“Oh. My. Word! That’s a great title!” Jackie sat back in her chair, an enormous smile filling her face, and spread her hands before her. She narrowed her eyes like she’d already formulated a book cover in her mind, the words An Affair of the Heart emblazoned at the top.
Revealing the whole story needed to occur before Jackie’s overactive imagination thrashed out of control, so I recounted my grocery store interlude and the elevator episode. Jackie’s eyes took on a dreamy quality as she blew on her still-hot coffee. The smell of the beverage wafted over to me and wrapped me in comfort I wanted to keep with me forever.
“I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me. But this is a serious issue if you’re checking out other men. Are you ready to move on? That’s a conversation for another time, of course. In the meantime, you should write this up and send it to Love Stories Today or one of those other magazines. Don’t they publish short stories? Who knows? If you have the time, you might be able to expand it into a real romance novel. I’d read it.” She beat her fingers on the outside of her mug and stared off behind me, lost in thought.
Leaving Jackie’s office took top priority—otherwise, she might grab me as her next pet project, something she was well known for around the office.
“I doubt I’ll be writing the piece up anytime soon, but now I need to run.” I rose from my chair and turned toward the door.
“That’s it? That can’t be it. Wait!” Jackie stood and stumbled over the breast pump bag at her feet. Next, she would try to drag me back into the office.
“Is that spit up?” I pointed to a nonexistent stain on her lapel. She glanced down, taking her eyes off me for only a moment, leaving me just enough time to sprint out the door.
Chapter 5: Sadie
Most of the time I considered my past choices sound. The decision to buy the house, the decision to have children, even the decision to marry Theo—they were all right. But so was the decision to serve him divorce papers.
The first seven years or so of our marriage had been filled with much love, laughter, and joy. Theo made a point to come home for dinner even when he had a big project, and the love notes I had placed into his lunches each day fulfilled a much-needed connection. When the marriage was good, it was good: we’d find time every two weeks for a date night, even after Charlie and Delia had come along.
“It’s important to remember who we are. You and me,” he’d say to me as he pulled me in for a hug and lingering kiss. “You. Me. Forever.”
And of course, even though we’d gotten busier and spent less time with one another, we had a beautiful family with three adorable kids. Theo’s job kept us more than comfortable, and my place in publishing would allow the kids to go to college and beyond. We had a spacious house, two cars, and organic food on the table.
But the last tour and his PTSD diagnosis had changed everything.
Sure, Theo was alive, but he wasn’t really living. And despite everything I’d tried to do for him—practice patience with him, listen attentively, create routines, minimize his stress and possible triggers, give him his space—as difficult as it was to serve him those papers, I’d do it again in a heartbeat, wouldn’t I?
Those thoughts drifted through my head as I checked in on the kids before heading to the office, then over to Jackie’s the following Friday afternoon.
Lexie was still napping. “Sleep well, sweetie.” Lexie’s cheek warmed my lips as my kiss landed there. The light from the functioning monitor winked at me, and I adjusted the blinds to keep out the bright toxic light. I extended a gentle hand over the crib rail onto Lexie’s quietly breathing form, feeling her stomach rise and fall, a soft snore escaping her parted lips. The preciousness of that child amazed me. Our miracle. The one who came after Theo turned inward but before life turned too complicated.
And Delia. After a busy week, she’d fallen into a rare afternoon nap. She lay tangled among the flowered sheets of her bed. Pulling the blanket up to protect her from the conditioned air would be futile—the edge of the cotton fabric twisted around her ankle such that the blanket wouldn’t budge. Delia slept like Theo did, in one enormous, chaotic mess. “You are just like your father,” I whispered. I made my way down the carpeted hallway to Charlie’s room. A light peeked out from beneath the door, a sure sign my oldest child would be perched on his bed, graphic novels spread before him, eyeglasses on the tip of his tiny nose. With the edge of my fingernail, I tapped and then opened the door. Charlie looked up with a gleeful expression of genuine love. He was still young enough to want me to tuck him in at night, and this night, I wouldn’t be there. Saying goodbye now would have to do.
“I’ve got to go now.” I moved toward the bed and sat on the mattress.
Charlie shut his book and adjusted his glasses. “Where are you going?”
“To work for a few hours, and I promised Mrs. Mills I’d help her out tonight. Clara is only ten weeks old, and they’re having a rough time.”
“Lots of crying?” Charlie stacked his books on the nightstand, making sure each one lined up with the one above and below it.
“Yes. And little sleeping. Remember how it was with Lexie?” I leaned over to fluff his pillows—a ritual I’d started when Charlie first began sleeping in a big bed. It wasn’t time for bed yet, but his pillows would be ready.
“Oh yeah. I never thought a baby would be so loud. Thank goodness she’s out of that stage.”
His words sounded so mature. It had to do with everything he’d experienced over the last couple years, but at eleven years old, Charlie was still too young to be shouldering the burden. He was such a good kid: good brother, good son, and good person in general. Aside from the clutter in his room and his tendency to shove items into his pants’ pockets (and forget them there), I’d been more than lucky with Charlie. Changing his childhood experience—making sure I didn’t place too much responsibility on him when it came to Theo’s needs—needed to take center stage.
