How To Be A Light

I have something to say.

I have something to say and I don't know how to say it, that's my problem. I don't know how to say it, what will happen if and when I manage to get it out, or how he'll look at me when I do.
Maybe I could run away alone and never have to see his face. That's always on the table too, isn't it?

"I have to tell Luther." I say to myself as if letting the words sit on my lips gives them any sort of meaning. "I have to tell him."

This is one of those things that I can't just not say. No, this is something that needs to be shared. It can't be that difficult, now, can it? I just waltz right up to him and lay it out there; just spit it out. That's what I'll do- just let it out. I'm going to walk right up to him, skip the small talk and cut right to the chase: look him dead in the eye and just say it 'Luther-'

But it isn't that simple, because you can't just spit something out if it has long term implications, can you? Believe me, this has long-term implications. It has life-long implications and it's someone else that's depending on me! Some little boy- maybe a girl- inside of me is the life-long impact behind these words. I don't know what he'll do. I hardly know what I'm doing right now. I can't be sure of what he'll say, how he'll look at me- if he'll have the nerve to look me in the eye- now or ever again.

And this is how I find myself in tears on a Wednesday afternoon sitting on this park bench. This is how I find myself hunched over my crossed knees with one hand to my stomach, forcing back these weak sobs- this helplessness.

But I can't be helpless and I can't be scared. I'm not allowed to be helpless when there's a child inside of me. How am I supposed to care for something if I'm already scared of it? How great of a mother am I going to make if I'm sitting here crying about this child before it even sees light of day? Do you see? Do you get it? I don't think I can do this.

I can't do this.

I take a deep breath, glancing up into the clear, blue sky for a moment of relief. There's a play structure full of children and parents right down the lane, a very fitting place for me to contemplate the livelihood of our baby's future- I know-, but their shrieks of laughter and all the calls of "baby, be careful!" are drown out by the lush trees that surround this gravel path. I find myself watching the way the parents look at their children: they don't look half as scared as I feel. How might I ever hope to be anything like those families if I'm this scared?

Maybe I am scared of this kid; maybe it does petrify me, but I already love it. I really do. I can feel it. I'm already in love with this little piece of life and I can't get rid of it; yet another thing I can't bring myself to do, not even for Luther Fitzpatrick.

See how pathetic I am?

"Oh, God, Luther." My nerves boil over at the thought of him and his reaction.

I could lose him. He's going to be here in less than five minutes, likely expecting the worst after my solemn 'we have to talk'. When I show him the truth he'll let go of my shaking hands and stare at me like a leper; like some sort of radioactive freak. He'll step back and shake his head with those wide, green eyes of his and say 'I'm a bartender, you're still in school! We can't do this!' I can see it already, the way he'll shake his head to get away from all of the stress.

Not even Luther is going to believe that we can do this.

Then he'll realize that he can't shake this; that he can't get rid of the fear while he's with me. He'll realize that there isn't anything he might say to change my mind- absolutely nothing at all. And once the realization hits him, that's when he'll let go for good. He'll let go of my hands, turn on his heel and run- that's what he'll do. He'll turn and he'll run away from this in every way that I wish I could.

But you can't run from what's on the inside.

My fingers trace the aged oak of this park bench, memorizing each of its sloppy etchings. It's nice to think about all of the good memories these people must've shared here; the worn hearts with barely legible initials, the aged markings left by best friends, ex-friends and lovers. It's nice to think about all of the good memories that these people must've shared here, because their luck might just trickle down into this moment right here.

This could be the spot where Luther and I share that same slice of happiness. This could be the spot where his face lights up, where he laughs so disbelievingly and smiles because of us and this child and our family. This could be the spot where he insists that I tell him again, with his sceptical smile and that five-o-clock shadow that tickles my chin when he kisses me hard and tells me of how everything will be alright. This could be our place in the world.

So for a moment I smile, thinking of how this could be the spot where our family really begins and all of the other possibilities that lay ahead; just for a moment.

"Do you mind if I sit here?" A woman speaks over the loud cry of her son, snapping my once glassy gaze away from the bench markings. I stare up at her with a quiet nod, leaving her some space to rest with the wailing boy.

The more time I take to stare at her, the more I realize how tired she must. She has these bags under her eyes, dark circles and clear exhaustion painted right across her face as that little boy in her arms shrieks so uncontrollably. I've got to admit, I'm a little intimidated by the toll it takes on her.

