The man had his head on the right way. The more I learned about him, the worse off I’d be.
“Did it get bad at all?” Theo and I hadn’t legally parted ways yet, and with him still living in the house, the burden of divorce was still an unknown to me. What if Theo and I did divorce? What would our lives be like then?
“Thank goodness, no. Both of us had the wisdom to see we’d grown apart. While we tried to figure out a way to make it work, it just wasn’t going to happen. We agreed divorce was the right option for us.” His movements—leaning forward to place his napkin on the coffee table and then settling back against the couch cushions—stirred the air, bringing with it the clean scent of laundry detergent.
The music crooned in the background, and my thoughts roamed to my situation. What would Andrew say if he knew about my life? A woman living with a man she used to love. Some might say I was an enabler, but Theo needed help and was seeking it out with therapy. Our situation served as a bandage of sorts.
“Heavy stuff here, Andrew, and I just met you.” A few stray tears clouded my vision, and I blinked them away, ever grateful for Pete and Jackie’s lighting.
“Well, technically this is the third time we’ve met, so it’s okay.” His heart-stopping smile beamed across the room, setting my discomfort on edge.
A cry came over the monitor and both of us froze, looking at each other in surprise.
“Let’s wait and see what happens,” I whispered.
“But we don’t want her to wake Pete and Jackie up.”
“True, but they’re sleeping downstairs anyway, so let’s give her a minute. Sometimes, they go back to sleep—”
A burst of crying blared over the monitor, and I clutched my hand to my chest. It had been so long since I’d heard wailing like that.
“And sometimes, they don’t.” Andrew flew from the chair. “I’ll get the baby, and you get the milk.”
Thank goodness I’d had the foresight to keep a bottle standing on the counter because a quick rinse under the hot tap water had the milk ready when Andrew walked into the kitchen. Still fumbling with the kitchen towel, I started at the sight of such a large man with a petite baby in his arms. Clara looked snug and cozy, protected within the confines of Andrew’s embrace. Her tiny mouth, however, hung wide open.
“Shh, shh, shh,” I said and handed Andrew the bottle. “Do you mind trying first?”
“Not at all. Let’s go back to the living room so the noise doesn’t carry as easily.” A stack of diapers on the counter caught my eye, and I grabbed a few, along with a burp cloth, and followed Andrew to the living room, where he sat on the sofa this time.
“Go ahead and get settled in, and if you need something...” I handed him the burp cloth. With ease, he positioned the still-crying Clara into the crook of his left arm, placed the burp cloth under her delicate chin, and popped the bottle into her mouth. She took three sucks with her tiny mouth and spit the bottle out.
“Uh-oh. This does not bode well,” he said and looked up at me with trepidation in his eyes.
“Let’s be positive. Go ahead and try again.” Hoping for the best but expecting the worst, I held my breath and scrunched up my shoulders, ready to fall to my knees and ask the universe to help us. Clara’s heart-wrenching cries went right through me. “What about a walk?” I said and moved toward the foyer to get my flip-flops. Andrew had gotten up off the couch and was standing with his feet wide, rocking the baby back and forth. She hiccupped but seemed to be settling. “Or maybe not. Which is a good thing because I forgot about the rain.”
“Will I have to stand like this all night?” A certain fear suffused his face.
“Can you? Just kidding. Let’s hope not. Do they have a swing? We used to prop up the kids’ heads if we needed to use the swing before they were old enough to do so. Let me go check.”
Trying to be as quiet as possible, I surveyed the living room, then peeked into the foyer closet and made my way to Clara’s room, but there was no swing in sight. By the time I made it back to Andrew, Clara was fast asleep in his arms, and he’d managed to sit. He leaned over the baby’s hair and took a gentle sniff.
“There’s something about the smell of babies, isn’t there?” I said.
A huge smile spread across his face as he nodded, stopping me in my tracks.
The faint lyrics to “I Want You to Want Me” streamed out of the speaker as Andrew sat there, a picture of complete contentment. Shit. My soul couldn’t take much more of this. My heart felt like a lead weight in my chest.
Had I any common sense, I would have simply braved the rain and left. Or, I would have told Andrew I felt a virus coming on or any number of things that would let me escape and get away from him and my attraction. At that point, an artificial excuse should have been so easy to produce. Instead, in a strategic attempt to keep the conversation away from me and my life, I settled into the chair and suggested we should get a little sleep.
“I’m not sure if I can sleep while I’m holding someone else’s baby. What if I drop her? Pete and Jackie would kill me.” Concern flared in Andrew’s eyes, and I laughed.
“Really? You have two kids. You’re afraid you’ll drop her?” I swallowed my laughter.
“Uh, yeah. I might look big and strong, but inside, I’m a tender lamb. I can’t stand hurting anyone.” He lifted a large hand to the top of Clara’s head and smoothed the fuzz she passed off as hair.
An afghan off the side of the couch would be enough to prop his arm, so I stuffed it under his elbow, making sure his arm was sturdy, then tossed a few large pillows on the ground in front of the sofa, in the event the sweet little bundle rolled.
