Nothing Matters (Family Matters Book 1) (21 page)

I hear her car come up the drive, thinking that hasn't taken her long.  Less than five minutes.  It's just after eight thirty.  I listen for the doorbell, then Dad calls my name.  I wait a few seconds, then walk down the hall.  Dad looks at me, doesn't seem surprised that it's Magdala.  She's wearing a 49ers shirt, it's pretty big on her, so I guess it's her brother's.  Her hair is loose on her shoulders, she's got some makeup on.  She looks at me, I just raise my eyebrows, gesturing her to follow me to my room.   I still don't know what to think.  Have no idea what she wants.  I try to act cool, aloof, go and sit at my desk, swivel in the chair, fold my arms and just look at her.

She's standing in the middle of the room.  She's so beautiful, but I glare at her with my stone face, my pissed off face, letting her know she's intruding, interrupting.  As if it's not cool to just suddenly turn up on my doorstep.  Especially after dumping me.

"How have you been doing?" she asks, and it sounds like she's nervous.

"Is that what you wanted to talk about?" I ask, pleased with my sarcasm, my sneer, my belittling of her.  But I instantly regret it.  It looks like she's about to cry.  There's a trembling in her chin.

"I'm pregnant," she says, and my mind takes a moment to comprehend.  Pregnant?  My eyes lower to her belly, to the football shirt she's wearing.  I don't know what to say, I don't know what she means.

"Did you hear me?" she says and now she sounds annoyed, irritated with me.  "I'm pregnant."  She's almost shouting.  I stand up, stretch my arms up and place them behind my head, understanding slowly, finally, seeping in. 

"What do you mean?" I say, like I need official confirmation, "like you're saying, like you and me?"  But we only had sex three fucking times, I'm thinking.  She's nodding.  My arms drop down.  Oh fuck.  My eyes are back on her belly.  She lifts up her shirt.  Her belly is huge.  Well not huge, but for her, it's huge.  Oh my God, I'm thinking, but I say, "Shit."  I step closer, it's like I need to see that it's real.  She lifts the shirt higher, I think she wants me to touch it.  I reach out my hand.  "Fucking hell," I say.  I can't fucking believe it.  I'm touching her belly, thinking, there's a baby in there.  It seems insane and I feel myself start to smile.  I'm not sure why, maybe out of fear, panic.  "Like how long?" I ask, but I can do the math, have already done the math.

"Nearly six months," she says and drops her shirt.  I pull back my hand.  A baby takes nine months, even I know that.  The baby is due in March.

"When did you find out?" I ask.

"Two weeks ago," she says.  She sounds annoyed, I'm not sure if it's at me or my question.

"Are you, are you okay with it?" I say, wondering what my parents are going to say.  I know though, they are going to fucking kill me.  She looks up toward my ceiling, and it looks like she's going to cry again.

"What do you think?" she snaps, "Seventeen, pregnant, alone?  What do you think?"  I want to take her in my arms, hug her, kiss her.  But I'm scared she'll reject me, or hit me even.  Oh man, why didn't I use a condom?  Why didn't I even think about using a condom?  Her eyes are watering.

"Hey Magdala," I say and I step forward, put my hand on her shoulder, testing her reaction.  She still doesn't look at me.  Tears roll down her cheeks.  I pull her towards me and her head rests on my shoulder.  "Hey, you're not alone now," I whisper.  And my arms go around her and she holds me back, and she starts to cry full on, sound and all, and I stroke the back of her hair, and say, "Hey, it'll be all right."  Even though I have no idea if it will be.

We stand there holding each other and when her sobs start to subside, she pulls away and wipes at her eyes, smudging her mascara in the process.  I kind of chuckle, noticing the black line below her right eye and she sniffs and I try to wipe at it with my finger.  She goes to my mirror, pulls a tissue from somewhere and dabs at her face.  Then turns to me and says, "Sorry."

