by Lily Foster
Crouching down, he offers himself up for a piggy back ride. “Right this way,” he says, and Ethan climbs aboard happily.
Simon walks back inside a few minutes later with a frame in his hand and Ethan still on his back. I’m standing in the kitchen, uncertain of my place, but he beckons me over to the couch once they settle in. I take the seat next to my son, needing to put some space between me and Simon.
“I’m the youngest, this one here,” he says, pointing to a boy who looks to be about five years old. I gasp and cover my mouth, seeing the resemblance I always knew was there, but now shocked by the striking similarity. It’s as if I’m looking at a sun-faded picture of Ethan. “I know, right?” Simon says, taking in my reaction. Looking back to Ethan he continues, “The one in the middle is my brother Michael. He’s the one that loves dogs and cats and chickens and—”
“And por-ca-pines?” Ethan butts in, looking up to Simon smiling.
“He probably would let a porcupine stay at his place if one came knocking on his door.” And Ethan clearly likes that answer. Pointing to the picture again, Simon says, “And this is my oldest brother, Timmy. See, you look like all of us. That’s what happens in families.”
Ethan looks between the picture and Simon. “You’re wittle.”
“I was little when that picture was taken. That was a long time ago. Have you got any pictures of when you were little?”
Ethan’s eyes light up. “My book!” He scrambles off the couch, turning to Simon before he grabs the handrail and heads upstairs. “I get my book.”
I can’t help but call out, “Be careful on the stairs.”
“That’s like a reflex for you.”
“Can’t help it. I probably say that’s dangerous or be careful twenty times a day.” My eyes drift back down to where the picture sits. “I always thought he looked like you, but seeing that picture is...”
He picks up where I trail off. “Crazy, yeah. Now I know what people mean when they use that phrase, the spitting image.”
“Yeah.” A knot forms in my stomach. “Hey, maybe I’ll let you do this with him alone. He loves narrating a little show and tell with his baby book, and I think, ah, I think...” He reaches over and squeezes my hand. His touch gives me strength, so I take a deep breath and level with him. “I imagine you’re going to hate me in a couple of minutes. I just hope you know I never wanted you to miss out on any of this, Simon.”
He nods, releasing my hand.
“I’m going to tidy up the kitchen.” I direct the comment to Ethan, but he pays me no mind as he races back over to the couch, squeezing in close to Simon as he opens the book across their laps.
I brace my hands against the countertop when I hear Ethan’s opening line.
“See this? I in Mommy’s tummy.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Simon
My dinner is tough to digest, but I put on an act for Ethan’s sake.
I’m angry, but my anger isn’t aimed at Charlotte—not all of it, anyway. She senses my mood, directing most of her questions and comments to Ethan and Lawrence. Sitting less than three feet away, she’s avoiding me.
When Ethan lets out a giant yawn, Lawrence says, “Bath or outdoor shower, buddy?”
Ethan looks to him with drowsy eyes. “Shower.”
“Come on then,” he says, scooping him up.
Charlotte calls after them, “There are dry towels in the shower house.” She gets up to clear the table, because sitting here with me in this choked silence-thing we’ve got going on is physically unbearable “Was it awful? You didn’t eat much.”
“No, it was good. I like salmon, I just wasn’t that hungry.”
She nods, her look telling me she knows my stomach is in knots and knows the reason why. I get up, scrape my plate into the trash and join her at the sink. There’s a war raging inside of me. One part wants to shake her, ask her how she could do it, how she could wait so damn long to tell me. I feel cheated. Another part wants to run, the feeling of shame nearly overwhelming. I’ve now seen evidence of how hard the past few years have been, and I’ve had no hand in helping to ease the burden. And I fear that everything she said last night was true, that I wouldn’t have been the least bit supportive had she told me back then. Still another part wants to drag her in close to me. I want to soothe her, tell her that I’m here now. I want to know where we go from here.
I feel lost.
