No Chance by Lisa Suzanne

CHAPTER 4: HANNAH

I stare down at the little spot of liquid as it distorts the word I just wrote in my notebook. Ethics in Social Services has traditionally been a class I’ve looked forward to, but I’m just a smidge overwhelmed today. Another tear drips, and another word is distorted.

What the hell am I going to do?

I didn’t just lose my best friend and my sister. I lost my roommate. The only blood relative I have. The person who pays the bills and makes sure we have food on the table and somehow finds a way to make ends meet when it doesn’t seem like they’re going to.

And now I’m the only person the baby has. He’s the one link I have left to my sister. I can’t just hand him over to his father who doesn’t want him and doesn’t know him, but I don’t know what else to do. I’m not financially capable of caring for him, while Brett Pitzer has enough money to buy an entire island if he wanted to.

If only that driver had been paying attention. If only he’d have looked away from his phone long enough to notice that he was drifting into the other lane. If only he wouldn’t have crashed into my sister.

Another tear splashes down. As another follows it and another that I realize I shouldn’t have come to class today. My perfect attendance record for every course I’ve taken here will be marred, but obviously there’s a more important matter at hand than perfect attendance. At the same time, I’m terrified I’ll lose my financial aid if I don’t keep up my grades, and so I forced myself to find someone to care for the baby so I could be here.

But he needs me, and it appears that I need him, too. I need to hug him and hold him in my arms every single second I can before Brett takes him away from me.

I’m not the girl who just gets up and walks out in the middle of class. My preference is to blend into the background, to sit and learn and then go home. I’m not here to socialize and party and make friends. I’m here—in the summer, mind you—to get an education so I can become a social worker that will work hard to find loving homes for children who need them...something Brie and I never had, at least not after our parents died.

I gather up my books and dart out of the room as quickly and quietly as I can, careful not to draw attention to myself. Once I’m in the hallway and the door clicks quietly shut behind me, I lean on the wall and finally let the emotions crash into me. I allow myself a moment to feel this pain. My sister is gone. It seems like some sick joke, like the doctors were wrong and she’s just fine and awake and recovering from the accident in the hospital.

Thank God the baby wasn’t in the car with her. It was a rare night where I wasn’t working. The baby was asleep and she needed to pop out for a few things at the grocery store, so I stayed home with him.

She never came back.

I walk out the doors and walk the mile and a half from campus to our apartment. My apartment now, I guess. A fresh wave of emotion hits me as I think about that.

I need to plan a funeral. I need to say goodbye, and I need to figure out what I’m supposed to do with the baby. Legally, he belongs to his father now. She listed Brett on the birth certificate when she gave birth. She hadn’t been with anybody else, and I still can’t believe she was with him.

I hate him.

I hate his music.

I hate his face.

I hate what he did to my sister.

And in a few hours, he’s coming to my apartment.

It wasn’t like her to have a one-night stand with a rock star, but Capital Kingsmen was her favorite band, and when she called into the radio and won a three-day trip to Poland including flight, hotel, tickets to the show, and spending cash, she thought it was the stars aligning. She believed in fate, and she believed in living life to the fullest. She had this way about her where everything always just fell into place, and her favorite thing to say to me time and again when we hit a speedbump was life goes on.

She did everything she could to find her way backstage and to her favorite drummer, and apparently whatever she did worked. She didn’t give me too many details, but a little over a month later, she started feeling sick all the time, and nine months later, a baby boy with blue eyes and a shock of dark hair to match his dad’s was born.

I would’ve loved to take that trip with her, but I had school and I’d just started my job at the bar a few nights before the concert, so I was in the window where it wasn’t okay to ask for time off.

I still don’t ask for time off, and I won’t tonight, either. The baby will be okay in the stock room. There aren’t any deliveries coming in tonight, and he’ll sleep in his little car carrier. If he wakes, I can take a break. Mina’s one of the servers tonight, and she’s awesome with the baby. Pete won’t care, and Jazz will help pick up the slack, too.

I guess they’re my family now.

Except Hank. He’s not going to like this at all. Hopefully he won’t be in tonight, but his opinion is really the only one that matters since he owns the bar where I work.

Life goes on.

She’s right...except this time, I’m left to pick up the pieces.

I haven’t told anybody yet except for my neighbor, Dottie, and that was only because I was desperate to find someone to watch the baby while I went to class. I knock gingerly on her door when I get back early, and she takes a long time before she answers it.

She’s eighty-seven. Everything takes a long time.

She reminds me quite a bit of Aunt Bethany from National Lampoons Christmas Vacation. She’s elderly, slowly losing her mind, and a little on the senile side.

“You’re early, dear,” she says when she opens the door. “He’s in the playpen.” She nods into her small apartment that matches mine, and I see him in front of the television where Sesame Street plays a few decibels louder than necessary.

“Thanks so much for watching him.” I rush past her and grab him up in my arms, planting a big kiss on his cheek.

She pats my shoulder. “I’m so sorry for what you’re going through. I wish I could do more.” She moves toward the kitchen.

I think about asking her to take the baby tonight, but I’m quite sure she’s not physically capable of caring for a nine-month-old rambunctious boy all night.

“I made you a tuna casserole.” She returns with a casserole dish that smells like rotten fish with something green and runny in it. “Just heat it at three-fifty for an hour.”

“That was so sweet of you, Dottie,” I say. It really was kind even though there’s no way in hell I’m putting that in my mouth.

“He had a bottle about an hour ago,” she says.

“Thanks for watching him.” I hug him tightly to me as we say our goodbyes.

“Any time from eight until three,” she says. She pats my shoulder again. “But not for more than a few hours at a time. That boy is full of energy and it’s a lot for an old lady. I’m going to go lie down.”

I give her a courtesy smile then head back to my place, and as the door closes behind me, I blow out a breath. I hug the baby closer to me. I hold tightly onto him until he squeaks in protest. I bask in his baby smell anyway.

I don’t know how many more of these sweet moments I’m going to get with him.