A Little Too Late

by Staci Hart

  “Yes, it was my idea. I missed you. I’m selfish that way.”

  I laughed, shaking my head.

  A girl walked around the corner, pushing a stroller. She had a haughty look about her as she scanned the park, landing on Lysanne. She tried to smile, but the expression was puckered and sour.

  “Oh God. It’s Claudette. Wave.”

  We both waved, passing fake smiles back to her. She kept going, moving to the other end of the park.

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  Lysanne rolled her eyes. “French trollop. She was an au pair—before she slept with the father for a whole year. He’d sneak into her room almost every night. Can you believe that?”

  I blinked at her. “That’s horrible.”

  She waved a dismissive hand. “The mother was sleeping with the gardener, so they were at scratch. They divorced, and now, Claudette is married to him and had his baby. There’s one woman who will never, ever have an au pair.”

  A laugh burst out of me. “I can’t believe that.”

  “Believe it,” Lysanne said and reached in for more cheese. “Mmm, gouda.”

  “Is it really that common for au pairs to sleep with their employers?”

  “Uh, yes. Think about it,” she said, gesticulating as she explained. “You’ve got this girl; she’s young and exotic, from another country, and she lives in your house. Things aren’t what they used to be with your wife, stress of children and jobs and all that. It’s a recipe for disaster. A German au pair I used to know said her bosses asked her to have a threesome. Can you imagine?”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “Being a parent is a hard, lonely business, even when you’re married. Everyone feels like they’re doing it alone, even when they’re working together. Throw a younger girl, a girl who’s free—that’s part of the allure too, I think—and it’s hard not to fantasize, I’m sure. Makes me glad my boss is ugly.”

  “You’re awful,” I said, though I laughed around the words.

  “I don’t think I’d ever hire an au pair. A nanny, maybe, since at least they don’t usually live with you, but not an au pair.” Lysanne finally slowed down on the cheese but picked up a piece of bread and nibbled on the corner. “How long do you think you can hold out with Charlie?”

  Another flush bloomed on my cheeks, warm and tingling. “Really, Lysanne.”

  “I’m serious! There’s no real reason you can’t.”

  “Of course there is. He’s going through a divorce. He works all the time. He’s my boss. He’s older—”

  “I think they prefer experienced.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “And don’t think I didn’t notice that you didn’t mention that you don’t like him.”

  “It’s nothing. It means nothing other than I think he’s attractive. I like him. I’ll even admit that I admire him, and he’s become my friend. But it ends there. There’s nothing more to it than that and there never will be, so please leave it alone.”

  She held up her hands, palms out, in surrender. “All right. I would say, The lady doth protest too much, but I’m afraid you’ll take the cheese away, and this is the best thing to happen to me all week.”

  And I gladly took the exit from the conversation, turning us to other subjects while doing my best to ignore how right she was.

  8

  Dancing Animals

  Charlie

  The rest of the week passed by at breakneck speed, powered by my team nearing the end of an acquisition that demanded an outrageous number of hours. Twice I’d slept in the office—though maybe sleep was a generous term for the four-hour nap I’d snuck in. I’d barely seen the kids, which I hated, nor had I seen much of Hannah, which I also hated.

  Time and space hadn’t banished her from my thoughts.

  It was always in the quiet hours when my tired brain found itself idle that she snuck into my mind. While at work, I’d wonder what she was doing, wonder how the kids were. Throughout the days, our conversations had been limited to texts; she’d sent me photos of crafts, the kids baking, videos of them saying goodnight, and Halloween trick-or-treating photos—my plans to join them annihilated by an emergency meeting that lasted until after midnight.

  Hannah was never in the pictures other than the occasional hand or her voice laughing or prompting them to speak. And every little glimpse I got of her would reignite that desperate wonder I couldn’t seem to shake.

