One True Theory of Love

by Laura Fitzgerald

  “What if I volunteered to coach?” Ahmed said. “I’d love to do it, and I think it would be good for Henry, too.”

  Meg pulled back, awed and stunned. She stared at Ahmed in a daze as her father’s words came back to her. If you want to know how a man feels about you, don’t listen to a word he says. Instead, watch what he does.

  This counted, Ahmed’s offering to coach Henry’s team.

  It counted for a lot.

  Later that week, Meg was in the school office before the beginning bell, making copies of a permission slip for a field trip to Centennial Hall, when she overheard the school secretary say to someone on the phone, “Oh, Ms. Clark’s right here. Hold one moment, please.”

  Meg turned from the copy machine. “Is it a parent?”

  Alicia Diaz held out the receiver. She was fiftyish, short and fleshy—Meg thought of her as squishy. As long as Meg had known her, Alicia had always worn the same soft Dior J’adore perfume. “He says he’s an old friend.”

  Meg’s gut kicked a warning. “Take a message, will you?”

  Alicia tried, but then held the handset out again. “He says it’s important.”

  Meg shook her head. “Find out who it is.”

  “Just take it.” Alicia shook the handset at Meg. “I’ve got work to do.”

  Meg’s chest pounded in terror as she reached for the phone. “Hello?”

  “They still call you Ms. Clark, I see,” the man said.

  Eeek, eeek, eeek.

  It was like the shower scene from Hitchcock’s Psycho, all the way. Jonathan’s amused tone stabbed her, quick and sure. They still call you Ms. Clark.

  He’d taken every other goddamned thing from her. The least she could do was keep his name.

  “Meg?” he said when she didn’t reply. “How’ve you been?”

  As if he cared.

  “What are you calling me for?” she demanded. “What do you want?”

  “I’m coming to Tucson in a few weeks,” he said. “I’d like to see you. There are some things I need to say.”

  The nerve.

  The nerve of this guy.

  “I’m all booked up.” Meg clenched the handset. “No room for cheating ex-husbands on my schedule.”

  Alicia stared at Meg with her mouth open, not even pretending not to listen. She’d been there when Meg was a glowing newlywed. She’d been there during the three years Meg had put Jonathan through law school on her teacher’s salary. She’d been there when Meg learned she’d been duped, and she’d been there when Meg was dumped, and when she’d grown round with Henry and had to face person after person who congratulated her on their happy news when there was no them anymore. It looks like it’s going to be just me raising this precious baby, she’d say with a shaky voice and wavering smile. Alicia had been there through it all.

  “Meg—”

  “Don’t Meg me,” she snapped at Jonathan. “How dare you call me now, after all these years? How dare you? Ten years you didn’t call me, and you call now? What? Did you sense I was finally completely happy and you just couldn’t stand it? Huh? Is that why you’re calling? You’re trying to ruin me again? Well, I won’t let you.”

  “But, Meg, I—”

  “Don’t Meg me!” With that, she firmly laid the handset back on the receiver and stared at Alicia, dumbfounded. After he’d first left her, she’d expected his call on a minute-by-minute basis, the pathetic wreck that she was. Then hourly. Then daily, then weekly. And then Henry was born, and then a year had passed and then ten and Jonathan never, ever called.

  Why now?

  Alicia moved to comfort her, but Meg waved her off. If anyone showed her kindness, she’d fall to the floor and wail and be no better than she’d been back then. She needed to get a grip. She needed for this not to be happening. She needed . . . she needed . . .

  Oh God.

  Meg rushed from the office. All around, a blur of early-arriving bright-shirted kids called greetings to her, but she didn’t reply, couldn’t reply. What she needed was to make it to the bathroom, to find a toilet, because the very thought of Jonathan reappearing in their lives made her sick.

  Marita came to school that day sporting a big bandage on her left arm. She approached Meg on the playground from behind and tucked herself into Meg’s skirt.

  Still in shock from Jonathan’s call, Meg didn’t notice the bandage at first. “Hey, Marita. How are you?”