I take her back and we sit on my bed.  My mind is in overdrive, this overwhelming need to just hold her, but reality nagging in my brain.  How are we going to afford a kid?  What about school?  Where will we live?  Do I need to get a full time job?  She takes her phone from her pocket, scrolls through it, then holds it in front of me.  She's showing me a scan of our baby. I gasp in astonishment.  I look at her, my eyes and mouth wide open, I take the phone off her, needing to hold it in my own hands.

"Oh my God," I say.  "Our baby?"  I can make out its shape, it's head, its body.  I break into a grin.  She's grinning too.  I can't stop staring at the picture.  It's mind blowing.  I'm going to be a father.  It's scary, frightening, but there's this excitement in me, a terrifying excitement that I want this so much.  I want Magdala to have my baby.  I want it desperately.  "It's amazing," I say and I turn to her and kiss her.  "I love you so much," I say, not knowing where the words have come from, but knowing I mean them.  Yet only twenty minutes ago I was cursing her.

"Really?" she asks quietly.  "Flynn, you don't..."  And her voice just stops.  Like she's remembering the way I've treated her these past months, my indifference to her, my neglect, my unkindness.

"I'm sorry," I say.  "But you know I thought you'd dumped me," I try to explain, "and I thought you had gotten together with..."  Now I'm the one not finishing sentences, but I don't want to say his name. 

"I've never been with Devon," she says quietly, "he's just a friend.  He's been friends with us forever."  She looks at me, there's something in her eyes that scares me.  Like I'm afraid she's going to tell me she doesn't need me, that she doesn't want me around the baby.  "Flynn."  She hesitates, then touches my face, her fingers sliding down my cheek.  It's so intimate, that I fear I'm going to cry.  I feel the moisture in my eyes.  "Flynn, there's stuff you don't know about me," she whispers.  "I don't want you to feel like you have to do this."

Now I'm confused.  Totally confused.  "What do you mean?  You don't want me to be involved?"  It almost seems feels like I'm pleading for her not to even say it.  She can't tell me she's having my baby and then dump me again.  Can she?

"No, no, no," she says and her hands are now holding the front of my t-shirt. "But Flynn, there's things you don't..."  I lean forward and kiss her, cutting her off,  our mouths locked, our bodies close.  I gently pull away, not because I want to, but because I need her to know how I feel.

"Magdala," I say, our faces only inches apart.  "I didn't stop loving you.  I thought about you every damn day..."

"Flynn, I was raped."  Her voice is clear and her eyes are focused on mine, unblinking.  I'm confused again.  What is she saying, that the baby isn't mine?  I'm not getting it.  "Why do you think I was at the hospital?" she continues, "why do you think I was seeing your Mom?"  Suddenly, I get it.  Raped.  She was raped and Mom was her doctor?  Mom never told me this?  Why the fuck wouldn't Mom tell me this?  I'm trying to figure out when this would've happened.  I'm wondering if the scar is connected.  I reach out to her neck.  Her scar is covered with make up, but I know where it is, and there's the faintest change in skin texture where it trails down and my fingers trace its length.  "This?" I ask gently and she nods. 

She tells me about that night in the carpark, how she was going to a basketball game, how she was raped in the back of a van, beaten and stabbed.  I don't  ask any questions, I figure she will tell me what she feels comfortable with me knowing, even though there are details I want to hear.  Like what her attacker was like, how old he was, how badly he hurt her, who she was going to watch play basketball.  But I just let her talk and then I thank her for telling me, for confiding in me.  I kiss her forehead, and she nestles into the top of my chest.  I just want to hold her, protect her, love her.  I want her more than anything now.  I want her and our baby.  And nothing matters more than that.

NATHAN

I'm sitting on the back porch steps, throwing a tennis ball to Rocky, who appreciatively brings it back, time and again.  I vary the angle of throw, the height and speed, trying to surprise him, trying to keep him interested.  Mom comes out with the laundry basket, starts unpegging the clothes, throws them into the basket, then comes and sits by me, folding them up.

