A Delicate Truth

by McKnight, Zoe

  My newfound gumption lasts for a full twenty-four hours. Up until the point when I see Dylan.

  He insisted on meeting me at the pediatrician’s office when I told him Morgan had a minor earache. A few days ago I would have welcomed any time for the three of us to be together, but today it’s unsettling. Being around him only makes me crave him more. And now that the prospect of only seeing him a few times a year dangles over our heads, it makes me sad. While we sit in the waiting room, with a sickly Morgan draped over his lap, I’m fraught with distress. Firstly, because my baby isn’t well, and try as I may, I can’t do anything to make her feel better. Secondly, because watching her with Dylan still racks my conscience. Guilt, for keeping them apart for so long, weighs heavy on my heart. The fact that he’s forced to make up for lost time is my doing and, although he never mentions it, I know he’s thinking it. And finally, because I already miss him. I miss him on so many levels. I miss the pre-Morgan us, when we were in love. I miss the pre-Gayle us when, although he acted as though he hated me, he really didn’t. And I already miss the moments like this, of routine and mundane togetherness, that could be a part of our lives as Morgan grows up. These will come to a stop once I move. They’ll be replaced with holiday and summer visits until she’s old enough to go and see him alone.

  The doctor examines Morgan, gives her a dose of medication and hands me a prescription. We make our way to CVS where I fill it. As we wait, he suggests we go to Applebee’s and grab a bite to eat before he has to teach his next class. There, we blend right in with all of the other ready-made families. Despite the rickety booth and bland food, I’m wholly satisfied. Happy to be with him. With both of them. I don’t tell him about my job offer or the move. Mainly because I don’t want to spoil the moment. At least that’s what I tell myself, but deep down I know it’s because I haven’t entirely made up my mind. I don’t want to leave him. Even if he doesn’t want me. Even if he’s in love with Gayle. If I go, I’ll only push them closer together. With me out of the picture, she’ll have his undistracted affections. Yeah, he’ll always be connected to me via Morgan, but with 800 miles between us, I’m sure to be an afterthought, a woman he used to love and eventually just his daughter’s mother.

  After we leave the restaurant and he’s secured Morgan in her car seat, he leans through my window. “Call me later to let me know how she’s doing, okay?”

  How about me? Can I call you to let you know how I’m doing?

  After a bit more small talk he rests his hand on my forearm. My pulse quickens. He studies my face but doesn’t say anything. For a second I even believe he might kiss me. I stop breathing and wait—frozen with anticipation. What if he does? Should I kiss him back? What about Gayle? Will it mean he still wants me? What about Atlanta?

  He leans into the window, his face nearing mine. Closer. His lips are inches away. I close my eyes, but shoot them right back open when a horn blares behind me.

  “You coming out?” yells a white-haired man. He’s sitting in a mud-brown Buick with his blinker on, already claiming my parking spot.

  Dylan withdraws, waves his hand and tells the driver, “In a minute.”

  I could kill that man. I could. I could just wrap my hands around his throat. I look back to Dylan, trying to recapture the moment with my eyes, but his are now distant. They sweep past me to Morgan. Then he taps the window jamb and says, “Drive safe now.”

  With each mile I drive back home, I’m that much further from Atlanta. Whatever doubts I had, have tripled. I can’t leave this man. Something happened back there, I’m sure of it. He wanted to kiss me. I don’t know that he would have, but he wanted to. He had that same look in his eye that time at his house. If only that stupid old man hadn’t interrupted … all I need is time. Time to show him that I’m who he needs to be with. And I can’t accomplish that from Georgia.

  I awake hours later to the ringing of my phone. After groping around the nightstand, I answer on the final ring.

  “Yup,” I say, checking the clock and realizing it’s still the same day.

  It’s Dylan. “Hey. Did I wake you?”

  “No. Was just taking a nap.”

  “Oh. So, how’s Morgan feeling? Better?”

  “Uh, yeah, she’s fine.” I glance over to my left. “Asleep.”

  “Blair, hold on a sec.” I hear rustling in the background. Specifically, the sound of him placing his hand over the receiver, but not before I hear, “Babe, what did you say?”

  But I’m not the “Babe” he’s talking to. It’s 10:15 PM. Another sleepover, Gayle? How often does she sleep there? Is her toothbrush in the bathroom? Does she have her own drawer? The deep one on the top left? The one that used to be mine.

  More rustling before he comes back. “Sorry, Blair. What were you saying?”

  Nothing, I think. Just that I want you back. But these thoughts never make their way from my heart to my mouth. Instead, I say, “Nothing. Just that Morgan seems to be feeling better. Ya know, I was thinking of taking her to Disney on Ice this weekend. Maybe you can come?”

  He’s quiet for less than a minute, but it feels much longer. Then he says, in a low voice, “Uh yeah, I wanted to talk to you about something. Hold a sec.” I hear him close a door. He wants to talk to me in private, out of Gayle’s earshot. So, I was right. He did feel something earlier today. I perk up and sit erect, my ear pressed firmly against the phone—I don’t want to miss anything he’s going to say.

