The Swallow's Nest. Emilie Richards

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СКАЧАТЬ the clinical details, as if he were reading them from a list. At the birth someone would collect blood from the umbilical cord, and a lab would process the results. He confirmed he would not sign the Declaration of Paternity document agreeing he was the father until the test results were official. Without that, she would not be allowed to list him on the birth certificate. When paternity was finally confirmed, she would then have to fill out another form to have the birth certificate amended.

      Finally, as if this were a small thing, he said that at that point everything would be official, and she would get the rest of the lump sum he had promised when she agreed to have the baby.

      At the time she’d wondered, and still did, if delaying the test and refusing to sign the document were stalling mechanisms. A more expensive but equally reliable test could have been conducted during the pregnancy. Had he hoped these small rebellions would deter her from announcing the identity of the man who had carelessly planted the baby inside her?

      Had he thought about it at all? Or had he been so immersed in the present, ensnared in a mass of twisted and unshared emotion, that he hadn’t given the future any real thought?

      At the beginning Graham had been so anxious for her to carry the pregnancy to term, but all those months later, had he come to regret it? As his health improved, and the possibility of survival improved with it, had he wished that the baby and the baby’s mother would disappear and leave him to the good life he’d had before his diagnosis?

      Whatever his reasons, she’d been given no choice in the matter. After Toby’s birth the hospital had filled out the health department form without Graham’s name. Weeks went by before he was officially the father of record. Then once he was, the money he had promised to give her, the second half of a trust fund he had cashed in to help her through the pregnancy and early months of Toby’s life, had never materialized. Nor had a satisfactory explanation. He’d said she and the baby would be taken care of, and he had promised to find a way to be part of Toby’s life. By now she knew what his promises were worth.

      Today there was no more room for lies. Everybody would know Graham was officially Toby’s father. A copy of the baby’s amended birth certificate was among the items she had left in one of the bags at Lilia’s feet.

      She started toward her apartment and trudged up the three flights of an open stairwell. For a moment after she unlocked the door she stood on the threshold and drank in the silence. She’d grown up in a noisy home, but the months since she’d brought Toby here from the hospital had been filled with screaming that only tapered off when the baby grew too exhausted for more. At one point the noise had been so overwhelming her neighbors had threatened to report her to the landlord. She had been forced to move his bed to the center of the living room, away from common walls.

      By that point she had lowered herself to begging for help. Toby’s pediatrician had insisted the problem was colic. Along the way the woman, fresh out of medical school, suggested different formulas, modeled a baby carrier to keep Toby snug against Marina’s chest, prescribed white noise, swaddling, massage, letting him cry. Finally, at this morning’s visit, after pointed questions about her state of mind and how vigilantly Marina had followed her useless suggestions, the clueless young doctor had decreed that Marina was a first-time mom, and Toby probably sensed her insecurities.

      That had been the final straw. Marina had no insecurities when it came to babies. She had raised her younger brothers while her mother worked two jobs or “socialized.” She had a niece named Brittany whom she’d been unable to avoid in infancy, and a short-lived romance with an otherwise perfect man who had just divorced the mother of his newborn. She’d chucked him quickly, but not before managing weeks of diapers and bottles.

      Toby was born a nightmare. Or maybe Toby was punishment for trying to steal another woman’s husband, although a year of misery seemed like a pretty stiff sentence.

      She flicked on her lights and stepped inside. Her apartment was furnished in leather with chrome accents and neon table lamps. She was a fan of sleek surfaces with no hint of clutter. The walls were mostly blank, and she liked them that way, clean white paint and no memorabilia from a past she wanted to forget. The tile floors were unmarred by rugs. Toddler Toby probably would have cracked his head a hundred times.

      No longer her problem.

      She wasn’t hungry, but she crossed the living room to the tiny kitchen and searched the refrigerator for beer. She found a tall bottle hiding behind half a gallon of milk, but only one, because that’s how she bought them, one at a time, just enough to split or enjoy alone without temptation to drink another. Her mother, Deedee, was a bartender who had lost at least one job for over-sampling the wares. Her youngest brother, Pete, had lost his driver’s license for two years after his second underage DUI and, judging by his continued drinking, showed no signs the lesson had any impact. She had no intention of following the family tradition.

      She tossed the milk carton in the garbage because she couldn’t remember when she’d bought it. Then, using the hem of her tank top, she unscrewed the beer cap and drank half the bottle slouched against the granite counter.

      Many people were not going to understand what she had done this afternoon. But Toby Randolph was alive today because she had, against her better judgment, given birth to him. Even after she learned that Graham was likely to die before their baby was born, and if he did, his mega-wealthy parents probably wouldn’t want anything to do with her or the baby. Even after she realized that, whether he lived or not, Graham was never going to make the three of them a real family.

      She was too tired to think about Graham.

      She left the half-empty bottle on the counter. In the bedroom she kicked off her shoes and jeans and fell facedown on the unmade bed.

      Hours might have passed or just minutes when the doorbell buzzed, then buzzed again. She was so foggy-headed she was clueless about time or place. As the buzzing continued she rolled over and sat up, and the world came into focus again.

      If Graham or Lilia or, worse, their lawyer friend, Carrick, was standing on the other side, she didn’t want to answer the door. But whoever was waiting was insistent, and she could hardly pretend she wasn’t home. Anyone who knew her would spot her yellow Mustang Fastback in the lot. She pulled on her jeans, walked barefoot to the door and squinted through the peephole.

      Silently cursing she unlocked it and stood back to let her mother inside.

      “I hated to ring the doorbell, in case I woke up little Toby...” As she spoke Deedee Tate’s voice gathered enough volume to wake every corpse at the Odd Fellows Cemetery miles away.

      Marina had dreaded this moment, but now that it was here, she mostly felt annoyed. “If Toby had slept through the doorbell, your shouting would finish the job.”

      “Where is he?”

      “Safe and happy. Why are you here?”

      Deedee looked puzzled, but she never meditated on a problem when she could talk instead. She held out a wrinkled paper bag. “I found some cute baby clothes at a neighbor’s garage sale. You don’t owe me much. They were cheap.”

      Marina squinted through sleep-fogged eyes. From photos, she knew she resembled Deedee when she, too, had been thirty. It was a sobering thought. Now her mother was fifty-one. By the time Marina was that age would she resemble the woman standing before her? Deedee made no effort to eat well or exercise. She was overweight, with sagging breasts and a roll of fat that bulged over the elastic waistband of a broomstick skirt. Her shaggy hair was haphazardly dyed an improbable shade of gold, and her graying roots were inches long.

      “I СКАЧАТЬ