Page 90 of Ice Cold Hearts
“Well, what if they forgot a change of clothes or don’t have enough snacks?” I ask.
“There are two full outfits, three extra pairs of underwear, and enough snacks to feed the two of them for a month in her bag. They’re all set,” Mom replies.
“But what if they get there and they don’t have enough sunscreen? There’s only about a quarter of a bottle left,” I fret.
“I’m sure there will be a shop or something nearby. In the unlikely event they run out, your father can buy some,” she says flatly.
“But what if—” I start.
“Emily Matilda Hayes, you are stalling,” Mom says, cutting me off. “Your father is perfectly capable of caring for a child by himself, and you know that. You’re just trying to hide from this conversation and I’m not having it. I gave you plenty of space and time to come and talk to me on your own, and you didn’t. If you were handling it, I wouldn’t have even brought it up, but it’s clear you’re avoiding me, and you have been since the first hockey game those nice boys brought us to.” She narrows her eyes. “You haven’t said anything to them, either, have you?”
“Mom, it’s not that simple,” I protest feebly.
“It is that simple. So, no more stalling. No more, ‘sorry, Mom, I’ve got to run.’ No more ‘we’ll talk later.’ We need to talk, and we need to talk now,” she says sternly.
“You’re right,” I say glumly. “I've been being a shitty daughter. I'm sorry.”
“Sweetheart, that's not even close to being true. You are a wonderful daughter, but you're a little too stubborn for your own good sometimes.”
“Gee, I wonder where I got that,” I tease.
“Oh I know exactly where.” She flashes a brief smile.
The mood quickly returns to serious. I stare down at the table and fiddle with my fingers aimlessly. I sip at my coffee and try not to drown in the awkward silence. I’m not sure that I even know where to start. I know what she wants me to tell her, and I desperately want to talk to someone I can trust about it. There’s no one I need more than my mom right now, but the words feel stuck in my throat.
Mom clears her throat, and I drag my eyes off the table to meet hers. I must look as panicked and pathetic as I feel because her firm expression melts into something softer.
“I think I know the answer, but I’m going to ask anyway. Is he her father?” Mom asks gently.
I don’t need any clarification to know who “he” is. I rub my temples and fight the urge to pick at my cuticles.
Why does she always have to be so direct? Would it kill her to pull a punch or two?
There's no sense in lying or trying to change the subject. She’s already figured it out, and it's clear she's not going to let this go.
I take a steadying breath and answer, “Yes, he's her father.”
“So the Oliver you met that night is Oliver McKenna. The same Oliver McKenna who plays for the Cold Hearts?” she asks.
“That’s right.”
“Are you sure?” she asks. “It was around five years ago. Is it possible that you had him mixed up with someone else?”
I smile wryly. “He’s not someone you can easily forget.”
“No, he's definitely not, but sweetheart, what happened? Let me help you if I can. I’m here.”
I spill out the entire pathetic story to her at the table, from the lakeside party to being humiliated in Liza’s office, all the way up to the first time Alexei and I were ambushed in the parking lot at work. Mom doesn’t interrupt. She actively listens and quietly nods at appropriate times, but the expressions that cross her face speak volumes. Just the sight of the feelings crossing her face makes me feel less alone. The pressure behind my temples lessens and makes me wish I hadn’t waited so long to talk to her.
“Is she why you refused to give the hospital his name for the birth certificate?” she asks.
I nod. “She had all these resources at her disposal, and I knew she wouldn’t hesitate to make my life a living hell, and if it was just me, maybe I would have fought harder, but I just couldn’t put Audrey through all that.”
“And this piece of trash is still working for him?” she demands.
“Yes, and I don’t know what to do. I know she’s figured it out based on the visit to her office that I talked about that day,” I confess.
“Oh, Sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” Mom reaches across the table and squeezes my hand.