The Good Father

7 Erin

I’D BEEN LIVING IN MY BRIER CREEK APARTMENT for nearly a week when I discovered a coffee shop tucked into the far corner of the shopping center’s vast parking lot. The tan stucco building looked very old, as though it had been there for decades and the shopping center had grown up around it, but I knew that couldn’t be the case. It was simply designed to look old to give it some personality. The shop’s name was painted on a board that hung above the wood-and-glass front doors and I couldn’t read it until I was nearly on top of it. JumpStart. I walked inside and was transported from the bustling parking lot with its zillions of cars and the illusion of squeaky-clean newness into a warm space that felt almost like a living room. The furniture was organized into intimate little groupings set apart from one another by bookcases and a fireplace—not burning, since it was still very warm outside. Then there was the long counter with a menu made up of pastries and salads and coffees and teas. Music played softly in the background. It was something jazzy, which I didn’t usually like, but I didn’t really care about music one way or another anymore. Music, books, politics, art, sex—what did any of it matter? It was all so insignificant to me now.

Half the chairs and tables and leather sofas were occupied, mostly by people my age typing on their computers or doing paperwork. Three young women shared a table and they were laughing at something on a computer screen. A man was talking about real estate with an older couple. I heard the words town house and too many stairs. Another couple was in the midst of an intense conversation, an open bible on the table between them. I knew the moment I walked inside that I’d be spending a lot of time there. I felt anonymous and I liked the feeling.

I spotted a leather chair that I wanted to claim for my own. Although it was part of a grouping—three chairs and one sofa—no one was sitting in that little circle. I liked knowing I would have that space to myself, at least for a while.

I ordered a decaf latte and a bagel I knew I would only nibble. I’d lost twenty pounds in the five months since Carolyn’s death and I had to force myself to eat. I couldn’t taste anything and food seemed to stick in my throat. The barista, a dark-haired guy whose nametag read Nando, smiled at me, showing off a deep dimple in a handsome face. I did my best to smile back without much success. I noticed a tattoo of a unicorn on his forearm as he handed me my bagel.

I settled into the brown leather chair, pulled out my iPad and did a quick check of my email. Michael wrote that he missed me and asked how I was doing.

Okay, I typed. In a coffee shop right now. It’s nice. Hope you’re okay, too. We’d had a similar exchange every morning since I left and I guessed that would be the nature of our communication for a while. Polite and bland. Empty words. The sort you might write to an acquaintance you checked in with once a year instead of a man you’d shared your life with for so long. A man you’d made love to and laughed with and cried with.

We used to email each other all the time during the day. The days I worked in the pharmacy, I’d check in to talk about dinner or household things or simply to tell him I loved him. The days I was home, I’d describe what Carolyn and I were up to and he’d write back saying he was sad that he wasn’t with us. He meant it, too. My friends had envied that, how close he and Carolyn were. How capable Michael was of taking care of her. If my friends had to leave their kids with their husbands for some reason, they worried the guys wouldn’t be able to manage. I never worried about that with Michael. He’d take Carolyn to the park or just make up a game to play with her on the spot. I’d admired that about him. He was so creative and fun and Carolyn always looked forward to “Daddy Time.”

How did he stand it, losing her? He’d loved her so much. How could he just go back to normal, talking about having another baby like nothing had happened? I didn’t understand my husband.

I deleted a bunch of spam, along with a confirmation email from Judith about our next appointment, and that was the sum total of my mail. A few weeks ago, I realized someone had taken me off my neighborhood Mom’s Group email list. I’d been part of that list for four years. It was a way of staying connected and sharing experiences and advice. We made plans for birthday parties or announced a spontaneous get-together at the park. After Carolyn died, they took me off the list for a week or so while they figured out how to help Michael and me. They divvied up food responsibilities, bringing us casseroles and meatloaf and chicken potpie every night. Michael and I didn’t need to think about cooking for a month. The only thing was, we couldn’t eat. Or at least I couldn’t. Some of that food was still in our freezer.

