Gatsby and I became great friends, before his last breaths, and before I knew it, Months later, Daisy had some important news to share with me, knowing that I knew how Mrs. Wilson had died, and knowing that I would be the last person to report her.
I hadn't known this before hand, nor had Gatsby told me, but I always had a suspicion that this problem would arise.
Daisy is expecting. There shall be a new Jay Gatsby.
She told me on a day, that had started out as any other. I went to work, came home, and mourned over the loss of my dearest friend, and the depth of the sadness of my cousin Daisy who had come to stay with me, along with her daughter, Pammy, in the few months since Gatsby's death. She had sat me down gently on the chair in my den and told Pammy to play in the yard. She had looked me in the eye and said, "Nick, this is bad." And at the moment I thought she had meant the living situations, to which I couldn't agree more, then she said, "My monthlies.. they haven't come in two Months, Nick."
A tear had rolled down her face, and I caught it with my finger, knowing it wasn't polite to touch a lady without her insistence, but Daisy was my cousin, and I didn't want her dress to be stained with tears, nor did I want my suit to be.
"It is Gatsby's." She said quietly, "He is Gatsby's."
My eyes went wide, and my arms went numb. I couldn't help but feel sorry for her. Gatsby was gone, and she only had her daughter and I left in this world, and now she was expecting.. Carrying the spawn of someone who had been shady and wealthy. Someone who had been my best friend.
"Congratulations," I had told her, smiling wildly, not knowing whether to smile or frown at the news, but when she didn't thank me, and remained silent, I decided that it was best to sulk.
"It'll be okay, Daisy. You, Pammy, and I, we'll all go back to Chicago. Is that what you want?"
She had shook her head, and told me that she planned to Join Gatsby, and that she wanted me to watch over her daughter, to be her new parent, to have her.
I had to refuse her, and beg, and plead for her not to end her life, for it was no way to treat the new Jay Gatsby, and that he wouldn't have wanted this for her. Gatsby had wanted her to have a full life, not one cut short by his child.
Pammy would be four in February, and it was October, now. Gatsby had been murdered in August.
I looked over at his house every day, thinking of the extraordinary parties, the third time I had been drunk in my life, and I thought about Tom.
Tom had been Daisy's husband, who she had admitted to have stopped loving in the presence of Gatsby, who had swept her off her feet seven years ago next month. I remembered that it would have been seven years. Gatsby always reminded me that in November.. it was seven years.