Read Online One Small Thing by Jessica Barksdale Inclan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jessica Barksdale Inclan
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between them, she stared up at the dark ceiling, points of streetlight or moonlight slicing between the curtains. Dan was awake, his breath inaudible, not the deep, snoring rumble that he made each night until he turned on his side and tucked her arm around him. Her eyes felt red and rough, as if she’d been up for days. But she couldn’t close them. She didn’t know what she would see if she did.
“Aves?”
“What?” she whispered back.
“What will we do?”
She brushed her hair back away from her forehead and turned to him. “You’ll make the calls you told her you would. You’ll go to the doctor.”
“No,” he said. “I mean, what will we do if he’s mine?”
Her stomach lurched in that same way that had often made her think, for an instant, she was pregnant. “I don’t know.”
“If he’s mine—“
“Dan, we don’t know that yet. From what you’ve told me, maybe she wasn’t the most . . . what I’m saying is maybe there was someone else. Or someone just after you. You can’t even think about it until you have the test.”
“You’re right. But why would she name him Daniel, Aves? And why would she do that and then not call me? It’s not like she did it to lure me back. She was giving him . . .“
Avery closed her eyes and listened, even though she wanted to pull the blankets over her head and block out the sound of his sad voice. Yes. Of course. He was right. Why would Randi do that if she had no intention of trotting a toddler up to a frat house and saying, “Here he is. Your son!”
When Avery was a teenager, one of her classmates got pregnant by one of the most popular, talented seniors, a guy who approached her at a party, handed her drinks, and then had sex with her out on the lawn as the party raged inside. Nine months later, she named her son Jason, after the guy, Jay, who had ignored her from the moment he pulled out of her and walked off the lawn. Avery’s friend told everyone about her baby, told them his name, hoping that Jay would take the name as a calling and recognize the baby as his son. He never did.
Randi had never done that. She’d never called, not in ten years. There had been no awkward visit, Avery opening the door to a stranger and baby. No requests for money. No clue to lead Avery sooner to what she knew now.
“You’re right,” she said, her voice muffled. “He probably is yours.”
Dan was silent, and he turned to the ceiling. “Yeah.”
When her father was dying in the hospital room, she and Mara and Loren sat in the waiting room. No one came in to tell them anything, their mother behind the closed door of their father’s room. One minute they were all sitting around his bed, trying to ignore the fact that the surgeon had told them there was nothing he could do. The cancer was everywhere, liver, kidney, bones, intestines. The next minute, the girls were rushed out by a nurse because something—blood pressure, heart rate—was wrong, off, weird, and then the door closed, and they were alone.
In her bed now, Dan on the other side, her arm pressed firmly between them, the truth in the air above them, she felt the same as she had in that hospital room fifteen years ago. Whatever was behind her father’s door, whatever the DNA tests would prove, would change her life forever. And there was nothing she could do about it but wait. Again.
In her dream, she saw her father’s pale face, his dark hair pushed back, his brown eyes closed. But she knew he was alive. There was still hope. A chance. A voice—she didn’t know if it was hers or someone else’s or just a thought—told her to pull the needles out of his cheeks and chin and forehead in less than five minutes and he would live. That was when she noticed the thin, quivering needles. So many of them. But she had to do it, and the voice told her to start, and she pulled and pulled and pulled. There were so many. Her
“Aves?”
“What?” she whispered back.
“What will we do?”
She brushed her hair back away from her forehead and turned to him. “You’ll make the calls you told her you would. You’ll go to the doctor.”
“No,” he said. “I mean, what will we do if he’s mine?”
Her stomach lurched in that same way that had often made her think, for an instant, she was pregnant. “I don’t know.”
“If he’s mine—“
“Dan, we don’t know that yet. From what you’ve told me, maybe she wasn’t the most . . . what I’m saying is maybe there was someone else. Or someone just after you. You can’t even think about it until you have the test.”
“You’re right. But why would she name him Daniel, Aves? And why would she do that and then not call me? It’s not like she did it to lure me back. She was giving him . . .“
Avery closed her eyes and listened, even though she wanted to pull the blankets over her head and block out the sound of his sad voice. Yes. Of course. He was right. Why would Randi do that if she had no intention of trotting a toddler up to a frat house and saying, “Here he is. Your son!”
When Avery was a teenager, one of her classmates got pregnant by one of the most popular, talented seniors, a guy who approached her at a party, handed her drinks, and then had sex with her out on the lawn as the party raged inside. Nine months later, she named her son Jason, after the guy, Jay, who had ignored her from the moment he pulled out of her and walked off the lawn. Avery’s friend told everyone about her baby, told them his name, hoping that Jay would take the name as a calling and recognize the baby as his son. He never did.
Randi had never done that. She’d never called, not in ten years. There had been no awkward visit, Avery opening the door to a stranger and baby. No requests for money. No clue to lead Avery sooner to what she knew now.
“You’re right,” she said, her voice muffled. “He probably is yours.”
Dan was silent, and he turned to the ceiling. “Yeah.”
When her father was dying in the hospital room, she and Mara and Loren sat in the waiting room. No one came in to tell them anything, their mother behind the closed door of their father’s room. One minute they were all sitting around his bed, trying to ignore the fact that the surgeon had told them there was nothing he could do. The cancer was everywhere, liver, kidney, bones, intestines. The next minute, the girls were rushed out by a nurse because something—blood pressure, heart rate—was wrong, off, weird, and then the door closed, and they were alone.
In her bed now, Dan on the other side, her arm pressed firmly between them, the truth in the air above them, she felt the same as she had in that hospital room fifteen years ago. Whatever was behind her father’s door, whatever the DNA tests would prove, would change her life forever. And there was nothing she could do about it but wait. Again.
In her dream, she saw her father’s pale face, his dark hair pushed back, his brown eyes closed. But she knew he was alive. There was still hope. A chance. A voice—she didn’t know if it was hers or someone else’s or just a thought—told her to pull the needles out of his cheeks and chin and forehead in less than five minutes and he would live. That was when she noticed the thin, quivering needles. So many of them. But she had to do it, and the voice told her to start, and she pulled and pulled and pulled. There were so many. Her
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