Then they put me back on the list, but that was torture of the first order. How could I read about what they were doing with their kids? Debates about vaccinations, recommendations of pediatric dentists and ideas for birthday gifts. Temper tantrums and preschool problems and, the worst, the get-togethers I would no longer be part of? The moms emailed me separately to find out how I was doing, but gradually that stopped. I wondered who made the decision to take me off the list? Who said, “She never participates anymore. We should just remove her” or “Maybe it’s hurtful to her to be on the list? Should we take her off?” Yes, it was hurtful to be on the list and just as hurtful to be off it. But what hurt the most was how everyone had disappeared, as though I didn’t matter anymore because I didn’t have a child. I honestly didn’t blame them. We were in different worlds now. My world was scary to them and theirs was painful to me.

So now I had Harley’s Dad and Friends, and I navigated to that group to see what everyone was up to. I read through the most recent messages. There were some new people and I welcomed them and offered sympathy. They shared their stories in long, wordy, tearful paragraphs and I nodded as I read them. My heart expanded to take them into my world. I’d asked Judith, “Is it nuts that the people I love the most right now are these strangers in the Harley’s Dad group?” and she’d just smiled and said, “What do you think?” turning it back on me as she usually did.

There was an angry comment written by Mom-of-Five whose sister told her “Life is for the living and you need to get over your grief for the sake of your other children.” I felt indignant on her behalf and I typed an empathetic response, my fingers flying over the iPad screen. In my mind, I lumped her sister together with Michael and with anyone else who dared to tell someone she was grieving the wrong way.

Early on, Michael and I had been in the same place when it came to our sorrow. We were both in that denial stage where we walked around crying and shaking our heads and saying “I just don’t believe it” and “This can’t be happening.” We held each other and cried for hours and I loved him with all my heart. He was my connection to Carolyn, the person who shared the deepest love of her anyone could imagine. But then he returned to work, just a week after she died. He wanted to go, and I didn’t understand how he could possibly concentrate on work. Right then, I couldn’t imagine ever going back to my job. But Michael simply threw himself into some new project. I used to admire his work. He’d convinced me that his style of video game design went way beyond sport to something with far greater significance. “It’s about social connection,” he’d say. “It’s about people working together to solve problems.” He’d won a few awards for his games and I’d been proud of him. Now, though, I thought his work was superficial and silly. Games! What on earth did they matter? Still, you’d think he was saving the planet with the hours he put in. He’d work till six, then come home, eat dinner, and work some more in our home office. On the weekends, he started doing all the handyman jobs he’d put off for years. Repairing the deck. Painting the family room. Keeping busy so he didn’t have to listen to me rant and rave. As far as I could tell, he was finished grieving.

We saw Judith together a few times, but Michael was done talking about Carolyn by then, while I felt as though I was just getting started. I needed to talk about her. The way that one lock of hair on her forehead would never lay flat. The way she’d sing to herself in bed at night or come into our room to cuddle with us on Saturday morning. Chatty. She was always chatty. When I started talking about that terrible night on the pier, sifting through every detail of it, I wasn’t surprised when Michael got up and left the room. “This is pointless,” he said over his shoulder to Judith. “She can’t let go of it.”

After he left the room, I looked at Judith. “See?” I said. “He’s done with her and I’ll never be done with her.”

“Men and women grieve differently,” Judith said. She was fiftyish with straight, chin-length gray hair and vivid blue eyes. My doctor had recommended I see her shortly after Carolyn died, when no matter what drug I took, I couldn’t sleep. When I did doze off, I’d be back on that pier, reliving the whole thing all over again.

“I can accept that men and women grieve differently,” I said, “but I can’t live with it any longer.” That was the day I decided to move out.

After an hour in the coffee shop, I felt a little guilty sitting there with my empty cup and half-eaten bagel, even though no one was fighting for my seat. I went up to the counter and asked Nando for a refill.

“You’re new here,” he said as he filled my cup.

“I just moved to the area last week.”

“You working nearby?”

“No, I’m taking a little time off.”

“Room?” he asked.

“I … What?”

“Room for cream? I don’t remember how you took that first cup.”

“Oh. No. Black, please.”

“I’ll remember for next time,” he said with that dimply smile as he handed me the cup. “So, where did you move from?”

“Just … not far. A different part of Raleigh.” I wanted to get back to my seat. “Thanks for the refill,” I said.

“Anytime.”

