This Was Not the Plan

by Cristina Alger

  “You want to marry me,” Shelley whispers. She shakes her head in disbelief. “I hoped, of course, but—”

  “Shelley, you’re the best goddamn thing that ever happened to me. Before you, I was just a sad sack in a suit. I worked twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. All I did was work. I breathed, slept, and ate work. And why? I had all the money in the world, but it couldn’t buy me the one thing I wanted. Happiness.”

  “Baby!” Shelley cries, and flings herself back into my father’s arms.

  “Aw, hell, this isn’t the way I wanted to do it, but life’s short, right? Can’t do everything according to plan. And I have my whole family together for once, and who knows if that will ever happen again?” My father sighs. Then he lurches forward so abruptly that, without thinking, I leap out of my seat.

  “Jesus, are you okay?”

  I feel a hand grip my forearm.

  “Sit down, you idiot,” Madison whispers into my ear. “He’s proposing.”

  My head swivels around. My father has, not without effort, found his way onto one knee.

  “Shelley Ann Peters,” he says, his voice shaking, “will you marry me?”

  “Oh my God!” Shelley’s cries of delight are muffled by the frantic bovine sounds of their kissing.

  Madison makes a snorting sound. I turn, hopeful that at least one other person is finding this display as absurd as I do. But Madison, to my surprise, is wiping away a tear.

  “That’s beautiful,” she says, biting her lip and nodding. “Really, really beautiful.”

  “It is,” Buck chimes in. “Wow. It’s never too late, is it, Jeff?”

  “Never too late,” my father agrees.

  “I’m so happy for you guys,” Zadie adds weepily. “You’re great together.”

  “Thank you, honey.” Shelley puts her hands over her heart. “I feel so blessed to have you and Buck in my life.” She gestures at Madison. “In our lives.”

  “Jeff, I’m sorry I ruined the surprise,” Madison says, pouting.

  He waves her off. “Forget it, sweetheart. Listen, you probably did me a favor. Look at me. Who knows how long I’ve got? I’m too old for secrets.”

  “Stop it, baby,” Shelley coos. “You’re going to make it to a hundred. I need you to. I need you.” She rests her head against my father’s shoulder.

  “Anything for you, Shel.”

  “I’m glad the cat’s out of the bag,” Zadie says. “Maybe we should have a joint wedding!”

  “No,” my father, Shelley, and Buck say in unison.

  “I was kidding.” Zadie rolls her eyes. “Don’t you worry, Shelley, I’m going to make sure he throws you the best party in town.”

  Shelley laughs. “Oh, girl, you’re too much. Listen, when you’re on your third wedding like I am, you’re not exactly expecting a big to-do.”

  “All the more reason.”

  “Hey, you two,” my father barks. “Enough. I may be old and I may be immobile, but I still have a trick or two up my sleeve. Shelley, babe, I’m going to give you the wedding of your dreams. So don’t you worry about that. In the meantime, though, we got ourselves another big Hamptons wedding to plan.”

  He looks over at me, and for the first time all night we lock eyes. “Whaddaya say, Charlie? This all right with you?”

  “Please, Charlie,” Zadie says, her eyes pleading. “Please say yes.”

  I bite my lip. If he had asked me thirty minutes ago, I would have responded with a resounding No! Maybe it’s the wine I had with dinner. Maybe it’s just fatigue. But somehow I just don’t have the strength to argue anymore.

  I shrug. “Fine with me,” I hear myself say.

  “Yes!” Zadie squeals. “Thank you, Charlie! This means the world to me!”

  “Hey, thanks, bro,” Buck says, pounding his fist against his chest. “That gets me right there.”

  “You’ll be the best man, won’t you, Charlie?” Zadie says, bounding over to give me a hug.

  “Don’t push your luck.”

  “We can talk about the details in the morning,” my father says briskly. “I think we’ve made enough decisions for one night.”

  “You can say that again,” I say, nodding at him.

  “Look at you two,” Zadie sighs happily. “Getting along and everything.”

  “It’s been a long day,” I say, shooting her a look. “I’m going to go check on Caleb and then I’m hitting the hay.”

  “That’s a great idea,” my father says. “Let’s all get some sleep. We’re going to need it. It’s going to be a big month here at Casa Goldwyn.”

  The Fallen Leaf

  I wake up feeling dirty.

