À la Carte

by Nia Forrester

  He barely even put up a fight about that. So, I knew he was probably not going to change. But I never breathed a word to Jennifer. Being SJ’s life coach was like being his shrink, or his physician. I would never have breached that confidence. He got caught the way lots of men get caught. From a cellphone bill.

  In this case though, the cellphone bill was for a phone that Jennifer didn’t even know he had. Basically, SJ had a second phone that he used almost exclusively for women that Jennifer wasn’t supposed to know about. And when he’d recently switched carriers from one company to another, he’d slipped up and given the new carrier the address for the apartment he and Jennifer shared, instead of wherever the previous bills had gone.

  Since she has primary responsibility for getting their bills paid, she saw the first statement from the new carrier when it came in and thought it was a mistake, or worse yet, fraud. She knew SJ’s phone numbers after all, and this wasn’t one of them. Or so she thought.

  So, planning to do some sleuth work to discover who had opened a phone in his name, Jennifer called some of the numbers on the bill. What she discovered was a vast network of side-chicks, most of whom were more than happy to confirm—and even gloat about—their past or recent hookups with SJ. Being who she is, Jennifer neither called him, nor shredded and set fire to his clothes. She didn’t empty joint bank accounts, go on a shopping spree, nor did she arrange a revenge affair of her own. She simply planned her exit. It was a plan that was in the works for more than a month, and I never thought she would go through with it.

  But she did.

  “I can’t even imagine how you feel,” I finally say, meaning every word.

  “You know one of the worst parts?” she says.

  I shake my head.

  “Stephen treats me like a queen,” she says matter-of-factly. “He’s attentive, he’s considerate, he’s respectful … and yeah, I know how that sounds talking about a man who did what he did as respectful. But I don’t … didn’t have many complaints. I loved my man and I believed he loved me. He was generous. Everything that was his, was mine. And there was nothing in his behavior that could have told me he was … I mean, shit, I was the one who kept putting off the wedding. He wanted to get married. I was the one who …” Jennifer exhales and gives up, reaching for her iced tea again.

  All the cursing is new. In the last ten minutes there’s been a ‘fuck’ and a ‘shit’. Jennifer doesn’t generally speak this way, so I know she’s beyond rattled.

  “Maybe there was …”

  I stop myself, realizing I was about to go into life coach mode. And I know only too well from my friendship with my oldest friend, Trudie, that my professional skills are not always welcome in other contexts.

  “Maybe there was what?” Jennifer asks.

  She signals for the server. We are on the tail-end of lunch, and she knows that I have to go get Rocket at two.

  Rocket. I am still processing Rand’s response when I mentioned adoption. I am still managing the ache just beneath my breastbone, and the confusion swirling around in my mind. I haven’t even begun to think about what it means that he needed to “think about” whether he wants me to be the legal parent of his son, who every day I increasingly think of as ‘our’ son.

  “Nothing,” I say.

  “No, tell me. It’s fine. I can take it.”

  I stare into Jennifer’s dark-brown eyes. She isn’t Trudie. She is solid, and not the least bit insecure. She is a steadfast and honest friend. If she says she can ‘take’ something, she means it.

  “I was just … I mean, I wonder if maybe there’s a reason you haven’t yet wanted to face. A reason you didn’t want to get married all this time. Something you knew, or something you felt, about SJ.”

  Jennifer’s eyebrows lift, just a little and then she sighs.

  “Y’know …” She shrugs. “Maybe. But if you’d asked me a few weeks ago, I would have said categorically not.”

  “Maybe it’s worth thinking about it now. Just to help you sit with where things are now. Just to …”

  “Did you know?” Jennifer asks abruptly. “Was this what he was seeing you about?”

  She is staring me directly in the eyes and I can’t help but swallow hard. I know that the answer must be evident by my expression.

  “If it was, you know I couldn’t have said anything” I tell her.

  “But now he’s no longer your client, and I’m no longer his fiancée. So there’s no reason you can’t …”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” I say quietly.

