"You're eventually going to have to speak to one of them." My father stands beside me, arms crossed leaning his shoulder into the door jam of my bedroom. Darkness has taken shelter around his eyes, the result of sleepless nights lying in bed battling the image of his daughter growing an infant inside her.

"I know, Dad." I turn away from the window overlooking the garden outside, wilted and faded. "Just not right now." I turn back to the window, wanting to run into the woods in the distance and hide. A gust of wind blows from his mouth as he inches closer from the door.
"I have to go into the office today." His fingertips admire the various sketches on my littered desk. "But I wanted to talk before I leave. We need to talk about this, Chloe." His fingers trace along the outskirts of a scribbled faced newborn.
"I can't." I reach for my knotted bracelet.
"Are you talking to anyone about it? You can't keep it in." He turns me away from the window and searches my eyes. "Chloe. . Please." He whispers, "I can't sleep, I cant eat..." he trails off, grasping into his hair, the other at his hip. "I'm sorry." Water rolls down his temples, pacing slightly, craning his neck skyward.
Speechless at his sudden breakdown, I take a single step to him.

"Dad. . ." I whisper. The tiny wrinkles that splay from around his eyes define as he presses them together. His face turns red. I've never seen my dad cry. I step closer, unsure how to console him I hug him. A tight, soul warming hug. I remain silent and let him unravel as his shoulders bounce while he cries.
"I'm so sorry, sweetie." He sobs into my shoulder. I shush him.
"Dad, you have nothing to be sorry for."
"It's my job to protect you, Chloe. While I was having tea with your mom on the patio you were being. . . tortured." He cries. I extend my arms away from him to look him in the eye.
"Dad." The word shakes from my lips, "This is not your fault."

My eyes cut behind him to the door where I see my mother, her hair unbrushed, watching her husband cry for the first time in years. The last time was six years ago when my mother and father had to stop remodeling the bedroom next to mine. I watched with a sneaky eye from around the doorway while my parents slowly peeled dinosaur stickers from the wall and tossed them in a tiny trash can beside an oak rocking chair.

"We'll try again." My mother told him as he sat down in the chair, he held a blue blanket covered in race cars. He didn't respond.

"You're going to be late." I wipe his eyes.
"I know." He sniffs and turns to the door. My mother smiles to him, "You'd want to use the back door, honey." She steps out of the door to let him pass. He kisses her at the peak of her cheek bone, "Good idea." He glances back to me standing at the window, and leaves. The emotion fades just as fast as he does, like he took to the cloud of tears with him out the door. The only emotion I can feel is emptiness. Vacancy as I take each step downstairs to the living room with my mother.

"So!..." My mother pipes entering the room, awkwardly glancing around the room tugging at her robe belt. "Your dad will be gone all day, and a trip into town is out of the question," she looks through the curtain at the relentless reporters, sprinting in high heels and shiny loafers to my fathers black SUV as he creeps down the drive trying not to hit one of them. I sink into a pillowy chair tucked in the corner of the room, sunken shelves from floor to ceiling meet at the corners behind me. Every inch of the white shelves jammed with books, all worn and read dozens of times.

"Do you think I should go talk to them?" I reach for the TV remote from the coffee table, and click to televison on. It's muted, fading the screen from dead black to lively cartoons from my childhood.
"Jesus, no, Chloe." The curtain sways gently as she steps away from the window.
"Why not? If I talk to them...maybe they'll go away." I flip through channels.
"Sweetie." She sits on the coffee table in front of me, blocking the TV, "Those people don't want to help you. They will twist every word you say."
I think on the idea, and part of me agrees but something in my gut doesn't.

"I'm going to put on some coffee, want some?" Her voice carries down the hall to the kitchen.
"Yes!" I yell to her from the living room, and tip toe to the window and pull the curtain back a few inches.
Five news vans, most local channel news, one from New York sit idle at the curb all in a convey line stretching past the neighbors houses. A nervous tingle stings in my stomach at the sight. A woman with yellow hair, blown out and too high with volume stands with her back to my house. Her dress coat, grey and thick with wool reaches her swollen ankles. She's speaking into a microphone to a giant camera held on the shoulder of a husky man with a bushy black beard. I can't hear what she's saying, I hold the TV remote out and flip to Channel 9. The woman pops on the screen. It's a strange paradox. Watching her from behind at the window of my house, then from the front of her in front of the house where I can see my boney fingers gripping the white curtain.

"Ms. Thomas has yet to appear from her house, where she's come home to two days ago. Early today I spoke with the towns only doctor, Henry Dobbs, he reports that, Ms. Thomas has not  scheduled an appointment regarding the pregnancy. NYPD has released the proof of pregnancy to the public, if, Ms. Thomas is still pregnant it's still not known." Her arrogant tone fuils a fire inside me. She doesn't know the first thing about me or my. . .Pregnancy.

I quickly scan the faces outside until my vision falls on a shy face. A young woman not much older than I am stands with her back pressed against a news van; gripping a mic with both hands, twisting them as her camera man rubs at her shoulder. Clearly fresh out of college, she's nervous. She reminds me of a girl I once knew in high school. Strawberry blonde has always been a terrible description for her hair color. More like a burning sun; not blonde or red, or brown. The color of the sun when it's setting in the summer. From the window I observe how she inhales though her nose deeply, and blows fog from her puffed out cheeks. Just as I do when I'm having a panic attack. Her skin glows pale and bright with a scattering of freckles across her face, and down her neck.
The camera man tries to soothe her, she nods frantically to him as he takes a couple of steps back and hoists the camera to his shoulder. Before she can speak the frigid wind from the front door blasts into my face as I storm outside.

