by Kris Ripper
My genes. Singer turned away, trying to shield his expression so Jake couldn’t see how the idea made him squirm. He started brushing his teeth, but Jake’s reflection in the mirror straightened up, as if he could sense how uncomfortable Singer was, as if he could scent it, like a predator.
“What?” Jake’s voice was flat. “You don’t want to try surrogacy?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Yeah, newsflash, Singer, you don’t say anything lately. At least not to me.”
He finished with his teeth and leaned against the sink, a safe distance away. “We talk all the time.”
“Jesus. We really don’t, and I know you’re doing it on purpose, so don’t you dare act like I’m making this up.”
“We spent the whole day together.” It was a lie. Singer’s guts twisted, thinking about all the times he’d avoided Jake lately.
“Don’t bullshit me, dammit!”
“Please keep your voice down—”
“I am keeping my voice down.” Jake glanced at the baby monitor and stood up. “We need to talk. The living room would be farther away from Miles’s room.”
“But—”
Jake was already out the door, baby monitor in hand.
This wasn’t good. Singer’s legs felt unsteady as he followed, and when he sank into the sofa he could feel the strength leave them.
Jake paced back and forth in front of the coffee table, shoulders set. “We used to be able to talk about things. God, Singer, you talked about—about everything with me. I thought that’s what we did.”
“Tonight, though? We need to have to talk about this tonight? I’m don’t see why it’s suddenly urgent—”
“It’s not ‘suddenly urgent,’ it’s urgent the way something gets urgent when you don’t want to talk about it ever!” He spun to walk back in the other direction, fists clenching and releasing at his side. “I can’t figure out if you’re pissed, or upset, or— Is this about having another kid? Are you saying you don’t want that now?”
“No, I’m not, but I don’t know how, with everything that’s happening right now, you can even think about having more.”
“I don’t know how you can look at Miles and not think about the future. Do you really not think about anything? You don’t think about what it’d be like to drop him off at school? Or what we’ll do if kids make fun of him for having gay dads?”
Singer realized his hands were knotted in front of him so tightly he could feel all of his bones. “I can’t do that right now. He could get taken away from us at any moment, and I can’t—”
“But that’s the reason I have to! We could lose this any moment, but I want to actually have it while it’s here!”
“I’m just saying I can’t do this right this second, Jake, and I resent—”
“You resent me?” Jake stared at him incredulously, and everything in Singer locked down, meeting emotion with iron control. “You haven’t even looked at me in days! It’s like you can’t stand to be alone in a room with me, and what the hell, Singer? My parents have offered to watch Miles how many times now?”
He made his voice calm. “I don’t see why we would inconvenience your—”
“It’s not an inconvenience if he’s their grandson! Or are you having second thoughts about all of it?”
“Of course I’m not! How could you say that?” How could you even think it? Are you thinking it? Are you having second thoughts? Singer’s fingers tightened further, until his arms were shaking.
“How could I think anything else? Why do you keep refusing to talk to me?”
“I’m not. I don’t mean to. I—I’m so afraid, and you don’t seem afraid. I don’t know how to talk to you. I don’t know how to pretend when all of it could fall apart.”
“I thought we said we were a team. When I was scared, you said you were my backup.”
“I am.” Except he wasn’t, and both of them knew it. Singer bit down on his cheek.
“This isn’t working.” Jake, chest rising fast, stood in the middle of the room. “This isn’t working. And I don’t know what’s broken.”
This was the moment, in the past, when Singer would have opened his arms and pulled Jake in and promised him that things were never as insurmountable as they seemed. That together they would manage it. They’d always manage.
He let loose just enough tension in his hands to stop shaking, but he couldn’t find any words. And despite the fact that he was the one holding back—which he knew, even if he couldn’t force himself to stop—he absurdly wanted Jake to be the one who pulled him in, kissed him, told him that everything would be okay.
Jake didn’t. “I don’t know what to do. I guess I’ll … go to bed.”
A door opened down the hall. A whimper. Jake’s voice over the baby monitor: “Shh, Miles. Go back to sleep.” A huff of Miles resettling. The door closed. Their bedroom door opened. Closed.
Every thought in Singer’s head pricked him like a needle. He sat very, very still, and tried not to think at all.
*
He couldn’t be hearing right. He couldn’t be seeing right. None of this could be what it seemed like it was.
“I’m not leaving you. I just need a little time to think.” Jake, shoving clothes in his gym bag. “I can’t think in this house right now. I don’t know how you can.”
Where are you going? Why? When will you come back? Singer swallowed all of his questions, and the accompanying aching sorrow.
“I love you so much,” Jake said as he zipped his bag. Sentiment thrown over his shoulder casually, a toss in Singer’s direction, costing him nothing. “I’ll take Miles. We’ll be at Carey’s, okay?”
None of this is okay. Nothing is okay. Singer sat, numbly, on their bed. He needed to say something. His silence was a weight, pressing down on him, growing heavier by the second.
When Jake looked over his expression crumpled. “I love you so much, you have no idea.”
