Page 83 of Pregnant By the Playboy
When she answers, I immediately say, “Did Dad sing this song to me when I was little?” Then I sing a couple lines and wait.
“Yes,” she says. “You remember?”
“I remember.”
“You loved it. I tried to sing it to you after he died, but you screamed every time. You knew it was the wrong person singing to you.”
I think she’s crying, but if I ask, she’ll deny it.
“You met Vince’s family tonight, didn’t you?” she says.
“Yeah. When his brother sang that song to his daughter, I remembered and burst into tears.”
My mother says soothing words to me. I’m sure they understand. They must love you, how could they not?
I end the call as we’re pulling into the visitors’ parking at my building. When we get out of the car, Vince opens the trunk and pulls out a box.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Some stuff your mother wanted me to give you.” He pauses. “We can do it tonight. Or later, if you prefer.”
“Tonight.”
Upstairs, I open the box, and there’s a small collection of toys I vaguely remember from my childhood, plus a mobile I don’t remember at all.
“Your mom said your father made it,” Vince says.
I smile at the slightly lopsided Winnie-the-Pooh characters. Then I close my eyes and conjure up my father’s voice, trying to remember this mobile above my crib.
But I can’t.
“You want to get ready for bed?” Vince asks, though it’s only nine thirty and I never go to bed this early.
“Yeah.”
He takes out a pair of pajama pants as well as a T-shirt. When I wear clothes to bed—which I don’t always do when he stays the night—I alternate between my “pregnant and hungry” and “pregnant and cute” T-shirts. Vince picks the latter for me tonight.
“I should get a ‘pregnant and hormonal’ shirt,” I mutter.
“Nah, this one is more appropriate.”
I roll my eyes, and he chuckles.
He strips down to his T-shirt and boxers, and we climb into bed together. I snuggle up against him.
“Why did my mom give you that box rather than giving it directly to me?” I ask.
“To encourage you to develop tender feelings for me. Her words, not mine.”
I snort, then grab a tissue. God, my nose is a mess.
But Vince is still here, and he holds me in his arms.
I’m no longer surprised when he’s good to me. Deep down, he’s kind and thoughtful. I’m not sure how he feels about people outside of his family knowing that, though he’s certainly not hiding it around me.
“How was meeting my family?” he asks. “Before...you know.”
“It was good. The family I never had.”
