Scout’s still asleep and I have to go wake her up in a couple minutes.
But for now I have the morning to my lonely self. I sit down at the kitchen table, which is somewhat battered from overuse, since it was second hand to begin with, and I sip my coffee quietly.
The events of the last few years run through my head.
I’d been just fired from the movie theater and I didn’t get another job until after my dad had died. I ended up working at some rinky-dink little hardware store where hardly any customers came in. It didn’t pay much at all, but it gave me plenty of time to study, and I studied my little ass off all day every day during every shift.
I was putting myself through community college right here in town, paying my way class by class. I got straight As from the amount of work I was putting in.
My academic advisor suggested I take a semester off of school when Scout was about to be born, but I didn’t want to do that. I couldn’t do that. I knew that I had to push myself if I was going to provide a good life for Scout.
For some reason, the thought of asking Dan for financial assistance never crossed my mind. For one thing, I’d become independent with my dad’s death. There was no one to help me out with it. My mom and dad were both gone. I got used to doing everything myself.
Also, I didn’t want to tell Dan… the reasons… well, I’m not sure the reasons are ever going to be clear to me exactly. I can make up all the excuses I want. I can justify it anyway I want to myself, but in the end… I didn’t do the right thing, and I have to live with that, with those choices.
Time to wake up Scout.
I head up to her room, which I’ve done completely myself. When I was pregnant, I painted the entire room, and even learned how to build some basic furniture myself. Of course, I didn’t know what I was doing, but I didn’t have any money either, so I did the best I could.
When I was pregnant, I became very cautious about anything that might harm Scout. I just wanted her to healthy and enjoy a good life. So I did my research on all the paints and all the toxins they might contain. I researched everything, down to exactly what foods I should eat during the pregnancy. And I spend all the money I had on eating exactly the right way.
“Good morning, Scout,” I say, leaning over the bed. Her hair, which is just like Dan’s and reminds me of him every time I see it, is spilling messily out of her head.
“Mom?” she says sleepily, and I gently shake her until she wakes up.
But once she wakes up, wow, is she awake.
She’s a little bundle of energy and honestly, it’s hard to keep up.
She wants to do everything at once, and I feel like a slow, old adult, although I’m not even 30 yet.
“Come on, Scout,” I say. “Let’s get you some breakfast.”
She sits at the kitchen table and reads one of her books from school while I scramble some eggs for us. I also pour her a granola cereal with some milk, with chopped up bananas in it. I have to hide the fruit in her food sometimes, because for some reason she’s decided that fruit is gross, unless it’s chopped up and hidden away in other foods, that is.
“Mom, what’s this word mean?” says Scout.
“What are the letters, Scout?” I say.
“F-I-E-L-D,” she reads.
“Field,” I say. “It can be a field out in nature, or maybe on a farm. Also, football fields…”
I trail off.
“You mean like the kind where my dad plays?”
“That’s right, honey,” I say, without saying anything more.
I haven’t told Scout a lot about her father, but I’ve told her that he was a famous football player. She used to ask question after question about him, but I never knew what to say, and I think she could tell that the questions were making me feel uncomfortable. In reality, they just made me feel guilty. Why shouldn’t Scout grow up without a father? It’s not fair. Not that it’s that unusual these days, of course, because most of the kids in her kindergarten class have divorced parents. I’d guess that divorced parents are actually the majority these days—or, in my case, not even married, and yet still not together.
“Here you go, Scout,” I say, serving her the scrambled eggs.
“Where’s the hot sauce?” she says, getting up and practically sprinting over to the cupboards.
“You sure you want hot sauce this early?” I say. “Remember how spicy it was for you before?”
“Of course I want it,” says Scout, her eyes wide with excitement.
I don’t really know where her obsession with hot sauce came from.
“OK,” I say, reaching high up on the shelf for her. “Here’s the bottle. Just be careful with it and don’t put too much on.”
Of course, Scout douses her eggs with as much hot sauce as she possible can, and less than ten minutes, she’s trying to put the fire out by downing milk.
“Maybe a little less next time, OK?” I say, giving her a wink.
I have a terrible thought for a moment: am I a bad mother for giving my daughter hot sauce? No, I don’t think so, though. These thoughts are always swimming around, popping up once in a while. Actually, if I step back and think about it, I think that giving her a somewhat more or less free reign to experiment with things herself is good. After all, how is she supposed to learn things if she can’t experiment? And hot sauce is pretty harmless in the end.
We get into my old station wagon and drive the ten minutes to her school.
I pull up into the car loop.
“Hope you have a good day, Scout,” I say. “Did you remember to bring your book?”
She nods her head. She’s dressed in a cute little dress. In a couple (well, a few more, but you know what I mean, how time flies) years, I know, she’ll be a teenager, and I won’t be able to have any say in how she dresses. She’ll probably be wearing torn jeans and… maybe I’ll have found myself a man by then.
