Bring Me Home Page 10

  and rip it open. “I don’t know. It’s from the Jensen’s lawyer.”

  Claire leaps off the sofa and my heart leaps in my chest as I pull out the folded contents of the envelope. There are at least three pages here and I see a few red signature flags sticking out of the pages.

  “What does it say?” Claire demands anxiously.

  I unfold the stack of paper and my gaze falls right past the gold logo at the top of the page to the black text in the center.

  Mr. Knight:

  It was a pleasure speaking with you and Miss Singer this week about the post-adoption contact agreement. As I have previously mentioned, Brian and Lynette Jensen continue to express hesitation about how an open adoption will affect Abigail’s well being in the future. With that in mind, we have drafted what I believe is a reasonable post-adoption contact agreement for your consideration. This decision was not entered into lightly. In the end, I’m sure all any of us wants is what is best for Abigail.

  Please read the attached two-page agreement thoroughly and seek counsel from Miss Singer before signing. If the agreement is to your satisfaction, please return to us the fully executed documents and we will file the agreement within five business days of receipt.

  Kind regards,

  Ira Hirschberg

  Claire’s nails dig into my bicep as she reads the letter. “Turn the page,” she whispers.

  The agreement stipulates no visitation rights past Abigail’s first birthday. The only contact the Jensen’s will agree to after that is the exchange of photographs, which Abigail won’t have access to until her eighteenth birthday.

  “What does it say?” my mom asks, still standing a few feet away as if she’s afraid to come any closer.

  “To keep dreaming or fuck off. That’s what it says.”

  I toss the agreement and the rest of the mail onto the coffee table and head back to the kitchen. My mom follows me, but Claire just stands there staring at the papers scattered across the surface of the black table. She’s probably going through the usual mental self-flagellation. As much as I want to comfort her, I’m too upset. I feel as if I’ve ripped my own heart out and handed it to the Jensens only to have them stick a fucking red flag on it and ask me to sign it away.

  “You can still fight for her. You didn’t sign the adoption decree,” my mom insists.

  I grab the edge of the counter and stare at the dirty rag in the sink. Just moments ago, Claire and I were working together to clean up the mess we made while lost in the throes of passion. It seems that we’re always fucking stumbling. We can’t seem to find our footing ever since we broke up last year. Like the whole fucking universe is off balance. I’m not strong enough to right the universe.

  Turning around to face my mom, I glimpse Claire sitting on the floor next to the coffee table, her eyes closed and hands clasped in her lap.

  “I can’t talk about this right now. You’ll have to come by another time, Mom. And next time, please call before you come.”

  “Don’t shut me out, Christopher. I deserve to know what’s going on.”

  “This is not your battle,” I say, placing my hand on her back and gently guiding her toward the door. “Claire and I need to talk right now. Thanks for bringing the mail.”

  “Thanks for bringing the mail? Listen to yourself.”

  “Mom, please, we need to work this out without you here.”

  “But I want what’s best for everyone,” she says, and the painful look in her eyes makes me sick to my stomach.

  “I know. I’ll call you later.”

  I kiss her cheek and send her off then make my way back to the living room. Claire looks up as I enter the room and looks me straight in the eye. She’s not crying and she doesn’t really look upset.

  “What are you thinking?” I ask as I push the mail aside so I can sit on the table in front of her.

  “I’m thinking of the last time we went to Jordan Lake.”

  “Why are you thinking of that?”

  “Because we had sex on your bike and we weren’t careful. It was almost exactly a month before we broke up. If I had gotten pregnant then instead of a month later, everything would have been so different.”

  “Come here,” I say, beckoning her into my lap. She stands up and wraps her arms around my shoulders as she sits. “You want to know something crazy?”

  “What?”

  “I was just standing in the kitchen, silently cursing the universe for everything we’ve been through this past year, but you just helped me realize something.” I pause to brush the hair out of her face and look her in the eye. “The universe hasn’t been tossing us around, it’s been tipping over on its side trying to push us back together since the day we broke up. It’s just taken us a while to stop fighting gravity.”

  She smiles as she runs her fingers through my hair. “You mean, it was the gravitational pull of your huge head that sucked me back in?”

  “That, and my waffle-making skills.”

