I go for the envelope and unfold the handwritten letter that’s thicker than a Bible.
Dear Dean,
It took a while to track you down through the hotel we stayed at back in Houston; otherwise, I would’ve contacted you sooner. Oh, hell. Maybe I wouldn’t have. Who knows? All I can say is that I’ve spent the last eleven months trying to make sense of my life after my husband left. By the time I figured out I was pregnant, something I was told by doctors to be impossible after years of fertility treatments, I didn’t know what to do.
I’ve always wanted a baby. But that was when I had a husband, a house, and dreams of a future. After John left, I wasn’t sure if I was at a place in my life to be a single mother. That’s part of the reason I didn’t try to find you. What would be the point if I wasn’t sure I’d keep the baby? Your baby.
Then the weeks dragged on, and John called out of the blue. He and Brittney broke up. He wanted to reconcile. I said no. I meant it, too. But then slowly we began talking on the phone. A conversation here and there.
Long story short, Dean, this was the other reason I didn’t contact you. I started to think that maybe John and I could work it out. But I knew if he found out about me being pregnant, he might not want me back. He’s always been the jealous type.
Anyway, we talked on the phone for months, and he’s been begging to see me, but I needed to make him wait until after the baby was born. I planned to give her up for adoption and tell John about it all later. Much later. Maybe never.
But then she came, Dean. I took one look at Fia and knew I could never give her up.
So now, I’m asking you to take her, just for a week. I have very little money, and I can’t leave her with anyone I know—not family, not friends. Word would get back to John before our big reunion. I need time to tell him about her. I know you are a good guy with great potential, Dean, even if you lied about being in finance. Yes, I’ve done my research on you.
I’ve left instructions on how to feed Fia, her nap schedule, and other important tips. You’ll have to buy formula and diapers in a few days because I couldn’t afford to get more. In the bag is a book, kind of a baby manual. Be sure to support her neck when you carry her.
See you in a week.
Marli
Still gripping the letter, I drop my hand. Ohellno! This has to be a fucking joke. But that baby wailing in the other room isn’t. She has a pair of lungs like a seal or dolphin, or whichever mammal has huge lung capacity.
The shrill of her cries pierces my ears.
“This can’t be happening!” Panicked, I thumb through the sheets of paper. Marli left a phone number for emergencies.
I pull out my cell from my jeans pocket and dial, but it goes straight into voicemail.
“Marli, it’s Dean. You have to call me right away.” I give my number and hang up.
“Dude, you gotta do something about that baby.” Mike presses his hands over his ears.
“Do what? I don’t know shit about babies.”
“Then call the cops or something. They’ll know what to do.”
I give Mike’s suggestion a quick thought. “I can’t do that. They’ll put the baby with Child Services.”
“What other choice do you have? You can’t take care of it.”
“Maybe Marli will come back?” I say.
“And if she doesn’t? Or worse, what if she does? That woman was a total dumpster fire—rambling incoherently, bawling, hiccupping. Which means that baby has to go to Child Services eventually.” He pauses. “Unless you plan to keep her forever?”
No. No way. I can’t even keep her for a day. I have work in the morning, and I need the money. I don’t get a lot for living expenses, so every penny counts. Luckily, classes don’t start until next week, but evening practices have been in full swing for a month because our first game is next Sunday, a week from now. The only reason we have today off is because Coach wanted us to rest up. Bottom line, though, there is no room in my schedule for a baby.
“You have to call the police,” Mike pushes. “That woman just left her kid here. Messed up, man.”
“I know, but…” My stomach squeezes into a tight knot.
“But what? Is the baby really yours?”
I shrug. “How the hell should I know?”
“Did you bag it?” Mike looks at my groin.
I honestly don’t remember if I used a condom. “I was fucked up. Had too much from the minibar.”