That was it. He went to Miles’s room. Singer listened to the sounds as he must have packed a bag. Miles woke up toward the end, and Jake’s artificially perky voice said, “Hey, let’s go see Carey and Alice, okay? You want to? We’ll get Alice to show us some more pictures of Manhattan, and Brooklyn, and Queens, all the places we’ve never been. Okay, Miles?”
Miles babbled. He might know “Carey and Alice” by now. He was always happy to see them.
Singer leaned forward and cried into his hands, listening to the sounds of Jake picking up Miles, of the bedroom door closing, of the front door opening.
It shut again with a muffled thump.
Eventually he went to bed.
30
Lisa
84 days since leaving Grace
It was almost ten before Lisa could drag herself out of bed, and there was a text message waiting from Frankie: Wtf happened last night? S is wrecked and J moved out? WTF?
The message was only eleven minutes old. Lisa went out, tentatively, to the kitchen—for coffee, or to take her teacup to the sink, or any number of other excuses she came up with.
She walked in just in time to hear Mother say, “This could be for the best, Singer. I did try to explain it to Jake as well—”
“It would be for the best if you went back to your own home, Mother, and left me to decide what was good for my family.”
“They aren’t your family.” Mother’s eyes narrowed. “Signing a few papers doesn’t make you a father, and living with someone doesn’t make you married.”
“Thanks so much for that newsflash.”
“This is no place to raise a child. It’s like a traveling circus here, with all these people in and out all the time.”
“Why are you here, Mother? I called Dad, but he won’t talk to me. What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I have no idea what you mean. I’ll see you wh
en you’re feeling more civil.”
Lisa hid in the hallway while Mother exited, and Singer called after her, “I happen to like my traveling circus!”
She only hesitated for a minute before walking into the kitchen and setting her cup in the sink. Singer was leaning over on the counter next to the coffeemaker, head buried in his hands like he was attempting to become an ostrich.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
“It’s weird. I like your traveling circus, too.”
He turned, and it was almost unbelievable. Singer, who was usually perfectly assembled, mask in place, now had tears all down his cheeks and bright red eyes. “He’s gone. I mean, not gone, over at Carey’s. But he took Miles, and—I mean—he must be coming back. It seems so stupid. He said he was coming back. He said he needs time. I have no idea if he means a few hours or a few weeks. But he took a bag.”
If there was an appropriate response to what was probably the most heartfelt and faltering thing he’d ever said to her, she had no idea what it was. Instead, she asked, “You called Dad?”
“And he keeps saying, ‘I can’t talk now, I’ll call back later.’ What is he doing down there? He works part-time. I picture him at the eighth hole, telling a bunch of old white men that it’s just his fag son calling to whine about his wife.”
Lisa blinked. “That sounds nothing like Dad. At all.”
“I know. I know. Sorry. It’s just that our whole relationship, mine and Jake’s, I was the one who knew where we were going. I was the one who knew who I was. Now all of a sudden, he’s this great father, this great parent, and it all comes so naturally to him, and I— It’s like I’m blind, like I’ve lost an entire sense and my body can’t figure out how to compensate.”
“But, Singer—Jake’s cousin lived in your backyard.”
“I know it’s weird, but—”
“No, I mean— That’s not what I mean.” She paused, struggling to fit what she understood into words she could speak. “Jake’s family likes each other. They actually enjoy hanging out together.”
“Circus,” he murmured.
“Yeah, but it’s kind of wonderful, too. And I don’t know if it was a cult, where I was—it didn’t feel like a cult—but whatever it was, I lived with people, a group of people, and we all wanted the same things. We wanted to feel like we belonged together. I guess we did, for a while. You have that here, only no one’s claiming to be a prophet of God.”
Singer blinked.
“I’m just saying, that part of it? The part where Jake treats Miles like he’s his own? I don’t know. I … think that makes sense. These people aren’t like us. It’s like … they were born with more love than we were. They share it better.”
“It is like that. Like he has all this love to give to this baby and I’m … deficient. But I used to be the one who could love enough for both of us. So how do I get more?” He looked across the kitchen at her, like he was really asking, like he wanted to know what she thought.
Lisa shrugged. “I think I’m pretty much beyond repairing. But you already love him. Jake. And Frankie, and Carey, and all the rest of them.”
“It’s not Miles. I mean, I like Miles. He doesn’t feel like an intruder, or false. I just don’t … I don’t feel like a parent. I feel like he’s someone else’s child.”
“I guess he is. But is it supposed to happen automatically? I mean, I like your traveling circus, Singer, but I don’t think they’re normal.”
Singer vented a startled laugh and shook his head. “No argument there. I’m pretty sure my de facto sister-in-law offered to carry my child. These people are anything but normal.”
“Anyway. I just think you gotta give yourself time. I think Jake would, too, if you asked.”
“I don’t know when talking to him became so hard. Talking to Jake used to be up there with eating and sleeping on my list of things I needed to do to get through the day.”
“I don’t know.” She risked adding, “The last guy I was in love with fucked different women on a schedule and never slept with any of us.”
“Have I mentioned lately how glad I am that you’re home?”
