“I see you didn’t get Neptune, either?” I say to Adam.
“Ganymede.” Adam glances down at his affixed tag. “Jupiter’s largest moon.”
“I see.” There is no hidden agenda or intention behind Alice’s name tag decisions. However, I can’t help but think how fitting it is that Ganymede’s world is not Titan’s. That these two moons do not orbit the same planet. It’s the kind of classic overanalysis I’ve been prone to since I can remember, a habit that was only fine-tuned when I was an English major.
Alice’s fair is a success, with more impressive projects on display than I thought possible in the fourth and fifth grades. Alice’s project, about finding the specific gravity of minerals, nabs the first-place ribbon.
While Dad helps Alice and Marco move the winning project to Alice’s classroom, where it will remain on exhibit throughout the school year, Charlotte leans into my side, Leah still attached to her hip. “You guys come together?” she whispers.
I look over at Adam. He’s with Bryan and Cat.
“No,” I whisper back, my eyes locked on my husband.
“No one’s the wiser.”
I give Charlotte a knowing smile, then offer her help loading her car. She carries enough luggage for a weekend getaway whenever she leaves the house.
Charlotte shifts Leah to her other hip and leans in for another whisper. “How you doing? You two? Together here?” She raises her voice a notch as she says, “By the way, thank you for coming. It means the world to Alice. And me.”
“Of course.” I look at Adam, who’s now gently running his hand over Bryan and Cat’s baby’s head. He’s smiling, looking back and forth from Bryan to Cat to their son. “It’s not as hard as I thought it’d be.”
Adam then takes the baby into his arms, and I can’t help but notice how natural he looks. He has about as much experience with babies as I do, yet he looks as if he does it all the time.
“Mommy.” George’s voice comes from nowhere. He’s immediately tugging at the hem of Charlotte’s plain grey tee. “Mommy, I’m hungry.”
“We’re going home right now,” she tells George. Charlotte’s got an entire catered lunch scheduled to arrive at her house, although judging from the strength of George’s tugs, I don’t think he’ll be able to wait. “Okay, okay,” Charlotte says with a light groan in response to her son’s growing impatience.
Charlotte gives me one of her classic I’ll be back, sorry! looks before taking George by the hand.
“Halley,” Adam calls out, waving me over. He’s still pulling baby duty with Bryan and Cat’s son.
“Remember the last time we saw Davies?” Adam asks me. He’s wearing the world’s largest grin.
I look at the cute bald baby in Adam’s arms. I have no clue when we last saw Davies . . . and I could have sworn it was Davis. “Christmas?” I say.
It couldn’t have been Christmas, because Adam and I spent last Christmas in Aspen, a ski-filled adventure away from traditional family holiday dinners. Nothing against family and requisite holiday visits, but one of the privileges of being a married couple without children is that we can have Christmases in Aspen, Easters in the Bahamas, Fourth of Julys in Miami.
“Almost a year,” Adam says in astonishment.
I’m not surprised. Bryan and Cat are Charlotte’s in-laws, and aside from the rare holiday, birthday, or science fair, we don’t cross paths.
Cat nods, looking to her son. “Time flies,” she says. “Especially when you’re a parent. Hard to believe Davies will be one soon.”
Doing the math, I realize it was soon after Davies’s birth that we last saw Bryan and Cat, and Davies, for that matter. I now remember that Davies was indeed much more baby then than now.
“How old is Davies?” I ask the polite question that every mother must get rather tired of answering.
“Ten months,” Cat says, looking anything but exhausted.
“Like a little person already,” Adam says. I suppress a laugh at Adam’s comment, then realize laughter is the wrong response, given his following comment. “He probably already lets you sleep through the night now?” Adam asks Cat. “He’s a lot easier of a baby now than when he was first born?”
Adam’s questions are so obvious, I’m immediately peeved. He’s asking these stupid questions with me here, having called me over, only to make the point that babies aren’t that complicated. That I will be able to have sleep-filled nights. That all newborn troubles are short-lived and totally worth it when you have a cute bundle of smiling baby like Davies.