Charlotte goes to speak but she’s interrupted when Lawrence comes back inside with Ethan wrapped in a towel. She pastes on a smile. “That was a quickie.”
Lawrence grabs a pair of pajamas from a basket of folded laundry. “He looked like he was going to fall asleep standing up.” Looking to Ethan, he asks, “Mr. Gumpy or G’night Moon?”
Rubbing his eyes, Ethan mumbles, “Gumpy.” As Lawrence makes his way towards the stairs, Ethan whines, “I want Dad.”
Something warm blooms in my chest, something hopeful. Lawrence sets him down and prompts him to raise his arms over his head and then step one foot at a time into his pajamas. I take note of the wolverine on the shirt and the little shorts covered in the U-Michigan logo. It’s a reminder of the fact that they have a life somewhere, a life that hasn’t included me. But now things are different and I want in.
I look between Charlotte and Lawrence. “Is that all right?”
Lawrence shrugs. “More than all right...It’s how it should be.”
I chance a look back to Charlotte as I’m making my way upstairs with Ethan, but she’s facing away, eyes fixed on the sudsy water.
Ethan’s asleep within five minutes but I keep reading to him, my voice getting lower the further into the book I get. I read it a second time to myself, struck by how short, simple and gentle kids’ stories are. This book, about a guy named Mr. Gumpy taking a trip down the river and picking up kids and animals as he goes along, has basically nothing to it, so I can’t explain why I flip through it again and then again. I could get all philosophical and ponder its themes, like the power of human connection and all that, but I think the book just makes me calm and happy—simple as that. And I’m kind of loving that Charlotte chooses books like this for him.
It’s tricky getting out of the bed, shifting my weight so that I don’t disrupt him, but he doesn’t so much as stir. He’s down for the count. I draw the blanket up over his little body, realizing with a start that I’m actually tucking my son into bed. And then I lean down and kiss his forehead, the goodnight kiss another first.
Lawrence is alone in the living room when I come downstairs.
“I’m surprised it took so long.”
“It didn’t, he was out before I got halfway through the book.”
“Big day for him. All the excitement wore him out.”
“I know how he feels.”
Lawrence sees me looking around. “She went out for a run.”
To escape me? I’m guessing that’s the reason why. “She was never a runner when I knew her...She used to hate it.”
“You still know her,” he reminds me.
I nod, regretting the way I phrased it.
“She’s done a great job with Ethan. He couldn’t have been blessed with a better mother.”
Again I nod, tongue-tied and sad at once. “Is it all right if I use the cabin again tonight?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks. I’m going to head back now. Tell Charlotte I’ll see her tomorrow?”
“She should be back in a few minutes.” When I don’t say anything, his brow creases. “I’ll tell her.”
I pictured this going differently. On the drive up here, I imagined this dramatic reunion, the closing credits rolling as Charlotte falls into my arms and we embrace. This feels more like a minefield—I don’t know where or how to step. The air between us warms but then chills just as quickly. She ran tonight and then so did I.
Wes Keller?
After getting Ethan tucked in, I tip-toed around his room, smiling to myself as I took in the animal figures,
the dinosaur collection, the blocks and the kid-sized bow and arrow. Charlotte also has an alphabet chart where each letter is paired with a picture, and a whiteboard where she’s been teaching him to write his name. I chuckle when I see an abacus just slightly smaller than Ethan tucked into a corner. Knowing Charlotte, she’ll have him working on linear equations by the time he’s in kindergarten.
I don’t see the drawings until I’m making my way out. You can tell who the subject is, because Charlotte has written the name beneath each figure, with Ethan’s immature scrawl underneath. One is of Lawrence and Moe, another is of a fish. There are a few of Charlotte, and it makes me smile to see the yellow sun he draws in each picture of the two of them together. There’s a family portrait too. You can tell this one’s older by the quality of the drawing, and by the fact that only Charlotte has written names beneath the figures: Janelle, Lawrence, Mommy, Ethan and Moe. I wish I could have met Janelle, thanked her for all the good she’s done.