I sat down in the leather chair again and opened my iPad. There was a new father in the Harley’s Dad and Friends group and he was in major pain. I wanted to respond to him. To let him know he wasn’t alone. I couldn’t imagine Michael ever baring his soul so openly, online or off. I typed a few lines to him. Donald, I’m so sorry you have to be here, but I’m glad you found us. It sounds like your daughter was a truly special little girl.

Nando started singing something in Spanish as he waited on another customer. I glanced over at him. He’d said he’d remember how I liked my coffee. So much for anonymity. I’d sounded rude, the abrupt way I’d answered his questions. Questions were becoming a challenge. It was nobody’s business why I’d moved from one part of Raleigh to another. It was nobody’s business that I was taking time off from work. I felt a sudden ache of loss in my chest, not for Carolyn this time as much as for my old life. The ache expanded and I had to clench my teeth together to keep from crying. I’d loved my job and I’d loved my life. Cooking, fixing up the house, taking care of Carolyn, making love to my husband. I pressed my fingers to my breastbone as if I could rub away the pain. Then I looked down at my iPad again, returning my attention to Donald and Mom-of-Five and the other people who understood how, on a warm April evening on a long moonlit pier, the life I’d loved and treasured had ended.

8 Travis

THE TRAILER WASN’T A PRETTY SIGHT. THE exterior was white—or at least it had been white at one time—with patches of rust and plenty of dings. It was maybe twice as long as my van and it sat on concrete blocks above the sandy soil. It was in a line of other trailers in all shapes and sizes, most of them empty now that summer was over. There was a car parked in front of the gold trailer next to ours, though—a sparkling new green VW Beetle convertible that looked out of place in a sea of grungy old trailers. I’d borrowed the money for my first week’s rent from a buddy. I hoped it wouldn’t be too long before I could pay it back, but I wasn’t optimistic.

I slid open the side door of my van and helped Bella out of her car seat.

“This is our new home, Bell,” I said. “At least for a while. Let’s go inside and explore.” Explore was the wrong word for what we’d be able to do inside a one-room trailer, but it didn’t matter. Bella stood staring up at the thing with her wide gray eyes. She’d turned four the day before and we’d had a little party for her at Franny’s with balloons and ice-cream cake and not much in the way of presents. I think Franny was actually celebrating our departure, but whatever.

“It’s not a home,” Bella said, staring at the trailer. Her lamb and pink purse were in her arms and she didn’t move from the side of the van. My mother had given her that purse for her third birthday and I was so glad Bella hadn’t lost it or the lamb in the fire. They let her hold on to something familiar. Inside the purse, she had a picture of the three of us—my mother, Bella and me—sitting on the beach around a sandcastle we’d built. She had a tiny little doll that one of the women I’d gone out with had given her. She loved that doll because it had really long, blond hair she liked to comb. And the third and final thing in her purse was a picture of Robin. Just a little headshot I’d had since we were in high school. I was glad I’d never given in to the temptation to toss it. Bella knew Robin was her mother, but that was it. Someday I planned to tell Bella all about her, though how I was going to explain why Robin didn’t want her, I had no idea.

“Well, we’re going to make it into our home,” I said now. “It’s not a house like we’re used to. It’s called a trailer and lots of people live in trailers. It’ll be an adventure for a while. Let’s go see what’s inside, okay?”

She took my hand and we climbed the steps to the door. I unlocked it and we stepped into a space so dark I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. I could smell the place, though. It had that musty, closed-up, “beach place” odor and something else I hoped had nothing to do with cats.

“I can’t see anything, Daddy.” There was a sound in her voice that told me she was going to lose it any second. Sort of a mini-whine that only I could pick up. Even my mother never heard it, but sometimes Bella would say something and I’d whisper to Mom, “Meltdown coming,” and sure enough, five seconds later, the crying and wailing would begin. It didn’t happen much anymore, but I had the feeling it was going to happen now. My kid had been through too damn much in the past couple of weeks.

“We need to open all the shades and let in the light,” I said, prying my hand from hers to reach for one of the window shades, which I could make out only because of the line of sunlight around it. It sprang open so fast I blinked at the light pouring through the filmy glass. “That’s better!” I said. “How many windows do we have, Bella?”

She looked around the dim interior. “Three,” she said.

“I think there’s one more. Do you see it?”

