The silence that usually stretched between me and anyone else seemed heavy as I entered his information.
“Have you tried that new microbrewery?” he asked.
Beer and Zoloft didn’t mix, but the art of a craft beer had always held my interest. “I haven’t, but I’ve heard good things.”
“It’s been busy at work, but it’s time to head over. Heard the layout of the place is fantastic. Loads of space, only a few televisions to watch the Browns lose.”
I smirked at his comment. “Not a Browns fan?”
“Not a football fan, but I do love Tech City.”
“One of my favorites,” I said. Doc would be proud: holding my own in a conversation with someone unfamiliar. Maybe my ability to relate and connect with people was prepped to resurface.
I tipped my head when I handed him his receipt and credit card. “This can be automatically renewed if you like, but I’d advise you to wait and choose that option once you’ve decided if you like the place or not. Things have changed in the last few years with the new owner. All good, if you ask me, but the place runs a bit differently than in the past.”
“Sounds great.” He leaned in and extended a hand, then looked at my name tag. “Thanks for the information, Theo. It was nice to meet you. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”
Handshakes these days seemed too intimate and took too much of my energy, but Doc had me working on trying to reinstate my manners and proper etiquette. This guy had given me no reason to feel awkward. And this space? Familiar, calming. “Thank you. You’ll like it here, man.” I looked back at the screen to catch his name: Andrew MacKinnon. “Andrew. You’ll like it here.”
Chapter 4: Sadie
Time to dwell on Grocery Store Man didn’t exist over the next week. Between the kids’ swim classes, my job, and the many doctor appointments I’d scheduled for the summer months, my mind was occupied by so many details—only one of which was Charlie’s camp presentation, something he told me about one late afternoon at the end of June.
“Mom, I’m not sure about this camp.” He walked into the kitchen as I prepped vegetables for dinner. “It says here on the activities list...we need to do a presentation.”
“Okay. What’s wrong with that?”
Charlie snatched a piece of red pepper, popped it into his mouth, and took a seat. “It’s weird, that’s all. We work on it during the summer and into the fall, but we don’t present our project until sometime before Christmas.”
This was the first summer we’d signed up for a camp sponsored by the middle school, and while Charlie enjoyed his days there, the staff seemed to do things differently from other camps he’d attended in the past. A few more weeks of adjustment time might be required.
“No issue, Charlie. That gives you plenty of time to research the subject and to create as nice a presentation as possible. Do you need help?”
He scrunched up his nose and shook his head. “No...it’s...”
Charlie was the type who chatted incessantly, about anything. Minecraft, math, music. Insects. Grammar. Latin verb conjugation. You name it, he’d talk. Charlie had big (and small) ideas and liked to share them. His lack of articulation meant he needed me. I sat next to him on a kitchen stool and rubbed circles on his back.
“What is it?”
“We’re supposed to do this project called My Dad, My Hero. We have to feature a dad or a grandpa or some other male influence.” He used air quotes around the word “influence,” which almost sent me into a fit of laughter, something Charlie wouldn’t appreciate.
I cleared my throat. “And what’s the problem?”
“The problem is...it’s...”
“Your dad was in the service, honey. He fought for his country, and he saved a lot of lives, even though he might have been scared. That sounds like a hero to me. Doesn’t it to you?”
“Yes, but—”
“But what?”
Charlie shook his head and chewed on his fingernail. “Never mind. You’re right. I need to...I need to find all the pictures we have of us, going as far back as I can find. This is a pretty big project.”
My misstep—not letting Charlie finish his sentence—had pushed him to turn inward, just like his dad. But what was I to say to him? Theo was a hero, wasn’t he? Even if he didn’t quite have his life together right now in the way he or I wanted, he’d bravely faced an adversary that most wouldn’t. And definitions of the word hero varied.
“Honey, life right now is complicated for your dad. Remember that. But if you put your mind to it, this can be a great project. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Tell me if you need any help.”
“I will.”
I rose from the stool and ruffled Charlie’s hair. “Now let’s go tidy up before dinner and get rid of those ‘landmines’ your dad says he’s always stumbling over. Then we can go get frozen custard after dinner!”
Charlie’s eyes lit up, and he nodded his head. “Race you to the family room!”
. . . . .
Two warm and sluggish months crawled by and soon mid-August was upon us. One night after dinner, when Lexie and Delia were tucked in bed and Charlie had escaped to the family room, I mentioned to Theo I’d had a difficult day. Kate had given me grief about not attending a karaoke night at the bar. And not only had I stepped on Charlie’s latest cardboard creation, but both Lexie and Delia had experienced episodes of projectile vomiting, the dregs of which ground nicely into the minivan’s new rugs.
“Please, Sadie. I’m tired. Too tired to listen to you whine,” he mumbled.
His simple statement echoed. I had whined, although admitting that to him would never happen. I pivoted from the kitchen sink to look at Theo, who had placed his elbows on the worn dining table and his chin in his hands. His eyes held frustration in them—perhaps his day had been just as discouraging as mine—but at that moment, little sympathy existed within me.
“I didn’t go into work today,” he continued.