  She sighs and rests her head on my shoulder. “If you want to fight for her, I’ll understand. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

  “Just hearing you say that is enough. If I do this, I’ll do it on my own. I don’t want you to get sidetracked from school. Besides, you already have enough to worry about with the upcoming visit to your dad and the wedding in three weeks.”

  “Ugh. That’s reminds me. Rachel left me a voicemail last night asking whether we prefer steak or chicken for the reception. She said the caterer needs everyone’s order now. Which do you want?”

  “Steak. Did she happen to mention how many people she’s inviting? I told her I didn’t want this to be a huge thing.”

  “I don’t think Rachel cares what you want. This is her wedding. I think she did mention there’s going to be like fifty or sixty guests.”

  “That’s not bad. I just didn’t want it to be a huge crowd, then I end up spending the whole night signing autographs and filling song requests.”

  “Again, not your wedding, so please don’t say anything like that to Rachel. I really don’t want to hear the words she will choose to remind you of that.”

  “Got it.” I slide my hand under her tank top and take her breast in my hand. “Can I make you some waffles now?”

  She grins as I gently tweak her nipple. I can feel her heart pounding under my fingertips.

  “Only if making me waffles is code for making me scream.”

  “You’re going to regret saying that.” I scoop her up in my arms as I stand from the table and she lets out a high-pitched squeal. “That scream doesn’t count. When I’m done, the cops will be breaking the door down to get to you. But it will be too late.”

  “Good. I don’t want to be saved.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Claire

  Dr. Goldberg’s office feel like an oven compared to the nipple-cracking air outside the James A. Taylor Building. I tear off my coat and hang it on the back of the chair before I sit down across from Goldberg for my last session before Winter Break.

  “How was your last day of classes?” he asks.

  He’s leaning back in his chair with his hands folded over his belly. This puts me at ease. I’m so accustomed to him taking notes while I speak. It’s nice to have his undivided attention.

  “It was okay. It was nice to not have to worry about where I’ll be spending the holidays. It’s also strange.”

  My stomach clenches inside me as I’m reminded of how I spent last Christmas, balled up on Senia’s bed.

  “Why is it strange?”

  “I’d gotten so used to everything being in flux, the way it was six years ago. It seems everything is settling down again and I feel… restless. Almost uneasy, like I’m just waiting for something terrible to happen.”

  “That’s normal. When we’ve been through trauma, it’s difficult to deal with the feeling that it can happen again at any moment. It’s a feeling we all live with, but even more so for those of us who have experienced a deep loss.” He
finally picks up his notepad and pen and I try not to sigh too loudly. “When we spoke last week, you were upset that you still had not reached an agreement with Abigail’s adoptive parents. How are you feeling about that today?”

  I should tell him about the agreement we received this past weekend, but instead I blurt out, “Have you ever lost someone close to you?”

  He looks up from his notepad and presses his lips together in a hard line before he sets down the pad and pen. “Yes. My first wife died of ovarian cancer eight years ago.”

  Something about this makes the tears come instantly. I can’t imagine what it would be like to listen to people complain about the pressure of exams and botched adoption agreements after experiencing that kind of loss.

  “What are you feeling right now?” he asks as I wipe the tears from my eyes.

  “I’m feeling scared. I know things can get worse, but I’m not sure I can take any more.” I swallow the painful lump in my throat and dig my fingernails into the palm of my hand as I prepare myself for the words I’ve been thinking for weeks, but haven’t had the courage to speak aloud. “I’m also feeling sad because I’m beginning to think that the best thing for everyone, especially Abigail, is for Chris and me to give up on the open adoption.”

  I arrive at Tristan’s—and Senia’s—house at 5:30 p.m., but Tristan and Chris are still at the studio. Senia gives me a very unenthusiastic tour of their 3,500 square foot house in Cary.

  “And this is the room where he plays his bass for about ten hours a day,” she says, opening the door to a room the size of a small bedroom where various bass guitars and awards hang from the walls.

  “You sound so happy,” I remark sarcastically as she leads me back down the hallway toward the great room.

  “I hate the commute.”

  “It’s thirty minutes from campus.”

  “I used to live zero minutes from campus.”

  “Are you mad that I moved in with Chris?”