“There,” I said, “that should do it. I doubt you’ll drop her.”
“I don’t know, Sadie. I should stay awake. Anyway, while she’s quiet, why don’t you take a nap? I’ll wake you when I need you.”
“Are you sure?”
Andrew had given me a pathway out of the conversation, and there I was, not taking it. I held my breath.
“Yes.”
I released the air I was holding in. “Thanks. I’m not a deep sleeper though. I’ll hear you if you need something.”
“All right then. Sweet dreams, Sadie.”
. . . . .
Sleep claimed me, and the talk about family sent me back in time, to a younger Theo and me. The summer we met, I had just turned nineteen and had been spending my time babysitting and doing laundry for a local couple, putting money away for my second year of college. In the evenings, I’d sneak off to the outdoor sand volleyball court. Many of those hours were spent vying against the tall guy with the messy hair. He was loud—truly obnoxious at times—but he possessed a wicked serve I came to appreciate.
One sultry night I rode my bike to the courts, expecting a leisurely ride home after an invigorating game. But after the game, my bike’s tire was flat. The walk home would be long.
“Hey, looks like you have a flat there.” Messy Hair Guy had snuck up behind me. “I live right over the bridge, and I have a repair kit. Do you want help?”
Spatters of green threaded throughout his brown irises. He smelled of sweat and grass and spearmint, and the crooked smile he gave as he pulled his hand through his mussed hair tugged a little on my heart, surprising me.
“I guess help would be nice,” I admitted, hesitancy feathering my voice.
“The name is Theo. There, now you have my name. I promise, I’m not a madman.” His bright white teeth sparkled under the parking lot lights as he held out his hand.
I laughed as we connected. He’d read my mind. “I’m Sadie,” I said with a quick handshake. “And thanks.”
Tha
t evening, after removing the nail from my tire and repairing the tire’s rubber, we sat on the front porch of his rental home, ice water in hand, talking into the early hours of the morning.
He told me about his home life as a child, riddled with strife and worry, as his father battled severe depression. He spoke of the issue as one would talk about a black sheep cousin: someone who showed up from out of the blue and caused trouble, and when you’d gotten used to the behavior and hoped for a reprieve, came back with a vengeance. His mother was all alone, after the death of his father a few years before from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Theo had plans to work with computers but sometimes wished he had an interest in medicine. He wanted to find a better treatment for the illness that had wrecked his family.
“I’d like to make someone else’s life a little better than mine.” He sat that night with a far-off look on his face, condensation from the glass of water dripping over his fingers and his arm, hitting the wood floor of the porch with a soft plink. His face, lit in the reflective moonlight, transformed as a certain resolve snuck into his deep, hazel eyes. I’d only spent a few hours with him, but if anyone could shed a better light on severe depression, it would be Theo.
“But what about you?” Theo asked once he shook off his reverie. “And by the way, would you like more water? I’m sorry I don’t have anything else.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “Water is perfect. Although if we stay up any later, we’ll need to have some coffee.” My watch read 3:43 a.m. Where had the time gone? “And what would you like to know?”
“Anything. What brought you here? To school, I mean. What do you want to do with your life? And how do you manage to make an underhand serve so demonic?”
I laughed out loud. “That serve is embarrassing. I never had the strength as a kid to get an overhand serve over the net, so I perfected the art of the underhand serve. It isn’t that lethal. It’s just disarming.”
“Interesting choice of words, Sadie. The same word applies to you.” The ice clinked in his glass as he glanced my way. The heat of embarrassment washed over me, and I was thankful for the darkness that still lingered even underneath the light of the porch lamp. Did he mean what I thought he meant? Theo must have sensed my discomfort, for he looked away and moved his legs out in front of him. The muscles of his thighs rippled in the moonlight, making me think it was completely understandable how well this guy jumped on the volleyball court; he had legs of pliant steel.
“I’m here to study I haven’t decided what yet. I thought economics would be a good idea, but that’s a major my parents thought would be good. I don’t say this to many people, but what I’d like to be is a writer.”
“Why don’t you say it?”
“Because most people would say I won’t be able to support myself. As if a writer is grouped into the starving artist category. Which I guess it is. But then, I have this penchant for science too. I might try to combine the two.” I shook my head. “I’m only nineteen. I have time, don’t I?”
“Yes, you do. I wish my dad had had the time.”
This guy was still hurting. What to do? Despite my inexperience with boys and a heartbeat that thumped as I moved my hand, I curled my fingers over his and squeezed gently. My gesture was meant to say the impossible. That even though I didn’t know this boy sitting next to me, I understood the pain of losing someone; I’d experienced the same with the passing of my beloved grandmother. Difficult, but with time, he’d achieve peace, although he’d never forget.
“I guess I should go.” I moved my hand away from his. “First, a nap and then I need to get myself over to work for a few hours. Thanks for everything. It was great to meet you.” I placed my glass on the small outdoor table.