The last one, the one that’s taped higher than the others, looks just like the one Ethan drew of me. Admittedly, all of his figures look nearly identical, but the details on this one, down to the baseball cap, are the same. It’s recent, because Ethan has done a decent job of copying the W, E and the S. I’m jealous and mad as fuck now. Easing the tape off each corner, I unleash my inner broody bastard and take the drawing with the intent of tearing it to shreds once I’m clear of the house.
Maybe I’ve given myself too much credit—I’m more like Samantha than I thought.
It’s a few hours later when I decide to listen to the voicemails. There are six in total. She must have called right after I left her house the other day, pleads with me to come back and talk, not to do anything rash. The second came in later that night, she’s weeping. The next are a series she left this morning, probably when the damn phone kept going off in Charlotte’s presence. In one she forgives me. That’s rich. In one of the last ones, Samantha finally breaks down and admits she knows what she did was wrong—how decent of her—and is sure “we can get past this.” I don’t even want to know what that means.
When the phone rings sometime around eleven, I pick up.
“Simon?” She’s surprised I answered.
“I was about to call you.”
She lets out a relieved breath. “I’m here for you. Always. You know that, right?”
“Samantha.” I issue her name in warning, but she doesn’t heed it, she presses on.
“Where are you?”
I don’t mean to bark but I do. “Where do you think I am?”
She goes silent. I’m furious with Samantha, but right now my anger is over something else, or really someone else entirely, and I’m taking it out on her because she’s the easiest target.
“I’ve been with him all day. I put him to bed.”
“Are you at her house?”
That’s all she really cares about. What she really wants to ask is if I’m in her bed. I’m tempted to lie but don’t have the energy. “I’m staying in a cabin close by.”
“Oh.” The relief in her voice irks me. “So,” she goes on uncomfortably, “tell me about him.”
“He’s...amazing.” And it’s as if I’m talking to myself now, not her, when I go on to describe him and list every great thing that happened today.
She interrupts when I’m in the middle of talking about the chickadee birds. “He sounds adorable.”
“He is. He smiles a lot, seems like a really happy kid.”
“Oh.”
“And he looks just like me, by the way.”
She sighs. “Simon, I still think—"
“If you’re about to suggest that I schedule a paternity test, I’m gonna have to stop you right now.”
“Just...” I can tell she’s crying. “Just be careful.”
I know I’ve done wrong by Samantha. I know I’ve led her on this past year, led her to believe we might have a future together. I’m disgusted with myself when I take a moment to admit that I’ve contemplated a future with her.
“I’m going to be back tomorrow or the day after. We need to talk.”
“All right. I’ll be here...I’ll be here waiting for you.”
I should just rip the bandage off now but I don’t. She’s going to be strategizing and getting her hopes up, I know that. Don’t waste your time, that’s what I should tell her, because I made my decision the moment that scrap of paper fell from her bag. There isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell we’re going to be together again. Even if Wes Keller is firmly in the picture—and God, it kills me to even think it—the chapter of my life with Samantha in it is over.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Simon
“Couldn’t sleep?” Her voice startles me. I turn to see her sitting in one of the deck chairs sipping coffee. She’s bundled up in a plaid blanket with just her bare toes peeking out, hair in a messy topknot. “It’s super early.”
“I actually got a pretty decent sleep. I’m used to running on five or six hours.”
The closer I get, the stronger the aroma of freshly-baked something gets. I barely ate dinner last night, so I’m ravenous. So hungry that I forget all the uncomfortable bullshit that’s between us.
“Smells good.”
“Blueberry muffins.” She smiles. Is she thinking about all those mornings she snuck across the street to bring me chocolate chip or blueberry muffins? That’s where my mind has drifted. She glances at the time on her phone screen. “They’ve got about five more minutes to go.”