"Chloe?" I hear from the hall, "Chloe! Jesus, no!" I close the door as my mother rushes to stop me.

"Chloe! Chloe! Ms. Thomas!??" The reporters pounce, and enclose me inside a circle of microphones and cameras. I keep my mouth shut and make a bee line straight for the panicing red head. She stands frozen while her camera man turns to me.
"Chloe! Are you still pregnant?" The Channel 9 woman asks, raising her voice above the volume of her hair. I ignore her, stepping to the nervous girl.

"Hi." I stretch my hand to her. She gulps. Behind me I can hear my mother pushing through the huddle to save me. "I'm, Chloe." I shake her hand. A limp handshake. The girls eyes round, she can't find her words.
"I'm Katie." She smiles, "K-Katie Jones with Channel 8 News."
"Chloe!" My mother makes it to my side where I stand confidently surrounded by vulture reporters about to do something risky. "Don't do this." My mother pleads into my hear.
"Are you new?" I ask, Katie. My feet have become damp in the melting snow, soaking through my fuzzy pink slippers.
"It's my first day." She smiles. I return the smile with a half smirk and a twinkle in my eye. A fresh from college reporter who doesn't have the advantage of experience in the art of twisting words to bury someone.
"Come with me." I take her hand, my slippers crunch into the snow to the front porch, up the steps, and into the house. My mother files into the foyer along with, Katie the reporter, her camera man, and myself.

"Chloe," My mother huffs shutting the door. Katie, in shock and dumbfounded peers around to the many photos of me that cover every wall, table, and shelf. "What are you doing?" She takes my shoulders into her hands slowly shaking her head back and forth.
"Mom.." I interrupt, "You have to trust me. Okay?" Her hands grip at my arms, scared and worried.
"Okay." She yields.

I look to, Katie. I can almost see her blood pulsing.
"Put the camera down, Marty." She tells the camera man. His brows crease.
"What?"
"Just lower the camera." She warns him, eyeing me. 

"In here." I gesture my hand to the living room just off the foyer. She nods once and follows.

I lower myself on to the corner chair, "I'm going to let you interview me." I gulp, my own nerves now taking hold of me. Katie places herself on the couch holding her puffy blue microphone at her lap.
"Marty get the tripod." She orders. The camera man carefully places the camera on the coffee table and steps out of the room and into the cold as told.
"Why are you doing this?" My mother paces the room nibbling at her thumb nail.
"I'm wondering the same thing." Katie adds.

I sit back and make myself comfortable.
"Was this your dream? Being a reporter?" I ask.
"Yes. It's all I've ever wanted to do." Coffee from the kitchen wafts through the air, and suddenly my mind soars back to Lava's. The longing for the city seeps into me as it always has.
"You remind me of myself, Katie." I lean forward, "I had a dream. It was just about to reach my fingertips and it was taken from me." I confess, peering at my mother. Her face weakens.
"If I can lift your career, help you reach your dream with my statement, then I will."

Katie shifts in her seat, her knuckles turning white around the base of the microphone. A chilly draft blows into the room.
"Hey! What the hell do you think you're doing?!?" A familiar voice spits from the foyer.
Katie, and I stand at once stepping quickly toward the sounds of a scuffle coming from the door.
"It's alright, Z." My mother says. Zen's face raging and red, he holds, Marty's coat collar rough and pressing him against the wall. A photo of me sitting in the garden as a girl hangs crooked behind, Marty's head. Knocked and shifted from, Zen shoving the guy into the wall.
"What do you mean it's alright?" He continues holding, Marty.
"I'm doing an interview." I step closer to him, "You can let him go now." Zens hands release, the blood in his fingers flowing again regaining their color. He takes a step back.
"I'm not saying sorry." He says to me, and looks back to the camera man, "You people have been camped outside for two days. She can't even go outside her own home. You people make me sick!" He growls.

Marty, obviously not the fighting type stays motionless, unable to spit an insult back at him.
Katie takes a step toward, Zen.
"We're not here to hurt her. I promise."

Zen smiles annoyed, shaking his head and sucking in his teeth. "Clo, can I talk with you in private?" His eyebrows rise. I lead the way to the kitchen and pour myself a cup of coffee.
"Why are you doing this?" He plants a hand on his hip while the other hand holds his forehead for a brief moment.
"They're never going to go away unless I talk to one of them. It's her first day, she doesn't even know what she's doing. Maybe I can tell my side of the story without her twisting everything I say." I sip my coffee.
"They're all the same, Clo." He swings around the island and cups my cheek with his cold hand. "Are you sure about this?" He squints.
"I need to do this."
"Fine." He drops his hand and turns away, then spins back around. "But if they screw you over," he points toward the hall. "I'm marching into that news station and kicking someones ass."

Back in the foyer, Katie and Marty wait patiently.
Zen, and my mother stand at my sides.
"I want to do this properly." I bounce once on my toes. "Tomorrow. Here, in my living room. I want to tell my side of the story. The truth." I add.
"Okay." Katie agrees, and steps to the door, "I'll be here." She reaches into her coat pocket. "This is my card, I'll be here at noon."

I escort them out the door where the waiting vultures stand at the foot of the steps.
"I will not be speaking with any of you. If you could, please leave. You're wasting your time." I keep my tone firm and to the point from the porch. A man raises his voice louder than the rest, "Just one quick question!" He extends his mic.
"No." I object, "I'm not answering any questions. Just leave. Please."

Against their wishes the reporters finally start to thin. Moving in a molasses herd back to their vans.