  For starters, I hooked up with my stepsister-to-be. Any psychiatrist would have a field day with that one. Then there’s the fact that I agreed to let my father host Zadie’s wedding. Not that Zadie needs my blessing, but I’m pretty sure I gave it anyway. My father really worked me over with that speech of his. Somewhere between the Parkinson’s and the admission of deep, all-consuming loneliness, I actually started to feel sorry for the guy. Thirty-five years of neglect, undone in twenty minutes. At least now I can say I understand why he’s been as successful as he has. The guy is a helluva negotiator.

  Finally, I sold myself to Fred without a second of hesitation. It’s not like I have a bunch of other offers to consider, but I could have at least told him I’d sleep on it. I definitely didn’t need to accept his offer on the phone, without even discussing things like salary or health care or a 401(k). Where’s my self-respect? Where’s my pride? Where are my negotiating skills? I have a child to think about. I should’ve at least pushed him a little bit on the money. God knows he can afford it.

  I glance over at Caleb, who’s asleep beside me. He’s curled up on his side, one hand draped over Norman’s belly. While his nausea seems to have passed, the smell of it still lingers in the air. All the seagrass-scented candles in the world couldn’t keep the infirmary smell out of this room. The trash can—the decorative kind not meant for actual trash—probably should be thrown out. A light crust of vomit can be seen on the carpet beside it. An unidentified stain, too, mars the headboard. My heart breaks a little when I see a wet washcloth on the nightstand. Whatever happened, I’m almost certain Caleb tried to fix it while I slept.

  The thousand-count sheets—pristine and fresh when we arrived—are rumpled and sweaty. Caleb’s fever spiked again in the middle of the night. I only noticed because his head lolled against mine on a shared pillow. I woke him, ladled Children’s Tylenol into his mouth, watched his body go slack and his eyes roll closed the minute he washed it down. He fell asleep against me, my arm tucked around him like a wing.

  My heart lurches when I think about going back to work so soon. We’ll need to find a nanny, I guess, now that Zadie’s out of the picture. I wonder how long that will take. It would be nice to have a few more weeks off. Not just for Caleb’s sake, but for mine.

  We’ll just have to make the most of the next few days, I tell myself. We’ll try to pack as much fun as we can into the time we have.

  I feel strangely and suddenly compelled to wake him up just so I can talk to him. What does he want to do today? Go to the beach? Go into town and buy ballet slippers? Learn how to fly a kite? I don’t care, as long as we’re together. If I’ve learned anything in the past few weeks, it’s that my kid is fun. He’s funny. And he is wise as hell. He knows who he is and he just owns it. He could teach me a thing or two about a thing or two. If only we had more time.

  A strand of hair sticks to his forehead. I resist the urge to reach out and push it off his face. It’s seven thirty; I can’t believe he’s still asleep. Usually Caleb is an early riser. The rooster, Zadie calls him, up at the crack of dawn. I’m getting hungry, but I don’t dare leave him. I don’t want him to wake up alone in a strange house.

  I pick up my phone, busying myself. I smile when I see a text from Elise:

  Early morning at the 76th playground. :-)
You boys around?

  I wish! I type back. Sorry to miss the fun. We’re away for the weekend. Would love to see you soon.

  I linger over this last sentence before hitting Send. “Love” sounds too strong, I decide. Delete, delete, delete.

  “Would like to see you”? No, that sounds vaguely ominous; like something a boss says to an underling when they’ve made a mistake at work.

  “Would be nice to see you”? Too tepid.

  “Would be great to see you.” That works. I type that instead. Should there be a question mark at the end? The period seems so final. Like I’m not begging for a response, which of course I am.

  Before I hit Send, she pings me again:

  Ahh, total meltdown in progress. Have to jet. We’re out in East Hampton through the end of August but let’s plan a catch-up for when we return.

  We’re here! I type excitedly.

  The playground?

  No, East Hampton!

  No way! That’s awesome. Where are you staying?

  I pause before typing: At my father’s house on Further Lane.

  Fancy, she says.

  You have no idea.

  Sounds like you need a rescue.

  You have no idea.

  I’ll call you tonight. Planning to drive out early tomorrow morning. Hoping Lucas naps in car. *fingers crossed*

  “Mmm-hmmm.” Caleb clears his throat. I look up from my phone. He’s staring off into space, blinking his blue-gray eyes. He looks pale but less sweaty.

