by Lisa Gillis
Jack’s attention was on the face of his phone, a forefinger tapping on the screen. A television broadcasting in the upper corner of the room muffled my approach, but as if feeling my presence, he looked up. Automatically, he stood.
Momentarily confused, thinking he was leaving, I remained standing until I realized he was mannerly waiting for me to sit down.
Dropping to my earlier vacated chair, I picked up my half-finished Coke, and while sipping, took in the other occupants of the room. The number of families awaiting news of loved ones, or waiting to visit, was testament to the number of patients Tristan’s doctor had mentioned.
“You get your mom sorted out?” Jack’s smile was small, but his eyes danced, and I took a moment to enjoy the break in the stress of the day before answering affirmative. One of his thumbs traced the edge of his phone case as he curiously queried, “Is she always like that?”
“Like what?” I disparagingly drawled. “Flipping everything around to how it affects her? Yeah.”
Viewing the large clock on the wall, I saw twenty minutes until next visit time. Delving into my pocket produced my own phone, and I brought up the missed text messages. Although Olivia and I had spoken since, reading my friend’s earlier texts would occupy ten minutes or so.
The fact that Jack could make my heart pound by just sitting there, and draw my gaze with his every move while my child lay sick down the hall, was discomfiting.
After my talk with Olivia the other night, I had put a lock code on my phone, and now, as I punched the number in, I noticed in my side vision that Jack had returned his attention to his phone.
Since I was reading the texts backwards, the ones asking about Tristan came up first, and I skimmed and then stopped when I saw Jack’s name.
LIV
ALERT He is not Russ. That is Jack Storm or whatever name he goes by these days
9:22 AM
My internal amusement may have been verbal, because Jack twisted his head to me, and a strangely familiar instinct had me turning the screen to his viewing angle. “My friend, Olivia. The one who was with me when you got here.”
An answering sound, as stressed and tired as my own laugh, expelled from his lips and then he asked, “Who’s Russ?”
CHAPTER 13
Dropping my hand and phone to my lap, I began the amusing admission. “You.”
“Me?”
“Your code name. I couldn’t put—” Stopping short, I looked around. I was certain none of the room’s significantly older inhabitants would recognize my blurt of his name but amended anyway, “Couldn’t put your real name in, could I?”
Instead of asking me why I chose the name Russ, his next question was unpredicted. “You never told your best friend? About us?”
Pathetic, but my heart lurched at that one word.
Us .
A few weeks ago, over the phone, he had voiced the declaration that I was nothing more than a fuck. Earlier today, he had referred to me as a stranger. Now, I was part of an ’us.’
“I love Liv, but she’s kind of a blabbermouth.”
“But after you found you were preg… After you had…” Stuttering around any baby word, he broke off. Although he was here, in some type of semi-acceptance, he still couldn’t say it. “After all this time, you never told?”
“What would be the point? Besides, I signed some very scary worded papers, remember?”
His lips quirked, and the moment seemed intimate as each of our thoughts were tugged back to THAT moment. He seemed to respect the fact that I had not blabbed to even my closest friend and my family of our liaison, before his face clouded.
“You should have told. Me.” The words were stony and spoke of the lack of an entirely different revelation. It must have marinated all day, and now, he took issue with not having been informed of the pregnancy years ago. My response formulated, then slipped away, then almost came together again, but my brain seemed incapable of any thought except Tristan in that room. Maybe it was the same for him too, because he said, “Never mind. Let’s just get through today for now.”
There it was again. Us. Even if it was in contraction form.
“Mr. and Mrs. Duplei?” A medical assistant clipped bracelets around each of our wrists after informing us visitation was about to begin. Printed on the laminated bracelet was Tristan’s name, birthday, doctor, and other information. The visiting system was organized by room and space, so only one patient’s family at a time crowded each room.
Tristan was still asleep, and again, I fussed maternally over him while Jack stood at the foot of the bed, seemingly infatuated by his tiny look-alike. Once we adjourned back to our chairs, Jack offered to find something to eat, but I declined.