I watch as Scout gets out of the car and jogs off towards her friends who are getting off the bus. One of the kindergarten teachers is on bus and car duty and she gives me a wave. I wave back, put the car in gear, and start driving down the road to work.
It’s a cold November day, but I put the windows down just a little, to feel the air…
It’s almost Thanksgiving, just like that time six years ago when Dan was here.
I wonder if I’ll ever see him again, and I wonder if I’ll ever forget him? I can’t, though. There’s no way I could ever get him out of my head, even if he wasn’t Scout’s father.
OK. I’ve got to get my head clear for work. I try to push the thoughts of Dan out, but it just makes the images and memories stronger somehow.
This isn’t my first day on the job, but it’s the first month. And I’m the boss, so everyday feels like the first day on a new job. Fortunately, I’m starting to get used to it.
I run my own physical therapy center, one that’s a little unusual in that it’s based in a pool.
Sure, I’ve gotten criticism, plenty of criticism, for doing things my own way, for making waves.
“Morning, Sam,” I say to the young guy who’s my assistant. He’s studying right now to be a physical therapist, and he thought this would be a good job to get his foot in the door.
“Hey there,” he says, without looking up from his computer.
He’s a nice guy, and very competent. The only thing is that he’s dressed like a punk, with a huge pink mohawk that juts up at least a foot from his squat little head.
I don’t have a problem with the way he dresses, and frankly I think everyone should dress how they want. I have, however, warned him quite clearly that other employers won’t be quite as lenient, especially when it comes to the physical therapy world. It’s important in this business to look professional, to look like people want to actually take your advice.
Myself, I opt for something simple. I wear those yoga style pants, but they’re a little thicker, and not quite as revealing. But they are tight, and sure I’ve had guys checking o
ut my ass from time to time. But most of the time they keep it professional.
I’m still debating about whether I should wear a swimsuit under my clothes, or just change into it.
It’s expensive renting a pool, but I know that the therapeutic benefits are going to be worth it for the clients. It’s not a huge pool, either. It doesn’t have to be an Olympic sized pool since most of the clients are going to be older and just working on getting their basic movements back. They’re not going to be doing laps too often.
The smell of chlorine is still something that I have to get used to.
Sometimes I do dress it up a little, if I’m doing something more like a business meeting. But I still keep it simple then, with t a collared shirt, and some khaki pants.
“Anything going on today?” I say. “Or still just one booking?”
The business is doing well, but not quite as well as I could have expected. But no one has really done this kind of joint physical therapy-pool business before. I’m really striking out on new territory, and I do have moments of doubt where I wonder if I’m even really doing the right thing at all.
When I get more clients, I imagine I’ll just be in the pool or on the deck all day long, and then I probably won’t be changing out of my swimsuit at all, but just wearing it all day long. Those days are hopefully going to come soon, when by word of mouth my business starts spreading.
Right now, I just have to do the best work I can with the clients that I do have. Most of them are clients that know me from the old practice where I used to work. They respect my abilities and my skills, and know that I can do a good job. They trust me, and I hope in the future more clients will be trusting me just the same.
“There’s one new booking today,” says Sam, not looking up from the computer.
“Yeah?” I say, trying to contain the excitement in my voice.
“It’s a Mrs. Cambridge,” he says. “She wanted an appointment early. Says her son is going to bring her in. She hurt her hip and she doesn’t want to have an operation.”
I frown.
“Those can be tricky,” I say. “A lot of people don’t want the operations, but often that’s what they really need. I guess we’ll see what we can do, eh?”
Sam nods.
“Is the pool all ready?” I say.
“Yeah, I just added a new bucket of chlorine this morning.”
“Thanks,” I say. “When is her appointment?”
“About twenty minutes,” he says.
“That early?” I say.
“Yeah, I know it’s early. But you told me to keep the whole day’s schedule open no matter what.”
“Thanks,” I say. “It’s fine. I’ d better get changed.”
Sam finally looks up and me and nods.
“Just keep working on that website,” I say. “It’ll be nice to have a place where the clients can find us.”
Sam’s doing a great job on the website, and I know it’s mostly because he hopes to work here as a therapist once he gets his license. He’s studying hard and he’s a good kid.
I remember back when I was working for other people. It wasn’t that long ago. They treated me fine at the physical therapy place, but the movie theater was a different story. That was when I was just a kid, really. I think I started working there when I was 18. I had a string of different jobs in the meantime, and they all treated me like dirt. I try not to do the same thing to Sam, and I like the idea of him working here later. I like the idea of him having a vested interest in the business and I try to pay him better as a result. But if I don’t get a lot more clients soon, it’s going to be hard to even pay the costs of the business (operating an indoor pool isn’t cheap) let alone Sam’s wages.
I head into the locker room. I didn’t have this building built specially, so basically it’s an old swim club that was going to be torn down. I think it still has a lot of charm though, even if it could use a little bit of work to spruce the place up.