I placed a kiss on his forehead. Charlie wrapped his arms around my neck and snuggled in against me.
“I love you, Mommy.”
“I love you, too, Charlie.”
“I love you too.”
Charlie added the last “I love you” as he always did, like a reflex, then fell back against the pillows and grabbed the top book from the stack, ready to read for the afternoon. My heart was full, warm, and content as I rose from the bed and closed the door.
. . . . .
The headlights of my car illuminated the outside of Jackie’s Cape Cod, marking a sharp contrast to the dimness within. During my conversation with Charlie, a moment of indecision had washed over me: I loved my family and really didn’t like not being at home for them, but Jackie and Pete were counting on me.
Using the key Jackie had provided the day before, I unlocked the front door and shut it behind me. Quietly, I tugged open the foyer closet door, hung up my thin sweater, and removed my flip flops, which were slick from a hard summer rain. The tick of the clock on the mantle in the living room and the whir of the air conditioner threaded themselves throughout the silence. Another noise, a consistent and even thrum, pulled me toward the kitchen at the back of the house.
“Oh dear.”
Jackie sat slumped over the kitchen table, asleep, breast pump still siphoning the liquid gold from her chest.
“You must be tired, honey, if that motor hasn’t jostled you out of your dreams.” I rubbed circles on Jackie’s back, trying to wake her without scaring her, and she raised her head to meet my gaze. Imprinted lines from the table ran across her forehead, and relief flooded her features. “Go, sweetie. I’ll take care of all this.” I patted her back once more.
“But the milk!” A panicked look flew across her face
as I reached to turn off the breast pump’s motor.
“Really, I’ve got it. I’ll check the current stock of breast milk in the fridge, and if there’s enough, I’ll freeze this batch. Sound like a plan?”
“Yeah, sorry. And thanks.” Jackie handed me the parts of the breast pump, taking care, despite her fatigue, to keep every drop of milk within the bottles. She readjusted her pajama top, ran a hand through her matted hair, and hugged me.
“By the way,” Jackie mumbled, “Pete and I are sleeping in the basement tonight. It’s practically soundproof in there, and with the baby and the rain, that’s what we need. Silence.” She trotted with soft footsteps to the basement stairs. The click of the doorknob rang as she shut out everything behind her.
The large kitchen sink held all the washable parts of the breast pump plus a few random glasses that remained on the counters. The hot water poured into the sink, and the detergent slithered from the bottle; upon contact with the water, the cascade of blue liquid transformed into a layer of foam. An errant bubble escaped from the cluster, rose above the sink, and wound its way past my face before falling against the kitchen window, instantly bursting. “Such fleeting beauty...” The bad habit of talking out loud had worsened with age, reaching gargantuan levels in those moments when I spent time alone.
A slight rustling echoed over the transmitter of the baby monitor. “Before I get started, I’ll check on Clara.” And stop talking to myself. The door to Clara’s room stood open about a foot, a space that granted adequate access for viewing the baby. The small room was big enough for a crib, a dresser, a rocking chair, and a tidy changing table. Opposite the door, Clara rested on her mattress, asleep on her back in her thin cotton sleep sack, tiny arms extended above her head.
“Why do babies always sleep like that?” I tiptoed across the room, taking care not to wake her as I placed two gentle fingers against her tiny sternum, satisfied at the rhythmic movement. In the wee morning hours, I often repeated the same action at home with my three kids.
Content she was safe, I exited Clara’s room and placed my feet strategically on the floor as I made my way down the hall—creaking floors and babies never went together. Framed pictures hung in the narrow space, and the glass reflected a few twinkles of the dim hall light. Younger versions of Jackie and Pete in wedding garb, laughing at the base of a tree, stared back at me and brought a smile to my face. The couple looked so tender, so in love; nostalgia rushed through me.
A few steps away, Pete had suspended the new family portrait: Clara sat in a basket between her adoring parents, who both gazed at her with wonder and awe. Tears welled in my eyes, and in my haste to walk away, I skimmed my big toe against the small bucket of nails standing at the base of the wall—items Pete had possibly long forgotten. I bent to retrieve the bucket and the hammer, which I’d so deftly avoided, to find their rightful places.
As I walked toward the kitchen, my thoughts focused on the pictures and babies and weddings and love and...
“Dishes, lady. Right now.” Yet another round of talking to myself.
“Dishes? I love doing dishes.” The deep voice, familiar to my ears, sounded from the foyer. Soon, the man I’d been thinking about too much came around the corner, his laughing brown eyes crinkling at the corners. My heart stuttered.
“We meet again.” Grocery Store Man stood before me, dimple flashing.
“For the love of...you’re kidding, right? How? What?”
“Something must be in the cards. Perhaps this time I can get your name?”
Right. Third time meeting this guy and still, no names. “That would be nice.” Or I’ll keep calling you Grocery Store Man for the rest of my life.