I bite back the resentment that’s boiling up.
“Davies is a cutie,” I say to Bryan and Cat.
Adam decides to take my compliment as an invitation, and says, “Here, Halley, hold the little guy.”
I bore my eyes into Adam’s, but he carries on. He cheerfully situates Davies in my arms. I’m no stranger to holding babies and ordinarily wouldn’t mind doing it. But I know why Adam’s putting on this little performance, and I surprise myself with how much I want to lash out at him. Right here, right now, in front of everyone. For something that’s both so innocent and so manipulative.
With Davies snugly, although uninvitedly, in my arms, I give a few light bounces, and with gritted teeth stare at my husband.
“You’re a natural,” Adam says, beaming.
I want to kill him.
“Are you two planning on having one of your own anytime soon?” Cat asks with inquiring eyes. In any other situation, her question would be as innocent as my holding her son.
My eyes are still boring into Adam, but he responds before I can. “Maybe,” he says with a grin.
“Probably not,” I correct.
I lessen the blow of the truth (which is Absolutely not!) so as not to impress upon Cat and Bryan that I look down on their decision to have a child. In my years of experience at answering these kinds of questions, questions that people always seem to feel the need to ask a childless married couple in their midthirties, I’ve found it’s best to tread carefully with the no that rests on my lips.
“You’d make a great mom, Halley,” Adam says, adding insult to injury.
I look at Davies in my arms. He’s putting a small finger through one of the eyelets in my dress. “Oh, I don’t think I’m cut out for this,” I say, then politely hand Davies over to Cat.
“What doesn’t come natural can be learned, right?” Adam says.
I cut my gaze back to Adam, and it’s all I can do not to drag him out to the parking lot and give him a piece of my mind.
With that, I turn to Bryan and Cat and say, “Adam and I decided long ago, before we got married, that we weren’t going to have children.”
Bryan and Cat, obviously uncomfortable, shake their heads, and Bryan says, “Yeah, parenthood isn’t for everyone.”
“Exactly.” I meet Adam’s eyes and give him that silent look that means he’s crossed the line, then turn to Cat and Bryan and say, “It certainly seems to suit you two, though.”
I notice Charlotte trying to balance Leah and her insurmountable amount of luggage, and I excuse myself from the conversation. I distract myself by taking off Charlotte’s hands as much stuff as possible. The busying helps bring my elevated blood pressure down a notch.
“Whoa,” Dad says when I accidentally bump into him as I spin around with an armful of stuff to take to Charlotte’s minivan. He, too, has his hands full.
“Sorry, Daddy,” I say, flustered. Determined to get as far away from Adam as possible before I erupt, I charge out of the gym, a diaper bag oh-so-ironically slung across my back.
It’s on my way to gather the small load Charlotte’s left at the entrance of the school that I bump into Adam.
“Halley,” he says in a low and calming voice.
Anything but calm myself, I give a curt shake of my head. I have nothing to say to him. Certainly nothing that would be appropriate in front of a bunch of fifth graders.
Not getting the hint, Adam pursues me, even offering
to take some of Charlotte’s things off my hands.
“Stop,” I growl under my breath. “I can’t talk to you right now.”
“Well, we’re all going to Charlotte and Marco’s for lunch,” he swiftly points out. “Are we not talking there?”
I give him a biting look, a look that says, Not here, not now. He doesn’t comprehend, or he doesn’t care, because he presses.
I finish gathering all Charlotte’s things, including a dropped sippy cup Adam grabs from the ground. I snatch it from him, indignant. I charge over to the minivan.
“Halley, I didn’t mean to make you angry.”
“Well, you certainly weren’t winning yourself any points,” I snap, voice low enough that only Adam, hot on my heels, can hear.
“It was a baby, Halley. Not a grenade,” he scoffs.
“Exactly! It was a baby.”
Adam and I both cast about, making sure no unsuspecting family member can overhear or spot us as we quietly air our filthy laundry.