  Jennifer leans back and huffs a little. For the first time since we’ve been friends, I see her look a little annoyed with me.

  “That’s fine,” she says, quickly.

  But I know that it’s not.

  Little Rocket and I have rituals for when I pick him up after school. On Mondays, we go to the bookstore where we both browse the shelves. About once a month, I let him buy something, but mostly, we just sit for an hour or so in the café and have a snack and read. Or rather, I read, and he looks at pictures of Lego building books.

  On Tuesdays, we do something outdoorsy. We go to the park and I let him run around while I watch, now that I can’t do much running around of my own. Wednesdays I take him to the mall and we wander aimlessly through stores and as we leave, we each get a soft pretzel. Thursdays, we go to his therapist, and on Fridays we go for fro-yo and I let him get two toppings, but only two. And then as we leave, we pick up a pizza for dinner. Rand usually heads for Bristol on Fridays so we have the pizza together as a family just before he hits the road.

  Rocket’s behavioral therapist tells me and Rand that having a routine helps him to control his rages and tantrums.

  ‘Knowing what comes next is an extraordinary comfort for children,’ she said. ‘With order and routine comes a sense of security. But order and routine don’t mean rigidity. You have to make it fun, and flexible as well. But you must give him routines.’

  I took those instructions to heart and as soon as I moved in with him and Rand, I created a chart for Rocket, of almost everything he does each day, from getting ready for school to playtime and getting ready for bed at night. It included teeth-brushing, baths, snacks and mealtimes. Rand thought it was excessive, but I made it fun, by creating a grid on a magnetic board, and found magnets with pictures that represent each activity.

  I gave Little Rocket the freedom to move the magnets around—within reason—so he can rearrange when he wants to snack, do homework, watch television, or clean his room. The only non-negotiable is bedtime. I’ve even allowed him to defer one nighttime bath a week and move it to the next morning if he likes. He usually chooses to do that on Fridays, so he can play longer.

  The routines give him a sense of order, but the chart gives him a sense of control. Sometimes, he makes it a point to put me on notice that the plan has changed.

  ‘I won’t be having my snack now,’ he might tell me. ‘I’m doing that just before my bath tonight.’

  I never veto the changes he makes, even if it means he’s decided to have his snack of a chocolate-iced cupcake immediately before dinner. When he makes that kind of change, I don’t give him a rule like, ‘no sweets before dinner’. I just explain the potential consequences, like a stomachache, or not being able to finish his dinner.

  Rand watches me do all this, and rarely comments, though he occasionally rolls his eyes at the tactics and strategies I’m always cooking up. He parents on instinct. His perspective is that we know our … his kid, and that there is no need to overthink it. He believes that as a parent, though he may make mistakes, he is hardwired to do no harm to Rocket. I am the active parent. I am the one who puts painstaking thought into the business of childrearing. I agonize over doing the right thing.

  And so, I can’t pretend not to be hurt; I can’t pretend not to be angry that Rand is hesitating over the decision about whether to allow me to adopt Rocket, and once and for all call him my son.

  While Rocket and I
wander through the bookstore, looking for interesting books we might want to take back to the café, I can’t help but think about Eva. I’d planned to take her to the hospital to get her ankle looked at, but that morning over coffee she told me that Josette had volunteered to do it. So, I accepted Jennifer’s lunch invitation instead.

  Now, I wish I had gone to the hospital.

  Just before we went our separate ways, Jennifer told me she held no hard feelings about me not sharing anything about SJ’s sessions, but I know she is too bruised right now to mean it. If she wasn’t so hurt, if she wasn’t reeling from the end of a relationship that lasted longer than some marriages, she would understand my position. She certainly understood it when she and SJ were still together. But now, I know she feels compelled to do the relationship archaeology that people do when things end, digging around for clues and asking unanswerable questions: Did he ever love me? Was I a fool? What signs did I miss?

