I’d be lying if I said I didn’t expect him to turn up the next day. Not just expect. I hoped to see him. Wanted, needed to see Gabe. So when Kat walked me up my stairs and hung around and got me settled, and then finally left, I sat there on the couch and waited. I put my hand on my belly as a reminder something small and perfect was growing inside, even as everything outside was so awful. I knew I’d have to pick out a black dress and go to Mama’s house and pick one out for her, and in a few more days, I’d have to bury her. So I waited for him. To give me strength. To show me love. To support me the way I felt sure I’d support him if the situation were reversed.

And Gabe never showed. Not that morning, when I picked out black dresses, or that afternoon, when I got in my car and drove to Bledsoe’s Funeral Home to pick a casket and plan my mother’s visitation. Not the next day, when I met with the pastor and called all of Mama’s far-flung relatives. I hung out on the couch and walked on aching, noisy feet as I went to and from the kitchen, eating foods that didn’t taste good or feel good in my churning stomach.

The next day, I drove to Dothan to see a specialist, to be sure nothing was wrong with my body that would prevent the baby from thriving. Maybe I should have told Gabe, but I didn’t.

The next day, I got up, put on my black dress, and Kat and Lainey drove me to the funeral home, where I stood beside my mother’s casket, greeting most of town. Except for Gabe.

And afterwards, on a misty, white-gray day that felt as bare and apathetic as I felt, I buried Mom beside Daddy. I always thought I would be stoic when it came time for the funeral of someone I loved, but I sobbed when they lowered Mom into that awful hole, and threw a bunch of roses on the casket. I cried more when I got into Kat’s car, having not gotten a single glimpse of Gabe.

I feel numb as I ride home.

“I’m going to walk you up,” Kat says as she parks beside Gabe’s motorcycle.

I shake my head. “I’m okay. I just want to be alone a little while.”

“You sure?”

I nod.

Kat’s lips pinch. “Okay—if you’re positive. You gonna text me later?”

“Yeah. I will.”

I try not to look at the house’s lower level as I walk to my stairs. I haven’t heard Gabe in a few days, but I still need to be careful to avoid him. Right now, if I encountered him, I think I might fall down and weep, or slap him. So I keep my eyes on my feet, on my stairs, until I reach the top and find a package. It’s about the size of a shoe box, with a floppy green bow atop it.

I kneel slowly, rifling for a tag I can’t find, so then I read the label on the package.

Grow Your Own Christmas Tree!

Forevergreen

It's always a little sad, once the holidays are over, to say good-bye to the tree. Kick off a new tree tradition of yearly growth and reminiscence with our Christmas Tree Grow Kit. Sweet-scented Douglas Firs are one of the most popular holiday trees—they've graced the White House at Christmas —beautifully bedecked with soft, shiny, dark blue-green needles. They thrive in a wide range of environments, so give a kit to someone you love to sprout and grow indoors for the first year. Then throw a tree birthday party and transplant it to its permanent, outdoor spot. Celebrate together every year as it grows into a large Christmas tree. No worries about saying good-bye to this one: These western North America natives can live for 1,000 years. Detailed instructions, a recycled tea grow bag, and soil are all included with the seeds. Made in California.

I check the again, but there’s no tag. Gabe, I think, but then of course I think it’s him who left it for me. My brain is hardwired to want that man, and look where it got me this time.

I carry the tree kit inside and set it on the kitchen counter. Finally, in the silence of my apartment, I allow myself to really lose it, sobbing so loudly, I feel sure that all of Fate can hear me. Can he hear me? Is he home? I tell myself to shut up. I crawl into bed, where I fall quickly into a deep, tired sleep.

Hours later, when I wake up feeling tired and nauseated, I hear Gabe for the first time in days: flushing the toilet, running the sink—the father of my baby living his life right below me. Finally, I just admit it to myself: I said I wanted a break, but I don’t want to give him a pass for believing me. He should know better.

I tell myself I’ll be okay. I talk to the baby. In a few hours, I’m asleep again. The next day, I’m back at work. Not because I feel okay or ready, but because it’s flu season, and the clinic really needs me.