“Halley, I didn’t want to upset you. I just saw the opportunity. In hindsight, yeah, I guess it was stupid. I thought I’d point out that you are a natural with children, that’s all. That we could do this.”
I hold up a halting hand and momentarily close my eyes.
“Adam, I don’t care if I’m a natural or if I have two left feet. I. Don’t. Want. A. Baby.”
I cast about again, and that’s when I notice my father near his car. He’s much farther down the row but is easily close enough to read our obvious body language.
“Look,” I say in a hushed tone. I shove the last of the things into the minivan. “Let’s not do this here. This is Alice’s day.”
I’m about to walk to my car, noticing that my father is still watching, when I turn back around to face Adam.
“Never do anything like that again,” I say. “I mean, how are we supposed to put together the pieces when you keep breaking them and making more?”
My comment, ice-cold, leaves Adam speechless. With nothing more to say during what started as a perfectly fine and civil afternoon, we depart for our respective cars.
“What’s going on?” my mother’s voice peals from behind. Ray is several steps ahead of her, already getting into their silver Mercedes, when she stops right behind my car.
“What?” I breathe, unlocking my car doors.
With a quizzical expression, Mom looks from my car to Adam’s, then again to mine. Her auburn hair, coiffed into her usual stately bob, sways slightly with a confused shake of her head. She points in Adam’s direction, making shaky circles with her pointed finger. “What’s with the two cars? Did you two not come together?”
Surprised my self-absorbed mother noticed, I find myself unable to come up with a plausible—or any—answer.
I glance at Adam. He’s looking on, one arm lazily resting on the hood of his car, about to get behind the wheel.
“Halley?” Mom’s hands are sternly on her hips. She tilts her chin down so as to make direct eye contact with me from behind her sunglasses. “Why did you and Adam not come together?”
Before she can say another word, Charlotte, folding up her umbrella stroller and stuffing it into the back of her minivan, shouts, “Come on, Mother! The caterers will wait for no one. Let’s move!”
Flustered, Mom just shakes her head some more and makes her way to Ray, who’s already reversed from his parking spot and ready to go.
I mouth a “Thank you” to Charlotte. She smiles and nods. We’re only halfway through the afternoon, and the family drama is already taxing.
Everyone arrives at Charlotte and Marco’s with only minutes to spare before the caterers arrive with a bounty of delicious food. Marco’s making drinks to order; the garage refrigerator is packed with a variety of wine coolers, sodas, and beers; and a small picnic table for the kids, as well as a Slip’N Slide, is set up in the backyard. All the trappings of what should be a perfectly enjoyable family get-together.
Adam and I don’t exchange words during the appetizers and drinks. In fact, he joins Marco on the back patio, where a makeshift bar is set up, while I sip my drink in the living room with Mom, Ray, Dad, and every now and then Alice, who’s in fashion show mode. She wants to show all of us each of the three new pairs of jelly sandals her mom recently bought her. It’s on the second pair, pretty aqua-blue ones with glitter, that Dad leans over the arm of the sofa and says to me, “You okay, kiddo? You don’t seem to be . . . yourself.”
While sometimes I feel I’ve made a career out of lying to my mother, always in an effort to keep the peace, I do not lie to my father. Ever. Not even when Danny Newman stole a kiss from me during our junior high dance. When my father asked if I’d kissed any boys that night—and looking back I think he asked in jest, not expecting my answer of yes—I told it to him straight. My father and I have always felt comfortable confiding in each other, keeping it real, honest, heartfelt.
“Guessing you saw the whole parking lot thing?” I say grimly.
“Are you and Adam doing all right?” Dad says, almost as if he knows the answer.
I cringe at the words before they even come out of my mouth. “No, we’re not.”
Dad’s hand, the knuckles knobby and hardened with age, thick veins mapping the top, folds its way around mine.
“Oh, Halley.” His tone is soothing yet commanding, something I will always adore about my father. Perhaps it’s an effect of playing both maternal and paternal roles. He’s understanding yet authoritative, kind yet stern. His hand squeezes mine some.
“We’re having some problems,” I say, voice hushed. “We’re . . . separated.”