I have no intention of telling her, but out of nowhere I blurt out, "Magdala's having a baby."  And it immediately feels like a weight off my shoulders, even though I've only stewed on the news for less than twenty four hours.

She looks at me quizzically, "How do you know?"

"Cassian," I say, and add, "texted me."

"Do you know when she's due?" Mom asks and her tone is soft, gentle.

"March."

Mom keeps folding, putting clothes into piles.  "It's probably a good thing for her," she says eventually, "It means she can move on."

I feel puzzled by her response.  Move on?  From what?  From me, move on from loving me?  That's what I want to say, want to shout at her.  You want Magdala to move on from me?

"Do you know who...who the father is?" Mom asks hesitantly.

I shake my head.  Would I want to know?  Cassian's text had said:  Magdala's pregnant, due in March.  I had wanted to ask, Whose is it? Who’s the father?  But that wasn't proper, wasn't etiquette, wasn't my business, even I knew that.  And besides even if I had a name, what would it mean.  Presumably I wouldn't know the guy. So I had texted back quickly, hoping he still had his phone in his hand:  Is she ok?  And he had texted back:  Yes she's good, we moved to Santa Monica. 

I say that to Mom, "They moved to Santa Monica."

Mom raises her eyebrows.  "Nice," she murmurs, then, "I know it's hard love.  She was your first love.  And after everything you've been through, the accident."  She places a hand on my shoulder.  "It will get easier, you'll see.  It won't always hurt this much."

From nowhere, my eyes start filling with tears, and I wipe at them furiously, willing them to stop.  And Mom's words have given me no comfort.  She has no idea, doesn't understand at all.  Magdala isn't just my first love, she's my one love, my true love.  I know I'm never going to love again like this.  Never.  You don't get another chance like this.  Mom's not normally one for sentimentality and tenderness, she calls a spade a spade, and she seems awkward watching me well up, and that makes me feel worse.  That I'm sniffling. 

"It'll get easier," Mom repeats, still rubbing my shoulder.  "Let's just hope Magdala's happy, and this baby might be the best thing for her."

But that seems to be the last thing I want to hear.  That Magdala is having someone else's baby, not mine.  Why did she go off her birth control?  Did she want this guy's baby?  Now she will be eternally connected to him, no matter what.  Whereas me and her, our bond is broken, fractured.

And how did she fall in love with him so quickly anyway?  Okay, so I've slept with someone else since our break-up, but that was all it was, sex, physical, no emotion involved.  But how has she been able to move on from me so easily, to have formed a new relationship, to have forgotten what we had?  Has that been so easy for her to do?  When I'm still longing, pining, desperate for her.

Was I right all along when I told her I loved her more than she loved me?  Was our love lopsided?  Mom produces a tissue from somewhere, the woman always has one tucked up a sleeve or in her bra.  I check it, making sure it's not used, and she gives a laugh.  I wipe my eyes, my nose.  "You'll be okay Nate," she says mussing my hair. "Just give yourself time."

I want to say to her, It's almost been a year, and I'm not over her.  Not a day goes by where I don't think of her, don't dream of her, don't wish that everything could have been different.  And now this extra thing, her having another guy's baby, her making love to someone else.  I feel sick thinking about it, jealous, outraged.  But they are futile emotions.  Because Magdala loves someone else, is having a baby, and I'm guessing I don't even feature in her memory bank anymore.

Chapter 9

FLYNN

All my dreams came true in the following weeks and months.  Magdala's family accepted me unconditionally.  There was no blame over the pregnancy, I know my parents were extremely disappointed in me, and I felt I had let them down, all their hopes and dreams for me, but somehow Magdala's family's reaction overrode everything.  They embraced her pregnancy, supported us.  Her whole family showered us with everything a baby could possibly want.  And my parents jumped on the bandwagon too.  They didn't want to be seen as not contributing, and Mom went shopping for strollers and change tables and things I never knew a baby needed.  It was fair to say we were lucky in the sense that we didn't have to worry about money.  Or school.  I continued on as normal, and Magdala stayed until the week before she gave birth.  She would be able to do assignments at home after the baby was born, but I knew she didn't really care.