“Go ahead if you want.” I knew he must be hungry, but he shook his head and leaned it back against the wall. Taking in the shadows beginning to form beneath his eyes, I wondered if they stemmed from stress or fatigue. “When did you get here? To Biloxi?”
“This morning.” Even his voice seemed wearier than earlier.
“You flew in this morning?”
“Had meetings all day yesterday. New album stuff. So I left LA last night at 11:37.” He spoke in exact flight time then grimaced. “Then, of course, two hours is lost to the time zone difference. So it was around four this morning when I checked into the hotel.”
Biting my tongue before it could ask where he was staying, I slouched more comfortably, resting my own head back as well.
The casino where I worked was in one of two elite five-star hotels in the area. It was closer by a few miles to both the airport and the hospital. Factor in all logic, and there was a good chance he was staying in a hotel I knew very well. So well, it was easy to picture him in the lobby waiting for a cab or—my eyes darted to him, thankfully finding his eyes closed, oblivious to my blush—stretched out in a bed with a burgundy bed scarf at his feet.
The silence stretched, and he seemed to be dozing. Although I was too keyed up to do the same, it felt good to close my eyes.
“Marissa?” He softly murmured my name, possibly in case I was asleep.
“Mmh?” Without moving anything except my eyes, I glanced and found him doing the same.
“Tell me about him…”
Caught off guard, I stared at the repeating wallpaper print. There was nothing I loved more than to talk about Tristan. I tried not to be one of ‘those’ mothers at work, or wherever, boring others with every detail of their child, but it wasn’t easy.
My parents liked listening to every little story of his latest escapades. Olivia generally lived each adventure, and the two of us would laugh together. But, nothing had ever been as pleasing as the idea of telling my son’s personality traits, skills, gifts, and glories to his father.
“He’s the best kid in the world. So sweet and smart. And funny. He says the funniest stuff on purpose. Anything good, he is.” Letting my mind drift, I tried to come up with specifics.
“What are his favorite things to do?”
A smile stretched on my lips as I briefed Jack of the shows Tristan watched, the books he liked, and the games he played. Of Hot Wheels cars and helicopters. Of Tiggy his fake pet and Bally his real pet. Of drums and karaoke.
“He likes to sing?” Jack’s head popped up from the wall.
A proud maternal smile tipped my lips. “He’s actually really good. You’d be surprised.”
“Why surprised?” Jack taunted, and a teasing glint lit his gaze. “You listened to the CD I gave you, right?”
That one sentence had so many hidden implications whether he meant it to or not. An inference that any child of his would be born with music pumping as vitally as blood through the veins. An internal acceptance of Tristan as his son.
“I listened to more than the CD. Even downloaded a couple.” The confession naturally spilled out in this close easy moment, and I watched his brows lift slightly in surprise.
A husky challenge came next. “Does that mean you liked what you heard? Marissa who
doesn’t listen to hard metal?”
For years, Jack had been tied to my world. But I had always reasoned to myself that to him, I was barely a blip on a busy radar dotted with many women. Hearing him recite a specific detail from the evening we had been together caused my heart to glow.
“Some of it.” My stressed smile was slight, but it remained as that boyish taunt transported me back into time. Back to Jack giving me that first Jackal CD after giving me a firsthand inkling of just how great the X-rated things sung and screamed about in so many of those songs could be.
Thankfully, as if just remembering what else I had mentioned, Jack abandoned that avenue of conversation. “Drums?” When I nodded, he surmised, “You're a good mom to tolerate a four-year old on drums…”
“Surprisingly, he can keep a beat.”
“There’s that ‘surprisingly’ again,” he joked as if offended.
Blowing out a breath, I shot back, “Because he’s four!”
His grin held, gradually fading as he asked, “Do you have pictures? On your phone?”