  “Please. If I were you, I would have jumped on that shit faster than a monkey on a banana. You and Chris need to stop pretending like you’re not going to spend the rest of your lives together.”

  Taking a seat on a fancy stool at the kitchen island, I gaze around the huge kitchen. If Tristan is making enough money for a house like this, what is Chris pulling in? Senia grabs a bottle of water out of the refrigerator and rolls it across the top of the kitchen island toward me. I catch it and guzzle down the whole bottle in one shot.

  “How about you? Are you mad at yourself for moving in with Tristan?”

  “Check you out. Picking up cues from Dr. Goldberg, are you?” She jumps up to sit down on the counter and I pull my legs up onto the stool to sit cross-legged. “It’s not so much that I’m mad at myself. I think I’m just frustrated with… everything. I’m starting to feel like I may have chosen the wrong major.”

  “Chemistry?”

  “Yeah, I mean, I think I just picked it because it’s about as far as I could get from real estate. I don’t want to be stuck working in the family business for the rest of my life like my sisters. I want to do something important. Like you, you’re going to school to do something important, but what am I doing? I’ll probably end up rubbing shampoo in the eyes of lab animals for some cosmetic company.”

  “You won’t end up doing that, and you can do lots of important stuff with a degree in chemistry. Maybe you can help discover a cure for AIDS.”

  “I think I have pre-partum depression. Tristan came home from the studio last night around six. I was lying on the carpet in the study doing my homework when he walks in and asks me if lying on my stomach is safe for the baby. I started bawling my eyes out. I mean, how fucked up is it that Tristan cares more about the baby than I do?”

  I laugh so hard at this that I nearly piss out the water I just guzzled down. “That’s hilarious!”

  “It’s not funny! I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing!”

  “Oh, my God. That’s classic. Thank you for making me laugh.” I wipe the tears of laughter from the corners of my eyes and catch my breath. “Of course, you don’t know what you’re doing. You’re experiencing this all for the first time. Your next pregnancy will probably be a breeze.”

  “Next pregnancy? I am never doing this again. You know I’ve thrown up five times this week and I’ve only taken a dump twice. I think my body doesn’t know which end the food is supposed to come out of anymore.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “Yeah, well, at least Tristan has been good about it. He went to the store to get me some Gatorade a few days ago. When he came back, I was passed out in my bedroom, so he left the Gatorade in a cooler next to my bed.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me? Are we still talking about Tristan Pollock?”

  She leans back to lie across the granite breakfast bar and I quickly push a bowl of red apples out of the way. “He’s really not as bad as I thought he was. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s still an asshole sometimes, but he has his moments. I know we’re not together, so technically I can’t tell him not to fuck other girls since we’re not fucking, but I do wish he wouldn’t fuck other girls.”

  “How do you know he’s fucking other girls?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just a feeling. Like, he normally gets home at six, but he got home at nine on Tuesday and he went straight to take a shower.”

  “That’s your evidence that he’s sleeping with other girls?”

  “Whatever. I just know that this arrangement is going to drive me nuts. It’s not as if I can just start a new relationship while I’m pregnant and living with the guy who knocked me up.”

  I grab an apple out of the bowl and take a large bite. The juice runs down my hand and I lick it up quickly then munch on my apple for a bit before I answer.

  “I don’t know. Maybe this is going to be good for both of you. If you can’t get involved with any new creeps and he can’t bring home a new girl every night, maybe you’ll both grow up a little and learn to trust each other.”

  “That sounded kind of harsh.”

  “Sorry.”

  She stares at the ceiling for a while before the sound of the front door opening makes her sit up and slide off the counter. “If he sees me lying on the counter, he’ll probably ask me if it’s safe. Granite countertops emit radiation, you know.”

  I shake my head and watch as Chris, Tristan, Jake, and Rachel come walking into the kitchen. Chris smiles when he sees me and my stomach flutters.

  “Hey, babe,” he says as he leans in and plants a soft kiss on my lips. “How’d it go today?”

  He asked me this same question last week, which was my first session with Dr. Goldberg after moving in with him. I assumed he wanted to know if I spoke to my therapist about moving in and what he thought about it. Goldberg actually gave me some important academic advice during last week’s session, which I couldn’t share with Chris. So I just told Chris that it went well and that Goldberg was pleased to see that we were reconnecting.