We had been to birthing lessons for new parents and the plan was to go as natural as we could, but with Mom going to be there no one was the least bit worried.  When Magdala finally went into labour, three days overdue, it was like a whole entourage gathered at the hospital.  There were flowers and gifts before the baby was even born.  I had no idea how I was going to react during the birth and Mom had clued me up on what to expect, but really nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to witness.  The agony, the swearing, the pain, the screams, but somehow all done in good humor.  After three hours she said she needed a rest, was there a drug that could stop the contractions while she napped?  After four hours the pain was too much to lie down.  She stood, she knelt, she crawled, she sprawled over a beanbag.  They offered her the pool.  She didn't want to swim she said.   She was hot, she was cold.  We gave her ice and cold compresses and hot wheat bags.  She craved a milkshake and her cousin Jakey went for one, but she had one sip and threw it up.  After six hours she declared she didn't want to have the baby anymore, she'd changed her mind about it.  She was told to push; she stubbornly refused.  She ignored the doctor, nurse, midwife, even Mom.  She went back on the bed, in traditional style, saying she wanted to sleep. 

Cassian came and took her hand, kissed her cheek and said softly, "It's time you were a Mom, Magdala.  The baby wants to meet you."  And it's like a light came in her eyes and she suddenly responded.  We supported her with pillows.  Her Dad held one hand, I was holding her other side.  Jakey lingered at the back of the bed, not wanting to miss the action, but adamant he didn't want to see anything.  Mom floated, lost between the role of impending grandmother and surplus doctor.  Cassian somehow took control and, under the midwife's guidance told her when to push.  She listened, she screamed and Jakey mopped her brow, and Mom breathed with her.  Again, Cassian directed, and she did as she was told.  I knew Cassian wanted to study medicine, but what he was doing was mind blowing, staggering.  "I can see the head, Magdala," he said and for the first time Magdala smiled, she laughed.  "One more push, Magdala," he said and the encouragement resounded through the whole room.  You can do it, Come on, This time, Almost there!  And then she pushed and screamed and Cassian was handed the most perfect little baby girl, as if he was born to do it.  A baby girl with a mop of brown hair, and he passed her to me to cut the cord.  And I placed our daughter on Magdala's chest, and the tears and laughter in that room was the sweetest sound, in what was the most remarkable day of my life.

MAGDALA

We named our daughter Cassidy, not just because we liked the name, but after her fabulous uncle who helped delivered her.  I really couldn't believe that Cash had directed the birth.  When he had said he wanted to be there, I'd said No way, I didn't want him seeing that part of me.  But with all the pain and suffering that accompanies childbirth, I could have been on live television and not given a damn.

I loved him for what he did, not just that day, but everyday afterward.  Flynn and I grew even closer, our love for Cassidy overwhelmed us and we were lucky at the support we got from everyone.  There was no shortage of babysitter offers and we divided our time between home and Flynn's parents house.  Flynn stayed at school after the birth, but I did schoolwork from home, if I could be bothered.  It didn't seem that important to me.  Being a mother was the best feeling in the world.

Cassian was sitting with me one afternoon as I breastfed Cassidy.  Her little mouth suckling on my nipple was just the cutest sound and Cash and I just watched, enthralled by her.

"You have got to be the best mother in the world," he announced. 

"She is the most perfect baby in the world," I smiled, my finger stroking her soft cheek.  "Am I lucky or what?" I asked, looking up at him.

"I guess I never got to do that," he said

"Do what?" I asked, my eyes narrowing.

"Suck on my mama like that," he said, with a fleeting grin.  But I saw it, in his eyes, a longing, a yearning for something he knew he'd never had.  And at that moment my heart broke for him.  All the years growing up, his mother was a name, a photo but never someone real.  She had never seen him, never touched him, never held him.  It was an inconceivable thought, now that I had my own baby, that a child could grow up motherless.  "How long did she sleep for?" he suddenly said, giving the attention back to Cassidy.