The house is situated facing slightly to the east, and the sun is just now making its presence known. “Do you watch the sunrise every morning?”
“No.” She laughs and shakes her head. “I mean, I do like my quiet coffee time before Ethan gets up, but I’m not usually up this early.”
“Couldn’t sleep?” I repeat her words, looking for another smile, but I don’t get one.
She blows on her coffee. “Lot’s on my mind.” Before I can respond, she says, “Sorry I ran out on you last night. I felt crappy when I got home and you were gone.”
“It was probably for the best. I needed some time to think.”
She nods. “Me too. Running helps me clear my head.” Charlotte fiddles with a loose string on the corner of the blanket. “So, was I right? Were you hating on me hard after looking through Ethan’s baby book?”
I hang my head, not wanting to look her in the eye right now. “I don’t hate you.”
“But?”
I take in a deep breath and then look to her. “Coffee first?”
She practically leaps out of the chair. “Be right back.”
The few minutes she’s gone gives me some time to think this through. I want to know about Wes—I'm chomping at the bit to ask her—but Ethan is the priority here. I need to keep my head on straight.
She hands me a warm muffin and a steaming cup of coffee made just the way I like it. I savor the mouthful as much as I savor the fact that she remembers this simple piece of information about me: cream, light, no sugar.
“The blueberries are fresh.”
“I used to love those muffins from the diner, but this tastes so much better. Makes those ones seem like cardboard crap.”
“Wild blueberries are abundant up here.”
I smile listening to her, because someone else would have said that blueberries are everywhere or they’re easy to get. Charlotte always had a good vocabulary. Never put on airs or anything, just always chose the word that fit best like it was second nature to her.
“We eat so many that sometimes I think we’re going to turn into blueberries. Blueberry vanilla ice cream, blueberry pancakes, blueberry jam.” She laughs when she sees I’ve already finished the muffin. “I’m getting you another.”
“Thanks,” I say when she comes back out a minute later. Her hand brushes mine in the transaction, her touch startling and comforting at once. I clear my throat to stave off the emotion before mumbling, “I’m starving.”
�
��Yeah, I noticed you barely ate last night.”
“It was hard.”
She sinks back into her chair, wraps herself back up in the blanket. “I’ve pictured you looking through that album so many times. Thought about how rotten it would make you feel. Just to know you missed out on holding him, seeing him smile for the first time, getting to see him take his first steps.” Charlotte looks out over the water. “I totally get it…You’re angry.”
“I just feel sad more than anything.”
“I’m sorry. And I know those words are starting to sound empty by now, but I mean it. I wish you got to hold him when he was firstborn, got to be a part of everything.”
It would be better to keep my trap shut, to keep this one thing that’s been eating away at me to myself. The confession makes me sound heartless, like a total and absolute shit, and that’s the polar opposite of what I want Charlotte to see when she looks at me now. I should be painting a different image for her, one that says: World’s Greatest Dad. And it should be easy to take that route because Lord knows I’ve been lying to myself and to everyone else around me lately—so often that it's become second nature. But I don’t want to lie to her.
“The other night, you said it was better for everyone that you didn’t tell me, and it shames me to say it, but you were probably right.” I put the muffin down, my appetite suddenly gone. “I’m ashamed to admit that I probably would have reacted like an asshole if you told me you were pregnant back then.”
She reaches over, puts her hand on my shoulder. “Please don’t beat yourself up over that. Please don’t do that.”
“I would have wanted you to get an abortion...I pretty much did suggest it back then. And seeing him now? I can hardly look at myself in the mirror. What I did...The way I treated you back then...I was so wrong.”
“Do you think I found out I was pregnant and was happy about it? I assure you, I wasn’t.” After a pause she says, “Simon,” and taps my shoulder until I look at her. “I prayed for a miscarriage more times than I can remember.” She wipes at a tear. “I’ve never admitted that to anyone.”