In a couple of weeks, he’s going to be four, and Freya is doing it up in her backyard, the way she always does. He’s excited about that, and I overheard him telling a little boy on the playground that his ‘Mom’ would be there. I talked to his behavioral therapist about it, and she said I should ask Rocket what he meant. So, I did.
‘Your mom’s not with us anymore, Rocket,’ I said to him. ‘You know that, right? She passed away when you were little.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ he told me. ‘I meant my other Mom.’
‘Who?’ I asked, dreading the answer, because I already knew what it would be.
‘Dani,’ he said.
I nodded, and didn’t pursue it further. It makes sense that he would think that, because Dani has been like a mom to him. She is. She kneels to his level and listens to him with a gravity and patience I can’t even pretend to have, gives him the hugs and kisses I sometimes forget, gently scolds him when he’s acting out, and reminds him always, always, that he is loved.
But I’m thinking, maybe that’s not cool anymore.
Maybe, I need to start the process of cutting back on all that. I love it when she comes to see him, but now, she only comes once a week, so who the hell am I kidding? That’ll fall off as well soon enough, and where’s that going to leave my son emotionally?
I mean, fuck, I can’t even begin to face the other question: where’s that going to leave me?
I’ve been trying to work up to it. Sitting in my car, the big, colorfully wrapped package next to me, I’ve been trying to work up to walking into Freya’s. I don’t know why I feel so embarrassed. Like I’ve been messing up by not reaching out to her. Like she’s a sibling I’ve neglected to keep up with or something. Because I have neither seen nor spoken to her in a long while. Not since we had that lunch way back when, and I told her to trust her brother.
We left things in a good place, I thought, but I feel like I’ve been a stranger since.
Still, this is a kid’s birthday party. No one will be thinking about me, I remind myself. All eyes will be on Little Rocket. With that, I take a breath and open the car door. I am parked across the street because I want to be able to get out in a hurry if need be.
I hear the sounds of kids screaming and laughing as soon as I get to the front door. But rather than ring the bell, walk around the side of the house into Freya’s large backyard where there is a bouncy-house and a popcorn cart, and picnic tables decorated in red and blue, festooned with balloons and streamers, and covered in snacks.
Children dart by me, dodging my legs and some colliding into me. There are a few parents as well, sitting at the tables, drinking punch, looking on at their children. I search for a familiar face, and finally see Garrett, near the backyard grill on which there is a staggering number of hot dogs and hamburgers. Heading toward him, I see the gift table and deposit my present on the pile. I feel awkward, and misplaced until I hear my name and turn.
Freya is coming out of the house, carrying a cooler. Wearing jeans and a pink t-shirt, she has her hair pulled back into one of her customary swing ponytails.
“You came!” she says.
“Of course, I came.” I lean in to kiss her, and then try to grab the cooler, but she turns and nudges me away with her hip.
“No,” she says. “Don’t get that pretty dress all dirty. Go … sit, or something. Rand’s around here somewhere, doing …”
“I’m right here. Lemme take that.”
I feel my stomach clench at the sound of his voice, and it takes a moment before I can make myself turn around, to face him.
When I do, I involuntarily smile. He is wearing a peach-colored polo and chinos. Like he was trying to look more like a mature, father-type for the occasion. I let my eyes drift down to his feet and see that he couldn’t commit entirely to the look by wearing Dad-loafers, and instead has on one of his trendy sneakers.
I smile a little at that, look back up at his face and see that he is smirking at me. He bites his lower lip and then gives an all-out grin. I know that he knows what I was thinking.
Freya looks back and forth between us, and I realize from the confusion in her eyes that she probably doesn’t know. But … what is there to know, really? Rand and I haven’t been seeing much of each other, but neither of us has officially ended things, and the feelings are still there. Mine, for sure. And his as well, because I can see them in his dark, brooding eyes.
Without another word, Rand takes the cooler from Freya and heads over to a spot near Garrett and the grill.
“What’re y’all doing?” she asks, sounding exasperated. “What …?”
“Where’s the birthday boy?” I ask, ignoring her question.
Freya turns and points in the direction of one of the picnic tables near the edge of the lawn, and I see Little Rocket, dressed in a checkered blue-and-white button-down, and chinos like his Dad’s. He is sitting on the lap of an older woman who I don’t know; and judging from his back which is a little stiff and erect, Little Rocket doesn’t know her either. Next to the woman is a man, about the same age as her, and he looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t put my finger on where I might have …
“Faith’s parents,” Freya says. “Came up just for the party.”
I look at her. “Really?”
I have seen them before, but only in television interviews.
She shrugs in response. “Overdue, probably. I think Rand reached out to them, and asked whether they might want to be here.”
I glance over at where Rand is laughing with Garrett while he takes drinks out of the cooler, and puts them in a big circular container filled with ice.
And I feel something that catches me off guard—it’s pride. I’m proud of him.
“How’s Rocket … warming to them?”