I get nice comments about Mom, but nothing about the pregnancy. And I realize with a laugh, it’s because no one knows. It’s obvious to me, but I don’t have a belly yet. And Kat, Lainey, and Gabe have kept my secret.

I try my best to have a good day, focusing on being positive and making all my sick kids feel better—and it works, just a little. When I get home, I’m surprised to find another package at the top of my stairs. It turns out to be a bag of M&Ms…except when I look closely, I see that they’re really M&Gs.

My stomach bottoms out. I think I might be sick as I hurry inside and sit down on the couch with my head in my hands. Gah, I hate feeling dizzy…

When I’ve got myself under control, I look again—and sure enough, they’re really M&Gs.

It has to be him…

I bite my cheek to keep from crying. God, the fucking crying. Who has time for this?

I pop an M&G into my mouth and lean back on the couch. A few tears dribble from the corners of my eyelids, just to spite me.

Fucking Gabe.

So he does care. I grin, and hate myself for it.

I take the bag to bed with me and doze off like some animal, with melting chocolate in my mouth. When I wake up the next morning, I’m sleeping on a half-melted G.

That evening, after a particularly long and tiring work day, I smile as I top the stairs and find a pie. God, what kind of pie is this? It looks delicious, topped with thick and fluffy whipped cream.

Smart boy…

I get inside, take off the top, and inhale a glorious whiff of key lime. Oh, dear God. One of my favorites.

I eat two pieces—one for baby—and then decide to do some dancing. I can hear him downstairs. I hope he can hear me.

Thank you, thank you, tap tap tap!

I forget to eat enough before bed, so in the middle of the night, I’m sick. I think I hear him downstairs at about that time, and afterward, I lie in bed and wonder: what is wrong with Gabe, that he won’t come to me? Is it really him leaving the gifts? Surely it must be—but why? Is it even possible he cares about me now? Would I forgive him if he came back?

Please, God…

As if in answer, pie piles up. A brand new pie is waiting for me each night after work, as if he knows he hit his stride and he is going to exploit that knowledge. Fudge pie, pumpkin, apple, pecan, chocolate, strawberry, rhubarb, lemon, peach… I go through a week of pies, then two. I dream about our pretty baby, and end up sobbing over Mama every time I take a shower.

Why can’t things be right? Like books or movies. Why can’t things just ever, once, be right?

That afternoon, I find the pinnacle of pies: a peanut butter Reese’s one.

I’m glad I’ve got a reason for this growing belly. Truthfully, I think it’s mostly pie.

* * *

I lie downstairs in the lacy room and listen to her. Every morning after she leaves for work, I call Victor’s mom and tell her what pie I need made. That afternoon, I bring her $50 and pick it up.

“You so crazy, Gabe,” she says in stilted English.

I shrug. Why deny it?

I’ve fucked up with Marley, paved the space between us with regret. When I first got the idea to leave her little things, I didn’t put my name on the Christmas tree because I thought she might throw it away. Then I remembered what she said about the pies, and I figured if I couldn’t do anything else, I could provide her with her favorite vice.

It’s all I know to do. In the first few days after the hospital, I tried to give her space to digest what had happened with her mom, and time to get over her anger at me. I figured she’d call, or that she’d hug me at the funeral. Instead, when I got to the cemetery and found her crying in front of a long line of mourners, I couldn’t bring myself to approach her. What if she passed out again? No—hugging Marley would be more for me.

And now I’ve dug a hole for myself. I can feel it: the frustration coming from her up above my head. Just like with each passing day, I swear I think I feel her softening.

She’s got to know the pies are coming from me. And still—I haven’t heard from her. Not even a note in my door, or a text.

I’ve reached blackberry pie when I realize I can’t keep waiting.

When I take it to the top of Marley’s stairs at 5:00, I set it on her mat and sit beside it, feeling jittery and cloddish as I wait. It’s cold out here, and slightly wet from rain we got last night.

When I hear Marley’s car, I stop breathing. I sit up a little straighter, then decide to sit with my knees resting on the stair below. The first thing I notice as she comes around the corner is her dreamy smile. Then her gaze hits me, and her mouth rounds into a shocked “o.”

I see an army of emotions march across her face; I notice what looks like relief, but then it’s hidden beneath cautious politeness.

