Page 54 of Healing Hearts
“And I just knew,” she says, “that no matter what was in the envelope, it would be okay.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Emily
We get deeper into June, and I’m still not pregnant, but after getting the news about Amir, I’m not sure anything can bring me down. I hadn’t realized what an unconscious heavy burden the uncertainty about his medical future was until it was gone.
“Mom,” Amir says, climbing into my car from the after-school program, “I made something for Father’s Day at school, and then we made something in the after-school program today, too.”
My heart seizes for a beat, and I’m at a loss for words. Are we taking those things to the cemetery?
“Oh?” I say, hoping he’ll expand on what he’s thinking before I make any wild suggestions.
“Yeah,” he says, buckling his seatbelt. “I think Trent will like them.”
Speech has definitely lost me. He knows his father died when he was a baby, but since Trent lives with us now, maybe he’s gotten confused.
“And some of the other kids were talking about how they make their dads breakfast in bed and stuff, and I want to do that too.”
When I still don’t say anything, he says, “It’s this weekend. On Sunday, I think? Yeah, Sunday. I’m pretty sure.”
Trent did help Amir in May to deliver me breakfast in bed for Mother’s Day, but I’m stumped about the best way to approach this. Trent doesn’t even want to be a true father to the babywe’retrying to have, so asking him or making him take on that role for Amir seems unfair.
“You know,” I say, carefully. “Trent and I might need to talk about this before we do anything.”
“But I want it to be a surprise.”
“But honey,” I say, struggling to find the words, “Trent isn’t your dad.”
“Right, but he’slikea dad.”
He did make him breakfast, take him to do fun things, occasionally correct him when he was doing something wrong, and so I could see how all of that added up to “Dad-like” to Amir, but I have no idea how Trent would see it.
Even bringing it up to him makes my pulse jump with anxiety. Since I haven’t gotten pregnant yet, we haven’t had to revisit our earlier conversations around how involved he’d be, around who we’d tell, and letting Trent slip into such an important position in Amir’s life seems like it warrants another discussion.
“I don’t think this is something we can just spring on him,” I say. “I won’t tell Trent what you’ve made or anything, but I think I should check with him. That’s he’s okay for you to treat him that way.”
“Who else would I treat that way?” Amir asks. “My dad died. Grandpa died. Uncle Tyler is someone else’s dad. Uncle Grady is nice, but he’s not Trent. I want Trent.”
His matter-of-fact statements hit me square in the chest. “I understand that,” I say, carefully, my throat tight with emotion. “I just need to talk to Trent first.”
“Don’t spoil my surprise,” Amir says, a hint of stubbornness entering his tone.
“I won’t spoil your surprise,” I say, but inside I wonder what part of this whole thing Trent is going to find most surprising and what the hell I’m going to tell Amir if Trent doesn’t want to be seen in this sort of light.
That night, Amir asks Trent to put him to bed, which only delays the “dad” discussion that has my guts twisted in knots. I have no idea how Trent is going to take it.
The bedtime request has happened often enough, either because I’m showing clients a house or Amir wants the bonding time. Trent and Amir have a system. Instead of Trent reading the bedtime story, Amir has to pick one he can read to Trent.
Any time I’ve walked past the room while they’ve been doing their routine, it’s made my chest glow with warmth. Trent is always lying on the single bed, wedged in beside Amir, his hand under his head, staring at the ceiling while Amir hunches over a picture book, sounding out words and trying to make sense of the story he selected. They chat back and forth about characters and plot as though the storyline is riveting to both of them.
If I wasn’t already eager to have Trent’s baby, that probably would have been enough to seal the deal. I love the way he loves my son.
But I’m also very aware of how Trent’s past casts a long shadow over what he thinks he deserves, what he’s capable of having, who he can allow to push that shadow away, even fora moment. Since we’ve been living together, I’ve become more conscious of how he sees his past than I ever was before. He won’t let the weight of his past mistakes go.
When Trent comes down the stairs and into the kitchen, my breath catches at how good rumpled and a little tired looks on him. His jeans hang just right, and the T-shirt he’s wearing hugs his chest and accentuates his impressive biceps. He’s in the gym at least three times a week—sometimes in the early morning, sometimes late at night. He told me once that working out is the best way to keep any stress in check, which was something he discovered in prison. I certainly appreciate the results of that anti-stress routine.
“You’re not watching TV?” Trent asks, grabbing a Gatorade from the fridge and twisting off the lid.