She turned in a circle. “I spy!” she said when her gaze landed on the long narrow window above the kitchen sink.

“Good job!” I finished opening the shades.

Bella ran to the only inside door in the place and pulled it open. “That’s the bathroom,” I said.

“Where’s my room?” she asked.

“That’s the cool thing about this trailer,” I said. “It’s all one big room instead of separate rooms. So it’s our living room—” I pointed to the futon, then to the small table and two chairs beneath one of the windows “—and our dining room, and our kitchen, and your bedroom.” I pointed to the double bed crammed into the other end of the trailer. “You’ll sleep there and I’ll sleep on this futon.”

“What’s a futon?”

“Couch. It’s another name for a couch,” I said. “I think the first thing we should do, even before we bring in the bags with our clothes, is find a place to display your new shells.”

The people at my mother’s church had collected clothes and sheets and towels for us. They’d been so good to us that for a few days I thought I might start going back to church like when I was a kid, but the mood passed. Now I was into survival mode and I had my priorities: shelter, food, job, child care. My soul was going to have to wait.

“I want my old shells back.” The whine was there, not so little this time. A stranger would be able to pick it up now. She was tired. No nap today, and this was a kid who definitely still needed naps.

“Yeah, I wish you could have them back, but you’ll always have the memory of them.”

“I don’t want the remembery. I want them back. And Nana back, too.”

I’d told her she’d always have the memory of Nana, but I knew she wouldn’t. As she got older, she’d forget her. You didn’t remember people from when you were four. Maybe vaguely. I kept thinking about that—how my mother, who had done so much for her and who loved her more than anything, would just disappear from her memory. Whoosh! It seemed like one more unfair thing in a whole bushel of stuff that sucked.

“I’m going to get your new shells,” I said, hoping to avoid the meltdown.

“I don’t want them,” she whimpered.

I went out to the van and got the canvas bag with its lame collection of shells and carried it and the garbage bag filled with sheets and towels back into the trailer. The floor made a hollow sound when I stepped on it. This was going to take some getting used to.

Bella was curled into a ball on the futon, her lamb clutched in her arms, her lower lip jutting out in a pout that was so damn cute I had a hard time not smiling. I used to laugh when she’d pout like that until my mother said I was encouraging it. Mom said she’d turn out to be one of those girls who’d get her way with guys by acting like a pouty baby and I can tell you, that thought wiped the smile off my face. I wanted my daughter to be strong.

“Now, where’s a good place for these?” I asked, looking around the room. At home, we’d had them on the mantel above the non-working fireplace.

She was still pouting, but she sat up a little straighter and started looking around the room. I could see the only ledge in the whole place—under that long narrow kitchen window—but I waited for her to find it on her own. And she did. She hopped off the futon and ran to the sink, pointing to the window. “Up there,” she said.

“Perfect!” I handed her the bag. “You give them to me one at a time and I’ll put them up there.”

She handed me the first one, the giant gray whelk, which was clearly going to be the foundation of her new collection. It was her favorite. I put it right in the middle of the window ledge. She handed me an orange scallop shell and frowned. “The mantel was better,” she said. “There’s no room up there.”

I was kind of impressed she could figure that out. It seemed pretty smart for a four-year-old to realize there wouldn’t be enough space on that ledge as her collection grew. Mom said I had an inflated idea of her brilliance, but what did I know? She seemed smart to me. “Well, you’re right, and when we run out I think we’ll have to put some of them in a bowl, okay?”

“They’ll break.”

“Not if you’re care—”

“Knock knock!”

I turned to see a girl standing in our open doorway. The way she was silhouetted in the sunlight, I couldn’t make out her face, but her voice was unfamiliar and I was sure I didn’t know her.

“Come in,” I said, and she stepped inside. I’d definitely never seen her before. She was the sort of girl you wouldn’t forget. Twenty, maybe, and hot. Smokin’ hot. Maybe a little too skinny, but she had blond hair in a long ponytail that hung over her right breast and she was wearing just about nothing—shorts and sandals and a halter top. I felt myself go hard and had the feeling she knew it. She had one of those Let’s get it on smiles, or maybe I was just fantasizing. It had been months for me and I needed to go back and adjust that list of priorities I’d come up with.