  “Yes?”

  “I know it’s a bit awkward, but…”

  No, it’s not. She’ll understand that it’s over. What did she really expect? She walked in on an already-complicated situation. She’ll find someone else. In my mind, I’ve already got Gayle packed up and out of his house. I even picture myself passing her in the driveway and shrugging sympathetically as she carries her belongings out in a plain white box.

  “Yes?” I repeat.

  “Ahh, I know we’re just getting the feel for this custody thing. And until she’s comfortable staying with me alone, I understand we’ll be doing things together…”

  My pulse quickens.

  “…but Gayle and I are taking things to the next level so…”

  Next level?

  “…she’s moving in next week.”

  I hear him call my name, but the phone is now somewhere in my lap. I stare straight ahead at the plain beige wall.

  Moving in? Just the idea of a drawer was enough to send me into a tailspin, but this? Moving in? A shared address. Shared expenses. The couch I picked, the dishes I bought him, even the shade of green I selected for his bathroom, will all be wiped out. Replaced with hallmarks of Gayle. God, I wish I could travel back in time to that day back at his house. Back to the string of calls he made, when he begged me to come back and talk. He loves me. Not her. How did I let this happen? Elle’s words were eerily prophetic. I dragged my feet, and Gayle quickened hers and now she’s won the race. No close calls, no need to review the tapes. She’s won. And I’ve lost.

  “Blair? You there?”

  Reluctantly, I return the phone to my ear.

  “Blair?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “Yeah, so seeing as how things have changed, I think it’s only right that we include Gayle sometimes, just so Morgan gets to know her, too.”

  Damn that Elle. She must have a magic ball because she sure as hell called it. Morgan is about to have a step-mother.

  “I have to go,” I say, not caring how I come across. The mature sensibility it’ll take to tell him I agree and that I’m even happy for him, totally escapes me. I don’t have it in me to even play the game.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks. “Are you okay?”

  “I have to go. Talk to you later, okay?” Before he can respond, I hang up.

  A moment later, I’m draped over my toilet bowl and emptying the contents of my stomach.

  The next day, I tell Elle that she has a future in fortune telling. Even she, with her glass-is-half-full ideol
ogy, has nothing for me. But she makes a small effort by saying, “Well, moving in is not the same as marriage.”

  “Nice try.”

  “It’s not. People move in together all the time and never get married.”

  “Look, they’re both in their thirties, settled in their careers. Why not get married? It’s the next logical step.”

  “I know what you’re thinking. But you can’t beat yourself up over what you woulda, shoulda and coulda done. The past is behind us,” she says. “And I still think she’s just the plan B.”

  “Well, sometimes plan B becomes Plan A.”

  She spends the rest of the call trying to lift my spirits and convince me that he still loves me. He might, but what good is that if he rises and sets to Gayle’s face every day? For the first time since leaving Vaughn, I second guess my decision. There’s no more denying it. I’m lonely. And it’s not just the intimacy I miss, but the companionship. After Elle went back to Atlanta, I realized just how alone I am. And not that they were ever any real form of companionship, but I feel the void of my sister and mother. We haven’t spoken since that incident at the house. I suppose I always knew that they were toxic but because I was so consumed with Vaughn, I’d underestimated them. And the few friends I thought I had, have distanced themselves since the separation. They’ve made it clear which side they’re on. Can I blame them? We really don’t have much in common anymore. I can’t meet them for lunch at the Four Seasons or partake in random shopping sprees anymore. Plus, now I bear the scarlet letter. So, here I am, alone in this apartment, one which could have easily fit in my old living room. Now, it’s just me and my daughter. And her weekend Dad. Oh wait, and now Gayle.

  THIRTY-THREE

  My mind is set. I’m going.

  All I need is Dylan’s legal consent to move our daughter to Georgia. When I told him I needed to speak with him he suggested I meet him back at his house, but I insisted we meet in his office. I’d rather not be reminded of his new living arrangements.

  The anticipation of this moment kept me up all last night and it’s the same reason I’m half-an-hour early. I just want to get this conversation over and done with. Although I don’t have much to move, I feel under pressure as if there’s still so much to do before I leave. Because I’m staying in Elle’s parents’ sublet, there’s no lease to break. The furniture I borrowed will go back into her storage unit. I’ll buy a new set once I get settled in Atlanta; however, I’ll have time because I’ve agreed to stay in Elle and Luke’s guest house. It’s considerably smaller than where I lived in New Jersey, but it’s a major upgrade from the apartment I’m in now. It has three bedrooms, a large kitchen and living area, a small den and its own garage. There’s even a small deck leading to the backyard and a heated in-ground pool. Perfect for teaching Morgan to swim.

  I’m standing outside of the same office in which I first laid eyes on Dylan. I reach inside my purse and run a finger over the envelope to remind myself why I’m here. This folded piece of paper is all that stands between me and my new life.

