This time, the second time, Little Rocket stops thrashing. And stops screaming. It is as though someone flipped a switch to turn the sound off. He shoves himself up to a sitting position in the arms of the young woman who is holding him in a bear hug, and who looks close to tears herself.
Little Rocket looks at me. His wide, beautiful brown eyes are rimmed in pink. His face is red and streaked with tears, his nose runny. He is silently blubbering a little, so there is saliva on his chin. For a moment, it seems like he is having trouble placing me, like I am out of context, and therefore cannot be real. But the moment he focuses and realizes who I am, he tries to wrench free of his teacher, who exchanges a look with Mrs. Lewis, and then lets him go.
When she does, Little Rocket comes charging toward me, colliding so hard with my legs, he almost topples me over. There is a lump in my throat the size of Texas as I scoop him up into my arms.
“It’s okay, baby,” I say soothingly as his arms wrap tightly around my neck. “It’s okay. I’m here. It’s okay.”
Mrs. Lewis looks relieved, and the teacher, who still hasn’t spoken a word, gets up from the floor and begins to gather some things together, which I now see, are Little Rocket’s bag, and what looks like a lunch sack.
“Thank you,” I say to her, reaching for them. “Thank you.”
“His car seat,” the teacher says. Her voice is trembling. Though Freya both told me, and then texted it, I can’t remember her name; and neither she nor Mrs. Lewis bother with introductions. “His car seat is up front.”
I follow them to the front of the building where they retrieve a car seat that looks impossibly complicated. Little Rocket, who is quiet now, is still holding me so tightly, it is difficult for me to carry him, and the car seat at the same time.
“I can help you,” the teacher says almost meekly. “Putting it in your car, I mean.”
I nod at Mrs. Lewis as we leave the building and then stand aside while Little Rocket’s teacher secures the car seat in the back, after having to shove some of my papers, and other odds and ends aside. I lower Little Rocket into it once it’s in place and am shocked to see that he is, that quickly, fast asleep. I buckle him in, and stand.
As I am about to shut the door, I catch sight of his teacher’s face. She is full-on crying now. Sobbing audibly and covering her face with her hands. I stand there, awkwardly, not knowing what to say. Finally, I shut the car door and the sound causes her to collect herself a little.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t … I just didn’t know what to do. He just … I just …” She is about to start sobbing again, but I don’t have time for that.
I touch her shoulder and squeeze it.
“I know,” I say. “I’m sure there was nothing you did wrong. Nothing you could have done.”
I am sure of no such thing, but she’s so young, I figure it costs me nothing to offer her that comfort.
Two minutes away from the house, I get the call. Little Rocket’s daycare center is calling me to let me know that they would like me to come in for a “status conference to reassess.” I ask Mrs. Lewis point-blank whether my son is being expelled from the overpriced babysitting service of a preschool that I wish he didn’t have to go to in the first place.
“I think we do need to talk, Mr. Reese,” she says. “And consider carefully whether this is a place that can meet Rocket’s special needs.”
“I take it that’s a ‘yes, he’s being expelled’?”
“No, that’s not correct. But I do think we need to …”
“Reassess,” I say. “Yes, you said.”
We make an appointment for the following day and I hang up. The phrase that stays with me is “special needs.” Since when did I have a kid with special needs? I am not an experienced parent, and I haven’t been a parent at all for very long. But those are words no one wants to hear.
One block away from home, I pull over and grip the steering wheel, taking a few deep breaths. My heart is racing, and sweat breaks out on my brow and upper lip. I feel my chest tighten, and remember this feeling from those days way back when Little Rocket was still in the hospital after the accident. I had my own … spells back then. Panic attacks, my doctor told me. Scary, but not life-threatening. Brought on by what he called ‘overwhelming stress.’