“You can see,” Freya says nodding in their direction. “It’ll take him a minute. But that little outfit he’s got on? He chose it. Said he wanted to look nice to meet his new grandma.”
My lower lip wobbles a little. “That’s so …”
“Don’t you start,” Freya warns me. “I was bawling my head off this morning. I hope those people don’t think we’re sending my baby down to Florida with them anytime soon.”
“It’s nice for him to have grandparents though,” I say. “Right?”
“Garrett’s parents love the tar out him. So, it’s not like he doesn’t have old people,” she says defensively.
“Freya,” I say. “Stop.”
She twists her lips at me. “Anyway. Rand’s been looking over his shoulder all morning, so maybe you need to go see about him.”
See about him. Yes, I guess I should.
I am ambling in his direction when I hear my name again. This time, it is Little Rocket’s voice. I look up just in time to see him twist free of Faith’s mother and come rushing toward me. I kneel, squeezing him hard when he is in my arms, kissing him all over his face until he squirms and begins to complain.
“Happy Birthday, my big boy,” I say, holding him at arms’ length. “Look how big you are! Four!”
From the near distance, I see Faith’s parents looking at me curiously, so I stand and take Little Rocket’s hand, leading him back to them. Next to me, he is jumping up and down like an wild pony.
“Look!” he says, when we are standing right in front of Faith’s mother and father. “I have a grandma, and a grandpa!”
I smile at them both, and extend my hand. “Hello,” I say. “I’m Danielle.”
Faith’s mother takes my hand and blinks. “Rocket has been talking about you,” she says.
I laugh as I’m shaking Faith’s father’s hand in turn. “Oh? What has he been saying?”
“That you’re his other Mommy.”
The words stun me, and I look down at Little Rocket who is all lit up like a lightbulb, beaming, and looking back and forth among us.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
“I don’t know what I’m thinking, or where my head is,” Faith’s mot
her says, saving me from myself. “I didn’t tell you my name, did I? I’m Eva, and this is my husband, Weston.”
“N… nice to meet you,” I say, still reeling from the ‘other Mommy’ business.
“Dani, come see the bouncy-house!” Little Rocket says, yanking on my hand. “My Daddy got me it!”
I smile down at him and look at Faith’s parent apologetically. But I am relieved to have something else to do, and somewhere else to be.
As Little Rocket tugs me across the lawn, I think I can feel their eyes on my retreating back.
For the cake-cutting, when Freya asks Little Rocket who he wants to cut the cake with him, he doesn’t hesitate.
“Daddy and Dani!” he says, jumping up and down.
And if it weren’t for Faith’s parents looking on, I would be thrilled to my very bones about that. But as it is, the idea of them having to witness the spectacle of their former son-in-law cutting a cake with a woman, not their daughter, in a scene reminiscent of a wedding makes me want to cringe. Once the cake is cut, I tell myself, I will make a gracious retreat.
After all, these people have journeyed from Florida to reacquaint themselves with their daughter’s child. Maybe even their only grandchild? I have no idea, since I never thought to ask Rand if Faith had siblings. But either way, I can’t imagine the painful memories this must be bringing up for them. Where I am now, their daughter should have been.
I eat cake, sitting with Freya and Garrett, while Little Rocket is preoccupied with his friends, and Rand with the parents who are stopping to by to thank him for inviting them, and their children. Faith’s parents are sitting with another couple, and though they don’t look uncomfortable, I know that after the guests are gone, they may feel sidelined again if I am still there and Little Rocket is focused on me. So, once my slice is done, I pull Freya aside and give her a hug.
“Where you goin’?” She looks insulted.
“It’s a little … strange. With Faith’s … you know. So, I think I’ll go. They’ll want to have time with Little Rocket afterwards, and …”
Freya sighs, and finally nods. “You’re probably right. But whatever you and Rand are up to, you need to stop. Y’all need to …”
“Freya,” I tell her. “It’ll work out.” One way, or another.
I kiss her briefly on the cheek, and quietly—careful not to have Little Rocket see me do it—make my way around to the front of the house.
I am almost across the street when Rand calls my name.
I turn to see him come trotting toward me. We stand alongside my car and look at each other, both of us momentarily tongue-tied.
“Thanks for …”
“No,” I say, cutting him off, and shaking my head. “Don’t … of course, I’d come, Rand. Don’t thank me for that.”
He nods and his tongue snakes out, licking his lower lip before he purses them. I realize that he is nervous, and it makes my heart quake.
“Hey … ahm … I want us to find some time,” he says haltingly. “To talk. Can we do that?”
I nod.
“Like, soon?”
I nod again.
He leans in a little, hesitates, then leans in some more. I hold very still, not wanting to make any motion that might dissuade him from what I hope he is about to do. I hope he is about to kiss me, but he doesn’t. He runs the tip of his nose along the side of my neck, like he is inhaling my scent.
“I miss you,” he says, so quietly, it is hard to hear him.
I shut my eyes, and feel almost dizzy at his closeness. I am fighting to keep my arms at my sides, to not grab and hold on to him. If I do that, when the time comes, I might not be able to let go. I am about to tell him I miss him, too, when Rand stands upright again.