  I knock lightly. Then harder after five long seconds of silence. Just as I bring my knuckles to the door again, Dylan opens it abruptly. He has a phone to his ear, the cord stretched to its limit from its place on his cluttered desk. He holds up one finger and mouths, “I’ll just be a minute,” then gestures for me to sit.

  I lower myself into the one empty chair. The other is stacked with textbooks and loose papers. Quickly I take stock of what, if anything, is different from the last time I was here. What immediately catches my eye is the nameplate on his desk. Dr. Dylan Stewart. Doctor, wow. When he and I were together he was at the tail-end of completing his dissertation for his PhD. I remember watching him as he sat at his desk, writing, editing and revising for hours on end. I wasn’t around when it finally came to be, but I can’t help but swell with pride for him. I wish I had been there in the crowd to watch him cross the stage, to present him with a gift, to tell him just how proud I was.

  He looks up and rolls his eyes, indicating frustration with whomever is on the line before offering me another silent apology. I tell him it’s okay as I refold the cuff of my blazer. I took particular care in dressing this morning, deciding on an outfit which was professional (because our discussion is to be serious) yet sexy (I’m wearing a black fitted pencil skirt, because he often told me how he loved the way it clung to my hips).

  Finally he hangs up and sighs. “These higher ed people are so loquacious.”

  I stare at him. He stares at me, and we both start laughing. He once used that word to describe his overly talkative aunt and then played it during our game of scrabble that same evening. A day later it was an answer on Jeopardy. From that point on it became a running joke with us. A stupid, private joke. One that brings me to laughter today. He points a finger at me. “Remember that, huh?”

  I nod. Yes, I remember a lot of things.

  “You cut your hair.”

  I rake my fingers through my new bob, almost forgetting I’d chopped of my signature shoulder-length locks. I’d accompanied Elle to her hair appointment while on my weekend trip to Atlanta. I hadn’t been back to my hairdresser in Manhattan since my split from Vaughn. Too many of my old friends and acquaintances go there, and I couldn’t bear running into any of them. Besides, I could no longer justify spending three-hundred dollars on a blowout. Ponytails had become my style of choice until I stepped into that Buckhead salon, and heard the whirl of the blow-dryers and smelled the scent of hairspray. For a brief moment, I felt like my old self. When I glimpsed my plain-Jane reflection, I felt the sudden urge for change. So I plopped down into Nicole’s chair and told her to work her magic. An hour later, my hair was two shades lighter, six inches shorter, and I was that more resolved to the idea of living in Georgia.

  “I like it,” he says. “It’s different, but nice. A good look for you.”

  I thank him. He offers me something to drink, and I decline although my throat is becoming dry as I remember the reason I’m here. We make more small talk before he glances at his watch and mentions that he has a meeting in an hour. His polite way of asking, “Why are you here?”

  I replay the word-track I’d rehearsed on my way over. “Well, I’ve got this great opportunity. A job offer. To be a marketing manager at a publishing firm.”

  “That’s wonderful. Congratulations!”

  “Thanks. There’s only one thing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “The job is in Atlanta.”

  “Atlanta?”

  I nod.

  “You want to move to Atlanta?”

  “I don’t necessarily want to, but that’s where the job is.”

  “I don’t understand. Why do you need to move anywhere for a job?”

  “Because I need to work.”

  “Since when?”

  This is not the way I wanted to tell him about my split from Vaughn. “Vaughn and I … we’re separated.”

  His lips part, but nothing comes out. Eventually he says, “Wow. I … I’m sorry to hear it.”

  Is that all he has to say? “Yeah, it is what it is.”

  “So, you’re still in the house? Or did you leave?”

  “I left. He’s still there.”

  “And where are you staying?”

  I tell him about my apartment in the city.

  Again he’s at a loss for words before saying, “How come you didn’t tell me?”

  “It’s just really complicated. He and I are in and out of court, and I’ve been looking for a job but I haven’t been able to find anything.”

  “So you started applying for jobs in Atlanta?”

  I explain Elle’s role in landing me the position.

  “That’s kind of her, but there are lots of jobs in New York.”

  “I’ve tried, Dylan. I really have.”

  “So, you want to move Morgan to Georgia. Jesus, Blair, we were just getting on track.”

  “I know, I know. But we can work this out. I can come up o
nce a month or more and you can come down, and when she gets older we can alternate summers. People do it all the time.”

  “The last time you said, ‘we can work this out’, I ended up … well, it just ended up bad.”

  “Dylan, this is entirely different. It’s just that I can’t turn down this job. I have to provide for Morgan and I can’t do that here. I can’t tell you how many interviews I’ve been on.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything? I could have helped you. I know a lot of people. Hell, I can get you a job here.”

  “I don’t want any handouts,” I say. And this time I mean it. My whole adult life has been about handouts. Everything I had was given to me by Vaughn, and now that he’s gone, it’s gone. I can’t allow this to happen a second time. I refuse to be indebted to any man, not even Dylan.

  He stands, comes around his desk and perches on the edge. “Not a handout. It’s a job. A real job where you get up and go to work every day and earn a paycheck.”

  “I can’t commute all the way to Pennsylvania from New York.”