The World: According to Rachael (36 page)

Rachael silently reaches behind the ketchup bottle and hands me a brown, greasy, paper-bag looking menu.

“Thanks. How did you know where they were? It’s not like you frequent Cracker Barrel restaurants.” God, I sound like an ass.

“You have no clue what I do in my spare time now, do you, Graham.” It’s a statement and every bit as harsh as my tone. Her eyes shift to look out the window, and when they focus back on me, she says, “Look. I didn’t invite you to breakfast for us to fight. Can we call a truce for the next hour?”

“Why did you invite me, Rachael?” I want to add,
“Because the last time we were together you made it pretty damn obvious that you had not changed
your position on me being your dirty little secret.”

The waitress sets down my cup of coffee and Rachael’s glass of cold milk, and asks if we’re ready to order. I haven’t looked at the menu, but it really doesn’t matter what they bring me. This meeting has nothing to do with breakfast choices.

“I’ll take a Denver omelet.”

“What sides, sir?”

“Your choice,” I reply.

“Ma’am?”

“He’d like a side of the hash brown casserole. I’ll take an order of pancakes with bacon and scrambled eggs. Thank you,” she says, as sweet as maple syrup.

When the waitress leaves, Rachael picks up both of our menus and returns them to the spot behind the ketchup bottle.

“How are you, Graham?”

What a loaded question. Do I go with the professional angle, where my life can’t be any better? Or do I tell her that I can’t so much as look at another woman? That I tried to have a one-night stand with some girl at the Irish pub, and that my dick didn’t work and I had to blame it on all the booze that I’d had? Do I tell her that she walks through my dreams every night? That the only happiness I’ve felt is during the three times we’ve been together, just to fall into a deep depression when she walks away? I mean how many more times can I have my heart stomped on by her high-heeled shoes?

“Never been better. You?” I reply not elaborating.

Her eyes become wet with tears, and she looks back out of the window. Her mouth opens and closes as if she’s about to say something, but then she changes her mind. “Have I done this to you?”

“What?” I ask, perplexed, as I arrange my silverware as a means of distraction.

“You. You’re so cold … angry.” She looks into my eyes and I see a sadness, apologetic look in them that I’ve never seen before. “I’m sorry, Graham. I’m so sorry that you hate me this much.” Her voice chokes at the end.

I reach across the table and grab her hands. I can’t stand seeing her upset. “Don’t you understand, Rachael, that there’s a fine line between love and hate? Right now, I’m so angry that you’re letting your job, and one that’s ending soon, stand in the way of us being together.”

She snatches her hands off the table. “Aren’t you doing the same thing?” She shakes her head back and forth as if to clear the thought. “I didn’t invite you here to argue with you.”

The waitress sets our plates down and quickly leaves. I assume she senses the tension in the air and doesn’t want to be any part of this. I don’t blame her.

I cut into my omelet, and push the bowl of hash brown casserole towards her side of the table. “That brings us back to the question of why you invited me here.”

I shove a bite into my mouth and chew, not tasting it at all.

She silently eats two more bites of her pancake and a slice of bacon before she rests her fork on her plate. Her eyes are filled with what looks like regret when she begins to speak. Instantly, my stomach knots, knowing that I’m not going to like what she has to say.

“I’m resigning from my post at the White House, effective the end of the month.”

I swallow hard, and take a sip of water to help the un-chewed bite go down. Surely I didn’t hear her correctly. There’s ten months left for her to serve. Why would she quit with such a short amount of time left? There’s a small part of my heart that dares to hope that it’s because she has chosen me.

My mouth must be hanging open, because she coaxes, “Close your mouth, Graham.”

I do, and I take another sip of water. “Why?” There’s a large part of me that’s cheering for her answer to be,
“So I can travel with you, and be a part of what you’ve built which was inspired by me.”

She grabs the napkin from her lap and wipes her mouth before throwing it on her plate. Her face is unreadable. “I’m pregnant.”

Air exits my lungs, and for a brief moment the world starts to grey. Obviously, I didn’t hear her right. Pregnant? Is it mine? How in the hell did she get pregnant? Fuck. I must have misunderstood.