  I came home late that night, creeping up the creaky stairs as quietly as I could. I’d been so aware of her presence—her coat hanging next to mine, her shoes under the bench, the flowers in the kitchen, which were daisies now—as if every part of me turned its focus to the woman down the stairs. But I didn’t stop walking, didn’t stop moving until I was safely between my sheets.

  As tired as I was, I couldn’t fall asleep, her face in my thoughts, thinking of the things I’d say to her in the morning, imagining the conversations we’d have, the moments we’d have.

  I’d found myself living for those moments.

  That was the worst part—the anticipation of seeing her, the admission that I looked forward to it, needed it.

  At that, I cursed myself and pushed thoughts of her away, though they only bobbed back up again to mock me.

  She’s too young, I told myself.

  You pay her to work for you.

  You’re just lonely, Charlie boy.

  She’s just different, that’s all. New.

  It’s a fantasy, Charlie. Just pretend, only make-believe. Put it away.

  She wouldn’t want you and your baggage anyway.

  And that was the loop of self-flagellation I fell asleep to.

  When I woke that Sunday morning on the heels of a solid eight hours of sleep and with such a brutal week behind me, it was with a smile on my face and a spring in my step. I felt rejuvenated, if not still physically tired, and Hannah and the kids would be home with me all day. I had to work—I needed to, as the contracts on my desk were due for approval first thing in the morning—but I’d see them all. My mind spun with imaginings of moments.

  Dangerous and stupid.

  But logic didn’t apply. For the first time in a very long time, I was reminded that I could feel, that I could want, that I was a man, not a robot. Not just a father or a cuckold or a workaholic. It was a reminder that I was alive.

  I’d unknowingly allowed myself the luxury of daydreaming, stoking the tiny flame of desire for her. I only hoped I could keep that fire contained and in check, well within the ruts I’d dug to keep it penned in. If the wind picked up, if it jumped that boundary, I would be in trouble.

  Big trouble.

  In any case, I felt like a million bucks when I woke. I whistled as I made my bed and dressed for the day and took the stairs with a little bounce, the sound of Hannah and the kids floating up the stairs to me.

  And there was Hannah with my children in the entryway, smiling up at me.

  Make that a million and one bucks.

  “Daddy!” Sammy called, whipping away from Hannah to run for me just before she could get his jacket on.

  He bounded into my arms, and I picked him up.

  “Morning, buddy. Where are you guys off to so early?”

  “The zoo! Can you come with us?”

  I couldn’t. I had a metric ton of paperwork to get through, and there was absolutely no way I could take a day off. I couldn’t even take a couple of hours off.

  So I looked at my children and Hannah, whose faces were hopeful, and gave the only answer I could. “Absolutely. Give me ten minutes.”

  All three of them lit up like a row of Edison bulbs.

  I kissed Sam’s temple and set him down, trotting back up the stairs. I ducked into the bathroom to brush my teeth, assessing my scruff and my messy hair. But they seemed all right, and a day awaited. A day off. A day with my kids.

  A day with Hannah, a little voice in my head said.

  Shut up, I said back.

  When I came downstairs, th
ey waited patiently on the bench under the hooks where coats and bags hung—Maven in Hannah’s lap, Sammy talking about giraffes.

  “Hannah, how do you say giraffe?”

  “Easy. Giraffe.”

  “Gee-raf-fuh” he echoed, pronouncing it just like her but without the soft roll on the R.

  “Well done.”

  “Did you know a giraffe’s tongue is one-and-one-half-foots long?”

  “Really?” Hannah said, seemingly enthralled.

  “Uh-huh. And they only sleep two hours every day.”

  “It’s like a nap.”

  He nodded. “I wish I could just sleep that long, and the rest of the time I could play, play, play.” With every play, he jumped.

  Hannah and I laughed, and the three of them stood as I pulled on my coat and took Maven. Hannah grabbed the bag, Sammy took her hand, and I carried the stroller as we headed out. She and I worked around each other, situating the kids, setting Maven up—I buckled her in, and Hannah placed Maven’s sippy cup in my waiting hand, hung the bag on the handles, and took the wheel. And with Sammy’s hand in mine, we walked toward the subway entrance. We hadn’t spoken a word.