  Clutching Meg’s skirt, the little girl didn’t answer. Meg draped her arm around Marita’s bony shoulder and drew her out where she could get a good look at her. “You got an owie,” Meg said, finally noticing. “What happened?”

  “I got hot water spilled on me,” she said and then added, much too quickly, “But it was an accident.”

  Meg clenched her teeth and cursed the red flags that waved desperately at her. She hated this. There was always one, it seemed. Every goddamned year, there was one. And not that she’d wish harm on any of her kids—she wouldn’t—but she’d give anything for Marita not to be this year’s one.

  From her years of teaching, Meg knew all too well that no one ever knew what went on behind closed doors, and that it was actually a blessing when things spilled out so the child could be helped. But that didn’t make it easier. What a crappy, crappy day this was turning into. She led Marita to the nearby bench, sat her down and took her hand.

  “I’d like you to tell me what happened,” she said. “And I’d like you to tell me the exact truth. Can you do that?”

  “I got hot water spilled on me,” Marita repeated, her eyes big and dutiful. “But it was an accident.”

  Meg’s sigh was deep. These kids’ duty was always to the parent, no matter how much pain the parent caused. She lifted Marita’s chin to ensure eye contact. “If anyone ever hurts you or scares you, I will help,” Meg said. “I’ll help you and I’ll never be mad at you, no matter what. Okay? Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Marita nodded.

  “Was it scary, when the hot water got spilled on you?” Meg asked gently.

  Marita nodded again.

  “Was it hot water, or was it more like a teakettle or a hot pan that got pressed against your arm by accident?”

  Hesitation crossed Marita’s eyes, and she didn’t answer. Meg knew it was because no one had helped her rehearse a response to that particular question.

  “Did somebody put some lotion on your arm to help it get better?”

  Marita nodded.

  “Was it the same person who helped you with your bandage?”

  Marita perked up. “It was Anna. Anna helped me.”

  “Is Anna your sister?”

  Marita shook her head. “She’s my . . . I share a room with her. She’s like my sister, but she’s not my sister. Her mom’s Rosa.”

  “And who’s Rosa?”

  “My mom’s friend. They pay rent together.”

  “How old’s Anna?”

  “Fourteen.”

  Meg ran her fingers down Marita’s braids. Thank God for Anna. “Is she the one who braids your hair so pretty?”

  Marita nodded and smiled.

  “Anna must love you very much,” Meg said.

  Marita’s beautiful smile broke through. “I love her. And I love you, too, Miss Meg.”

  “I love you right back, sweetie.” Meg stroked Marita’s smooth braids again and prayed that Marita wouldn’t hate her for what she had to do next, which was everything in her power to get her out of the only home and away from the only family she’d ever known.

  As she and Henry approached the soccer field after school that day, Meg saw kids running drills through cones and remembered that today was the day Ahmed had planned to surprise Henry. Because of everything that had happened in the last hours with Jonathan and then with Marita, she was not in the mood to play along, but she did, seeing it as her motherly duty.

  They were far enough away that Meg knew Henry hadn’t yet recognized Ahmed. She squinted, then raised her hand to shield her eyes f
rom the sun, ostensibly to see better, but really just for effect.

  “Your team never starts on time,” she said. “So that can’t be your team . . . can it?”

  “There’s Bradley,” Henry said. “See? Right there.” Meg followed Henry’s finger. Yes, indeed it was Bradley, tripping his way through the drill.

  “But where’s your coach?”

  They scanned the field. Henry found her first. “Over there! On the sidelines!”

  Sure enough, Coach Debbie was sitting on a blanket and looked to be reading a book. “Well, then, who’s that?”

  “Mom! That’s Ahmed! Ahmed’s coaching!” Henry jumped with glee. “Oh my God! This is the best week ever!”

  Best week ever. Right.

  Meg tried valiantly to make her expression match her son’s. Ahmed turned at the sound of Henry’s voice, winked at Meg, grinned, tooted his whistle and told Henry to join the drill.

