Page 50 of When the Night is Over

“He’sbrilliant,heneeds to finish school,hedeserves a chance at a better life. What about you? What doyoudeserve? What doyouwant?”

“Are we back to this?”

She looks confused for a moment and then lets out a breath, shaking her head. “No, I’m not talking about your options anymore. This baby is going home with you. I know you’ll be a good mother to him.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m just trying to make sure you don’t leave here thinking only in the short-term.” She looks down and caresses Ethan’s cheek. “I want you to start now, start setting and reaching goals. I want you to set a date in the near future to ace the GED, I want you enrolled in an online college entrance exam prep course, and I want you taking college credits come next September. Local community college, online through University of Michigan, whatever. I just want you to keep moving forward.”

“I want that too.”

“Be the exception, Charlotte. The most depressing part of this job is meeting so many young women like you, women with unlimited potential who get caught up in the struggle and stop pushing themselves.” She seems to weigh her next words. “I feel like I can shoot straight with you and be brutally honest. Do you know that only two percent—”

“Of unwed teen mothers earn a college degree before the age of thirty?” I can’t help the sarcastic edge when I add, “Yes, I’m well aware.”

She has the nerve to laugh. “Of course you know. You just proved my point. And don’t get defensive, Charlotte. My job is to help you.”

“I know what I need to do.”

“I know you do, sweetheart. But you’re seventeen, and motherhood is hard, even when you have resources. I keep in touch with my young mothers. More often than not, that gung-ho attitude falls by the wayside after weeks of midnight feedings. The realization that your life is forever changed is too much for most to handle. You go from having a social life, dreaming of a bright future, worrying over clothes and boys, to sitting in the waiting room of social services, filling out paperwork for food assistance and medical benefits. Dating seems ridiculous when you’re leaking breast milk on and off during the day, and your baby is going to cry nonstop at the most inopportune times.”

“Don’t sugarcoat it, Mrs. Ryan.”

“Oh, I won’t. Not for you I won’t.” She stands and rests my sleeping baby back in his bassinet, smiling down at him for a moment before turning back to me. “I told you what the worst part of this job is, but the worst actual moments? That’s when I get a call or an email from one of my young women telling me they’re pregnant again. They’re back with the baby’s father or they met a nice guy.” She rolls her eyes. “He loves them, he wants to take care of them. They give up on the idea of taking care of themselves. I picture the double-wide on cinderblocks while they’re tell me about howgreateverything’s going to be.”

“Simon grew up in a trailer.”

She pauses. “I see.”

“Father took off when he was just a baby, had an older brother in jail.” I meet her eyes. “He’s destined to fail, he’s the personification of a hopeless case—except that he’snot. He has an opportunity now and he’s worked so hard for it. I won’t take it away from him.”

“You believe in him and you want what’s best for him. I get it and I respect you for it.” She takes my hand. “But I want you to know that I believe inyouand so does Janelle. So make a pledge to your baby. Promise him you’re going to get an education, and that you’re going to provide a good life for him. And if you ever find yourself struggling, lean on the people who care about you. Youcando this.”

I turn over onto my side after she leaves my room, not wanting anyone to catch me crying. Later that evening, with Ethan resting peacefully on my chest, I fill out the birth certificate application one handed. Ethan James Mason. I fill in my information and leave the other side blank. Looking the completed form over, I can’t help but feel as if I’m cheating my son. Will he ever meet his father? Will he ever know how strong, or how smart, determined and brave he is? Will he forgive Simon for not being around? And when Ethan is old enough to hear the truth, will he understand my decision? Will he be able to forgive me?

Chapter Eighteen

Simon

“Everyone meet back here at five o’clock and we’ll head over to Elder. You have to suffer through one dinner with your RA and then you’re free to tear up the campus.”

I get smiles from most, and a few nervous giggles from the more pensive freshmen I am now officially somewhat responsible for. I hope they aren’t a needy bunch. I’m taking eighteen credits this semester and don’t have time to be drying tears or wiping anyone’s ass. One father actually tried to hand me a syringe pen device for his kid’s peanut allergy when they were getting his dorm ID card. “I’m just the RA, Doug’s in charge of his own meds.” The guy looked offended, but I have to make my role clear from the beginning. I’m here to help ensure that these dipshits didn’t drink themselves to death, light the dorm on fire or commit any crimes against humanity. The operative word beinghelp. I’m not their warden or their mama.

Being a resident hall assistant gets me what I need: free room and board. Even better, my room is a single. No walking in on my roommate screwing his girlfriend in the middle of the day, no listening to him play video games so loud his headphones do little to muffle the artillery fire, and no worrying about waking him up when I come home from work late at night. I regret that I ever troubled myself being courteous to that asshole.

Classes are starting in two days, but I feel itchy, like I’m already behind schedule. I took the standard fifteen credits last year for fall and spring semester, tacked on three during winter break and took six credits over the summer. I have to up my game if I’m going to graduate a year early. I know I can’t work as much this year, but the RA gig and the two shifts I have stocking the bar at an off campus favorite will hopefully keep me in the black.

“Knock, knock.”

Her lilting, sing song voice should lift my spirits, but the sound makes my throat constrict and my shoulders tense. I turn to see Samantha standing in my doorway with a hopeful smile, and struggle with the effort it takes to smile back in a way that at least looks genuine.

“Hey, I thought sophomores weren’t moving in until tomorrow.”

“What can I say? Having a department chair for a father works to my advantage sometimes.”

Samantha moves through my room, straightening the corner of my bedspread, arranging my textbooks into a neat pile and tossing a wayward sock into my hamper. What the fuck?

“What are you doing here?” I don’t intend for the words to come out in the clipped way that they do, but her incessant need to look after me, to situate herself into my life, to cling—it drives me freaking batty.

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