  “Hey, bud! How’re you feeling?” I put my phone down on the nightstand, reach for his forehead. “Oh, good. No fever.”

  “I’m thirsty. And hungry.”

  “That’s great news. Let’s get you some breakfast.” I walk over to the window, roll up the shade. The sky is gray; a fog has rolled in overnight, blanketing the ocean. Though this beach must certainly be beautiful beneath a cloudless sky, there’s something majestic about the fog. Past the wooden deck, dune grass sways, giving way to a wide stretch of sand. The wind whips the water into frothy whitecaps; two surfers bobbing on boards break the horizon line. On the shore, a little boy sprints to the dunes and back, an alligator-shaped kite bouncing along the sand. His father trails him, then raises his hands in victory when the kite finally takes flight.

  “What an incredible view,” I say, more to myself than to Caleb.

  Caleb swings his legs over the side of the bed. Like an old man, he presses one hand to his lower back, stretches, ambles over.

  His eyes light up when he sees the beach.

  “Wow,” he says, nodding in approval. “Can we go?”

  “Sure. After you eat something, though, okay? Maybe some toast?”

  Caleb ignores this. “I want to swim in the ocean,” he says, staring out the window. “And I want a kite. And I want to hang out with Aunt Zadie.”

  “I’m sure she’d love that.”

  He turns, cocks his head, squints his eyes. “Are you mad?”

  “Am I mad?”

  “Are you mad at Aunt Zadie?” He crosses his arms, as if to say, Don’t bullshit me, Dad. “You yelled at her yesterday. A lot.”

  I sigh and sit down on the bed. I pat the duvet next to me. After a moment of hesitation, he joins me. “Listen, Caleb, I’m really sorry about yelling at Aunt Zadie, okay? I shouldn’t have done that in front of you.”

  “You shouldn’t have done that at all,” Caleb corrects.

  “That’s true, you’re right. Yelling’s never okay. It won’t happen again.”

  “Why were you so mad?”

  “Hmm, that’s a good question,” I say, hoping that nonanswer will suffice.

  Apparently not. “Is it because of your daddy?” Caleb persists.

  “My daddy?”

  “Because you thought he was dead and now he’s not?”

  “Wow. Okay. So here’s the thing, Caleb. My daddy went away when I was really little. So he wasn’t part of our family growing up. It was just me, Zadie, and Grandma Kay.”

  “So you thought he was dead?”

  “No. I didn’t think he was dead. He just wasn’t part of our family.”

  Caleb frowns. “But that doesn’t make sense,” he says. “If he’s your daddy, then he’s part of our family. For sure. Like on the trees.”

  “The trees?” Sometimes talking to Caleb feels like talking to a small drunk person. The individual words make sense, but when strung together in a sentence, not so much.

  “Yeah. The trees we made. For the hallway in the Green Room.”

  “Oh, the family trees.” I blanch a little inside, remembering the family tree incident at Madison Avenue Preschool. Each child in Caleb’s class was given trunks and leaves made from construction paper. With the help of their teacher, the well-meaning Ms. Wilson, family members’ names were inscribed on the leaves and subsequently glue-sticked onto the trunks, then displayed in the hallway under a sign that read: “Green Room Family Forest.”

  A straightforward, seemingly innocuous assignment, or so Ms. Wilson thought.

  Shortly after the project commenced, the Green Room descended into chaos.

  One girl, Eloise Van Driesen, helped herself to three trunks—her daddy had been married that many times, she allegedly said—and, in so doing, incited a near-riotous run on the supply closet during which mousy Travis Barnstock was nearly trampled.

  Dash Klein, unable to remember if his siblings were half or step-, had such an epic meltdown that a blood vessel burst in his eye.

  Pierce Cortlandt stabbed his twin brother, Hunter, with a Popsicle stick (lifted from the supply closet) for “copying” his tree, potentially causing permanent hearing loss in his left ear.

  And Barnes Shepson, the lone heir to the Shepson Pharmaceutical fortune, so thoroughly covered his trunk with the names of nannies, chefs, drivers, and assorted other caregivers that there was, according to him, “no room left for Mommy and Daddy.”

  “Only in Manhattan, right?” Ms. Wilson asked me, and attempted a weak smile. We had both been called into the program director’s office to discuss, once again, what should be done about Caleb.