  He worked the kids hard, and they loved it. There were no grumbling, no fooling around, and—best of all—no outbursts from Henry. The other parents encouraged Meg to stand with them—she was suddenly cool by association.

  Even Catherine was in good spirits. She approached Meg after practice ended. “Bradley’s had his father in the backyard every night practicing his passing,” she told Meg. “Did you see? He didn’t touch the ball with his hands today. All his hard work is really paying off.”

  “Hard work usually does.” Meg didn’t feel she needed to be particularly kind to Catherine. Not after the day she’d had. Catherine was a power abuser when she had it and a suck-up when she didn’t, and since Ahmed was a few yards away packing up the team equipment, Meg figured Catherine’s friendliness was intended more for him than for her.

  “The boys seem to be getting along,” Catherine persisted. They’d raced ahead to the playground.

  “They always get along,” Meg said. “Except when they don’t.”

  Catherine stepped closer and extended her hand. “No hard feelings?” Out of the corner of her eye, she looked to make sure Ahmed had heard her. Meg looked, too, and when Ahmed winked at her, she decided to go along.

  “No hard feelings,” she agreed. But when Meg returned the handshake, Catherine’s grip nearly crushed the bones in her hand.

  “Geez, Catherine!” Meg yanked back her hand. “Were you trying to break my fingers?”

  “Meg?” Ahmed rose from his squatting position and stepped forward. “Would you help me carry some equipment to my car?”

  “With my one good hand, I will,” she said.

  “I’ll help!” Catherine said. “We’re parked right next to you in the lot.”

  “Thanks, anyway,” Ahmed said. “But Meg’s the only one I need.”

  Meg reached for a box of extra jerseys and shin guards. Ahmed asked if she was all right as they hauled their load to his car. “You seem out of sorts,” he said.

  “I’ve had a shitty day.” Meg hadn’t yet decided how or if to tell him about Jonathan’s phone call.

  Ahmed stopped and faced her. “Anything I can do?”

  Meg stopped, too. Ahmed was a beautiful soul. “When Henry saw that you were the coach, he said this has been the best week of his life.”

  Ahmed beamed.

  Meg tried to smile, too, but failed. “He also more or less told me that if I happen to get run over by a car and die, he’d like to live with you for the rest of his childhood. And he said he doesn’t want to be fatherless anymore.”

  Ahmed’s smile widened.

  “No,” she said. “This is bad. We moved too fast and Henry’s confused and what’s going to happen when you decide you don’t want to be with me anymore? It’s going to break his heart.”

  “Henry doesn’t seem confused to me,” Ahmed said. “It seems he knows exactly what he wants. And so do I. I think you’re the one who might be confused.”

  “I’m scared of losing you.” Meg’s fear wasn’t only because of Jonathan’s call. It also had to do with her parents’ marriage breaking up, and with Amy, who was married but miserable. “The problem with letting someone in is that they eventually want out.”

  “Hey.” Ahmed dropped the duffel bag of gear he was carrying and took her hands in his. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “You say that now.” Meg couldn’t keep the tears out of her voice. “But doesn’t everybody think that early on? Right now, I think you’re perfect. But you’re not. You can’t be. I don’t even know your bad habits.”

  “My closets are very disorganized.” His eyes twinkled and Meg could tell that his playful manner was deliberate, meant to soothe her. “And I always forget my cell phone in my gym locker. And I eat too fast and I don’t drink my eight glasses of water every day.”

  Meg set down the box of shin guards and jerseys and threw her arms around him, squeezing him, so thankful he was who he was, which was a good guy—the best of all good guys.

  “I dream about you sometimes,” she confessed. “And when I do, I always wake up smiling. I just can’t stand the thought of losing you.”

  He pulled back to look in her eyes. “Seriously, Meg. You know my weaknesses,” he said. “I’m more guarded than I probably should be. I’m new to dating the mother of a young kid, and I didn’t exactly have a father I’d want to model myself after.”

  “You don’t need to model yourself after anyone,” Meg said. “People should model themselves after you.”

  He was visibly moved by her words. “I think everything we’ve experienced up until now in our lives has been practice for this,” he said. “Can’t we choose to look at things that way?”