Understanding hit me. He had had a day. Not going into work was the last resort, according to his therapist, something reserved for the days when he malfunctioned around people or felt like he’d come undone.
“Do you—”
Theo held up his hand, palm outward, and shook his head. Shutting me out seemed to be Theo’s way. I’d hoped he’d made progress these last few months, but...
Turning back to the dishes, I scrubbed against the glass of Charlie’s favorite bowl and plunged the piece into the rinse water. I traced the tempered glass with my fingers, moving bubbles away, and felt a rough edge that gave me pause. Had the bowl hit the countertop that night months ago? The light above the sink revealed a small, glistening crack that winked at me. A flaw large enough that if I didn’t fix the bowl soon, the whole structure’s integrity would shatter. What an obvious crack; how long had it been there?
Against the screech of Charlie’s video game in the family room, I placed the dish into the drainer to dry and made a mental note to fix it in the morning. Another item to add to the ever-growing list. Outside the kitchen window, the sun continued its descent into the horizon. The clouds hung low and the sky’s canvas faded to a soft, muted purple, a beautiful sight from which I might gather strength. If I—
A cry erupted over the monitor, most likely Lexie. The vomiting episodes, while brief, and taken their toll on both girls. Lexie’s discomfort might mean we’d be launching into another round of sickness, soon.
“I’ll go check on them,” Theo said, then rose from the table and pushed in the chair. For one split second, the chair’s leg caught on the seam of the area rug, and I feared both Theo and the chair would tumble
to the floor. Instead, Theo righted himself, adjusted his shoulders, and trudged to the bedroom.
He was a ghost of the man I had married fifteen years prior, on the hottest day of the year. That afternoon, no one could have convinced me we wouldn’t be together forever. We’d written our vows of extraordinary love for one another, and we’d refused to add a phrase about for better or for worse. Which young couple wants to imagine a dismal future? And that future, our future, had been full and bright...
Until Theo’s PTSD.
So there, in the thick of what wasn’t even by far the worst we might experience, I questioned my future—
“Sadie, I need help cleaning up Lexie.” Theo’s voice filtered through the monitor. Despite his mental state, Theo still had his physical health, but situations involving bodily fluids were more difficult to accomplish, and cleaning up a mess alone would be next to impossible for him.
I wiped my hands on the damp dishtowel and draped it over the handle of the stove. Now clearly wasn’t the time to bring up the topic of signing the divorce papers, but should I try to speak to him about these newfound feelings? Learning about my reaction at the grocery store might be too much for him to take, even if it was one of his good days.
. . . . .
Two months, one week, and a day after I ran into Grocery Store Man, and when I thought Kettering really was that big and coincidences no longer happened to me, he and I met again, this time inside my office building.
“Which floor, miss?” A voice reverberated as I strolled into the elevator with my head down, looking at the report in my hand. That drawl. I lifted my gaze.
“It’s you!”
The man narrowed his eyes and tilted his head until a wave of comprehension rolled over him.
“Bloom Market? Kettering Plaza?” He pointed at me.
“Father’s Day.” I nodded, my index finger against my sternum.
“Right.” Adjusting his necktie as he cleared his throat, he looked away to the dark corner of the ceiling. Soft Muzak trailed out of the speakers above our heads.
The whole situation dripped with hokeyness. A few years before, I’d edited an article on the best places to meet a mate. The author had included convincing evidence that the number one place to meet a potential spouse was on the job. Where did the grocery store fall on the list? At a respectable number four.
I stepped closer to Grocery Store Man, my back to the corner of the elevator, and the tall doors closed. My agitation grew, and I tugged at the corner of the report in my hands. “So, did you have a nice Father’s Day?” Part of me wanted to know, another part of me wanted to hear his voice, and the last part of me wanted him to keep talking so the awkwardness engulfing the small space would dissipate.
“Actually, I did.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his dress pants. “We had a nice barbeque and a relaxing day. And Sydney’s balloon stayed inflated for hours. It’s the little things, right?” The smile I’d tortured myself with for the last two months flooded his face, as if the mere thought of his daughter brought him joy.
My shoes suddenly held my interest, so afraid was I that my tears would fill my eyes. “Yes.” Little things Theo no longer seemed capable of: Being able to pick up the children from school or having the energy to get out of bed by himself. Walking the kids to the bus stop and having confidence his neighbor isn’t really a threat.
I caught him staring at me, his body poised, as if he wanted to ask a question. Holding his gaze seemed impossible as I fixated on the pronoun he’d used. We? Does he mean the kids and himself? Or does that we include a wife?
“Umm. Which floor did you want, by the way?” He reached out to the panel of shiny buttons on the wall.
What sort of man made me forget what floor I needed? Was he trying to get rid of me? My tight lungs struggled to inflate. “Seven, please.”
He used his left hand to push the button—confirmation of no wedding band on the ring finger. I clenched my eyelids shut. What in the hell was wrong with me? Any progress I’d made over the last two months with trying to forget this man evaporated like my sense of humor on a hot, humid day. But as long as he didn’t get off on my floor, I would be fine. To calm myself, I tapped a rhythm with my foot to the awful rendition of Elton John’s “Rocket Man” filtering through the speakers.
