her parents to help pay for day care,” I say in a rush.

Mom’s eyebrows shoot up. “You did? When?”

“Yesterday.”

She stares at me, clearly waiting for me to elaborate.

“They didn’t come to the door. They were home though. They saw me. I know that for sure.”

Mom lets out her breath all at once. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t understand it. I know they hate me and blame me and all that, and I know they probably blame Hope too, and that’s why they’re acting like this, but those people have more money than God. Why wouldn’t they throw us a few grand to make sure their own flesh and blood is being properly cared for?”

“They’re complicated people, Ryden,” Mom says.

“Yeah. No joke.”

Complicated, yes. Crazy, yes. But if they truly loved Meg—and I believe they did; they were always doing whatever they could to help her get better—why wouldn’t they want to see Hope? I don’t care if she reminds them so much of her that it hurts. I don’t care that it’s easier not to deal with any of it.

I could have put Hope up for adoption and moved the fuck on. But I didn’t. I couldn’t just erase Hope and Meg from my life. I made the hard choice, because it was the right one. They should have to too. Isn’t that what parents are supposed to do?

Or is that just another thing I’m wrong about?

Mom walks over to the sink and rinses out her coffee cup. I glance at the clock. It’s already nine. Practice is starting. I have to be there.

But Mom’s not ready to let me go yet.

“Ryden?” she says.

“Yeah?”

“What changed?”

Could you be a little more vague, Mom? “What do you mean?”

“You said Meg wanted you to try to find Michael, right? We both know you would have done anything for that girl. But you didn’t ask me about him then, not even when Meg asked you to. So why now? What’s changed?”

I really don’t want to talk about this. Plus, I don’t know how to explain it. “I don’t know.” I pick up Hope’s car seat. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

“Please, Ry. I want to know.” Her eyes are almost begging. Fuck.

I put the car seat back down and pull the rubber band out of my hair and redo my ponytail just to have something to do with my hands. “Honestly, Mom, I’m totally sucking at this whole parenthood thing. I have no clue what I’m doing. Hope even seems to know that. So I thought…maybe…if I met my own father, things would start to click into place. Like, I don’t know, on some basic level. What fathers act like when they’re in the same room as someone they gave their DNA to. Or what it feels like to look at your father’s face. Stuff like that. I thought if I had those experiences, things might start to make more sense for me and Hope.”

Mom stares at me as if I’m speaking Korean. Finally she unclamps her jaw. “First of all, you’re not sucking at all. You’re doing amazingly well, actually.”

Ha. Whatever. I’m not sure if I actually say that out loud.

“Second…you really think Michael has something to teach you about being a parent that I don’t?”

Shit. Suddenly I’m realizing how that reasoning must sound to her. Like I think she wasn’t enough of a parent. Like everything she’s done for me was so lacking that a five-minute visit with my deadbeat, glorified sperm donor would be more meaningful than a lifetime with her. Goddammit. That’s not what I meant at all.

“Mom…that’s not…not teach me anything…more like what it feels like…I mean, you’re the best—”

She holds up a hand to stop me. “It’s okay, Ry.” She takes a breath and then asks, “Have you started looking for him?”

I nod.

“Anything?”

I shake my head. “I think it might be a lost cause.” But her question reminds me of all my other Googling, which provides me with the perfect opportunity to get far, far away from the subject of Michael. The news that the day care dilemma won’t be an issue next year should cheer up Mom at least a little.

“I almost forgot—I did some research last night,” I say. “UCLA has a day care for students’ kids. And they give you financial aid. So I can take Hope to California with me. I know it’s not gonna be easy, but I really think I can do it.”

She crosses back over to me, places her hands on my shoulders, and really looks at me. Then she smiles a sad, weary smile. “You know what, bud? I think you can do anything, if you want it badly enough.”

“So”—I pause—“I’m gonna go to practice.”

Mom nods. “Have fun.”

• • •

“I got your message last night,” Alan says as I run him through the basics of child care.

“And?”

He shakes his head. “I haven’t seen any of Meg’s journals in months. Since she was still…here.”

“Damn.”

“What exactly are you looking for?”

I quickly explain my theory about the checklist and he goes, “That’s so Meg.”

“So you think I’m right? About her leaving us some sort of message?”

“I guess it’s possible. Or at the very least maybe she left us each a journal. As a…” He looks like he’s searching for the word.

“Souvenir?”

“Or like a gift? But I don’t know where she would have left them if they’re not at your house and they’re not at my house. It’s not like she was going out all that much.”