"Three hours," I said, and he leaned back in his chair and just sat and watched us as if we were the most precious things.

When school finished for the summer, Flynn, Cassidy and I moved into my mother's beach apartment.  She hadn't bothered to rent it out, as she would stay in it whenever she came to LA.  We didn't ask to use it; she offered.  And it seemed perfect, being only ten minutes from both our family homes.   We felt like we were a family, and the simplest things like pushing Cassidy in her stroller or taking her in the swimming pool became moments to treasure.  Flynn and I never tired of looking at her, even if she cried and whined or had restless nights, attending to her was never a chore.  I felt like I'd found my calling in life, and as bizarre and perverted as it may sound, it was almost as if I hadn't been raped, then I would never have arrived at this point in my life.

I know we were fortunate having family and financial support, but we disliked sponging off others, and I used my savings from my job to run my car, and Flynn was working almost full time through summer.  Even so, anytime visitors arrived, they always brought bags of groceries, fruit and vegetables for us.  And Grandad kept our freezer topped up with meat. 

Cassian and Jakey graduated high school and both had decided to go to UCLA, Cash to do an undergrad in pre-med, and Jakey in pre-law.  I was so proud at their graduation ceremony, my two favorite boys.  It really felt like life couldn't get any better.  Like I'd been down as low as anyone could possibly go, but life had turned a corner.  I'd persevered and come out the other side, on top.  Sure, it may have been through an accident, but Dad said it didn't matter.  You just took whatever hand life dealt you, and made the best of it.  And that's what Flynn and I were doing.

Cassidy was four months old when we noticed something wasn't quite right.  The first clue was that she stopped feeding normally.  Over the course of a few days, her feeding was less frequent and less vigorous.  At that point breast feeding was her only food, she hadn't taken formula  yet, and I had been determined to feed her until at least six months old, as had been recommended to me.  As a first time young Mom, I was doing everything by the book.  Because motherhood was new, daunting and unexpected at times, I figured that following guidelines was the sensible way to go. 

When Cassidy didn't improve after a few days, I asked Flynn to ring his Mom.  When I checked with him on what she advised, he said he'd forgotten and would do it first thing tomorrow.  So it was another day before Julie came around to check, but she told us Cassidy probably just had a cold, but that she would come around after work.  Naturally Cassidy perked up a bit by time Julie arrived, so I remember feeling like a bit of a fraud, making her take an unnecessary journey.  But Julie never minded, in fact she said she liked an excuse to visit her granddaughter. 

I was dishing up our dinner when Julie examined her, and maybe that was best, because the shiver that went down my spine when Julie said, "I think we should take her in for a check up,'" was like a forewarning.

"Just to be safe," Julie reassured, but even I sensed some tension in her voice and Flynn queried whether it was really necessary.

"Like now?" Flynn had asked, annoyed because we hadn't even eaten dinner yet.

"Yes now," Julie said, and it was her doctor's voice.  And I knew the difference between her doctor voice and her mother/grandmother voice.  And that's when I felt scared.

"Is it something bad?" I'd asked, so young, so naive.

Julie tried to smile.  "Let's just pack a few things shall we?"  And Flynn and I had looked at each other, bewildered, and Julie had bustled us around, now completely in doctor mode.

There was a lump in Cassidy's abdomen.  I hadn't felt it.  Even though I changed her diapers frequently, washed and bathed her twice daily, cuddled and hugged her constantly, I hadn't felt it.  And on one examination Julie felt it, and knew it wasn't good. 