“Gabe,” she says, as she nears the top of the stairs.

I can’t help noticing how tired she looks.

I look up at her as Marley comes to stand over me. I meant to stand and hug her, but I’ve found I can’t move.

“Hey there,” I say in a ragged-sounding voice.

“Hello yourself.”

I stand up. Hand Marley the pie.

“I thought these might be you,” she murmurs. She sounds nervous.

“I hope you enjoyed them.”

“I did, actually.” Her voice is cool. I notice her eyes won’t touch mine. She looks at the pie instead. “What kind is this one?”

“Blackberry.”

“That’s a good, reliable fall pie.” She tucks her camel-colored jacket around her as she says the world “reliable,” and my chest aches.

“Mar…” I reach for her, and she moves slightly. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“For what, Gabe?” She sounds tired.

“You want to go inside? You look like you might want to sit down.”

“Do I? I think I’m just fine right here.”

I nod, trying to read her face, but Marley is on lockdown. “I’m sorry I fucked up.”

“What does that mean?” Her jaw is tight as she looks at her feet.

“I fucked up that night. I can’t fucking stand to think you had to do it by yourself.”

“Oh, I didn’t. You caught me and carried me into the ambulance. In front of most of Fate, it seems.” Her eyes flash as they briefly meet mine.

“Fuck. Well, that’s not even what I meant. I mean when you found out.”

She shrugs. “What sticks out most to me is how the whole damn town of Fate now thinks I’m dating you. And when they find out I’m pregnant, they’re going to guess that you’re the baby’s father.”

Relief pours through me, warm as water, when she says she’s pregnant.

“Fuck.” I let my breath out.

“That bad, huh?”

“No. God, no. Marley.” I take her hand, closing mine around it. “I don’t fucking care if anybody knows. I’m so damn glad you’re still pregnant.” I blow my breath out, bracing myself to open up to her. To share my thoughts. “I got scared that night, down by the lake. Just like you said. After you left, I did some soul searching and started out to find you, and that’s when I saw the cars.”

“What cars?” She looks confused.

“The ones that gathered for your mother,” I say softly.

Her pretty, red mouth tightens into an angry line. Pushing past me, she unlocks her door and pushes it open, walks into her living room and plops down on the couch. She sets the pie in her lap, draping one hand over it. Then and only then does she look at me.

“What do you want, Gabe? You’ve stayed away for all this time, and that’s okay. I’m fine, and I’ve enjoyed the pies. I’ve got our baby in me, and I have a feeling he or she is going to be strong and healthy, possibly with berry eyes and whipped cream hair. What more can I do for you?”

My throat stings as I look down at her. “I miss you, Marley. I miss your face…your voice. I’ve been wondering about the baby, too, but Marley—I was missing you.”

Her eyes glimmer with tears as she looks down at her lap. “Could have fooled me.”

Because I didn’t come. She doesn’t have to say it. I take two short steps to her and kneel in front of her. “You remember that night of your birthday? Right here?”

“Not that much,” she whispers, still clutching the pie.

I lean over, take one of her hands—and Marley lets me.

“I was so damn happy that night.”

“Why?” she whispers.

“Because you were talking to me. I found out I wasn’t no one to you.”

“No. Of course not, Gabe. You never have been. I never gave you that impression. If anything,” her eyes on mine are lasers, “it’s always kind of been the other way around. I care too much about you.”

“No…Marley. That’s not true. I just go chicken shit around you.”

“Why?” she wipes her eyes under her glasses.

I grit my teeth. “You know why.”

“I’m not in guessing mode, Gabe. Spit it out or get on going.”

I inhale, feeling my stomach bottom out. “Because I love you, Marley.”

Marley starts to cry, and I’m not sure what that means, but I get up on the couch beside her, wrap my arms around her. “Marley—I wasn’t wanting a damn baby.” Her body stiffens at my words, and I rush to explain. “I don’t not want one. But I wasn’t looking for one.” I laugh at how crazy it all sounds—and, in fact, is. I rub her arm. “I wanted you. I wanted to give you a baby. That’s the only reason all this happened, you know. Because I wanted you.”