  I smiled to myself at the easiness of it all, smiled at the crisp fall sky, at the sight of Hannah pushing the stroller and Sammy talking—now about sea otters. Did you know that a group of sea otters in the water was called a raft? Yeah, me neither. My son, the wonder boy.

  The train was uncrowded so early on a weekend, and before long, we were walking up 5th Avenue and into the park. There was a small line—the zoo was just opening—but before the ticket booths unfurled their metal shields, the Delacorte Clock struck ten, and the animals danced.

  Maven sat on my shoulders, clapping, and Sammy jumped up and down, giggling, as the clock chimed its song, the bronze sculptures spinning around—bear and kangaroo, penguin and hippo, each playing an instrument. And Hannah’s face was just as filled with wonder, turned up to the sight, smile on her lips.

  I found myself thirsty for that smile, the sweet simplicity of her joy.

  When the song ended, we bought our tickets and moseyed in.

  The zoo was small but quaint, and I was nearly as enthralled as the kids. They’d been before with Elliot, but I hadn’t been since years before. Of course, now that I was older, things were different, and my perspective along with it. It was the way of the world, I supposed, the joy of seeing something through the eyes of your children, experiencing the newness and possibilities in life.

  And so we made our way around, starting with the sea lions in the center of the park, through the bats and lemurs and snakes. Did you know snakes didn’t have eyelids? I could have guessed, but it was unnerving to learn it from my five-year-old all the same. Past the monkeys and snow leopards we went, Sammy asking for the animal names in Dutch all the while, which were strikingly similar to their English versions. Except snake, which was apparently called a slang in Dutch and was pronounced way too close to schlong for me to be happy about my three-year-old daughter repeating it on a loop, which she did—and with enthusiasm.

  When we reached the grizzly bear, both kids shot up to the rail, watching the beast lumber around his habitat, batting at a large red ball.

  I hung back, eyes on the kids, my heart soft and quiet and full. So much of this I’d missed, so many afternoons at the park and making pasta necklaces and finger painting. As much as I’d been trying to make it up to them, it didn’t feel like enough.

  They were growing up, and I had been missing everything. It seemed like only a moment ago that I had rocked Maven with a bottle in her mouth, her little fingers gripping one of mine as her big, dark eyes watched me, while I listened to the soft suckling noises, the rhythm broken only by her sighing breath. A deep longing spread through my chest, its roots twisting around my stomach.

  “I’m a terrible father,” I said quietly, wishing for forgiveness with the confession, though I knew there would be none.

  Hannah turned her face to mine but said nothing.

  I kept my eyes on the kids, not wanting to admit it aloud but compelled to all the same. “It took my wife leaving for me to realize that I wanted to be more present in their lives. Five years of neglect, five years of stumbling through fatherhood and hiding behind work. How horrible is that?”

  She only watched me. I could see her eyes out of the corner of mine, and they were sad.

  “I was always too busy. It was always later. Tomorrow. Next weekend. Never now. Never yes. Only no.” I took a breath and let it out. “The problem is, I can’t have what I want. Even considering it now seems silly, like a daydream. I can’t be there, not like I want to be. I shouldn’t have even come today.” I sounded pitiful and wretched, which was exactly how I felt. “They deserve more.”

  She reached for my forearm and clasped it, an act not intended to be anything but comforting, though I found myself wishing she’d slide her fingers into mine, wondering if it would ease my mind and heart.

  “You’re doing the best you can.”

  I shook my head. “That’s just an excuse, Hannah. I’ve been using that line for years.”

  “What I mean is, you are enough,” she said without doubt.

  I chanced a look at her, and her eyes held me still.