"Declan will be three months tomorrow, won't you, baby?" She explained proudly, catching my eye with a smile despite her clear strain. "We really do love him to pieces, but sometimes I wonder how much more of this I'll be able to take, you know?"

Silently, I nod, letting my eyes linger over his pink cheeks with a nervous hand to my stomach. I don't know what to say and I don't know what to do as I look at him and wonder whether or not my baby will look like that. I look at him and wonder what my child will look like: whether it'll be a boy or a girl, what colour its eyes will be, what its face will look like, what kind of person it'll aim to be.

The more I think about it, the more it gets to me: I've got to teach this baby everything it'll need to know to survive. I'll need to teach it to live and breathe and eat and walk; there's potty training and reading, writing and math. How am I supposed to teach him multiplication if I can't remember it for the life of me? How am I supposed to teach someone else to live their life and expect them to do it properly when I never quite managed to get it right myself? It isn't as if this baby asked for my help.

"Is everything alright?" She speaks, turning an eye to my reddened cheeks with concern.

I cannot do this.

I've got to teach it to chew and swallow, how to ride a bike and handle money, how to do cartwheels, count to ten, and type on a computer. What else should my baby know? I can't remember. I don't even know the things I need to teach my own baby. Do you see? Do you get it now?

"I can't do this." I murmur softly, bunching up the folds of my sundress as I let my fingers trace my stomach. My cheeks heat up as the sights before me turn to blurs and illegible colour splashes. "I just can't!"

Embarrassment, shame and fear meet my shaking hands as the young mother rests a hand on my shoulder. I tried to hold everything back: all of my words, all of the anger, all of the crying and the fear, but this truth- this baby- is something I've hidden from one too many people. I can't bear the burden of these thoughts anymore; not by myself.

And so I tell her everything without one hint of composure to my words. "I'm going to be a horrible mother. I can't do this at all! I can't teach my baby all of these things. I don't know how. I don't know how to teach math or science or how to potty train or skateboard. How do you even teach a baby to chew food? What if I hold it wrong? What if I hold it wrong and it falls, or I drop it and it's ruined forever? Then it'll grow up hating me! What if I forget to check on it and something happens? What if I forget to mush its food up enough and it chokes? I can barely even spell 'purée', let alone do it for Christ's sake!"

Stupidity really sank in as she shook the baby bag from her shoulders, setting her son down in his carrier before scooting closer with a sympathetic smile.

"God, I'm going to ruin his life and Luther's going to leave me and then I'll look at this baby and I'll hate it for everything it took. I can't hate my own baby!" The truth slips out through muffled cries as she hugs me tight. "This is so pathetic. What's wrong with me? What am I saying? I'm going to hate this baby... I'm such a monster."

"I'm so scared." I admitted, pulling back to stare her in the eye with a shuddered breath, sniffing back my outburst. "I love my baby, really, I do, but I'm just so scared."

A moment of silence followed my words, but the comfort of her embrace was enough to prevent a total meltdown. She ran her hand down my back, murmuring careful words of reassurance.

"It doesn't ever go away." She spoke, reaching for my hand with a small smile. "You'll be scared to have your baby, you'll be scared to hold him, you'll be scared to put him to bed and leave him alone for more than two minutes and you'll probably want to run to the doctor every time he burps, just in case."

"My husband had to confiscate my car keys to keep me from taking Declan into the emergency room every five minutes." She laughed at the thought, nudging my shoulder as I managed to crack a small grin. "So believe me when I tell you 'there is nothing wrong with being scared."

There's something liberating about this moment, despite the shame and the embarrassment that comes from being just as vulnerable and insecure as her crying child. There's something liberating in the way she speaks to me as if I'm not alone. I don't feel so alone as the wind rolls through my hair, blowing it about with a sun-tinged kiss to my shoulder.

"There's nothing wrong with being scared and there's absolutely nothing wrong with you. Anyone who would leave you out of fear doesn't deserve one moment of the good things that'll come to you and your baby. And believe me, good things will come." She spoke, picking up the bundle of blankets that hugged her son so tight before handing them to me. "Hold him."