Eagerly, I opened the gallery file, passed the device over, and then I watched his face as he took in every pixel. There were easily a hundred pictures on the phone, and he went through each one. He would slow sometimes on any of me with friends, but he only asked questions about any containing Tristan.
Pausing on one, he smiled at Tristan using Bally as a pillow while watching tv, and asked me to text the image to his phone.
Variable emotions channeled between us, but I held back my questions. Fatherhood may have petrified him a few weeks ago, but once he saw the inevitable and laid eyes on his son, he was surprisingly quick to adjust. So quickly, it was frightening when the ‘C’ word popped into my head.
Custody.
CHAPTER 14
Jack stayed all day. When Tristan woke, he waited while I saw him, and I didn’t try to read anything into the decision. It seemed sound. Tristan would only be confused if some strange man was with me.
My steps were much lighter after seeing my son alert, even though his eyes were bleary instead of alight with his latest mischief. Bravely, he even smiled upon seeing me and talked some between Jell-O bites. The oxygen had been removed. The tubes hung discarded over his bed, and I watched in relief as his small chest expanded and contracted beneath the hospital gown. Beneath the covers was a miracle of modern science. I had peeked at the bandages in my last bedside visit while Tristan was sleeping, and although there was no visible change in his tiny legs, I knew there was a big difference. The pain medication caused him to fall asleep quickly after eating, and eventually, a nurse ran me out of the room.
Jack seemed to hang on every detail, even asking what flavor Jell-O and inquiring if Tristan liked that flavor the best.
I felt good about our son’s prognosis and eagerly nodded when Jack offered to hunt down the cafeteria and bring some food back.
While watching him walk away, my eyes honed in on the fit of his jeans, and my fingers unconsciously curled into the gel case of my phone. When he disappeared from my line of vision, I stared at my hands and wondered what exactly was going on between the two of us. Was he feeling this same closeness, as if we were inherently joined by more than one night of sex and a son?
From my pocket, my phone pounded his ring tone. People all around rubbernecked. Some frowned with disapproval, and some smiled in amusement at the screeching guitar riff and rowdy scream. Quickly fishing it out, I jabbed at the screen and spoke. “Hey, what’s up?”
Considerately, Jack gave me a rundown of the food choices, and I found it difficult to select while being too engaged by the sound of his voice.
“Cool,” was his acknowledgment when I finally spoke. Then, “What to drink?”
“Tea. Unsweet.”
“Unsweet?” His exclamation rebounded without pause.
“Yes please, if they have it.”
“I thought sweet tea was a South thing. You sure you’re a southern girl?”
My already growling stomach rumbled for reasons non-hunger related at that husky barb. “Last time I checked, I cud still get a y’all on better’n any gurl in this neck o’ the woods.”
The stress over Tristan was obviously mixing with nerves due to Jack’s presence. What seemed like mild flirtation between us also had me edgy. Before I could blurt anything else equally ridiculous, I bit my lip.
His response was not disappointing; his voice dropped another pitch and decibel. “That’s for damn sure, Mariss.”
My stomach lurched again. Although I was not sure what he meant, or if he even meant anything, his comment seemed sexy and flattering.
And until now, the last time I had heard him say Mariss had been five years ago…
In the pause that followed, the sounds of the cafeteria filtered through. I heard him phrase a polite thank you to someone, and then he spoke back into the phone. “Want dessert? Never mind. Stupid question. Everyone wants dessert. See you in a sec.” And with that sweet promise, he dropped the call before I could refuse whatever sweet delectable goodness he was looking at.
A prickle of awareness was becoming familiar, and several minutes later, my vision turned from absent-minded ‘people watching’ back to the hallway. I savored his approach with as much hunger as I had devoured his exit– an appetite that had nothing to do with the containers of food he balanced in both hands.
The moment his attention swung my way, I averted my eyes to the television, hopefully before he saw my mouthwatering stare.
Side by side, we flipped opened Styrofoam lids, and before the steam even fully escaped, I forked my first bite of lasagna, swallowing it whole. Jack was tearing up a hamburger and french fries as if he hadn’t eaten in days.