  “For more than a month now, I’ve watched you with your children. I’ve watched you play with them and listen to them and hold them and take care of them. I’ve seen you in the moments you don’t think anyone’s watching, the moments when you’re happy and sad all at once, the moments when it’s clear just how much you love them. Anyone who saw you with them would agree that they are the most important part of your life. And a terrible father wouldn’t worry if he was a terrible father.”

  “But it’s never enough. I’ve changed. I want more. They need more. And I can’t truly give it to them.”

  “Charlie, this is your lot, and you’re surviving it as best you can.”

  It was the truth and it wasn’t. I should have made more time and long before now. I should have. But I hadn’t.

  I swallowed hard, but the lump lodged itself back in my throat.

  “I wish that were true. I wish there were a way to … to …” I shook my head. “It’s stupid. I’m not one to wish for things I can’t have.”

  She nodded, her eyes sad, full of acceptance and recognition. “I understand how you feel. And I’m sorry.”

  It was so quiet, so simple, two little words that said a dozen different things but solved nothing other than a brief moment of companionship, the feeling of being heard and understood. And that would have to be enough.

  I thanked her with a smile, resisting the urge to hug her, to pull her into me. Instead, I turned back to my children and scooped them up, one on each hip and the promise of cotton candy on my lips, and Hannah followed us with the empty stroller, smiling again.

  Always smiling.

  9

  Just Two People

  Hannah

  The day had been absolutely lovely.

  Cotton candy in hand, we’d walked out the gates, pausing to watch the clock chime once again, the parade of animals circling to a different song than the one before. Charlie had noted with the same matter-of-factness of his son that the clock had over forty different songs, chiming at half-hour intervals all day.

  Next had been the carousel. Sammy had chosen a midnight steed, and I had taken the one next to him.

  Charlie had stood between Sammy and Maven, a protective hand on her back, his face alight as he smiled and laughed, reminding them to feed carrots to their horses after they said, “Hi-yah,” and, “Giddyup,” to pet their manes and flick their reins as we went up and down, round and round, the world whizzing past us in a blur.

  We’d walked home through the park, stopping at the Bethesda Terrace where we ate hot dogs and the kids marveled at the fountain. Sammy had walked the edge, and Maven had leaned over, squealing as she dipped her fingers in the cold water.

  All the while, I’d considered Char
lie, considered the changes I’d seen in him. For a moment, he’d made time for the children, and in that, he’d found happiness. But it had slipped away from him again the second his job demanded his full and undivided attention a few weeks before. He’d been slowly reclaiming his time ever since.

  The job that was the source of his pain, the thing that made him feel like less than he was, that dashed his dreams and stole his time.

  And I hated the sadness that had found its way back into his eyes even if only for a moment.

  By the time we made it home, it was after five. The kids were tired and cold, so I set them up in the living room with the television and a fire, making my way into the kitchen when they were settled.

  Charlie had already pulled out containers of uncooked food that Katie had left with a notecard taped to the top with instructions.

  I moved to his side to help.

  “Ah, ah, ah,” he warned, twisting to keep the containers in his hand out of my reach. “Sit.” He nodded to the island where a glass of wine waited in front of a stool.

  “Charlie, let me help,” I said on a laugh, trying to reach around him.

  He only shook his head and held the containers away with his long arms. “If I can’t cook this completely prepped and simplified meal that Katie left me—which includes instructions a small child could follow—I have more to worry about than I thought. Please, sit.”

  I shook my head with a chuckle, but I did as he’d asked and took my seat, much to his satisfaction.

  The smile on his face made him look younger, almost boyish as he began popping the lids off the containers.

  I picked up the wine and took a sip, the crispness of it sweet. I felt myself relax, leaning on the island, watching Charlie as he poured oil into the warm pan and then the vegetables with a sizzle.

  “So, you’ve never told me why you and your friend decided to come to America to au pair.”

  “Well, we’ve been friends since primary school. She decided not to go to university; she wanted to travel. So, she nannied for a bit to save money before signing on with an agency. And off she went. The begging for me to follow came within hours.”