  I understand the inclination, but I can’t help her with that. And that makes me feel like crap. Add that to how crappy I already felt after last night when the man I love told me he wasn’t sure he wanted me to be the legal parent of the son we are raising together. I feel like everything I believe about what Rand and I are supposed to be building has been called into question.

  Normally, I would have shared that with Jennifer. She is the only person who knows that I was planning to ask Rand about adopting Rocket. We talked about it for hours, just like we talked about her plan to leave Stephen. Her life probably feels like it’s been blown to smithereens, and now mine does, too.

  “This one?” I pick up a book called ‘365 Things to Do with Lego Bricks’ and show it to Rocket.

  “I saw that one already,” he says, batting it aside and reaching for another.

  We are in the Crafts and Hobbies section and I’m trying to manage my impatience. My feet hurt, and I am beginning to feel vaguely nauseated, a sensation that only comes on these days if I need to eat. A quick bite of something sweet from the café will fix me right up and make the baby twist and kick inside me. Right now, I imagine she is lethargic and sluggish, because all I managed at lunch was a chicken salad, which was more ornate than it was substantial as a meal. I feel as though I’ve eaten nothing at all.

  Rand is always reminding me to eat more, but I have an aversion to taking in too much food now. It is an aversion that I fought hard to develop and maintain before I got pregnant, so it’s difficult to go back on that. I eat nutritious foods that are good for me and the baby, but sometimes, it’s tough to eat more than I’m used to.

  ‘More than twice the calories you’re used to eating,’ my OB told me. ‘Remember, you’re growing a human being inside there!’

  “This one!” Rocket finally, thankfully, picks a book and I add it to the ones in the basket I am carrying.

  “Good,” I say. “Let’s go find a seat.”

  We head over to the café and I feel a slight dizziness join the nausea. Reaching out, I put one hand on the railing that separates the café from the rest of the bookstore. I shut my eyes for a moment, and hear Rocket say something, but I’m not sure what.

  “Miss?” someone says. “Are you alright?”

  The voice is female, low and concerned. I open my eyes, intending to nod and smile at her when the room begins to sway a little.

  “Dani!” Rocket says.

  He hasn’t called me Mommy again since that night. But I guess that might be for the best, given where Rand’s head is on that question. That’s my last rueful thought before I feel a strong hand at my back, and two other hands holding me by the elbow, and a third pair—Little Rocket’s I think—grabbing the basket of books before it falls to the floor.

  “Danielle. You okay?”

  I turn and smile, even as two strangers and one far-from-stranger help me to a table.

  “Eric,” I say.

  “Is this your wife?” someone asks.

  “No. A friend. I got her,” Eric says.

  The two strangers, an elderly woman and a skinny Goth kid, stand over me for a few moments more, concern etched into their faces. They look at me, then at Eric.

  “Yes, he’s a friend,” I say. “Thank you so much. I guess I got dizzy. It’s … you know.”

  The strangers glance down at my belly. The woman nods and smiles, and the Goth kid goes slightly pink in the face like the notion of pregnancy embarrasses him. They amble away, and Eric sinks in the chair across from me.

  Little Rocket, who has been standing nearby with wide eyes, sets the shopping basket down and comes over to lean into me, his head on my shoulder like he’s suddenly regressed to a much younger age than his five years.

  “I’m okay, baby,” I say. “Just got a little dizzy.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says into my shoulder. “I was taking too long.”

  “No,” I say, putting a hand atop his head for a moment. “It was me. I should have eaten something.”

  “Let’s take care of that right now,” Eric says. “Lemme go get you something. You want something too, little man?”

  At that, Rocket looks at Eric for the first time. Rand sometimes calls him ‘little man’ so I think this makes him suspicious of this stranger who inexplicably seems to know one of his nicknames.

  He shakes his head ‘no’ and pointedly looks away from Eric.

  “Get him a cupcake if they have one, please?” I say. “And one of those little cartons of milk?”

  “Okay, but what about you?” Eric asks.

  “The fruit and cheese plate, maybe? And some kind of juice?”