“I know. That’s the problem.” But with every moment that passes, my desperation to find Meg’s journals grows. Because if I’m not going to get answers about how to be a dad from my father, then maybe I’ll get them from Hope’s mother. What if Meg left pages and pages of motherly wisdom behind? What if, even though she’s gone, she didn’t actually leave me alone in this?

At this point, I don’t care where the answers come from—Michael or Meg or somewhere else entirely. Soon I’ll be “Daddy,” and all too soon after that, Hope will be old enough to start remembering stuff, and I really need to figure out what the hell I’m doing by then, because I don’t want to permanently screw her up. So you can be damn sure I’m going to follow any lead that comes my way.

I hand over Hope and all her stuff and book it across town to school. I get to practice at 9:55.

“Brooks,” Coach O’Toole barks, not looking happy. “You’re late.”

“I know, Coach. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

He nods toward the field. “Take your place with your team. We’re doing windows.”

I jump right into the passing and receiving drill, and after a few minutes, it’s as if the last year didn’t even happen. I’m back in time, the Ryden of old, the one who spent the summer before sophomore year hooking up with Shoshanna Harvey, swimming at the lake, drinking a lot of beer. The Ryden who knew absolutely nothing about baby feeding schedules or diaper rash or what the word metastasis means.

My foot connects with the ball over and over again, and each impact is like a jolt of electricity from a defibrillator. Out here on the field, I’m coming back to life.

Dave approaches me at lunch. “Dude.” He gives me a fist bump.

“Hey, Dave.”

“I didn’t know if you were coming today. You seemed kinda freaked out at the lake. And you’ve been totally MIA all summer.”

I take a bite of my sandwich and chew slowly, trying to figure out how to respond. I really don’t want to get into a whole discussion right now. Eventually, I go with, “Yeah, well, here I am. So what’s going on with you and Shoshanna?”

Dave’s eyes glaze over a little, and I know exactly what he’s thinking about. There are certain things Shoshanna Harvey is very, very good at. “Man, she’s amazing. I think I’m in love.”

I smile. He’s not wrong. Sho is amazing, in lots of ways.

“That’s cool with you, right?” he asks way too belatedly. “I mean, you’re totally over her, yeah?”

“Yes, David. I’m over her. I’m happy for you, man.”

He pops a straw into a Capri Sun and downs the whole thing in one sip. I watch as the pouch gets flatter and flatter, powerless as its insides get sucked out. “Whatever happened with you two, anyway? You never told me why you broke up.”

I shrug. “Dunno. Just wasn’t right, I guess.” The truth is, Sho and I had fun, but the same kind of fun over and over again gets old after a while—at least, when there’s nothing underneath. I was ready for something else. Looking back, I was ready to find Meg. Not that Shoshanna’s stupid or anything. She’s actually really smart. And she’s cool too. And fun. But we weren’t right together. And I told her so. She was really pissed off at first, but she got over it. Shoshanna always bounces back. Maybe that’s why she wears so much makeup—it’s a barrier against assholes like me, so nothing we say or do can cut through her mask enough to hurt.

After the break, we play a full game to get back into the rhythm. I block every single shot.

At the end of practice, Coach O’Toole has us all gather around. “Nice work out there, gentlemen. Welcome back.” We all applaud. “Seniors, listen up. Some of you who will be playing D-One have unofficial offers already, and that’s great. Keep talking to the coaches. Now that you’re in your senior year, they’re free to call you once per week. Let’s turn those unofficial offers into official ones. For the rest of you, if you’re planning to play in college, now is the time to start looking at schools and sending out your letters of interest. Don’t dally. Recruiters’ schedules fill up quickly, and you want to make sure they have time to come see you play.”

“Hey, Ryden,” Dave says after Coach lets us go. “A bunch of us are going to Chili’s. You comin’?”

I shake my head. “Can’t do it, man.”

He nods, like he expected me to say that. “Cool. See you tomorrow then.”

I shower quickly and hop in the car. I have thirty minutes to get to Alan’s, pick up Hope, drop her off with Mom, and get to work.

But really, all I’m thinking about is writing the UCLA head coach. I know Coach said those letters were for guys who don’t have any interest from recruiters yet, but I also know the UCLA recruiter needs to see me play one more time—in person—before offering me my scholarship. As far as I know, that visit hasn’t been scheduled. So it couldn’t hurt to remind them that I’m the guy for their team.