If The Shoe Fits. Marilynn Griffith
should have been happy to come home and find my son and people I hadn’t invited inside my kitchen. Throughout Jericho’s childhood, I’d turned the key in my front door every day knowing there’d probably be some child with a problem on the other side. Only this time, it was my child. My problem. And I had no solution. Only hurt and a strange hope, a joy at the thought my grandchild’s arrival remained. The feeling was stronger than I’d expected, but overshadowed by my pain.
Still, it hurt to see my son, so much a kid, trying to be a father, doing what a husband should. It made me want to go upside his head for doing this in the first place. “So you were just going to hang out and hope it stopped hurting, huh son? Sounds like a very well thought-out plan.”
My words came out sharper than I’d liked, but the question rang true. I should have been honored that my son had thought of me first (well, second—he went to his dad first) after all we’d been through this summer, but I wasn’t. I was disappointed. I tried hard not to be, but I was. This just wasn’t how it was supposed to go. God had only given me one child. There wasn’t any room for black sheep and mess-ups. This wasn’t on the program.
I wiped my eyes and kept at the cupboards until I unearthed a can of Chunky soup my son had left behind. I zipped it open with my electric opener and dumped the goo into a pot, wondering if this was how my mother had felt when she’d happened upon my growing belly? Though my mother had split town, leaving me in my aunt’s care long before my first contraction, my current emotions explained a lot. Not enough, but a lot. Maybe one day I’d be as spiritual as Shemika and even be able to defend her. For now, my feelings peaked and dipped all over the chart, resting on happily disappointed.
Jordan joined me at the stove and gathered my free hand into his. My heart did a free fall, like an eaglet tossed out of its nest. In all these months since he’d come back, he hadn’t touched me. I’d made sure of that. Even with all he’d done to me, the physical connection between the two of us hadn’t diminished. From the first time he’d held my hand at one of his father’s Sunday evening fish-fry dinners, Jordan and I were physically drawn together like two magnets on a refrigerator. Spiritually though, our poles had always been opposite. (Now he professed Christ, but loved someone else.) I tried to pull away, knowing better than to let his touch linger.
He held my hand with that loving grip of his and snaked his other hand around my waist, the way he had when I was pregnant. Though my belly was flat now, he rested his hand at my waist, barely touching my dress.
Jordan cleared his throat. “Father God, we haven’t done everything right, but let us get this right. May this baby be a grace to us, a healing. Help me to be to this girl what I wasn’t to Chelle, to Jericho. Help me to be as a grandfather everything that I wasn’t as a father. Help us all to hold together. To be a family. In Jesus’ name, Amen.” As he released me, his mouth brushed my ear.
“Amen.” My knees felt like rubber bands. Jordan’s Halston Z-14 cologne, the same scent I’d bought him for Valentine’s Day our senior year, whispered along my neck, mocking me. I felt God holding me now instead of Jordan, extending an invitation for me to walk with Him, to fly with Him on the wings of the morning, to walk into this grace, this second chance. Instead, I backed away from the pain that was Jordan, who had never been there for me, for us.
Until now.
Before I could melt down again, Jericho tiptoed into the kitchen. “Mom? She’s still sleeping, but I can see the contractions. Should I wake her? What do you think?”
I sighed, again calling upon my birth-coach training for many of the mothers of our church. First labors were always the longest and the worst and Shemika seemed calm so far. “Let her sleep. I think she’s in early labor—”
“Ohhhh.” Shemika’s voice thundered down the hall, sounding more like a moo than anything.
My eyes met with my son’s first and then with his father’s. That sound was one I’d heard before…from my own lips. I bit the inside of my cheek as the memory, the terrible pain, came flooding back. Fifty-six hours of anguish and all of it paled to the hurt of realizing that Jordan hadn’t just gone for a drink of water, that he’d run for his life and would never come back.
“Perhaps I spoke too soon. Put her things in the car,” I said, checking the kitchen clock—11:13 a.m. “We’ll watch the next few for a pattern.” My mind locked as I tried to sound calm instead of screaming like I wanted to. Why had helping strangers have their babies been so much easier than helping bring a piece of me into the world?
“We’ll stay here as long as she’s comfortable. Keep her moving, Jericho. Walking, squatting. I’ve got something for her to eat before we go.”
My son looked scared but strong. “Thanks Mom. I know this has to be hard.”
You have no idea.
Were those pink onesies and blankets still in my trunk? I hadn’t touched them in months. “I’ve got some clothes and things in the car. It’ll be fine.”
“I knew you’d know what to do. I love you, Mom.” My son pecked my cheek, leaving a wet spot on my face.
As he turned away, I blinked back a tear of my own. In all the fighting, I’d forgotten how much I missed hearing that I was loved, being called the name that had defined my very being for so many years.
Mom.
Jordan stood in the kitchen doorway with admiration and confidence in his eyes, the look that had made me fall for him in the first place. A look that said, You amaze me. You can do anything. Nobody had ever talked to me like that back then. Nobody but him. And he really must have believed it, because he left me with everything to do. I turned from him now.
His long legs covered the distance to me with ease. “I know I’ve said sorry a million times, but I have to say it again. I’m sorry.” He choked up a little. “Seeing that girl like this. Remembering—”
“Fuhgetaboutit,” I said, adding a fake laugh for decoration. He would, or course, forget about it, so he might as well do it now. I, on the other hand, wouldn’t have such a luxury. Someday soon, he’d disappear and I’d be stuck again, this time with a grandbaby to take care of. They all assured me otherwise, but I’d been around long enough to know how the story would end. He’d get his fairy tale like everyone else. Everybody but me.
Jordan leaned in closer. “I can’t forget about it. Ever. Even now, marrying Terri…I told her that I don’t know if I want to have children with her. I don’t think it’d be right. Or fair.”
My foot lifted off the floor, but I caught myself before I kicked him.
I’ve really got to try a new workout.
The pan slammed against the burner, a redirection of my anger. I wished I could escape this room, this conversation. One reason I hadn’t been able to deal with this baby, to go to Jordan’s house and even discuss it was because of her—Terri, his girlfriend. I had no reason to care, no claim to him. In truth, he’d tried to get back with me again, but too much had passed between us to make things right. Still, seeing the two of them together was hard. At least he hadn’t brought her along today.
“Have all the babies you want. It doesn’t matter to me.” I jerked away from him, ransacking the cupboards.
Another moan, this time followed by a shriek, sounded in the living room. I checked the kitchen clock—11:22 a.m. The contractions were consistent and getting closer. So much for the soup. A box of my precious Zone bars would have to do.
“You care about me, Chelle. I know you do. Sometimes I even think about calling off the wedding until you can forgive me—”
“I have forgiven you.” Another box of low-carb bars, the ones I’d bought off of a cable shopping network during a bout of insomnia, tumbled down out of the cabinet. I forced the box back into the cabinet and when it refused to stay, I wedged a box of low-carb pancake mix in front of it, wishing I had something to prop myself up with. Why hadn’t I stayed at church and let Tad give me a full pedicure?