It was almost three years ago, the afternoon when the Knit- Wits learned that Mary Ann Minetti’s teenage granddaughter, Tatum, had gotten pregnant. But the memory comes slamming back into Tova’s consciousness like it was yesterday.
The rest of the Knit-Wits were properly scandalized by the news. But Tova, to her shame, felt only envy.
Eighteen. Tatum was eighteen, and naturally was faced with a difficult choice. The Knit-Wits debated her particular conundrum, but for Tova it was only: what if.
What if Erik had been in Tatum’s shoes? On the other side of the exchange of genetic material, of course, but what if he’d become a father at eighteen, before his life was truncated? Tova would have a grandchild. What a gift that would have been.
Tatum went on to have the baby. Laura, Mary Ann’s daughter, helped her out with childcare for this unexpected grandchild, and life went on smoothly, as far as Tova could tell. Surely that wasn’t always the case. Mary Ann’s family had the means to help with the baby, and Tatum wanted to keep it, and the baby’s father is still reasonably supportive and involved, from what Tova can tell. An ideal outcome, really. But what about other outcomes for similar situations? The possibilities are plenty.
The birth date on Cameron’s driver’s license is seared into her brain. He was born that following February.
And his mother. Whoever she was. She was seeing Erik.
Supposedly.
What if the father Cameron is searching for isn’t his father at all? Her mind combs through all she can remember of her conversations with the boy, anything he might have said about the man he’s searching for. A real estate developer, that one who has those billboards. He said something about a ring and a photograph, but Tova can’t recall any other details. Nothing about Cameron’s comments had ever made her think of Erik. And whatever the situation is, Cameron is convinced he has the right man. Perfectly confident.
Erik was confident like that.
Tova trails a finger over the deck chair’s armrest, tracing her nail on the woodgrain. A night breeze nudges the sunflowers in her moonlit garden, causing their heads to bob, like a personal audience who agrees with her every wishful thought. But these thoughts are nonsense. Erik couldn’t have had a child. Daphne Cassmore might have been dating any number of young men when she was eighteen. Carefree eighteen. The summer after senior year of high school. Who could judge her for that?
It would be an exceptional stroke of luck for something like that to happen to her. But Daphne Cassmore would have found her somehow, surely? What mother would deprive her child of a grandparent? And anyway, Tova doesn’t believe in exceptional strokes of luck.
Cat alights on the deck railing and tilts his head at her. Once again, she wonders what on earth she is going to do with him. The closing of the sale of her house, and her move to Charter Village, are imminent. They don’t allow pets. She called to check.
He poises as if he’s about to jump on Tova’s lap, but instead he leaps to the ground and curls at her feet.
As if he’s trying to distance himself already.