It's something you read in a million baby books, how to hold a baby, and maybe that much of it is textbook: cradle the head and neck, keep a firm grip, et cetera, et cetera. But there's something about the feeling- a whole new life, cradled so delicately in your arms- that goes beyond anything some textbook might ever describe. There's something about rocking a crying baby into a quiet murmur that feels so right, so relaxing in itself.

Declan shifts around for a moment, settling in my grasp as I lull him into a gentle rock.

"See, that was my moment. Every mother gets her moment, so don't you worry about it." She explained, eyeing her son thoughtfully. "I'd been depressed for six months, overweight with erratic cravings and awake at all hours of the night right up until I had him. It was killing my husband too, but I think that my moment was right after I'd just given birth. The doctor came back and set this little guy in my arms and my husband and I just sat there speechless."

"Every single day for the past year I've been scared." She continued, tickling his chin with a small smile as his cries dwindled down. "Every single day I've felt ill prepared and frightened. I've felt like there are a million things that I should know about being a parent that I don't. Hell, I'll bet that there are millions of things, if not billions, that I don't know about being a parent, but this little guy's teaching me more than he knows."

"They always tell you that being a parent is something you can study up on- that you can know what to do and what to say before you even have your child, but I'm not so sure I agree." The affectionate gaze she casts her son is more than enough to reassure me of the truth behind her words. "I think that our children teach us how to be parents just as we teach them to be people."

Small eyes, opened to meet my gaze- soft brown eyes with honey flecks of gold so big and curious, searching my face for any hint of familiarity. Declan's crying fizzled out as I smiled through a soft 'hello'.

"Hello, beautiful boy." I grinned, letting my fingers trace his face softly as his tears fade away, lulling him into soft coo's.

"And then there are moments where he smiles at his father and I just like that. That's when I know we'll be alright." His mother grinned, dangling a toy in his face with an amused laugh. "I'm not going to sit here and tell you that things don't get hard, because they do. I cannot begin to express how many sleepless nights you have ahead of you, all of the hormones and mood fluctuations; the cravings and the stretch marks- dear God, the stretch marks- I won't even get in to labour pains..."

Declan jimmied a hand free from the bundled blankets, grasping my finger with a quiet sigh.

"It's still hard right now." She soothed my worries, running her lips together carefully. "I reckon you could read all of the parenting books in the world and still never quite be prepared. There's no being prepared for a baby, sweetie. As long as you can be sure that you, or anyone in your life won't just quit when it gets too hard, that's all you need."

With a quick glance down at her watch, she rises from her seat. "I think I've talked your ear off long enough."

How anyone could sit down and rail off a 'how to' guide for soon-to-be mothers evades me, but everything she had to say was everything I needed to hear. I don't think I'm as scared as I once was, not after hearing what she had to say.

"I really needed this." I smile, handing Declan over with a thankful nod. "Thank you."

"Well, you know, Declan could really use a playmate when he gets old enough-" She paused, cursing under her breath as the packed baby bag refused her the pen she sought out. It only took a moment to rummage through my bag and hand her one of mine, letting her scrawl across my arm- Amy. "And if, by chance, you have a girl, we could just cut the small talk and skip right to the wedding planning."

"You have no idea how tempting that is." I grin as I wipe my eyes, standing to wrap her in a thankful hug. "I really appreciate what you did for me."

It's been so long since I've laughed like this.

"What I did for you?" Amy turned back with a small shake of her head. "I don't even know your name, but I should be thanking you for halting the waterworks. We'll call it even here though, because something tells me that fine piece of man over there isn't waiting on me."

Following her nod led me to a pair of eyes I couldn't quite bring myself to stare dead on. Scuffed sneakers, dark jeans and a white button up told me he'd high-tailed it from work to meet me here, pushing his sleeves up with a deep breath as he stared me down with a small wave. Already there's a certain seriousness to our setting, a seriousness so difficult to tip toe around it would be pointless to ignore.

"Hey wait," I turn back, catching Declan and his mom at the last second. "Did it hurt?"

I don't want to face the seriousness- not right now.

"Every mother gets her sign." She reminds me with a smile, letting go of my hand with a soft nudge in the right direction. "And if this doesn't kill you, it'll only make you stronger."

Once more I find myself sitting alone on the bench, running my fingers together nervously as my mind's eye so furiously mulls over Amy's words: If it doesn't kill you.

If.