The Rescue - Nicholas Sparks [6]
Who can explain what happened next? Hormones? Loneliness? The mood of the hour? Either way, they left the party a little after eleven, had drinks in the hotel bar while entertaining each other with snappy anecdotes, flirted with an eye toward what might happen next, and ended up in bed. It was the first and last time she ever saw him. He went back to New York, back to his own life. Back, she suspected even then, to a girlfriend he’d neglected to mention. And she went back to her life.
At the time, it didn’t seem to mean much; a month later, while sitting on the bathroom floor one Tuesday morning, her arm around the commode, it meant a whole lot more. She went to the doctor, who confirmed what she already knew.
She was pregnant.
She called Brett on the phone, reached his answering machine, and left a message to call; three days later he finally did. He listened, then sighed with what sounded like exasperation. He offered to pay for the abortion. As a Catholic, she said it wasn’t going to happen. Angered, he questioned why this had happened. I think you already know the answer to that, she answered. He asked if she was sure the baby was his. She closed her eyes, calming herself, not rising to the bait. Yes, it was his. Again he offered to pay for an abortion. Again she said no. What did she want him to do? he asked her. She said she didn’t want anything, she just thought he should know. He would fight if she demanded child support payments, he said. She said she didn’t expect that from him, but she needed to know if he wanted to be involved in the child’s life. She listened to the sound of his breaths on the other end. No, he finally said. He was engaged to someone else.
She’d never spoken to him again.
In truth, it was easier to defend Kyle to a doctor than it was to herself. In truth, she was more worried than she let on. Even though he’d improved, the language ability of a two-year-old wasn’t much to cheer about. Kyle would be five in October.
Still, she refused to give up on him. She would never give up, even though working with him was the hardest thing she’d ever done. Not only did she do the regular things—make his meals, take him to parks, play with him in the living room, show him new places—but she also drilled him on the mechanics of speech for four hours a day, six days a week. His progression, though undeniable since she’d begun with him, was hardly linear. Some days he said everything she asked him to, some days he didn’t. Some days he could comprehend new things easily, other days he seemed further behind than ever. Most of the time he could answer “what” and “where” type questions; “how” and “why” questions were still incomprehensible. As for conversation, the flow of reason between two individuals, it was still nothing but a scientific hypothesis, far beyond his ability.
Yesterday they’d spent the afternoon on the banks of the Chowan River. He enjoyed watching the boats as they cut through the water on the way to Batchelor Bay, and it provided a change from his normal routine. Usually, when they worked, he was strapped in a chair in the living room. The chair helped him focus.
She’d picked a beautiful spot. Mockernut hickory trees lined the banks, Christmas ferns were more common than mosquitoes. They were sitting in a clover patch, just the two of them. Kyle was staring at the water. Denise carefully