Putting a straw to his lips, he pulled a long sip from his drink and winced. “Either our drinks are switched, or this is the worst tea ever.” Sweet tea was obviously his preference. Mentally, I ticked off another fact about him that I had been too flustered to absorb during the cafeteria phone flirtation.
Barely pausing in the shovel of another bite into my mouth, I passed him the cardboard cup that I hadn’t touched since placing it on the tiny table. We made the exchange. As long as it was in my hand, I took a drink, and with one swallow, felt the intimacy of drinking after him. Every tiny detail where he was concerned was becoming major, and with determination, I set the distraction aside and bit off a chunk of garlic bread.
Jack ate the last of his fries, three or four at a time. He finished his meal way before I was done, and he passed over a small, round container of peach cobbler before digging into and wiping out his own dessert of the same. My taste buds screamed with delight, and my brain screamed in reproach, calculating every calorie of every bite.
After our meal, I gathered the trash and tossed it into a receptacle on the way to the restroom. Once the immediate need was out of the way, I stood at the vanity, taking in my reflection. The outfit flattered all the right curves, and although my face looked pinched with worry and fatigue, this was a good hair day. Immediately, I felt guilty for caring. This was a hospital, not a hang fest.
Jack was in the hallway on his phone when I pulled open the door, possibly having come from the adjacent lavatory before receiving or making the call. He was walking away, but his husky drawl clearly carried in his wake. “Love you too.”
Pivoting, I retreated to the bathroom and tiredly braced my hands on either side of one of the sinks as I steeled myself against what I’d just heard.
Nothing he had done today would suggest he was still interested enough in me, that he would invite me to LA all over again, and that he would want to raise Tristan with me. These things had subconsciously become my fantasy over the last few years, my ‘what if’ over the last few weeks, and my hope in the last few hours.
Taking out my phone, I sent a belated text to Olivia, letting her know Tristan had roused, was well, and I would talk to her later. Or cry on her shoulder. The amendment came into my thoughts as the recollection o
f Jack’s deep voice reverberated the disturbing words. Words that likely meant my only future with him was in my fantasies. And words forcing me to acknowledge a flicker of hope had somehow manifested during the last few hours.
Love you too.
Pasting a bored expression on my face, I returned to my seat and bent to wipe breadcrumbs from my chair before sitting. Jack’s admiring gaze seemed to discreetly hover on my chest area. Again, my memories tumbled back to the sex with him, the feel of his teeth, tongue, lips, callused fingers…
Taking up our phones, we stayed quiet, intermittently pecking at the glass screens while watching a sitcom on the television screen. Before long, I noticed Jack had fallen asleep.
A new voyeuristic side of me emerged. Without shame, I studied the sleeping planes of his face. My previous fatigue dissipated as his breathing evened out and his muscles relaxed deeper into the chair cushion.
The trance I fell into, while studying dark brows against a tanned forehead and taking in equally dark lashes against ruddy cheeks, felt oddly familiar.
There were piercings in his ear but no adornments today. The ponytail had worked its way out of the back of the jacket and now fell over the hanging hood. My eyes touched over his clothing, knowing too well what it covered, and came back to his face. Yet again, my heart felt a touch of recognition and a tug of tenderness although I had never seen him sleep.
It was then I realized I had seen this every night for four and a half years– the child version of those eyebrows, cheekbones, and jaw. When his mouth fell open, just slightly, the way Tristan’s often did in slumber, I gawked in awe. Ripping my eyes away, my focus fell to his phone, which rested on the arm of the chair.
Withstanding the temptation for all of ten minutes, I finally broke and, with a furtive look at the slight twitch beneath his eyelids, rotated the device around to face me. Double-checking his sleeping status, I powered on the screen. Finding it unlocked, I quickly clicked ‘Recent.’
The last call was incoming, from ‘Mom.’