  Eric shakes his head, probably thinking that my order is grossly inadequate.

  “I’ll be right back,” he says.

  When he leaves, Little Rocket presses his face harder into my shoulder and gives a little whimper.

  “You okay, Dani?” he asks, his tone plaintive. “I’m sorry I took long to pick a book.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” I tell him. “I didn’t eat enough at lunch. You know how when you get hungry your tummy kind of feels funny and hurts a little?”

  He nods, face still pressed against me.

  “That’s what I felt like. But also, when you’re pregnant? Well … the baby gets hungry too. It was stupid of me not to eat more.”

  At that Rocket looks at me, and his eyes are a little wet, tears are on the ends of his long lashes.

  “You always tell me to finish my food. You should finish your food, too.” His tone is both gentle and chiding, like he thinks I may be too fragile to withstand the real, strong admonition I deserve.

  “You’re right. I should,” I say. “Here. Pull up a chair … We’re going to have our snacks and look at our books just like we always do.”

  ‘Routine. Predictability,’ I remind myself. Without those things, Rocket cannot feel secure. And me passing out in public will definitely not make him feel secure.

  When Eric returns, it is with a tray of food. He has a mug of coffee, which I assume is his (though it smells so glorious, I covet it), a grilled cheese sandwich which he sets in front of me, the cupcake for Rocket with the milk, and also for me, what looks like a fruit smoothie of some kind. The cheese and fruit platter is propped in one corner of the overloaded tray.

  Setting everything down, he arranges it all on the table before going back to get rid of the tray.

  When he returns, he sighs as he looks me over.

  “Wow,” he says. “Look at you.”

  I blush. “Yup. Look at me.” I make a sweeping motion in front of my stomach like a game-show hostess displaying a prize.

  “Any day now, huh?”

  “Any day,” I confirm. “At least, any day about a month from now.”

  Eric nods and surveys me again. He looks down at my left hand and I know that he is checking to see whether Rand and I got married. The last time I saw him was shortly after I got engaged. Around that time, Eric and I had been regular running partners, but after the engagement, it became less regular.

>   And then when my pregnancy began to show, it became even less so, and I stopped running altogether just before my sixth month.

  Even though at one point he was interested in me as more than a friend, I think that’s all in the past. But Eric still looks at me with affection in his eyes. I’ve missed him, and I can tell by his expression that he’s missed me.

  “So, who’s this young man?” he asks.

  Rocket is now occupied with peeling off the paper liner holding his cupcake.

  “Little Rocket,” I say. “Rand’s son.”

  Even saying that gives me a pang. I want to be able to say he’s my son as well. As things stand, I can’t even say he’s my stepson.

  “Yeah. Looks a lot like his father,” Eric says.

  “He does.” I run a hand idly over Rocket’s head. “So … what’re you doing in a bookstore in the middle of the afternoon?”

  Eric grins. His handsome, dark face is still like something lit from within. His smile still infectious.

  “Came to get some prep books for my …” He pauses here for a nanosecond. “For the MCATs.”

  “The MCATs?” I say. “Isn’t that for …?”

  “Medical school. Yeah.” Eric dips his head in a brief nod.

  “Wow. That’s amazing, Eric. You’re going to be a doctor?”

  “That’s the plan,” he says.

  “You’re going to be incredible at it, I bet. What made you think of going back to school for medicine?”

  “The stuff I always liked most about my job is the EMT stuff,” he tells me. “Most of the calls that come to firehouses are medical and that’s where I get my juice, so I figured why not go all the way, right? Become an emergency room doctor.”

  “That’s amazing,” I say.

  Eric nods in the direction of the food in front of me. “Eat,” he says.

  I roll my eyes. “Yes, doctor.”

  He grins. “Someday.”

  “It’ll happen,” I say with certainty.

  I take a bite of my grilled cheese. It is surprisingly delicious and my stomach growls audibly in response to that first taste, begging for more. Rocket looks at me, and giggles.