Page 20 of Fractured Destiny

Cal drives with his own headphones in, one hand on the wheel and the other wrapped around gas station coffee. Blue dashboard light cuts across his forearm. Beyond him, the road unspools into darkness.

I sit in the back by the gear with my notebook open on my knee.

The pages have been blank for weeks. Maybe months. I don’t know anymore.

My pen hovers above the paper while the van sways beneath me. Tessa’s perfume still clings to my shirt, sweet and unfamiliar. Beneath it, or maybe under my skin, another scent comes back. Expensive shampoo. Our mixed scent of the best sex of my life.

I slip a hand into my pocket. The paper is there, folded into the same small square. I don’t pull it out. I don’t need to. Nine months in my pocket has made the edges soft enough to recognize by touch.

A sane man would have thrown it away long ago.

I press the pen to the page before I can think myself out of it. The first words come out ugly. Too simple. Half a thought more than a lyric. I stare at them, waiting for the usual disgust to make me want to scratch them out.

Somehow, I kind of like what I’ve written.

The van keeps moving. Mason snores. Evan sleeps. Cal drives.

I read the words again.

They aren’t good.

Not yet.

For the first time in months, though, I may be onto something.

six

Two Months Later

Levi has been crying for nearly an hour.

I’m in the rocker by the window with my shirt unbuttoned, one tit out. His mouth is in the rough vicinity of my nipple, but he’s still not latching properly. The lactation consultant assured me it’s not my fault. Apparently, colic causes an overtired, crying infant to latch and unlatch over and over because they’re having trouble settling. Supposedly, it peaks at six weeks.

Levi is twenty-eight days old.

Fantastic.

My mother’s making chamomile tea in the kitchenette. She came over a few minutes ago to bring me breakfast made by the chef and has the same careful face she’s worn since I confessed everything.

Not hovering, exactly, but also not pretending any of this is easy. I understand her better now that I’ve given birth and know what it means to love someone more than yourself. She’s close enough to catch me without making me feel like I’m failing, even if I am.

Levi manages to eat for a few sucks before pulling off my breast and screaming louder. His face turns the color of cooked beets.

“It’s okay, sweet boy,” I whisper, trying to get my thumb out of his fist before he snaps it clean off. “I’ve got you.”

We both know I’m a liar. I have no idea what I’m doing.

Not for a lack of trying. I’ve read books, watched hours of YouTube videos, and paid a postpartum doula thousands of dollars to coach me. All of it goes out the window when my son goes stiff in my arms, furious at the outrage of being alive.

When he cries, I can’t seem to identify the particular reason for his distress. He stops and I have no idea what I’ve done right. Then he starts wailing again and I’m convinced the thing he’s most upset about is the fact he was born to a terrible mother.

My mom brings the tea over and sets it on the side table where I won’t knock it over. Her hair is pulled into a low knot. She wears jeans, a soft gray sweater, and socks with little embroidered lemons on them. I guess becoming a grandmother has turned her ankles whimsical.

“He still won’t latch.” I glance up at her.

“Try the other side.”

I shift him. He screams.