Before I can ask any of those questions, she picks up her butter knife and stabs me proverbially in the heart. “Don’t worry. I’m not burdening you at all. This will not affect your tour, or radio show, or book deal, or anything else. I’m resigning so the world will not know that I’m having a baby when I’m not married.” With a rueful laugh, she says, “I don’t think an unwed, knocked-up Chief of Staff presents the right image for a party that prides themselves on family values.”

She continues, “I plan to drop off the face of the earth for around a year. Then, I’m going to take a professorship at a university. I’ll give the baby my last name. And I swear to you that I will never tell him or her who their father is. I’m not asking for money or …”

“Shut the fuck up,” I growl at her while I slam my hands down on the table. Our plates and silverware make a loud clanking noise. Is this woman insane? She just told me that I’m going to be a dad, but that the baby will not have my last name. She actually said she will not tell my child who his father is.

The restaurant patrons surrounding us look our way to see what the loud noise was. I catch the waitress as she walks by and ask for our bill.

Gripping the edge of the table, I lean forward, making sure she hears every word that I’m about to say. I only care that we’re making a scene because there is the chance of us being recognized. “Grab your purse, stand up, and follow me out of this restaurant. We have a lot to discuss, and I’m not doing it here in the middle of these fine folks’ Sunday breakfast. How did you get here?”

For the first time since I’ve known Rachael, fear registers in her eyes. “Lou brought me.” Her voice is small, and not above a whisper.

“Good. Tell Lou to drive back to D.C. You’ll be riding with me. He can wait for you at my house.” I don’t recognize my own voice. My face is burning red with anger, and I’ve never wanted to put my fist through a wall so badly.

The waitress slips a check on our table and scurries away.

“You know that Lou can’t do that,” she states, and crosses her arms over her chest.

“You also were on birth control, and are now pregnant. Work your magic and make it happen,” I demand. That might be the meanest thing that I’ve ever said, and I instantly feel like a gigantic asshole.

Mad.
I’m fucking furious.

Scared.
I can’t be a dad.

Confused.
How did this happen?

Happy!
I’m going to be a father.

She pulls out her phone and says to Lou, “I’m going to ride back with Graham.” There’s a pause. “Yes. Everything is okay. I’ll meet you at his house. Wait a second, and I’ll text you his address.”

When she hangs up, she looks at me with sad eyes. “I’m sorry. I know that you’re thinking the worst possible things about me right now. Just know that ultimately, I’m so sorry. I don’t want this to interfere with your tour. I know that now is just about the worst time ever to have this news sprung on you. I just couldn’t let you find out I was resigning from a news reporter.”

“You just told me that I’m going to be a father, and you were worried that I was going to be upset that I found out you were quitting from the media?” I shake my head. “Lady, you need to get your priorities straight.”

She has the good sense to not respond.

We stand up, and she grabs the check off the table. I follow her through the restaurant, staring at her petite pixie-fairy body, imagining what a pregnant Tinker Bell will look like. Even in my fucked-up emotional state, my body reacts at the image of her carrying my child.

My mind jumps to the next logical question. Should Rachael and I get married? If she’s worried about being an unwed, pregnant Chief of Staff, we can rectify the unwed part of the problem. Even though we have many, many days of difficult conversations ahead of us, for the first time I have a bit of hope that maybe we will find a way to make this work. A baby is as good of a reason as any to fight for this relationship.

She pays for our breakfast that we didn’t eat, and I don’t bother arguing with her. In silence, we walk to my car. My mind reels with all the things that I want to say to her—to ask her. She’s obviously had time to process this. I’ve had about twenty minutes.

Once we’re on the freeway headed back to D.C., she speaks first. In a small voice, she asks, “How much do you hate me?”

Her question throws me for a loop. Hate her? Hate her for what? Being pregnant? It definitely is both of our responsibility, even though she said we were protected. For resigning from her post and going into hiding? Yeah. That bothers me. But I don’t hate her.

I reach over and take her delicate hand in mine. At first her grip is tentative, as if she isn’t quite sure what to think. I run my thumb over her fingers, and she tightens her hand in mine with an intensity that surprises me.

“Rachael, as crazy as you make me, I don’t hate you. You’ve had time to get over the news of finding out that you’re pregnant. I’m still reeling. I had no idea why you invited me to breakfast two hours outside of D.C., but I guarantee you that I wasn’t prepared for this.” As I talk, I notice that my voice becomes more relaxed. My shoulders also aren’t as tight. There’s something about her touch that makes me believe that we can make this work.