“I can’t let you go by yourself. Let me get my bike, and I’ll ride home with you.”
On the way back to my apartment, the cool summer air rushed through my hair and against my flushed face. I felt light, happy, and cleansed. Despite my fatigue, an unusual energy thrummed throughout my body. Theo and I didn’t say anything until we pulled up next to each other in the driveway of my apartment.
“Thanks again, Theo. Be careful on your way back, okay?” The early birds had begun to tweet in the damp darkness. On other days, the noise annoyed me, but at that moment, their song gratified me.
“I will. You have a nice nap.”
A moment of silence stretched between us as we gazed at one another. I started to dismount my bike, but Theo leaned in, the delicious smell of summer and grass and sweat and boy preceding him. He placed a gentle and brief kiss across my surprised yet waiting lips.
“Sweet dreams, Sadie.”
. . . . .
The sound of Velcro startled me, and I turned my head toward Andrew, who knelt on the ground, fastening a new diaper onto Clara.
“Do you need help? Why didn’t you wake me?” I blinked away the sleepy grit that had accumulated underneath my eyelids and rolled my shoulder blades. My body had acclimated to the length of the couch, but its small size had affected me.
“Oh, take my word for it. If this had been a huge delivery, I would not have hesitated.” The corners of Andrew’s eyes crinkled unexpectedly. Was this man always so happy?
“Okay. Well, now that I’m up, what can I do?”
“Would you believe she took the whole bottle? Right after you fell asleep, she fussed for a minute, and I slipped the bottle in, just at the right moment, I guess. She drank the entire six ounces and, well, this happened.” He’d finished putting Clara’s clothes back together and held the dirty diaper in his hand. “Mind keeping an eye on her while I go wash up?”
“Not at all. How long did I sleep?” I crouched on the floor next to the baby.
“About an hour. How do you feel?”
What words would suffice? I dreamed about Theo, a former version of him, and my spirit had plummeted further than I thought possible. But Andrew didn’t need to know any of that. Andrew didn’t need to know anything.
Chapter 8: Theo
The morning after I found that love letter, I sat in the dining room with a proposal Andrew had asked me to look at. When Sadie shuffled into the kitchen through the door from the garage, I glanced up. The fatigued look on her face meant her night with the baby might have been on the long side. Her view didn’t include me: the angle of my chair in the dining room compared to where she stood in the kitchen kept me out of her gaze. On the periphery seemed to be my preference these days.
Charlie sat hunched at the breakfast bar. He held a book in one hand and a spoon in the other as he ate cereal. We’d skipped Saturday morning waffles for the first time in a long time: patience and I didn’t always make nice. A drop of milk spilled from the spoon and landed back in that favorite glass bowl of his as he flipped the pages of the book.
“Hey, Mom,” Charlie said, without looking up. “How’s Clara?”
“She’s good, honey. She’s good.” Sadie hung her sweater on the metal hook next to the door and pushed off her flip-flops. Had she eaten breakfast? Should I get up and help her? She hadn’t seen me yet but eavesdropping never led to anything good. Everyone knew that.
“She’s not a miserable vomitous mass?” A slight smirk crossed Charlie’s face and humor danced in his eyes.” Oh, shit. Leave it to the kid to out me. I rose from the chair and moved to the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen. I’d have to defend myself.
“All right, wise guy. Who’s been letting you watch that movie?” Sadie’s tone held me back from revealing myself. “As much as I adore it, it’s not appropriate for you kids. Your father should—”
“It’s okay, Mom. We didn’t let Delia or Lexie watch it. It was just me and Dad sitting on the bean bags, eating popcorn. He had a
rough night. He seemed more tired than he has been.”
Rough night? Is that what Charlie called it? The angst. The pacing. I’d done a good enough job hiding them from him. But it seemed like no matter what I did these days—more exercise, less screen time, more meditation, meds—none of it helped the symptoms. My skin still felt too small and the tiniest of agitations triggered me. Of course, that damn letter and divorce papers didn’t help.
My problem wasn’t realizing I had a problem it was—
The crash of a bowl against the wood floor sounded, and I peeked my head around the corner. Charlie stood frozen, wide-eyed, and shaken, surrounded by the remnants of his favorite bowl. How had that happened?
“That’s, that’s...”
“Shh, sweetie. It’s your favorite bowl. But it was an accident.” Sadie took two steps toward the pantry and pulled the broom and dustpan from their respective hooks. She’d need to sweep up the large chunks of glass first and then press duct tape against the floor and vacuum to get the finer pieces. It was a routine she rarely remembered, but it worked the best. “Don’t move, not yet,” she said to Charlie. “Let me get those large shards of glass before anyone else comes in the room.”
“No, Mom. You can’t.” Charlie reached and began to place glass chunks into his shirt, which he’d fashioned into a makeshift bag. “I need to get what I can. I have some glue. I can glue these back together.” His voice shook, and tears tumbled down his ruddy cheeks. Still, I stood and said nothing to alert them to my presence.
Rewrite the Stars Page 6