I inhale and exhale a few more times, and put the vehicle into ‘drive’ again, reminding myself that Little Rocket is safe now, and that Dani is with him. I have to prepare myself to apologize to her for wrecking her workday, and to thank her for being there when no one else could be. And I have to prepare myself for the possibility that she will decide that between all the crap that happened in LA and this, she may not be up for the drama-filled Rocket Reese Ride.
But when I pull up to the house, and the garage door opens, I see that inside, at the threshold of the door leading into the kitchen, Dani is there. Waiting for me.
As I pull in closer, I see that she is barefoot symbolizing that she intends to be here a while, and that her eyes and face are concerned. She doesn’t wait for me to get out of the car before she is coming toward me. My heartbeat slows, my shoulders relax, and I feel much, much better.
The house is dead-silent now, and it is growing dark outside. Little Rocket was asleep then, and is still asleep now. He is on the bed between me and Dani, because I don’t feel comfortable having him all the way down the hall where I will neither see nor hear him. I guess I could use the monitors, but I want him nearby.
As he sleeps, he breathes deeply, and audibly. I watch his little chest rise and fall. When he was just a few months old, I used to sneak into his room, sometimes after being out all night, and watch him sleep for a few minutes before going in to join my wife in bed. Back then it seemed crazy that something as amazing as him came from any part of me. And I remember thinking that he made it worth it. Even sleeping next to a woman who most days felt like a total stranger … my son was that amazing, so it was worth it.
He’s still amazing, but now, there is also no doubt that something is very, very wrong.
My arm is outstretched and cushioning my head. Above, on the pillow, my hand rests atop Dani’s. Her fingers move occasionally, stroking my palm. She is lying on the other side of Little Rocket, her position mirroring mine.
“Rand,” she says. Her voice is soft and hoarse. “Let’s get up. Get something to eat.”
I am about to refuse, when I realize that I am hungry. Starving, in fact. The last time I ate was the evening before. And even then, it was just a granola bar, because my stomach was turned inside out, twisting in apprehension at the idea that I might be on the way to finding out that I have another kid, a little girl whom I have never even met.
“’Kay,” I say, sitting up.
Dani gets up as well and we both look at Little Rocket at the same time, as if in perfect choreography. Then Dani is heading downstairs before I even stand up from the bed.
When I get to the kitchen, she is taking things out of the fridge. She is familiar with where everything is, and doesn’t hesitate as she moves around, getting things ready to prepare a meal. She is busy and moving quickly, so I stay out of her way and sit at the center island, saying nothing. Then suddenly, she is still, and standing at the sink, holding onto the edge, as if holding herself up.
“Rand,” she says without turning. “You’re going to need to get some help.”
“I have help,” I say. “Freya, and …”
“No. You know what I mean. Professional help. For Rocket.”
“I know,” I say.
At that, she turns to look at me, and then comes to me.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
I look at her, really look at her, for the first time since I’ve been back. She is in the business-casual wear she usually reserves for when she is seeing one of her clients—pressed slacks and a comfortably professional blouse. Her hair is smooth, and not spiky, like she prefers to wear it when she is on her own time. Her makeup is subtle, almost playing down, in
stead of playing up her best features. Still, I’m just drinking her in, thirsting for every little cuteness and quirk that makes her, her.
“Don’t be sorry,” I say. “It’s nobody’s fault.”
“I know. But … he was so …”
“Shit, I’m sorry,” I say. “That you had to see that. It’s kinda … jarring the first time you …”
“I’m sure it’s jarring every time,” she says. “Have you been trying to deal with this on your own?”
I shrug. “He’s fine most of the time. He can go months before …”
“I know. But I’m sure you want him fine all the time. Or at least, not …”
“Dani.” I pull her toward me, my hand on her waist. “I’ll deal with it. I’ve been dealing with it. But what I want to know right now is …” I shrug. “This is a lot. Everything in LA, this … it’s a lot.”
She nods, and gives me a look, a wry look that says, ‘yeah, Rand, it is.’
“Where’s your head at?” I ask her.
