this fight is worthwhile

Lincoln exhaled sharply and pressed the heels of his hands against his closed eyelids. His jaw clenched as he counted to ten, then opened his eyes to stare across the small living room at Lisa.

She stood near the entrance to the kitchen, her hands wringing a wet dishtowel, her eyes red from crying.

“How did this happen?” Lincoln asked.

“It’s not that hard,” Lisa said, her voice hard and unwavering. “A man and a woman have sex, and poof. Baby.”

“I thought you were on the pill.”

“I am. But you know, it’s only 99.9 percent effective. I guess your little guys were pretty damned determined.”

Lincoln rolled his eyes. “This is not my fault. I didn’t want a kid.”

Lisa slapped the dishtowel against her leg and glared at him. “You think I planned this? Oh hell no. Fucking you was fun while it lasted, but you know that neither of us expected anything more. I certainly didn’t see us as the happy family type.”

“So what are you going to do about it?”

“Excuse me? You had a hand in creating this baby,” Lisa said. “Or should I say, you had a penis involved.”

“Jesus Christ, Lisa, will you cut it out? This is serious.”

Lincoln shoved aside a sofa pillow and sat down, rubbing his forehead. Lisa came over and sat beside him, putting her hand on his knee.

“I know it’s serious, Linc. And we need to decide what to do. Together.”

“So what are our options?”

Gulping, Lisa said, “Well, adoption, abortion...”

“Anything that doesn’t start with an ‘a’?”

“Now who’s not being serious?”

Lincoln smiled a little and took Lisa’s hand in his, squeezing gently.

“I’m sorry. I’m just, it’s just that,”Lincoln stammered, struggling to find the right words.

“I know you don’t want kids because you think you’ll be a bad father, like your dad,“ Lisa said.

“Yeah, that’s part of it.”

Lisa didn’t say anything more. She just sat there and watched as the familiar expression of sadness and bitterness crossed Lincoln’s face. She’d seen it a hundred times before, whenever the subject of his father came up. All she knew was that he’d walked out on Lincoln and his mother while she was pregnant with his younger brother Michael. What Lincoln hadn’t told her was how his dad had been an abusive drunk, and how Lincoln had forcefully shoved him out the door and screamed at him to never come back or Lincoln would kill him. This happened after his dad punched his mom in the chest hard enough to knock her to the floor.

Right after she told him she was pregnant.

Lincoln swallowed and gritted his teeth. He had tried to take care of his mom while she was pregnant, massaging her back and bringing her special treats, like marshmallow crème and Oreos when she had cravings. When Michael was born, Lincoln had vowed to protect his little brother, be like a father to him. Lincoln remembered running a finger over Michael’s soft fist, and Michael reaching out and latching on with an iron grip. And then their mother had died, and Lincoln realized he was no hero. He couldn’t protect anyone, least of all a boy as smart and alert as Michael.

“You’re not like him,” Lisa said, breaking into Lincoln’s thoughts. “Your father. You’re not like him.”

“I could be. That’s what scares me. I don’t want any kids of mine to grow up hating me.”

Lisa kissed his cheek and traced along his jawline, her thumb stopping at his lips. Then she dropped her hands to his and pulled them onto her belly. She wasn’t far enough along to notice a change in her stomach, or to feel the baby inside, but Lincoln felt something when he touched her. It shot up through his fingertips, up his arms, all the way into his chest.

It was love. He knew that he would love this child. Be it boy or girl, he would try to do better. He would be the kind of man he’d always wanted his father to be, the kind of man that Michael believed he already was.

In his mind, he flashed forward to a Sunday morning with his son or daughter. They were in the kitchen, fixing breakfast. Blueberry pancakes, just like his mom would make. They would smother the pancakes in melted butter and warm syrup, and they would laugh and make plans for the day together.

Lincoln blinked and turned his head to look at Lisa. Her eyes were wide with nervousness as she waited for him to say something. He smiled and nodded, and she let out a great sigh of relief and sagged against him.

“We can do this,” he said. “We won’t mess this up.”

At that moment, he truly believed it.

Fifteen years later, as Lincoln paced his cell, clutching the paper that contained LJ’s coded message, and thinking about Lisa’s murder, he knew that in some ways he had messed up. But not in the way that counted most. He read the “I love you” again, and knew he had to get out of prison. Those three words made the fight for freedom worthwhile.

~end