Page 6

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FORD

When I was eight, I accidentally got stoned on a pot cookie.

My parents loved me and brought me up with an emphasis on peace, love, and nature.

I was encouraged to follow my own path.

My path turned out to be hockey, which wasn’t what my parents had in mind.

Hockey is not exactly a peaceful and loving sport.

Don’t get me wrong; I love my parents and I appreciate everything they’ve done for me.

Raising a hockey player kid who gets to the NHL is never easy, but for my parents it was miserable.

Practices, games, tournaments—so much scheduling!

For people who live their lives moment to moment, without rules and limits, it was excruciating trying to keep track of everything.

Also, as people who practice peace and love, they hated the brutishness of the game and especially the fights.

Somehow, they did it, though, and I’m grateful.

Now that I’m an adult and on my own, I can keep my life balanced and structured.

Which is how I like it.

And they’re free to live their life the way they like it, too—footloose and freewheeling, protesting weapons of mass destruction and gun violence, and traveling.

I paid off their mortgage so they could retire and do the things they want to.

When I was a kid, there was never money left for travel, after paying hockey registration fees and all my equipment and travel to tournaments (which wasn’t the kind of travel they had in mind; hanging out in cheap hotels with a bunch of hockey parents was painful for them).

Also, there was never time.

Even in summers they paid for me to go to elite hockey camps.

They never got to backpack across Europe like they wanted to as young adults, but now they are.

But I’m not letting them backpack and stay in hostels.

I’m paying for hotels and air fares and car rentals so they can experience it in comfort.

They’re not twenty anymore, although they sometimes act like it.

They leave on their trip in a couple of weeks.

“How’s it going?” I ask my mom.

“Great! We’ve been planning our trip. We’ve been looking at places to stay in Vienna.”

“Oh, good.” I hope she’s not too high.

Lord knows what she’s booking.

Probably Australia instead of Austria.

Or Paris, Texas instead of Paris, France.

“I had the craziest dream last night,” she says, totally off topic.

“Yeah?” She really does have crazy dreams, and she remembers them all.

“We were in Malaysia. Penang. It was kind of scary. There were ghosts.”

I look up at the sky.

“What if our dreams are just glimpses into parallel universes?” she asks.

“Those ghosts could be real beings.”

“Mom.”

“Sorry. Anyway, we wanted to check with you about hotels. Some of them are expensive.”

“That’s okay. Stay somewhere nice.”

I talk to her more while I drive.

When I get near the building I say, “Gotta go, Mom. I’m about to park and the cell service isn’t good down there.”

“Okay! It was good to talk to you. I love you! Your dad does, too.”

“Love you, too.”

I stop in the lobby to get my mail and notice a woman sitting there on one of the black chairs.

There’s a baby carrier on the coffee table in front of her.

What’s with the babies, lately?

I look down at the envelope in my hand, then jerk my head up again.

That woman…

she’s looking at me now, and jumps to her feet.

I know her.

“Willa?”

“Hi!” She buzzes across the lobby toward me, hands clasped in front of her.

“Ford. I was waiting for you.”

Willa and I went out about a year ago.

I remember it was last summer.

We met at a bar one night, went out the next evening, had a night of smash and dash at my place, and never saw each other again.

My usual.

Why is she here?

And after all this time?

I’m staring at her speechlessly, trying to gather my wits.

“Waiting for me?” I repeat.

“Uh, why?”

“I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

I rub one eyebrow, confused.

“Um. Okay. You want to come up?”

“Please.” She hurries back to the seating area, picks up the baby carrier and joins me at the elevators.

“This is Matilda.”

I peer into the carrier.

Another baby.

She’s asleep so at least I won’t make her cry.

We ride up in silence and she follows me into my place.

“Would you like something to drink?” I offer.

“Coke, water, Gatorade?”

She shakes her head.

“I’m good, thanks. Is it okay if we sit?”

“Sure.”

She sets the baby on the floor near the couch and sits so she can watch her.

I sit across from her.

I’m feeling kind of warm.

Like my skin is too tight.

I’m not sure what’s going on here.

“You’re probably surprised to see me,” she says with a strained smile.

“Yep.” That sounded rude.

I don’t want to be rude.

I’m just baffled about why she’s here.

Or…

I look at the baby again.

I narrow my eyes.

Is she going to tell me I’m the father?

One night!

We used protection.

I always use protection.

And that was over a year ago!

That can’t be it.

But…

I swallow.

“This isn’t easy so I’m just going to come right out with it. Matilda is your daughter.”

I throw up my hands.

“No way. Come on.”

She wrings her hands.

“It’s true, Ford. I’m sorry.”

I move my head side to side, staring at her.

“No.”

She holds my gaze steadily and fuck me, I think she believes it.

“How can that be? How old is she?”

“She’s three months old. Almost four months.”

“Oh. But… but… how did it happen?” I swipe at beads of sweat that are popping out on my forehead.

She scrunches up her face.

She’s pretty enough, with pale blonde hair and blue eyes.

I don’t remember her being this thin, but truthfully, I don’t recall much about our brief time together.

“It happened.” She shrugs.

“Sometimes condoms fail.”

I let that sink in.

“Shit.”

“I know.”

“Are you sure it’s me? I mean…”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

“But not 100 percent?”

She bites her lip.

“Ninety-nine? We can get testing done. I knew you’d want that, and that’s fine. I actually brought a home test.”

“Whoa.” I blink.

“Are you… looking for child support?” I’m not being critical; that would be reasonable.

In fact, that would probably be the only reason someone would show up a year later with a baby.

Her eyebrows slope down and she closes her eyes briefly.

“No,” she says quietly.

“Not exactly. I have a bit of an emergency situation and I need your help.”

“Is she okay?” I glance at the baby, suddenly alarmed.

“Yes, yes. It’s not her. It’s my… parents.”

A couple of hours later, my place is packed with all kinds of baby equipment.

There are baby bottles and formula spread out on the counter in my kitchen.

A huge bag of diapers sits in the hall.

I’m alone.

With a baby.

My daughter.

This is fucking bonkers.

I feel like I’m living in an alternate reality.

But the screams coming from that tiny human are definitely real.

She’s awake, her mom’s gone, and she is not happy.