Come As You Are

Getting back to her had meant ordering a paternity test.

Slap in the face.

She obliged. She needed the help. Needed the support, the money, another person to help take responsibility. And so there she sat in the doctor’s office - however many countless times she’d been there - knees bouncing and a rotten ball hanging low in her stomach.

“Whitney Nash?”

She looked up, blonde hair shifting over slumped, tired shoulders. “Yes?” Her fingers tightened over the handle of the baby carrier. The newborn lay asleep, wrapped in a soft pink blanket, comforted by the unicorn-printed fabric of the carrier’s cushioning. Elizabeth. Impossibly small, yet somehow the biggest thing to ever happen to Whitney. Her fingers gripped a little tighter.

The nurse - dressed in Eeyore scrubs - offered a comforting smile. “The doctor’s ready to see you now.”

Whitney stood, the unfamiliar weight of the carrier pressed against her calves. Physically, it weighed close to nothing. Emotionally, it weighed the world.

“Right this way.” The nurse - Whitney could see “Lisa” printed on her nametag - led her through a winding maze of exam rooms. Both women kept their eyes down - Lisa for privacy purposes, Whitney for others. Finally, they stopped at an empty room, square and wallpapered just like the rest. Whitney stepped inside.

“The doctor should be with you shortly with the results,” Nurse Lisa told her, sharing one last smile before stepping out, closing the door behind her.

Whitney breathed the stuffy, hospital-scented air. Inhale, exhale, repeat. It occurred to her that, once again, she was alone. Alone, except for her baby girl. Alone just like she’d been for the past nine months. When she’d taken the pregnancy tests two weeks after a missed period. When she’d discovered the baby’s gender. When she’d felt the first kick, jumpstarting the motherly instinct she hadn’t known was there. And especially there in the delivery room, alone besides a doctor and two nurses.

And then a baby girl.

Abortion had been out of the question as soon as her test came out positive. Not that she was heavily pro-life; this was her personal choice. And abortion was something she couldn’t carry through with. So she’d settled on adoption. She couldn’t raise a baby - not with a part-time job, not with school. There were so many more couples out there that could have done a much better job than she could.

And then she felt that first kick. It’d thrown everything for a loop. A looping, twirling rollercoaster that landed her back in another exam room, waiting to hear back from a test she already knew all the answers to.

Within five minutes, despite ticking by at an unimaginably slow speed, the doctor was there with his clipboard. He read the results of the test to her - a bunch of words that she only caught the prefixes of - and summarized it in four simple words. “Max is the father.”

Whitney blinked, unfazed by the information. She knew. “Should I contact his lawyer again?” Whitney asked, her stomach turning at the thought of making another phone call to “Paul Howell’s office - please hold.”

The doctor shook his head. “We’ve got it taken care of,” he told her, eyes on her as he explained. “I’m sure they’ll get a hold of you in a few days for some follow up.”

Whitney nodded, though unsure of what ‘follow up’ completely meant. The next few weeks were already a dangerous haze to her. She couldn’t imagine throwing the drama of ‘follow up’ into the mix.

The doctor leaning in closer. “Is there anything else I can help you with? Any questions? Concerns?”

Whitney knew he was only trying to help, but she could only take so many questions in a day.

“I’m fine,” she told him. “Thank you.”

---

Max had been at home when he’d gotten the call. Home as in the Southside, not Quebec. Though the half-filled suitcases littering his bedroom said that they’d caught him just in time.

At first, he thought it’d been some crazy stunt pulled by a fan. He’d had bizarre things happen before - he was once sent a fake Save The Date to his own wedding - but nothing to this extreme. He knew it had to be a joke. Sure Max got around, but he was always careful. Always cleaning up after his wake, leaving no traces at the scene of the crime. So he’d ordered a paternity test and tried to brushed off that phone call. No big deal.

It was the second call that had drained all color from his face and spread a numbness to the tips of his fingers. He’d been thankful he’d been home alone when he’d answered his phone. There was no telling what his reaction would have been in public.

Max slumped into a chair in his living room. The television droned lowly in the background, a news station predicting sunshine for the remainder of the week. He didn’t catch that. His hearing was fuzzy.

“Do you recall meeting a Whitney Nash?”

No. He’d never heard the name, as far as he was concerned. Maybe just a Whitney, but he didn’t remember a last name. “No,” he said aloud, his eyes fixed on nothing.

The list of twenty questions went on. They were necessary, in case a law suit formed out of this. And he answered them as truthfully as possible, though his answers didn’t offer much value. He didn’t know anything. Hell, up until yesterday he’d been a regular guy with a lot of money and even more charm. But that had been what had gotten him into this in the first place.

He put his head in his hands.

“Despite the circumstances,” Paul went on, “I am happy to inform you of your healthy baby girl. Seven pounds, two ounces. Twenty one inches.”

The words were foreign to him, spoken from a tongue that didn’t know the blow they gave. His gut twisted painfully. Your healthy baby girl. Had he been trapped in some movie? Some nightmare that he couldn’t shake?

A few minutes later, Max hung up his phone. Hadn’t just pressed end and set it down, but turned it all the way off. He didn’t want to talk to anyone else. He couldn’t.

As if the possibility of becoming a Free Agent hadn’t scared the shit out of him. This was something completely different. And so much worse.