I open up my locker and take out my one piece swimsuit. This isn’t the beach, and a bikini would probably be seen as inappropriate. I have something that doesn’t show much cleavage, something modest. I strip off my pants and my shirt and stand in my bra and panties, just thinking for a moment before putting on my swimsuit.
I start to unhook my bra and this triggers a memory of the night I spent with Scout’s father, Dan.
Something clicks for me.
Mrs. Cambridge. That’s Dan’s last name. And I’m only twenty minutes away from our old hometown.
Could this possibly be Dan’s mother?
That doesn’t mean necessarily that Dan would be here with her. In fact, it would be quite unusual. Since I know that Dan just played a football game sometime in the last week. (Yes, I still keep tabs on him, by browsing the football pages on the internet, even though I don’t really have any interest in the sport myself.) He’s busy with practice for sure.
Dan
“Hi,” I say, entering the small office that smells like a pool. “I’m here for my mom. She has an appointment with the physical therapist.”
“Yes,” says the young guy with a mohawk. This is the first time I’ve seen a guy with a mohawk working the desk somewhere this professional, and I’m taken aback for a moment. Not that I give a damn what he look like, as long as these people can help my mom. “Chloe’s already in the pool. Do you need help getting in there?”
“I think we’ll be OK,” I say. “She’s already changed.” I turn to my mom. “You holding up OK, Mom?” I say.
“I’m fine, honey,” says my mom somewhat stiffly. She’s always been so independent that it’s hard for her to resign herself to this new wheelchair like existence.
But my dad rented a specially outfitted van (that I’m paying for, of course) that has a wheel chair accessible automotive ramp that can lift her into the back area, where the wheel chair can be strapped in. It’s a hell of a lot easier than having to fold up the wheel chair and then help my mom into the car.
“I’ll take her back, then,” I say. “Where’s the pool?”
He points in the direction of some metal doors, and I prop the door open and start wheeling my mom through.
A thought suddenly hits me that makes me pause for a moment.
Chloe?
It couldn’t be. After all, what are the chances that this is my Chloe? What are the chances she’s still hanging around here? She could be halfway around the world by now, teaching English in China. Or she could be working in New York City as a fashion designer.
…or she could still be working at that movie theater. The sobering thought hits me hard, like a ton of bricks. I don’t want that to have happened to Chloe. I hope she’s moved on with her life, and has been able to overcome emotionally and financially from her dad’s death.
The air reeks of chlorine, and it’ shot and muggy, especially uncomfortable in the jeans and jacket I’m wearing. After all, it’s cold outside.
But, then again, this greenhouse like atmosphere is a nice change from the cold outside.
I’ve taken the time off from the team, telling Coach basically to go fuck himself, in not so many words. He gave me hell for missing practice, but I told him I needed to spend time with my mother because of her hip problem. In the end, there’s not a lot he can do, except threaten me because I’ve got an iron clad contract and a real reason to take a short leave, even if it is in season. I’m also completely indispensable to the team.
“You going to push me all the way through, or just stand there thinking about football or women?” says my mom.
“Sorry,” I say, snapping out of my little daydream and continue pushing her through.
The pool is small but big enough. Everything is clean, if not a little old, and the place has a professional feel to it.
“I sure hope they can help you,” I say. “I’ve never heard of this pool based physical therapy before.”
“My friend Marge said this is the best,” says my mom.
I’m v
aguely aware of a woman standing off towards the side of the pool, surrounded by all sorts of therapeutic looking floatation devices.
“You must be Mrs. Cambridge,” says the woman.
Something about her voice… it’s so familiar.
I turn to look at her and it feels like the world is moving in slow motion as I do so.
It’s Chloe.
It’s Chloe standing there, in a swimsuit. It’s unmistakably Chloe.
She looks different in some ways. She’s developed even more curves. Her hair is longer than when I last saw her. She’s still just as beautiful as she was six years ago, if not many more times as beautiful as then.
Her face drops in surprise as she sees me. Her jaw literally falls open.
“You’re the one who’s going to fix my hip?” says my mother.
Chloe remains frozen for a moment, staring at me.
“Do you two know each other?” says my mom.
I mumble something.
It’s Chloe who rescues us. She puts on her professional charm again, her professional physical therapist demeanor. So she’s a physical therapist now? She’s doing pretty well for herself, from the looks of it.
All sorts of emotions flood me. All sorts of questions. Is she married? I don’t see a ring. But then again, wouldn’t a physical therapist remove her ring before getting into the pool?
“Dan’s an old friend from high school,” says Chloe, keeping her face neutral.
“I didn’t know you had any female friends you haven’t slept with,” says my mom in her biting sarcastic tone that she’s developed over the last few years. (My dad says it’s becoming something of a problem, but it can also be hilarious, depending on which side of the situation you’re on.)
“Mom!” I say.
Chloe blushes a deep red.
“Well that answers that question,” says my mom, eyeing Chloe’s reddening face.
Running Back's Baby: A Secret Baby Romance Page 7