My father looks surprised, but no judgment crosses his face. Only a twinge of sadness pulls at the wrinkled corners of his eyes, and his clasp on my hand strengthens. “Halley, I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t know how we’ll pull through it, but that’s why we’re separated. To figure things out.”
“You will.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“You’ll figure things out,” he assures me. “You always do, Halley.” He gives my hand a few comforting pats.
“I don’t think I’ve ever gone through something so hard before, Daddy.”
Yes, losing my pet rabbit was difficult. Taking the SAT five times in an effort to get a semidecent score was another sort of difficult. Breaking up with my first love in high school and being dumped in college by the man I was most serious about before Adam were other types of difficult. This is unprecedented.
Voice still lowered, I say, “He wants a baby.” I look into my father’s eyes. “Adam wants one after all.”
“I see,” he says with a pensive nod. “And you—”
“Don’t.” My father’s known where I stand on children since Adam and I got married. In fact, it was clear to everyone in the family that the Brennans were not going to become parents, ever.
“Aha.” Dad continues to nod.
“We just have to . . . figure things out.”
He gives my hand one more squeeze and says, “I’m always here for you, Halley. I’ve always got your back.”
“Thanks, Daddy.”
“You’ll do what’s right.”
I’d like to think that’s true. It sounds good. But my heart and mind are at constant odds. One minute I think I will do anything to have Adam back. Another I’m so outraged that I want to call it like it is. We want different things, so how are we supposed to work it out?
“Thanks,” I say again. “I hope so.” I stand to go see if Charlotte needs any help in the kitchen, then say, “Oh, the separation isn’t exactly common knowledge, Daddy.”
My father briefly looks across the room to my mother, and says, with a small smile, “Dad’s the word.”
Sniffing a laugh at my father’s silly humor, I make my way to the kitchen.
“Need a hand?” I ask my sister.
“How about two?” Charlotte hands me a knife and a spatula. “Cut away.” She gestures to the lasagna.
“I take it he was his usual levelheaded self when you told him?”
I chuckle. “Yeah. Thank you, by the way, for that parking lot save with Mom.”
“Ugh. Mom. Seriously.” Charlotte dries her hands on a kitchen towel and tosses it onto the counter. She rolls her eyes. “Never the time, never the place, always indiscreet.”
“You think she suspects?” Not that it matters. I’ve long since done away with the aim of pleasing my mother. If I don’t want her to know of my separation, it’s merely because I want to avoid the inevitable drama that would come from her jumping to conclusions about divorce. The less instability added to an already unstable predicament the better.
As sisters often think alike, Charlotte replies with, “Does it matter?” In the grand scheme of things, no, it doesn’t. “We all have bigger fish to fry,” she says. “More important things to worry about. You’ve got your separation. She’s got Ray’s new pinkie ring. Did you see that thing?”
I laugh. I had noticed, because how can you not notice two pinkie rings on a sixtysomething-year-old man?
“This one has a diamond,” I say.
“Guess we really do pick our battles, huh?” she says with a sigh.
I follow Charlotte’s gaze out the kitchen window, where Adam and Marco are still on the patio. No longer concocting drinks, they’re sitting on the steps of the small built-in Jacuzzi, talking, drinking beer.
Charlotte has a far-off look in her eyes as she watches her husband. Ordinarily, especially given the emotional roller coaster of the day, I would join her, fondly looking at Adam. However, it’s almost as if my sister isn’t here in the kitchen, standing right beside me. It’s as if she’s in a dream, caught up in thoughts of the object of her look. Her silence and distant gaze throw me off. I get a brief bout of goose bumps, even.
“Charlotte?” I say softly.
“I’m worried about my marriage,” she whispers. Her eyes stay focused on Marco. “It’s hard, Halley, marriage. I get why you and Adam are having your thing.”
“Charlotte.”
I’m not sure what to say. Her revelation, though I know she and Marco struggle with making all the pieces fit in a family of five, is like a punch to the stomach. Worried about her marriage?
Everything the Heart Wants Page 12