He pulled himself forward and extended his hand. I passed the bucket of nails and hammer to my left hand and proffered my right toward him.
He paused when our palms met. “Andrew. Andrew MacKinnon.” A tickle of warmth made me want to keep my hand against his longer than normal, but that wouldn’t be a wise decision.
“Sadie Rollins-Lan...Sadie Rollins. It’s nice to meet you, formally I guess.” Keeping calm and forcing my face not to erupt into a smile took more energy than I thought, and I hoped my heart didn’t burst through my chest.
“Likewise,” he said. “Nice jammies, by the way.”
The pilled, gray capri sweatpants and tight, pink University of Michigan T-shirt had seemed like the sensible, practical choice when I put them on, but thank goodness I’d worn my standard camisole under my shirt. My breasts, after six collective years of nursing, probably looked saggy without my sweater to shield them. I snorted and chastised myself for my thoughts.
“Actually, you look like you’re still in college. Did you go to Michigan?” he said. I reached up to smooth my straggly ponytail and stepped into the kitchen, hoping to disguise any evidence of having been thrown off-kilter. Andrew placed a key on the counter and draped his light coat over the back of a chair. Beads of rain stood out against the fabric of his jacket and threatened to fall to the floor while my heart still thumped against my chest like a set of Charlie’s drums.
“Yeah, I went there, but that seems like a lifetime ago now. So much has happened since then...” The sentiment slipped out, and what I had said invited conversation, but I didn’t have any plans to reveal anything to this man. This man I kept running into. How did this happen again?
“So, this might come off as rude, but...what are you doing here?” I asked.
A busy mind and body would benefit me, so I deposited the hammer and nails on the desk in the corner of the kitchen and rounded the island. The warm dishwater welcomed my hands when I plunged them in, my back to this stranger.
“Oh, I don’t come over too often, but I live two doors down. Small world and all that, right?”
“Right. Well, if you like dishes so much, Andrew, then grab a towel and start drying. I never do dishes with strange men, so it’s good we properly introduced ourselves.” Without thinking, I winked at him, a gesture that caught me off guard. Did he interpret my action as flirting? Oh shit. Was I?
Andrew strode to the drawer that held the towels and joined me at the sink. He took a piece of the breast pump into his hands without blushing and worked the towel around the flange. This looks like a good man.
“And Pete and I have worked together for years,” he said. “It’s obvious these two need a little help. I offered, and Pete took me up on it. But I guess they double-booked. You all right to share?”
One beat of my heart later, I looked at Andrew out of the corner of my eye as he set the pump apparatus on the counter. Did Pete and Jackie double-book? Or did Jackie have something up her sleeve? There was no way she’d have known Andrew was Grocery Store Man, which meant she didn’t have a hand in this. That belief hung on with a tenuous grasp as I passed off the next piece of the pump to Andrew.
“Well...”
This man was a stranger. How would it look for the two of us to stay here, together, overnight? A loud clap of thunder exploded overhead, and the beat of the rain increased in its intensity. No, I wasn’t going to head out there in the storm. The plan would remain the same.
“It’s not a problem, but there isn’t much to do. Clara’s sleeping, so I’m going to make tea and settle in on the couch. If you’d like to go home, though, go ahead.” I tossed the words out carelessly, unsure of how they would land.
“Trying to get rid of me so soon?” Andrew faced me as he spoke. “Nah, I’m in this for the night. Besides, I called in reinforcements.”
“Reinforcements?” His wife mustn’t have been at home.
“My parents. They live in town but don’t get to spend as much time as they’d like over at my place. They were thrilled to stay.” He folded the towel and pl
aced it on the counter as I let the water drain. He leaned against the counter, waiting. For what?
Before the silence became uncomfortable, my inner hostess surfaced. “Would you like tea? Or coffee?”
“I’ll have coffee, but I don’t mind getting it myself, thank you.” Andrew moved toward the cabinets holding the mugs and pulled two down, offering one to me. The coffee pot sat on the counter, but he had to rummage around in the pantry to find the filters and the ground coffee. While he did so, I filled my mug with water, popped it into the microwave, and pushed the START button. Moving the bag of sugar aside and fighting the quivering in my hands, I grabbed a tea bag and a spoon and took them, along with a napkin, out to the living room. By the time I made it back to the kitchen, my water had heated, Andrew’s coffee had begun to brew, and my nerves had frazzled.
“You sure you don’t want any coffee? I made plenty, and it might be a long night.” He folded the coffee bag over itself and placed it back into the cabinet before turning to face me again.
The wonderful aroma of Arabica beans permeated the kitchen, but my nerves were already jangled enough. I glanced at my watch: 9:37 p.m. Andrew might be right about a long night.
“Thanks for the offer. Maybe in a little while. The tea will be perfect for me right now.” Desperate for comfort, I clutched the mug between my fingers.
“All right. I’ll join you in a few.” He flashed a smile and turned to open the refrigerator. My legs trembled like a nervous schoolgirl’s as I walked away from the kitchen.
. . . . .
Rewrite the Stars Page 4