  Jeannine French gazed at us from across her desk, her eyebrows knitted together in studied concern. Ms. Wilson smoothed the front of her dress over and over, declining to look up. I could tell that at that very moment she was considering packing it in and moving herself back to whatever Midwestern town she once called home.

  “Just show me Caleb’s tree,” I said, cutting to the chase. It was, after all, the reason I’d left work early.

  With some hemming and hawing, the tree was produced.

  It took me a moment to realize what I was looking at. But once it clicked, I felt my heart drop out of my chest.

  “You see, he glued you and your sister up here at the top—”

  Jeannine began.

  “Yes, I see,” I said, interrupting her.

  “And your wife is here at the bottom . . .” Her voice trailed off. Indeed, Caleb has glued his “Mommy” leaf to the base of the tree instead of up in the branches as instructed.

  I traced my finger over it.

  “Any chance he just made a mistake?” I asked, knowing the answer. Not even five, but Caleb was smart enough to know where leaves grow.

  “It’s possible,” said Ms. Wilson, though her eyes told me she didn’t believe it.

  “On one hand, I find this very impressive,” Jeannine said, with forced enthusiasm. “The concept of a fallen leaf—well, it’s very . . . sophisticated for a child of Caleb’s age.”

  “Sophisticated, but morbid,” I suggested.

  She looked away. “Well, that’s not a word I would use. But it does, I think, raise”—pause again—“questions.”

  “Questions.”

  “Yes, questions. About how Caleb is grappling with the loss of your wife. About his abilities to name his grief, to define it in such a way that allows him to make sense of it, process it, and eventually make peace with it.”

  “Is that wha
t we’re supposed to be doing?” I said, with a dry laugh. “Because if Caleb can figure out how to do that, I really hope he’ll show me the way.”

  • • •

  “Your daddy’s a leaf,” Caleb says, insistent. “The daddy always gets a leaf no matter what.”

  “Okay, that’s right. He’s a leaf on our family tree.”

  “Right next to Grandma Kay.”

  “Uh, okay. Sure. Right next to Grandma Kay.” My stomach sinks as I say it, but I’m willing to concede my father a spot on my mother’s branch if that’s what it’s going to take to get this conversation behind us.

  Caleb nods, satisfied. “So, are you mad at him?”

  “Who? My dad?”

  “Yeah.” He stares out at the ocean. The fog, I notice, is beginning to lift.

  “Well, I was. For a long time. Maybe I still am, a little.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he wasn’t around very much when I was your age.”

  Caleb shrugs. Not such a big deal, in his estimation. “Maybe he had stuff to do,” he says.

  “I’m sure he did.”

  “We’re all busy.” He says this with such adult candor that I crack up. He looks up at me, confused and delighted. He hadn’t meant to make me laugh.

  “We’re definitely all busy,” I say, putting my arm around him.

  “Especially you. You’re always busy.”

  Not lately, I think to myself. “Especially me.”

  “Even Buck. Even when he’s lying on the couch sometimes he still says he’s busy.”

  I roll my eyes. “Even Buck.”

  “I think maybe you shouldn’t be mad at him.”

  “I’ll try my best.”

  “You wanna know why?”

  “I do.”

  “A lot of reasons. But one is that he has a really nice house and he invites you over.”

  I laugh again. “That he does.”

  “I want to go outside. I think the sun is coming out.”

  “I do, too, bud.”

  “I want to stay here.”

  I bite my lip. “I do, too. I really do.” To my own surprise, I mean it.

  This Was Not the Plan

  A year or so after Mira and I got married, everything changed. Suddenly everyone around us was either pregnant or trying to become so. Mira spent every other weekend, or so it felt, attending a baby shower or visiting a newly minted mom in the hospital. At parties, our friends discussed in vitro fertilization with the same enthusiasm that was once reserved for the playoffs or front row seats at a Jay-Z concert. And then there were the e-mails. My in-box overflowed with news of impending arrivals and photos of the recently born. “Our Little Angel!!!” the subject line would read, or “Welcome to the World, Baby Hazel!” Ecstatic declarations of weight and length would accompany a close-up of a squished little alien face, or, worse, a shot of a tiny human form draped across the exhausted mother’s naked, blue-veined bosom.