She shifts in her seat without letting go of my hand, and looks out of the window.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

She turns and looks at me with unshed tears in her eyes. “You mean, I drop this bombshell on you, and you ask how I’m feeling? Yell at me, Graham. Call me names. Tell me how I’m ruining your life and your tour, and all the exciting plans you have. Tell me that you hate me. Tell me that I’m the most selfish, self-centered person on the planet. Tell me …” she begs.

I pick our joined hands up and lean over, kissing our interlaced knuckles. “Stop it,” I coax her in a quiet voice. “Tell me how you’re doing.”

She tries to remove her hand from mine, but I grip it tighter. She’s going to communicate with me, and I want to hear what she has to say while I’m touching her.

I glance over and see her sweet smile. “I’m super busy trying to transfer everything over to the Deputy White House Chief of Staff. I mean, he sits in on most meetings, but it’s still a knowledge transfer that’s crazy complicated. The President and I are debating what reason that I should give. I’m thinking that we’re going to say that I wanted to enter the private sector sooner for personal reasons, and just leave…”

I cut her off. “I don’t care about your job. I want to know how you are physically doing, with my child growing inside of you.”
My child.
Those are not words that I was expecting to say today, but I do like the way that they sound.

“Oh,” she says, and shifts so she’s facing me more. “I’m doing okay. I can’t even really tell that I’m pregnant. I haven’t gained any weight, or anything. There are a few smells that bother me, but honestly, so far this has been rather easy. The doctor said that the baby’s heartbeat is strong, and my hormone levels are where they should be.”

“You’ve gone to the doctor?” I ask, trying to keep the shock out of my voice.

“Well, sure. That’s what you do. You find out that you’re pregnant. You call the doctor. She sets up an appointment, and you go in. They do an ultrasound.” The tone in her voice is the same one she uses when I’ve heard her in interviews, explaining something to the reporter.

My hand begins to shake as I grip hers tighter.

“Did it cross your mind that maybe I would have liked to have been included in that appointment?” I’m so proud of myself. I’m calm, and resisting the urge to yell at her.

“Well, I wanted to make sure that it was a healthy pregnancy before I made any career decisions or told you. You know … with my age and all.”

That’s it. I can’t take it any longer. Here I am, once again, planning a life for the two of us—even considering marrying her—when the realization hits me. If she weren’t pregnant, we wouldn’t be together right now.

There’s a rest stop to my right, and I whip the car across two lanes of traffic to exit. One guy lays on his horn. I didn’t even come close to hitting him. I mumble under my breath, “Asshole drivers.”

“What are you doing?” Rachael shrieks, dropping my hand.

Through gritted teeth, I reply, “Getting a bit of fresh air.”

I pull the car into the abandoned roadside picnic area. With the advent of family friendly truck stops it amazes me that states still pay to maintain places like this. Although, this one looks like it hasn’t been touched in years. The blue restroom sign painted on the side of the brick is faded with neglect. There are four metal picnic tables that dot the yellow-ish brown grassy hill. Dense forest is attempting to encroach on this sad place, and I’m cheering for nature to take over. I turn the engine off. Opening the car door, I stand up and walk to the trunk.

She gets out also.

“Rachael,” I warn her. “I need a minute. Just give me a fucking minute.”

Fortunately, she has the good sense to stand there quietly.

Rage.

My heart beats wildly in my ears. I open and shut my fists as I feel my body temperature rising to a near nuclear level. She asked me if I hated her earlier. Right now, I think that I do. But I know, even in my explosive state, that the only way to hate someone is because you’ve let yourself love them so desperately.

I turn and walk away from her, leaving her still standing there with her eyes crinkled in confusion. She probably has absolutely no idea what she did that was so wrong. In Rachael’s mind, the logical thing to do before she resigned from her job was to make sure that the baby was healthy. I get that. What I can’t reconcile in my head is that she wouldn’t have told me. If the pregnancy wasn’t healthy, she doesn’t care enough about me to let me—the father of our baby—comfort her, and mourn the loss of our child together. I would have gone on with my life, oblivious to the fact that I was a dad to a baby that didn’t make it.