They took Cassidy's blood, they scanned, x-rayed, poked and prodded.  And there was a fear in Julie's eyes, a fear that even she, in her role as doctor, and especially in her role of grandmother, could not hide from us.  The diagnosis came, looming over us like an executioner's sword - neuroblastoma, a cancer.  A cancer, already advanced, all ready to take our little girl.  We virtually had one week of testing, two weeks of saving her, two weeks of dying and one week of watching and waiting for the end.  And then that sweet little girl, who had grown inside me for nine months, vanished from our lives.

FLYNN

I will never forget the look on Magdala's face when Mom told us that Cassidy had cancer.  Neuroblastoma to be exact.  Grade 4S, which is not good.  Her face, her whole body just shut down, wilted, as if her skeleton just dissipated and she was made of nothing.  No one was quick enough to catch her, not her Dad, not my Dad, not Cassian, not me.  And all of us helpless, useless, unable to offer any consolation, any hope, because there was none.  Our daughter literally had a death sentence over her head.

Cassidy never came home again.  Not after that fateful night when Mom came around after work, fearing maybe a cold, possibly a virus, sometimes the change in seasons can bring on these things, I'd remembered her saying.  Then telling us to pack Cassidy's bag, with an urgency, making us abandon our barbecue steaks and baked potatoes which were served up and ready to eat.  Herding us out the door as if the place was about to burn down. 

She was fast tracked into testing, blood tests, scans, X-Ray's, and Magdala and I were left frozen, overcome by temporary paralysis, not really knowing, not comprehending the reality of the situation.  When Magdala's family arrived, her Dad and stepmom, her aunt and uncle, Cassian, Jakey and Raff, they shepherded us from floor to floor, room to room, none of them listening to authority, all of them demanding that they be allowed to listen, to comfort, to support.  None of them was going to be left out of the loop, fuck the rules, fuck the regulations.  This was their granddaughter, niece, cousin.  No one would be excluded.

And when the tests confirmed the worst, that Cassidy was in the far stages of cancer, when every drug, tested or untested, every treatment option, every trial, every possibility had been looked at and discarded or rejected, when the last straw had been grasped at, the last ray of hope extinguished, then the families, hers and mine, had come together.  My mother's colleague, Dr Williams, who was
the
neuroblastoma expert, gently told us the worst possible case scenario, that Cassidy had a month at the most, two weeks at the least.  Or he may have said two weeks at the least, one month at the most.  Whatever, the cry from Magdala sent a chill down your spine, it made you feel that utter despair was the rawest of all emotions, that hopelessness was uncontainable.  And her pleas, her begging, to retest, find another drug, another doctor, another hospital falling into an abyss.  And I held her, the mother of my daughter, feeling useless, ineffective, as she looked into my eyes, unseeing me, but pleading with me to save our baby, our little girl, our Cassidy.

We virtually never left her side in those last weeks.  The four weeks had been slightly generous.  Cassidy died on a balmy October day, twenty days after we had been told to prepare for the worst.  Magdala was gallant at the end.  It was like she had mentally prepared herself, well we both had tried to.  We had treasured each minute with her, even when the cancer had distorted her tiny body, making it impossible to even take her in our arms.  And she dug deep for an inner strength, which seemed to desert me, holding me up as I started to crumble.  We had no lack of support and it's probable that no child had ever been more loved than that little girl.  In just six short months she had brought so much love and joy into the lives of those who knew her.

That little girl, who had accidentally been conceived, because I had stupidly not used a condom.  That little girl who we dreamed would ride ponies, learn ballet and play soccer.  The hopes and dreams we had, all disappeared on that day in October, when the sun shone like it was the middle of summer.  Our hearts were broken that day, our memories shattered, our lives left purposeless.  Magdala and I had held her then, laid down on a bed, cradling our baby, not wanting her to be taken away, fearing and knowing we would never stroke her beautiful soft hair, tap her tiny button nose or feel our lips on her skin again.  We laid there and we cried and cried and when they finally took her away, all we could do was hold one another.  And as we returned to our apartment that evening, seeing her crib, seeing her room, her toys, her clothes, the reality hit, hit hard, that our baby girl was never coming home.