Jack Who? (Book 1 Draft Version)

CHAPTER 6: Five Years Later...

♪♫••═══════  CHAPTER 6: FIVE YEARS LATER  ═══════••♬ ♭

 Jack? please call me when you can.
sent 11:32 AM


Hey if this number is still Jack, please call, It's really important. if it's not text back,Let me know? thanks (Marissa)
sent 12:21 PM


“Heh, voicemail suckers. Try again”...BEEEP
“Hi, Jack, it's Marissa, can you please call me at your earliest convenience, it's important.”

 Hacking with a spatula at the ground beef browning in a skillet, I watched intently through the window contemplating what I needed to do. It had to happen. There was no getting around it. Dread rose like bile in my throat every time I thought about it. The meat cooked, and I drained it before pouring in the spaghetti sauce, then strained the noodles from the other pot. Was the waiting the hardest part?

     My focus remained beyond the patio doors and in the tiny backyard as I turned the sauce on low, then snatched my phone from the countertop. With a few clicks, I found the number and pressed send.

     “What?!”

     The realization that a real voice, and not a 'sucker voice mail' had answered, stunned me into initial silence.

     “Jack? It's Marr-”

     “Marissa who?”

     “We need to talk.”  Ignoring his cool detatchment, I prodded on, and even contemplated a quick swig of the vodka atop the fridge.

     “We fucked once. I can't think of anything we have to talk about.”

     Words colder than January gave me pause, and I wondered why I was being treated in such a hateful way before I dropped my bomb.  “Actually, it was twice. And that's what we need to talk about.”

     “I'm listening.”

     “I got pregnant.”

     The laugh roaring through the phone, in all of my scenarios, was not one I had expected. But, because he wasn't speaking, I took it as an opportunity to press on.

     “And I need to talk to you about your--”

     “Do not even say my kid. Because there is no way.”

     “The second time, in the shower, we didn't use anything.”  It felt wrong to bring such sweet memories into a hostile, hateful conversation, and I squeezed my eyes closed for a second, willing the actual image away before it could be tainted.

     “I didn't DO anything.”

     “You did enough.” Angrily I forced the statement through gritted teeth. Was he really going to pretend ignorance and argue the notion that pulling away at the last second was adequate birth control?!

     “I don't believe you. I don't believe this.”  The words were still chilly, but the hardness left his tone, and I couldn't get a grip on the new emotion.

     “Believe it since I'm looking at your child right now.”  Continuously, I stared through the glass, drawing strength from  the tiny figure playing on the patio.

     The seconds ticked by, and only bacground sounds came through; the light pound of music, the whip of wind on the phone mic, the rumble of traffic.  I didn't know whether to imagine him in his car, or standing on a porch at his home.  Then he spoke and both images dropped away.

     “Not mine, you're not.”  The denial was firm, and I wondered if he was willing it to be true, or if he actually believed it to be so.

     Dropping to a chair, I took in the brown eyes, large and innocent. Thick dark hair waved around his face, and I twisted a strand of my lighter strands. “You're wrong.”

     “And you're just now telling me? Three years later?! I don't buy it.”

     “I NEVER wanted to have this conversation.” I didn't correct him that it was now five, not three, years later. “I never wanted to bother you--” Here I stopped at the very idea that my child, the best thing to ever happen in my life, could be a bother. “I'm only calling you now because--”

     "Because?" He prompted not as patient when I was the one letting the clock tick.

     "Because of--"

     “Money."  His tone was disparaging.  "You are wanting money aren't you?”

     “No!” Even though I had envisioned that deduction from him, it stung. “No. Well, sort of. But it's --

     “That's what I thought.” Matter of factual was the retort. That drawl, even from hurtful words, still had the ability to tease my eardrums.

     “No it's NOT what you thought--think.  Will you stop talking and listen--”

     “This conversation is over. Continue it with my legal guy if you must.”

     “Jack--” But the disconnect tone rang in my ear.

     Angry and embarrassed, I dropped the phone on the table, and again squeezed my eyes closed, this time against the threat of tears. Once before, I had the task of explaining 'Mommy crying' to a toddler, and it had been enough to keep the water works at bay through even the most heartbreaking times. And there had been a lot of those in his young life.

     Straightening to my feet, I slid open the door and forced a smile to the tot who was intently humming out car sounds. A massive collection of Hot Wheels, and Matchbox cars were strewn about the wading pool. Kneeling beside him, I picked one out, and rolled it around for a few seconds before fiddling idly with the tires.

     “You ready to eat, sweetie?”

     When he nodded, I plucked him out of the couple of inches of water, draping a towel on him as I settled him in a chair. A brown lab rose from the patio and plodded over to sit down again. The pet was never more than a couple of feet from his young master.

     Pulling at the velcro straps, I slipped tiny braces on each leg, before tightening them again.

     “Okay.” Helping him from the chair, I passed his crutches over. “Let's get out of this sun and get into some spaghetti!”

     “Momma?” Mere minutes later, he was looking up at me, his face slightly smeared with marinara sauce. “Does surgery hurt?”

     “No. You will be asleep. And you will wake up and feel sick for a few days. But that won't matter because you will know that soon you will be able to throw those crutches away.”

     “Will Bally sleep with me in the hospital?”

     Looking over the laptop, and the bills I was paying, I frowned at the dog, and hurriedly snatched my son's utensil from his hand. “Tristan Jack Dupelei! Do not feed Bally from your fork!

     Tossing it into the sink and leaning back in my chair enough to reach a clean one, I passed it over. “Bally will stay home, and Aunt Liv will take care of her. Because we will only be away a few days, and she wouldn't be happy without a backyard.”

     “Because Bally can't use the potty.”

     “Because Bally can't use the potty,” I agreed with his logic, and with a sweep of my pen, signed the first hefty check sum, the down payment for the procedures that would eventually allow my son to literally stand on his own two feet. 

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