She moves closer. She puts her arms around me. She sighs and my head falls, my forehead is on her shoulder. I hold her tighter and with both arms now.
“I don’t know where my head is,” she says, sighing again. The way she says it makes me think it’s a question she has already considered for herself. “But my heart is here. It’s with you, Rand. My heart is here with you.”
~11~
“Hi.”
The voice causes me to fully open my eyes.
Little Rocket is still in the bed with me and Rand, and is lying on his side, very close, and facing me. I think he has been staring at me while I sleep. He is so close, I can see the gummy matter in the corner of his eyes, the last remnants of the previous day’s crying.
Sometime in the night, Rand must have undressed him, because he is wearing only his colorful kid’s underwear, and a plain white t-shirt. His legs still have some baby chubbiness, and his toes are still kissable, and fat. His knees are ashy, his skin dry. ‘Boys,’ I think, affectionately.
“Hi,” I say back to him. My voice is gravelly, and my mouth dry.
“Can I have pancakes?”
I try to remember what day of the week it is. Thursday. I have two clients, and plans to get in a run before then. My eyes drift over to the clock. It is only six-seventeen a.m. I have time.
“Sure, baby.”
I shove myself to a sitting position and stretch. I am still in my clothes from the night before. Rand and I ate together—pasta with meat sauce—and came back upstairs, expecting to see Little Rocket up and wide awake, but he wasn’t. So, we watched television with the volume turned low, and then I fell asleep. We hadn’t talked much, even though it is obvious that there is plenty we need to talk about.
Across the bed, on the other side of Little Rocket, he is still asleep. I stare at him for a moment, and run a hand over my face, wondering what the hell I’m going to do. This is … a lot. Between the LA mess, and this, with Little Rocket. I know I’m going to need some time soon, to think and process it all, in quiet and alone. But for right now, there’s a gorgeous little boy watching me, and waiting for his pancakes.
After I wash my face and brush my teeth with the toothbrush that I keep here for the times I spend night, we head down to the kitchen and I tell Little Rocket he can go watch cartoons while I try to figure out breakfast.
“Auntie Freya says no cartoons afore school,” he says.
I consider telling him today is an exception, but decide against it. I can only imagine him saying to Freya, ‘Auntie Dani says I can watch cartoons afore school.’
“Okay, so you can be my helper,” I say instead.
Together we find the pancake mix, take out some eggs and a big bowl. I let Little Rocket sit on the kitchen counter and stir the ingredients while I pull out bacon, arrange some plates and glasses, and start the coffee for me and Rand.
“Rocket,” I say as I’m moving around.
“Hmm?” He is concentrating on the pancake mixture.
“Did you have a bad day at school yesterday?”
“Uh huh,” he says. “But you comed and get me.”
“Yes, I came to get you,” I say.
I think of how Rand would have said, ‘there’s no such word as ‘comed’, Rocket. Came. She came to get you.’ It’s one of the things that I notice, that I’ve thought of as differences in how Rand and I would parent. If we were ever to parent together. He teaches by instruction. I teach by demonstration. It also makes me think about how he may be parenting again, besides Little Rocket. But he may be doing it with someone other than me.
“Why were you angry?” I ask, returning to the matter at hand.
“I wasn’t.”
“Then were you sad?” I probe further as I get the skillet, and put it on the stovetop.
“Uh huh.”
“What made you sad, baby?”
“I don’t know,” he says. Then he holds up the ladle. “Can I lick it?”
“No, no, don’t lick it.” I go over to quickly get the ladle from him, just as he lifts it to his mouth, and hoist him off the center island, depositing him on the floor.
“Sometimes Auntie Freya lets me lick it.”
“Only for cake. It’s not the same. You won’t like it.”
“But I like pancake,” Little Rocket whines.
“I know, Rocket, but the batter isn’t as sweet as cake batter. It won’t taste …”
Just then, I hear a key and the door leading out to the garage opens. It is Freya. I recall that she comes every morning to take Little Rocket to daycare on her way to work.
