Gate Crasher

You’re not supposed to be here on Thursdays.

I haven’t been watching you all this time—your daily activities—not to know your family’s schedule. Monday is family movie night at home. Tuesday is your dad and Sara’s date night and you’re with Reba the babysitter. Wednesday is the art class. Thursday is T-ball at the Y, for Pete’s sake. Friday is a half-day at your school and then the drive to weekend here at the beach house. Saturday is the family picnic on the public beach and Sunday? That’s pancakes at IHOP and the drive home. Like. Clockwork.

Still, it’s good to see you, Tobias. God, I hate that name. I had picked a better one for you before they took you. One that didn’t need a cutesy nickname like Toby. I like Rex. I call you Rex when I’m talking to you at my place. You just. . . don’t hear it.

Tomorrow’s your birthday. Five years old. And you still don’t know who I really am. Last year at the park I told you I was Princess Mulan, having just peeked through the window and seen you watching that on Monday movie night. When you started talking about me, your folks thought you’d created an imaginary friend named Mulan. Charming.

But the first time we talked, it was at the public beach three years ago. You had wandered away while Sara was snoozing. I followed to make sure you didn’t wash out to sea or something. I called to you and you turned and looked straight at me.

“Mama?” you asked. My heart had already been pounding, but I felt it jump in my mouth when you looked at me and said that word.

“I’m. . . not,” but you had reached out to take my hand. We turned, just in time to see a freaked-out Sara running toward us. I let you go and stepped back, not sure if she would recognize me as the pathetic wreck I’d been at the hospital. You and I have the same red hair, though I tucked it under a ball cap that day. Now I dye it brown so it’s not so obvious.

“Oh, thank you so much for bringing him back!” Sara had said, scooping you up in her arms. “I. . . fell asleep—how does that even happen on a noisy beach?” I nodded and smiled. Sitting near her at the outdoor bar earlier, I could have easily slipped something into that drink she’d ordered and then ignored, as she chatted on her phone. But I swear I didn’t.

Hey, I bet you’re wondering what I’m doing sitting here in your bedroom closet, right? Ha-ha. I just kind of panicked when I heard your dad’s car pull into the garage downstairs.

You have such a lovely vacation home, I can’t believe you don’t live here full-time. Maybe I’d be the one taking you to art class on Wednesday, to T-ball on Thursday if things hadn’t. . .

Tom—your dad—and I met in college. Does that sound like a sweet beginning to a romance, Toby? Actually, it was City College because that was all I could afford and he was my remedial math instructor. That’s like math for dummies, in case you wondered. Just needed a passing grade in it to finish up my culinary arts degree, which I still don’t have.

He gave me a B, but not before I’d said yes to a few dates that always ended the same way—rolling around in the back seat of his SUV. I didn’t think we’d done it enough to get me pregnant. But I’ve since learned the term optimism bias, where you think only good things will happen. When I found out about you, I couldn’t stop myself from telling your dad the news. He didn’t react the way I’d kind of feared he would. Toby, he really wanted you! Said he’d support me in any way I needed. Now I’ll use another term—useful idiot. I was his, but just didn’t know it during those early months.

Tom paid for my first appointment with the OB/GYN and that’s when everything changed with one simple question: “Are you on any meds?” Turns out, bipolar medication—that’s right, your imaginary pal is a psycho—is frowned on during pregnancy. At the time I laughed it off, telling them I didn’t need the pills anyway, that an overeager family doctor had put me on them a few months back. But inside I felt sick and scared.

Going off the meds, I tried to eat right and sleep enough, which actually helped with most of my manic episodes until the last two months of pregnancy. By that time, I’d found out your dad was already married to Sara and I was his “girl on the side.”

Wait, Rex—Toby—hey, don’t be scared. I was just doing “air quotes” with my fingers. Are you crying? Aw, don’t cry, honey. Here, I brought you a piece of birthday cake. Chocolate, right? That’s your favorite, right?

Where was I? Oh yeah. Turns out your dad had a plan all along. When I started to go bonkers around month eight, he set a trap. Guess I’d messed up by telling him I’d started boosting merch in stores. It kind of calmed me like the meds had but didn’t mess with the baby-making. He tipped off a cop pal of his and then drove me to a ritzy department store to look at jewelry. The police stopped me at the exit with two diamond rings in my pocket. Because I was so close to delivery, the judge ordered me to the state hospital psych ward. After you were born, my shit-heel parents were only too delighted to give full custody of you to Tom and Sara.

Five years ago tomorrow, I was robbed. Of you, Rex. Robbed of my baby boy. The courts won’t help me, I’ve already tried. Tom would have me thrown in jail if he knew how close I’d gotten to his precious family. So, there’s only one thing to do. . . celebrate you.

Here, come sit on this pile of fuzzy bunnies and hold your birthday candle while I find my matches.