  “It was okay,” I say as Chris stands behind the barstool I’m sitting in and begins massaging my shoulders. “I’ll talk to you about it later. Did you guys finish up today?”

  “Hell fucking yes, we finished,” Tristan answers for Chris as he sits on the huge white sofa in the family room, which is open to the dining area and kitchen.

  He swipes the remote off the coffee table and turns on the TV. Looking over his shoulder at Senia, he nods toward the living room, beckoning her to join him. Senia stares at the back of his head for a moment before she walks into the family room and sits next to him on the sofa. He flips to the Science Channel and grins, proud of himself for knowing her favorite channel. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Tristan and Senia are entering the stage in their relationship where words are no longer needed to communicate.

  Chris continues to knead the knots in my neck and shoulders and it’s both relaxing me and turning me on, so I turn my head and bite his fingers to get him to stop
. “Sit down and rest your leg,” I order him.

  “Yes, dear,” he says as he takes a seat on the barstool next to me.

  Rachel immediately opens the pantry and takes out a box of cheese crackers. “How did the fitting go?” she asks me as she grabs a large handful and passes me the box.

  “It was fine. I was in and out of there in like 20 minutes. But damn, that woman was wearing a lot of perfume.”

  “Oh, yeah, Sheri loves her Victoria’s Secret body spray. Do you know what song you want to dance to with Chris?”

  I chuckle as I pop a cracker in my mouth. “What? Is this one of those weddings where the entire wedding party has to dance?”

  Rachel looks uncomfortable and now I feel bad for laughing. “It’s not like that,” she says as she turns to Chris. “I just figured you guys would want a song to dance to since you’ve been together so long. You don’t have to, but I think it would be kind of romantic.”

  “I’ll give you a song,” Chris says as he reaches for my half-eaten apple. “Is this yours?”

  “Yeah, it’s mine. How about one of your songs?” I suggest. He smiles as he chews the apple slowly. “What are you smiling at?”

  “Nothing. I just have something I want to give you, but I have to wait until Wednesday. But it’s killing me to wait.” I open my mouth to speak and he cuts me off. “It’s not another engagement ring. I’m still waiting for you to give me an answer on the first one.”

  Jake grabs a few beers out of the fridge and passes one to Tristan and one to Rachel. Chris refuses the beer and Jake doesn’t even bother offering me. He knows I don’t drink. Rachel and Jake lock eyes as they drink their beers, initiating a drinking contest, but Rachel gives up first when she chokes on her beer. She slams the half-full bottle of beer on the counter and bends over in a coughing fit. Jake finishes his beer and rubs her back.

  “I can’t believe I’m marrying such a lightweight,” Jake teases her and she slaps his hand away.

  That’s when it hits me. I know what I’m giving Chris for Christmas.

  Chapter Twenty

  Claire

  When Chris and I arrive at Jackie’s house, I can’t help but feel a little nostalgic as the smell of home cooked food embraces us and pulls us into the kitchen. Chris looks as confused as I feel when we find Jackie bent over and pulling something out of the oven.

  “I thought we were going out for dinner,” he says as Jackie places a glass dish covered in foil on the counter.

  “I decided to cook instead. I haven’t cooked for you two in a while. I’m making your favorite,” she says to me. “Rotisserie chicken and bacon mac ‘n’ cheese.”

  Macaroni and cheese.

  I try not to let anyone see how this simple phrase affects me. Instead, I smile and keep myself busy by setting the table. I set the dishes and silverware out while Chris brings the dishes and napkins.

  “Are you okay?” he asks as he sets down a plate at the head of the table for Jackie.

  He can sense that my mind is elsewhere. I look at him across the table wearing a black, long-sleeved shirt that’s just snug enough to show off his muscular arms and chest. In so many ways, Chris has grown from the person he was before he left to L.A. last year. But even after a year apart, he still knows me better than anyone.

  “I’m fine. Just a little nervous,” I reply, which is true.

  Chris and I set up this Sunday dinner with Jackie to talk to her about Abigail. Thinking back on the conversation we had last night only makes me more nervous.

  Last night, as I massaged Chris’s knee in bed, I told him everything Dr. Goldberg and I spoke about on Friday, even the part where I expressed my