“Well, thanks. Not that it was all my doing.”
“No?”
Lisa shook her head and reached up for a mug, taking her time pouring coffee, going back to her side of the kitchen. “I had this friend. Good friend. Like the kind of girl I would’ve been friends with here. And she killed herself. So really, it’s Abigail. She’s the reason I left. Because she killed herself and they said that she wasn’t pure enough to go to heaven. That she was weak.”
“How awful.”
“I keep meaning to try to find her parents. But I don’t know what I’d say to them.”
Singer glanced in the direction of the guesthouse. “I can’t even figure out what to say to our parents, let alone someone else’s.”
“Anyway, you should talk to Frankie. She sounds worried.”
“Oh, grasshopper. By now Frankie’s talked to Carey, Alice, and possibly Jake. She’ll corner you later. Only after all that will she talk to me. Only when she already thinks she knows what I’m going to say.”
“Okay,” Lisa said, more than willing to drop it. “Or you could … talk to her now. I’m gonna go back to bed.”
“Then I will see you later. I’m thinking tamales for dinner. I suppose we should invite Mother.”
“Invite Frankie first.”
“Ah.” Singer nodded. “And I’ll tell Mother Frankie’s coming over, thereby saving us the trouble of actually eating with Mother. Very strategic.”
Tamales would be good. Tamales also reminded her of Abigail, though she didn’t tell the story. Without Abigail, she wouldn’t be standing here right now, talking to her brother like they knew each other, like they chose each other’s company.
Thank you, Lisa thought. That’s what she wanted to say to Abigail’s parents: Thank you. I loved her very much.
31
Singer
63 days with Miles
Jake and Miles were gone.
The first day had been the worst, until he woke up on the second day. When, on morning three, Singer had reached over to an empty, cold bed, his ears tuned for waking baby noises from the monitor still sitting on the nightstand, he realized that if Jake and Miles didn’t come home, he’d wake up like this every day for the rest of his life.
At least he didn’t start crying again. The crying had been humiliating. Even alone. Especially alone, crying for no reason but the circular thoughts in his head. No excuse for the tears that didn’t seem to stop flowing that first day. I’m not leaving you. I just need a little time. But what did that mean?
Jake had dropped Miles off Friday so he could go in to work. But he didn’t stay. And Singer had been—bowled over/relieved/terrified by how much he’d missed Miles after two days, how hard he’d hugged him, how much he wanted to hold him. Miles, he thought, had been happy to see him, too. Until he spotted his toy chest and demanded, back arching, to be put down. Even then, Singer had watched, sipping coffee, while Miles pulled everything out, like he was taking inventory, making certain nothing had changed since he’d been gone.
Mother had been scarce all day. So that was a perk.
He couldn’t decide whether he should try to get some work done or maybe accomplish something around the house, so in the end he settled for bothering Frankie at the bookstore for an hour and returning home loaded down with new reading material.
Where he discovered Emery, standing on the front porch. Holding a potted orchid.
“Are they not answering? Mother’s Volvo is here, and Lisa’s always home.”
“I hadn’t knocked, yet.” Light pink tinged Emery’s otherwise tan complexion.
“Are we having a garden party about which I wasn’t informed?” Singer shifted his bag of books to unlock the door. T
his was Emery in a new state. He tried to think of whether he’d ever seen the man blush. But no, he was certain he hadn’t.
“It’s a gift.”
For Lisa. Orchid as—friendship gift? Something more? Singer found himself intrigued, despite a contrasting desire to throw himself on his bed and wallow a bit more in depression (which had been his plan when he’d left the bookstore).
“Did you text her? That might work better than knocking.”
“I don’t have her phone number.”
Singer turned. Emery had followed him into the kitchen, set the orchid on the counter, and stood there. “You don’t have Lisa’s number? Why?”
“She hasn’t offered it. I didn’t want to presume anything.”
“Ah,” Singer said, like that cleared it up. When really, it made it more foggy. “Do you want coffee? I’m making another pot.”
“Please. Thank you.”
Singer waved. “Sure.” He texted Lisa: Discovered a wayward photographer on our porch. Pretty sure he isn’t here to see Mother. There. That ought to both horrify and provoke.
It was lunch, or just after. Singer pulled out sandwich makings and hoped, reverently, that Mother didn’t choose this moment to emerge from whatever it was she did in the guesthouse when she wasn’t out “shopping.” Frankie thought prescription drugs, Alice had a theory about old photographs, but that didn’t make sense because Lisa was in the room that probably held those, if they existed. Carey, after some thought, laid out a somewhat detailed description of depression and isolation and the possibility that she was having secret meetings with either a therapist or a lawyer, which had made Singer momentarily feel bad until he recalled the effects of Mother being less isolated.
“Lunch,” he told Emery. “Take a plate.”
“You don’t have to serve me, Singer.” Emery half smiled. “Where are Jake and Miles?”
Oh, god. Singer fought a vicious wave of fear—what if they never come home? what if, what if?—and steeled his voice. “They’re staying with Alice and Carey. At the moment.”