“I better …” He inclines his head in the direction of the house.
“Yeah,” I say. “Faith’s parents, huh? That must have been …”
“Yeah. It … It was time,” Rand says nodding.
I say nothing.
“I thought maybe Amada,” he says.
For a second I don’t know what he’s talking about, and then it comes to me.
“Oh! Amada. We never did make that table for two, did we?”
Rand smiles, and shakes his head. “Nope. Never did. So, I figured, if you wanted …Let’s go there. You free tomorrow? Around seven-ish?”
No. I’m not. Tomorrow around seven-ish, I have to get on a plane, and go meet a potential new client in Cleveland. He would be my first client out-of-state, and is a very high-profile NBA player. If I get him, I can write my own ticket.
But if I push the flight back …
“Sure,” I say. “Want me to meet you there? Or …?”
“No, I’ll come get you,” Rand says shaking his head. “Like a real date.”
I smile. “A date. I’d like that.”
“Cool,” he says. “Tomorrow, then.”
He turns to head back across the street. I watch him go before I get in my car. I take comfort in the fact that he looks back.
More than twice, he looks back.
~15~
“I don’t suppose you’ll ever tell me what you and Stephen talk about,” Jennifer says. She looks up at me through her eyelashes as she takes a bite of her salmon.
“No, I don’t suppose I ever will,” I confirm.
She laughs. “Hey, all I want to know is some of your secrets. Because something is different about him. He’s more grounded or something since you two began your sessions.”
I think SJ might be more grounded. And unless he’s outright lying to me, he’s been faithful now for a whopping, three-and-a-half weeks.
Being Jennifer’s friend had, at first, made me a little queasy. Because the closer we got as girlfriends, the more it seemed treacherous to know things about her relationship that she might want to know. Things that might be my responsibility to tell her, but for my professional arrangement with her fiancée. Then I decided that I should not be denied a friendship with Jennifer—one of the more delightful people I have met in a long time, and a woman I have tons in common with— even if SJ can’t keep it in his pants.
And truthfully, I’m not sure I’m the kind of friend who would insert herself into an issue like this, even if I were not SJ’s life coach. If anything, I am harder on SJ the closer Jennifer and I become, and he seems to like that we are friends. I think he sees it as an insurance policy against failure in this new quest to become a one-woman man.
“Okay, so if you’re not going to tell me about Stephen, what’s up with you and Rand?” Jennifer asks. “Still on for dinner tonight?”
“Still on,” I confirm.
“Nervous?”
“Terrified. And I don’t even know why. It just feels like … make or break for us, y’know?”
“What about the woman in California?”
“I don’t know. Last I heard, she was coming to do the test here. So, either Rand has a new kid, or he hasn’t found out yet, or …”
“But it’s been ages. He has to know by now. Why didn’t you just ask him?”
I shrug.
I told Jennifer everything. Because telling Trudie was out of the question, and being with someone in the NFL, I was sure Jennifer is past being shocked by surprise-baby stories.
Once I confided in her, I felt myself relax a little, like I was full of all this pressure, and telling someone relieved it somewhat. It also helped that she reacted with an utter lack of judgment, or outrage. She didn’t ask how Rand could possibly have done something like that, or how I could possibly trust him if he’d cheated on his wife, or how I could think about staying with him. Or any of the things I knew for certain Trudie would ask. She just listened, and nodded.
“Well, my guess is he’s going to tell you tonight,” Jennifer says.
“That’s what I hope,” I say.
“And if the news is bad?”
“I have an eleven-seventeen flight to Cleveland. So, either way, I’m on a plane after dinner.”
/> Jennifer nods approvingly. “Good,” she says. “Running away. Sometimes that’s the only recourse we have for self-preservation.”
I smile. Another thing that makes me know she’s a kindred spirit: gallows humor.
“I bought you something, by the way,” she says, reaching down under the table. She lifts a large shopping bag, and places it next to my plate. The thing looks like it weighs a ton.
“What is this?” I ask, squinting and reaching inside. I fish out a book. A big book.
I look at the cover and read its title: ‘Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 5th Edition.’
I laugh. “Is there something you’re trying to tell me?”
“Yes,” Jennifer says, still spearing her salmon. “That you should go for it. Become a practicing psychologist. You talk about it like you want it. And you would be so good at it, Danielle. Stephen is always saying …”
I miss much of what comes next because I am flipping through the book. I’m familiar with it, because I got my degree in social work. But becoming a psychologist would be the next level for me. Because my work skirts so closely to the practice of psychology, it’s important that I have some knowledge of how certain mental disorders present. But there are still things I can’t do, recommendations I can’t responsibly make since at the end of the day, I am not a licensed psychologist.
“Anyway,” Jennifer says. “Food for thought.”
I look at her and smile, and nod. “Yeah,” I say quietly. It’s the strangest, but one of the best gifts I’ve ever received. “Thank you.”
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