The elevator’s abrupt stop jolted me out of my seventies time warp, and the smooth, gray doors slid open. Without looking backward, I stepped forward onto the shiny tile floor and tossed a brief wave behind me. Introducing myself was out of the question—the less I knew about this man, the better.
. . . . .
I closed the door to my small office—junior book editors didn’t command much space, if any—and hung my summer sweater on the silver coat rack standing in the corner. Rounding my desk, I bumped the corner of it with my hip, and the expletives I rarely used at home rushed into the air. The flesh of my hip—now likely bruised—felt tender against the pressure of my fingers as I waited for my computer to power up and my email to load. Only a few messages in the inbox needed my attention: one from HR about up-to-date health insurance forms; a second from a client confirming an upcoming meeting; a third from a book vendor regarding a delivery date. Nothing urgent.
I exhaled and wiped my brow, then flopped into my chair and assessed my desk. Pens and pencils leaned in the canister to the right of my computer, and my desk calendar sat ready and waiting for any changes I might make. The tick of the clock on the wall reminded me—no, mocked me—that the workday was about to begin, and yet, I sat, unmoving. Would Jackie have more information about why Grocery Store Man might be in the building? Unable to wait until later in the day to ask, I hurried from my chair and rapped my knuckles on the wood doorframe of the office next door.
“Good morning, Jackie! How was your weekend?”
My friend and coworker lifted her head from the hammock she’d made with her hands, and her puffy eyelids and blazing pink cheeks greeted me. The half-moons under her eyes stood out as dark as a football player’s eye black. Jackie had returned from maternity leave the week before, and finding the balance between editing and parenting was proving to be elusive, or so she had confided in me a few days prior. Her daughter, Clara, screamed like a banshee much of the night, and Jackie needed more sleep than she was getting.
She waved her hands to draw me into the office. “I swear that kid uses my boobs as pacifiers. Why can’t she fall asleep by herself? How hard can it be?” Jackie said. “And no judging...this,” she gestured to the steaming mug in front of her, “is decaf. I would never pass on caffeine to Clara on purpose.”
I held my hands up in front of me, palms facing Jackie, as I moved farther into her office. “No judgment from me, I swear! I’ve been there myself three times, remember?” The memories of my sweet babies brought warmth to my chest. “You might not want to hear this, but life will get easier. She’ll learn to sleep alone, and you’ll get your body back. Right now, though, you are what she needs. What can I do to help?”
“I know, I know.” Jackie pushed her bangs off her forehead and tucked her hair behind her ears, then rubbed her eyes and sipped her coffee. “I’m finding all this so much harder than I expected. And Pete is trying, he really is, but he can’t nurse the baby.” Jackie’s phone trilled. She placed her coffee cup on her desk, picked up the receiver, and replaced it on the cradle without answering.
Clearly the fatigue was getting to her. “Theo and I went through the same thing. By the third time around, I thought I had a great system. The doctor told me every child is different. Charlie and Delia were so much alike, I didn’t believe him. Until Lexie...” Thoughts of the kids would overtake my mind, but this was Jackie’s well-being, not mine, and my offer to help her was sincere. “However, this is
about you.” Taking the chair across from Jackie, I lowered myself into it then straightened a pile of mail on her desk. “You can hear those stories later—if you haven’t already—when you’ve had a bit more sleep. Seriously, what can I do?”
“I appreciate the thought. Really, the only thing I need is more shut-eye. Any thoughts about an evening shift?” Desperation radiated from her glazed eyes, an all-too-familiar emotion.
“Sure. Let me talk to Theo, and I’ll get back to you. I can run on little sleep these days.” It had been weeks since I’d had a night of restful slumber thanks to my grocery store run-in. That morning, my own weariness had flooded my body, but the charge of seeing Grocery Store Man in the elevator had eradicated any leftover fragments of sluggishness.
“Oh really? What is your secret? I need some of whatever it is.” Jackie closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath through her nostrils. She picked up the mug and took a large sip of the coffee.
Jackie and I had worked together for eight years. She’d become my confidante and go-to friend and had helped me navigate onerous times when Theo shut me out and during our quasi-separation. If I confided in her about my current problem, she might be distracted from her fatigue. I leaned in toward Jackie’s desk.
“Well...I’ve been dwelling on an encounter I had...two months ago. With a man.”
A torrent of coffee blew in my direction before Jackie moved her hand to her mouth. After lifting herself from her leather chair, she walked to the door of her office and closed it. “I am so sorry,” she said. One napkin would not be enough, so she passed me two, then leaned over the desk, which she tapped with insistent fingers. “First, why didn’t you tell me? Second, that was the last thing I thought you’d say. Does Theo know?”
“You were busy with Clara, and it’s not entirely what you think. I have not...you know. I couldn’t do that. I mean, we’re not divorced, but he’s living in the house and, well, that would be awkward, wouldn’t it? But if I had to be honest, I might be able to say...oh crap, this sounds sappy...” The words clinging to the edges of my mind sounded so tacky, so trite, but I spoke them anyway. “It might be an affair of the heart.”
Rewrite the Stars Page 3