She is dressed in a pink blouse and brown pants, her hair in a chignon. Freya is a pretty woman, with Rand’s clear complexion, but with eyes slightly more widely-spaced, though just as penetrative in their gaze. She, too, has full, enviable lips, which make her look sultry, even when she is trying to be stern, or is concerned, the way she clearly is now.
I’ve come to like Freya a lot, and I know the feeling is mutual. But for an instant, I feel intruded upon, as though her entrance is ill-timed. She has keys and access to all of Rand’s properties, and his car. She comes and goes as she pleases and takes care of him and Little Rocket well beyond the call of duty.
But now, I find myself wishing that she wasn’t here.
She smiles at me and crouches down to allow Little Rocket to go to her and hug her. She scoops him up, and kisses the top of his head.
“You need to go get ready for school,” she tells him. “Did you have a bath yet?”
“No. Auntie Dani and me is making pancakes.”
Freya surveys the pancake mix in the bowl and the coffee being brewed. “Yummy!” she says for Little Rocket’s benefit. “But I’m not sure we have time for pancakes. You’ll be late if …”
“He’s not going today.”
Rand is coming through the door. He looks like he stumbled out of bed and came directly downstairs. I love how he looks when he has just woken up. I love how he sounds.
He is barefoot, and wearing just his jeans and the t-shirt that was under the long-sleeved he had on yesterday.
“Why not?” Freya asked. “Don’t you think it’s best to keep things …?”
“Normal?” Rand asks.
Freya looks at him and then gives a pointed glance down at Little Rocket who she has just put back onto his feet, warning Rand not to say anything his son shouldn’t hear.
“Rocket, you can go watch TV, man,” Rand says. “Breakfast will be ready in a minute.”
Little Rocket darts happily out of the room and I feel for a moment like I should follow him, so I make a move in that direction, but Rand casually reaches for me, and stops me with a hand on my waist. So instead, I turn and busy myself with the coffee.
“I think it might be time to get him assessed again,” Rand tells Freya.
I hear her exhale. “I don’t want him labeled as some …”
“You think I do?” Rand asks. “I want nothing more than to have someo
ne tell me that he’s fine. That this is completely normal. But we know it’s not. You know it’s not.”
“But his routine should still be …”
“Freya. They asked me to come in. For a ‘conference’ about him today. I don’t even know if they’ll accept him back.”
“What? Why? But he just …”
“You weren’t there,” Rand says, interrupting his sister’s instinctive defense of Little Rocket.
“Neither were you!”
“I was, though,” I say, quietly.
Freya’s and Rand’s eyes turn toward me.
“I was there, and it was pretty intense. He’d screamed himself hoarse, and one of the staff was restraining him to prevent him from hurting himself.”
Freya shakes her head. “There’s nothing wrong with him. He’s just …”
“Just what, Freya?” Rand asks impatiently. “You’re an early childhood specialist now?”
His sister exhales and looks like she’s ready to cry. “Okay, so we get him assessed.”
“That’s what I said,” Rand tells her. “I already decided. I don’t need you to cosign it.”
“Rand, no one is trying to …”
“Yes, you are. Acting like I can’t take care of …”
Freya pulls up a little. “Oh, we’re going to go there? Really? Because believe me, Rand …”
“Freya, are you staying to eat with us? D’you have time?” I interrupt.
She is staring at Rand, her eyes angry. But slowly, she turns her focus to me.
“No,” she says finally. “Thank you, though. Looks like I’m not needed here.”
When she’s gone, I look at Rand. He is just standing there scowling at the spot where his sister is no longer standing.
“You were a little hard on her,” I offer. “You went after her for what felt like completely no reason.”
“She’s the one who, all this time, told me it was just a kid being …”
“Then if you felt differently, you shouldn’t have listened. He’s your responsibility,” I say, keeping my tone gentle. “Not hers.”
Table for Two Page 11
