she was going to die, and even though it was my fault she was in the position where she had to make that choice…in a way, when she decided not to have the abortion, she was choosing to leave me too.
Mom’s not the only one with a broken heart.
I put my arm around her, and she rests her head on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Mom.”
She pats my knee. “I’d do it all again. It got me you.”
And I guess that’s where our similarities end. I wouldn’t do it all again. Not even close.
Hope is quiet now, asleep. The mobile continues its song.
After a minute, Mom straightens up. “His name is Michael Taylor.”
Michael Taylor. My father. The picture is becoming clearer already.
“He’d be about thirty-seven or thirty-eight now. When I checked a couple of years ago, he was no longer living in Boston. Or if he is, his information isn’t listed anywhere. I actually called every Michael Taylor in Boston—came up with nothing.”
“Mom,” I whisper, “I can’t believe you did that.”
She just shrugs. “There are a lot of Michael Taylors in the United States. And all I have to go on is his name, his incredibly common name.” She shakes her head to herself.
“You don’t know his parents’ names? Or what he does for work? Or anything that will help narrow it down?”
“I’m sorry, Ry. I wish I did. He was a concert promoter at the time—the kind of job you do in college, working off the books for cash. He could be doing anything now.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
She gives me a kiss on my forehead. After she leaves the room, I start Googling.
Michael Taylor. Approximately 531 million results.
Michael Taylor concert promoter. 126,000 results, most having to do with lawsuits against Michael Jackson’s concert promoter or second-market tickets to Taylor Swift concerts.
Four hours later, I fall onto my bed, smother my face into my pillow, and scream as loud as I can.
Why does everything have to be so impossible?
• • •
“Hello?”
“Hi, Grandpa,” I say into the phone. “It’s Ryden.”
“Hello?” he says again.
“It’s Ryden,” I say, louder.
“Ryden! How are you?”
“I’m fine, Grandpa. How are you?”
There’s a clicking on the line. “Hello?” my grandmother says from another phone somewhere else in their house.
“It’s Ryden, Sylvia,” Grandpa says.
“Ryden!” Grandma says. “How are you?”
I quietly bang my head on my desk. This is never going to work. My grandparents are older than they should be. They had four kids in a row in their twenties and then got pregnant with my mom when they were forty. Unplanned babies: a Brooks family tradition.
“I’m fine, Grandma, how are you?”
“Oh, we’re doing fine. How’s our great-granddaughter? Is that her crying I hear?”
Clearly Grandma’s hearing isn’t as bad as Grandpa’s. “Yeah, she’s teething. Actually, that’s what I’m calling about. I’m going back to school for my senior year in a few weeks, and I’m going to have to put Hope in day care. I was wondering if you guys would be willing to help pay for it. I have a part-time job, but it’s not enough.”
I cross all my fingers. Please.
There’s a pause.
“Well,” Grandpa says. “How much are we talking here?”
“It’s over four hundred dollars a week,” I admit. “I know it’s a lot, but—”
“Ryden, I’m sorry,” Grandpa says right away. Can’t he even take some time to think about it first? “We would help you if we could, but we just don’t have that kind of money.”
“I understand,” I mumble.
“How about this—we’ll send you a check for a hundred dollars. I know it’s not much, but it will help.”
“Yeah. It will.” Not enough though. Not nearly enough. “Thanks.”
“And please bring that little cutie around to visit us soon,” Grandma chimes in.
“I will. I promise.” I pause, debating whether to ask them my next question. Oh, fuck it. “Do you guys remember my father?”
“Your father?” Grandpa repeats.
“Yeah.”
“If I ever meet that bastard, I’m going to wring his neck with my bare hands until he’s pleading for mercy.” Jesus, Grandpa. He’s shouting now; his bald head is probably beet red and shiny with sweat, his veiny, wrinkled hand surely gripping the phone way too tightly.
“Never mind, it’s okay,” I say, not wanting Grandpa to rage himself into a heart attack. One death on my hands is more than enough, thank you very much. But then his words sink in. “If you ever meet him? You mean see him again, right?”
“Never met him, never want to.” The disgust in Grandpa’s voice is heavy.
I let all the air out of my lungs. Michael