  Meg looked over at Henry on the playground. He was standing on the seat of a swing, pumping with the force of his entire body, so high he’d take off and fly in a moment. She looked back to Ahmed. “So every stupid mistake I’ve made is okay because it means I’ll be smarter with you?”

  “Right.” Ahmed grinned. “And vice versa.”

  Meg looked back at Henry with a fluttering heart. He swung himself so high, he was almost parallel to the ground, not at all afraid of falling. She looked back at Ahmed, desperate.

  “What matters is that we try,” she said. “Right?”

  He shook his head no. “What matters is that we keep on trying.”

  Every weekday at dinner I ask Henry to tell me the most interesting thing he learned in school that day. Once he told me how in 1954 a lady in Alabama was taking a nap on her living room sofa when an eight-pound meteor crashed through her roof, landed on her—and she lived. With his typical good sense of timing, he said, It must have hurt like h-e-double-hockey-sticks in the morning.

  Another time, he was doing a research report on great white sharks and he said the most interesting thing he’d discovered is that baby sharks stay with their mothers for twelve to fifteen months after they’re born and before they go off on their own—but if they’re attacked, they have to fend for themselves. Their mothers won’t fight for them.

  After he told me this, he said, I don’t know why they’re called great white sharks. If that’s how they treat their kids, I don’t think there’s anything great about them.

  It was a funny thing about a voice—the memories it could evoke, the time it could erase.

  Meg lay awake in bed for hours that night and thought about Jonathan. She hadn’t heard his voice in years, but the way it had softened when he greeted her—They still call you Ms. Clark, I see—now, hours later, brought her back to the bedroom of her youth, to all the late-night phone conversations they’d had in high school, in the days when Ronald Reagan was president and nothing came between a girl and her Calvin Klein jeans.

  They’d begun dating early their sophomore year. New to Tucson from New York City, Jonathan seemed older than his almost-sixteen years—certainly more self-possessed than most sophomores. A bit aloof, he nonetheless went out for varsity cross-country and joined the debate team and quickly created his own place in the world of Catalina High. Besides sharing an introduction to geometry
class, they passed each other twice a day in the stairwell. There could be a rush of fifty people and yet Jonathan’s blue eyes always locked on hers, instantly causing her to blush. He’d unsettled her from day one, and within weeks, they were inseparable.

  Late at night, with Meg’s top-40 radio station playing hits like Howard Jones’ “No One Is to Blame,” she’d lie in bed freshly showered and shampooed, relishing the absence of the nose-curdling Aqua Net from her hair. She’d wrap the phone cord around her index finger until the tip turned white, and talk to Jonathan for hours. Sometimes she’d just listen to his breathing and think, That is mine, that breath. His heart beats for me.

  It had been enrapturing, the wonderment and possession she’d felt back then to have the power—of teenage angst, the awakening of lust—to keep him on the phone for hours at a time, to feel physical pain at the thought of having to disconnect.

  Often they’d fallen asleep on the phone, each in their respective teenage beds—she in the same bed in which she’d later lie, pregnant and in tears, trying and failing to pinpoint the exact moment when things had gone wrong between them.

  It was so intimate, a voice.

  It contained a history that was impossible to deny.

  The next morning, Mrs. Anderson stopped in Meg’s classroom to talk with her before school started. “You were right about Marita,” she said. “And it’s worse than you suspected.”

  Meg’s heart fell. She’d already thought it must be pretty bad. “Please don’t tell me there’s a father or an uncle involved,” she said. “Please tell me it’s just the mother and it hasn’t gone beyond physical abuse. Let’s let this girl have something resembling a second chance here.”

  “Before Child Protective Services could do a home visit, Marita’s mom was arrested for selling crack to an undercover officer,” Mrs. Anderson said. “It’s a felony offense and she’s looking at a long prison term. Marita’s going to stay with her aunt for the duration.”

  Meg pressed her open palm against her chest, willing her lungs to expand, to function properly so she could go on with the business of breathing. “Does her aunt use, too?”